Telogen Effluvium

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Today’s post is another from guest writer, Jess, mother of one living son and one son who died at 32 gestational weeks. Neuroimmunologist by training. Lover of nature by birthright. Dancer by calling.

To my ears, Telogen Effluvium has the rhythm and phonetic grace befitting of a fairy queen drifting through a midsummer night’s dream. I say her name quietly and behind closed eyes and closed doors I can see her. Telogen Effluvium. She wears a crown atop golden fiery hair and walks on delicate tip toes across moss-covered stones. I say her name slowly and linger on each syllable. Teee-lo-genn Eff-luuuuvium. I repeat her name, again and again, in some strange fixation.

I should say, Telogen Effluvium is not her real name. I gave her that name when I looked up postpartum hair loss and found that Telogen Effluvium is the name given to that deeply undignified, truly ungraceful, and utterly un-royal process. Telogen Effluvium is a synchronized rebellion, coordinated by well-meaning hair follicles who, after experiencing a stress far too overwhelming to grow through, simply go to sleep. Three months later these sleeping hair follicles finally give up and unceremoniously release the hair they have cultivated for years — importantly, all at once.

I stand in the shower, rinsing and repeating my fairy queen’s name — Telogen Effluvium, Telogen Effluvium, Telogen Effluvium. In my hands, a growing nest of tangled strands, compounding to comical proportions in a matter of seconds. I laugh audibly at the sheer amount of hair collecting in my hands and imagine a small family of hummingbirds living there, perched with anticipation on ready-to-hatch eggs.

“It will grow back,” I’m told. I know it will. I pull my hair back into a ponytail to find that I can now wrap the hair tie around for an extra loop. I’m disappearing, I think to myself. It will grow back.

I’m struck by the wordless, physical, chemical, cellular, pure way in which my body communicates with me. The precise message is untranslatable to words but the meaning is unmistakeable. Three months after my son’s delivery day my hair carries trauma and history out of my head, straight to my palm. The message is less a reminder than an affirmation. “Look, you are feeling. Look, you are remembering.” Sometimes I remember suddenly, sometimes vividly, sometimes sadly, sometimes convulsively, sometimes lovingly, sometimes gently.

I strain to listen closer to the other wordless conversations within. I get still and quiet. I wonder if my body knows why he died. I wonder if there are dark, hushed corners where these mysterious discussions are still unfolding between cells. I wonder if silent molecular aftershocks are still reverberating across the oceans and lakes of my body. I’m listening. Tell me. Please. What do you know?

I pull out a long hair that has burrowed its way between the threads of my sweater, letting it float away on the wind and with it a string of thoughts. My grandmother used to warn me against releasing my hair in the wind. She said that if a bird built a nest with my hair, I would get a headache. I love you, Babushka. I miss you. You were the only one who knew how to give those hugs. The ones where you would whisper into my ear, “I’m taking all of your troubles, all of your worries, all of your pains. I take them for myself and leave only the good with you. Go on, give it all to me. I can take it.” Babushka had her own traumas and history but created a bottomless well of magic within her where she could transmute my pain into love and give it back to me. I hug myself and take my own pain from myself and recirculate it back. Somehow it works. With each recirculation, a little wisp of pain dissipates and comes back as love. That’s Babushka’s love living on through me. That’s the love I gave my baby boy while he was in me. I hope he felt it. I know he felt it.

…and each strand I release goes like this. Each one carrying its own wordless affirmation. You’re remembering, you’re feeling, you’re disappearing, you’re thinking, you’re learning, you’re listening, you’re trying, you’re struggling, you’re growing, you’re loving, you’re crying, you're holding, you're living.

In this post Jess talks about the after-effects of pregnancy on our bodies. How did your body experience the loss of your child? How did you experience your body experiencing that loss?