June 7, 2010

Raw and Random: Where I Am in the Process

I carry this grief with me. All of the time.

It’s with me when I meet you for coffee. It’s there when you see me at church or at a party. It’s still in me when I laugh with you.

My grief is always with me.


You may think that I should be “over” this by now. You are wrong.

How can I get “over” the loss of life that God put in my body? the loss of what was supposed to be? the loss of what was to come?


Even with getting pregnant again I have had to exercise the balance of what doctors say and trusting God with the timing. I just feel like trusting the Lord completely with this because I don't have the mental capacity to think about when is the best time to start trying again.


I feel different inside- death changes you.


Life, if you didn’t already know, is quite fragile. And death is painful no matter how you slice it- knowing God or not.


I read somewhere the best color in an artist’s palette is black. You can add black to any color and it adds more depth and richness. I have to believe that my black is adding more depth and richness to my life.


On looking for an answer to why this happened: My heart is not in pursuit of earthly answers. I just want to be present- heart and mind- in this journey and keep my eyes on Jesus.


I have had days where I wished I had never been pregnant. I think I would rather not know the pain of loss and would much prefer to be a person who is still trying to conceive.


I am tired and weary and have no words to say. I feel like a lump. I feel like a shell of myself. I am easily angered. Easily disappointed. I am neck-high in grief and doing my best to stay above the surface. I am low. I am sad. I am uncomfortable in my own skin and disheartened.


I dream of babies. I long for babies.


I find comfort in the morbid and uneasiness in the fairytale that all will be well.


I know life is bigger than me having a baby. I know this. But as I explained to some friends, I am just trying to find my place in THE story. And in November 2009, I thought my place in the story was to become a mom. And then that chapter was deleted. In March 2010, I was ecstatic to see that the chapter had been put back in and I was to be a mom after all. And then the chapter was thrown out again.

Violently torn out of my story, really.


You don’t know this loss. You don’t.


This is my journey.


I have had moments where I feel like I am in a bad movie- being asked to choose between trying to miscarry at home or do it quick and and have a D&C; trying to decide what to put my baby’s remains in while we are at home; and handing over my baby’s remains to the midwife and everyone in the room asking if I am okay with that.

Am I okay with that? Hell no, I am not okay with that. That baby should be growing inside of me and not being handed off for tests.


So many are rendered speechless at the loss of a baby. I’ve had many people tell me that they don’t know what to say and that is why they haven’t called or written. I understand. I get that. I don’t know what to say either. Nothing can be said, really. Words are cheap anyway. So know that it’s okay to say nothing more than “I am so sorry” or “I am praying for you.” But please, for heaven’s sake, say something. Pay honor to the life of my baby and acknowledge that this happened.


I had a moment where I did not feel utterly alone. I stood with two other women who have lost babies and between the three of us, we have five babies in heaven’s glory. There we stood, we three childless mothers, forming a tight little circle with our husbands satelliting around us. And for a few minutes I felt understood. I felt connected to something bigger than my own pain. And I felt some relief. For there they stood, these childless mothers, and they could smile and make jokes and have hope and that- that ability to smile through the grief and laugh in spite of the pain and hope because of His promises- can be me some day. What a relief to know that there is something on the other side of how I feel now.


What’s been lost?

More than you’ll ever know.


I am still here. I am breathing and doing things that make me appear alive and well. Most things are a chore and anything that takes my mind away from thoughts of my baby are temporary distractions at this point.

I am still here but wish I wasn’t. Not suicidal, just wanting to escape this pain.

I am still here but don’t know where I am. Or where I am going.


Where are You, Lord?

No comments: