Grief and I, we do not get along. He is an unwelcome visitor who barges into my happiest of moments, and poops on my party. I'm over him, and am considering hiring a body guard to punch him in the face the next time he comes near me.
Everyone knows the expected stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining (where I spend most of my time), depression, and acceptance. I consider myself to be somewhat of a genius when it comes to self-awareness and introspective analysis. So it's annoyingly accurate to say that this unrelenting beast has effectively debunked everything I thought I knew about myself.
One of the craziest things about it to me, is that everyone who experiences grief, no matter how very different their circumstances, will swim through the same stages and emotions. Though each stage might vary in the degree of intensity for each person, the stages are, alas, the same.
For me, grief feels like an unmerry-go-round, and I can't seem to stop the ride.
Before I met Grief, my merry-go-round looked a little like this:
Happiness...trial...strength...perseverance...happiness. Done and done. I was a strong girl who overcame whatever obstacles stood in my path with grace, spirit, fortitude, and a smile.
My life now looks a little like this: Normalcy...anger...sadness...guilt...normalcy...anger...sadness...guilt...normalcy...anger... I think the movie Groundhogs Day would be a great analogy for my grief process, but I never watched the movie all the way through because the never-ending repetitive cycle stressed me out too badly to see it through to the end. I have always loved irony. That's ironic.
Also throw in the occasional shame that comes with people potentially realizing that I'm not as strong as I once was, and feelings of inadequacy at dealing with life. I now feel like a bumbling moron who stumbles through each day thinking, "Will this be a normal day, or a sad day, or a guilt-ridden day???" Most days, I'm at least a little pissed that I don't know which kind of day it will be. I'm a wee bit of a control freak, so this lack of control over my emotional state does not work for me.
Let it be said that I experience MANY moments of happiness during the course of each day, due to my loving husband, best baby ever, and fantastic network of loving family and friends. I am very aware of the many blessings that adorn my life!
But most days I still feel guilty. I feel guilty that I'm even still working through the grief process. I think I should be over it by now. I feel guilty that I'm struggling even though I only suffered one mid-term miscarriage, versus girls who suffer multiple miscarriages, who carry to term but deliver babies who don't survive, or who lose live babies/children. I feel guilty that I am jealous of those girls who got to give birth to and hold their babies, no matter the circumstances that ensued. I feel guilty that I can't seem to get it together and be normal. I feel guilty because I'm pretty certain I killed my baby, whether through too much negative energy and worry, or not taking good enough care of my body. (And this last statement, I recognize, is completely irrational. I have Grief to thank for that newfound personality trait.)
Some days I feel like I am absolutely losing my mind. I think by now my hormones have surely regulated themselves, so any feelings of insanity must just be a visit from Grief. He is a rude visitor, who shows up unannounced and stays just long enough to throw off my plans for the day, but not long enough to allow us to settle our differences.
I'm suffering the most lately with seeing pregnant girls who look to be as pregnant as I should be now, or those who are at the same point in their pregnancy as I was when I miscarried. I'm feeling hopeful that once the delivery date passes, I will feel some closure and readiness to move on. I do not hold tightly to this hope.
I miss my baby, and I rub my belly sometimes (especially when I cry), wishing that s/he was still in there. I regret wholeheartedly not asking for the testing that would have revealed the gender of my angel baby, and I battle daily with reliving the moment when I turned it down. I would very much like to be able to call my baby by name, but am unable to assign a name to a baby who does not have a boy or girl 'face'. I also wish we would have done the testing so that I might have some peace of mind about the irrational statement above. Even if it had identified that I was at fault, at least I'd know.
Again, I don't intend to forever dwell in this place, but I share my words in hopes that someone else who struggles might feel support from me. This space in the universe that I consume after having lost a baby is a very lonely space, and one that I think isn't easy for everyone to understand, even those who've suffered a similar loss. Some are able to just move on, and I'm envious of those who are. For those who aren't, I hope my words will serve as an offering of love and support.
I never used to be a regretful, pessimistic, cynical person. But then I met Grief. I've been trying to break up with him, because I don't like who I am with him, but it seems he's not so easy to shake.
Happy me is still in there, and I'm making every effort to share her with the world every day, but this is my struggle. Good grief!
Saturday, October 11, 2014
Saturday, August 9, 2014
A Father's Love
In the carefree days of my childhood, before the time of seatbelt laws and child safety seats, I used to ride around in the front seat of the pickup with my daddy, willy nilly. Daddy would take me to the driving range or to his best friend's house to hit golf balls; to the hardware store to pick up materials for things I helped him build in the garage; to the nursery to pick up plants that I helped him put in the ground. These moments with my daddy are some of my favorite childhood memories.
When we did our trips around town, we always took our trusty companion, Cutie. She was the best dog I've had to this day (don't tell Deuce), and the one my dad still says was his 'best friend'. She lived in our backyard, but would dutifully sit on the mat by the back door on the cold nights when we'd let her inside. She was a traveler, visiting her former owners' home on the nights when the rain or hail would come, but then returning the next morning after the storms had passed. She once traveled from Dooley street in Grapevine to the median of I635 before being rescued by a stranger. She would eat anything, so we fed her like a pig, emptying our plates into her doggie bowl after dinner each night. She once even survived an encounter with rat poison.
This dog was special, a mixed breed of Alaskan Husky and poodle, and I loved her with all my heart. Daddy once caught me allowing her to lick me in the mouth, and asked disgustedly, "Amy, why would you do that?" My response: "Because I love her Daddy." She was my baby, my best friend, my constant companion.
One of our favorite things to do with Cutie was to ride with her on the front seat of the pickup with us. I'd sit in the middle so she could put her head out the window, and we would laugh as her little paws tried their best to keep her stabilized, jumping back and forth between the dash and the windowsill.
One day, as we drove down a back road, we discovered it was even funnier to watch her try to stay in place if Daddy swerved just a tiny bit. So there we were, windows down, Daddy giving the steering wheel just a little tug here and there, and Cutie's paws were just dancing on the dash, sliding back and forth as she tried her best to stay in place. One final tug, and the next thing I knew, Cutie had flown right out the passenger window. I screamed and looked at Daddy, who brought the pickup to a screeching halt. Neither one of us moved for the briefest of moments, sure that we were about to find our favorite living being dead on the road behind us. As the pickup doors creaked open, we stepped tentatively out, afraid of what we'd find, only to see Cutie shaking herself off and running towards us, her little tail just wagging away. I truly think she was excited about the adventure she'd just undertaken.
Now if you ask Daddy, he will tell you that as long as he lives, he'll never forget the look on my face when Cutie flew out the window. He says I looked at him like he'd just killed my best friend, and he had never before and has never since felt so guilty. But the view from my seat was different, and the look I'll never forget as long as I live, is the one of guilt and hurt upon my father's face. The look he gave me spoke a thousand words of remorse, regret, apology and love. The look he had on his face said he wished he hadn't caused me pain, and that he'd give his very life to take that pain away.
As I've worked through this journey of grief in the two months since our unborn baby died, I've struggled with my relationship with God, and I've often felt a disconnected inability to identify the emotions I feel when I try and fail to pray, or to explain why when I try to sing, I cry instead. I've tried yelling at God, crying to God, praying to God, and ignoring God. None of it has changed the way I feel, and the hurt hasn't gone away.
But the other day, as I tried to think how God might be reacting to all my accusations and attempts to ignore Him, I remembered this moment with my Daddy. I think, probably, that this image that is burned so clearly in my memory, the look of guilt and sadness and pain on my Daddy's face, is probably what God's face looks like as He looks down upon me these days. My Daddy told me on the night that we lost the baby, "I hate to see my baby sad." I think that's how God feels when we experience pain and loss. He too, wishes we didn't have to experience pain, and would give (and has given) his very life to take it away.
(I don't intend for this blog to become focused only on grief or faith, but I do hope that sharing my grief journey and struggles in faith might in some way help anyone who has experienced or is experiencing a similar journey or struggle.)
When we did our trips around town, we always took our trusty companion, Cutie. She was the best dog I've had to this day (don't tell Deuce), and the one my dad still says was his 'best friend'. She lived in our backyard, but would dutifully sit on the mat by the back door on the cold nights when we'd let her inside. She was a traveler, visiting her former owners' home on the nights when the rain or hail would come, but then returning the next morning after the storms had passed. She once traveled from Dooley street in Grapevine to the median of I635 before being rescued by a stranger. She would eat anything, so we fed her like a pig, emptying our plates into her doggie bowl after dinner each night. She once even survived an encounter with rat poison.
This dog was special, a mixed breed of Alaskan Husky and poodle, and I loved her with all my heart. Daddy once caught me allowing her to lick me in the mouth, and asked disgustedly, "Amy, why would you do that?" My response: "Because I love her Daddy." She was my baby, my best friend, my constant companion.
One of our favorite things to do with Cutie was to ride with her on the front seat of the pickup with us. I'd sit in the middle so she could put her head out the window, and we would laugh as her little paws tried their best to keep her stabilized, jumping back and forth between the dash and the windowsill.
One day, as we drove down a back road, we discovered it was even funnier to watch her try to stay in place if Daddy swerved just a tiny bit. So there we were, windows down, Daddy giving the steering wheel just a little tug here and there, and Cutie's paws were just dancing on the dash, sliding back and forth as she tried her best to stay in place. One final tug, and the next thing I knew, Cutie had flown right out the passenger window. I screamed and looked at Daddy, who brought the pickup to a screeching halt. Neither one of us moved for the briefest of moments, sure that we were about to find our favorite living being dead on the road behind us. As the pickup doors creaked open, we stepped tentatively out, afraid of what we'd find, only to see Cutie shaking herself off and running towards us, her little tail just wagging away. I truly think she was excited about the adventure she'd just undertaken.
Now if you ask Daddy, he will tell you that as long as he lives, he'll never forget the look on my face when Cutie flew out the window. He says I looked at him like he'd just killed my best friend, and he had never before and has never since felt so guilty. But the view from my seat was different, and the look I'll never forget as long as I live, is the one of guilt and hurt upon my father's face. The look he gave me spoke a thousand words of remorse, regret, apology and love. The look he had on his face said he wished he hadn't caused me pain, and that he'd give his very life to take that pain away.
As I've worked through this journey of grief in the two months since our unborn baby died, I've struggled with my relationship with God, and I've often felt a disconnected inability to identify the emotions I feel when I try and fail to pray, or to explain why when I try to sing, I cry instead. I've tried yelling at God, crying to God, praying to God, and ignoring God. None of it has changed the way I feel, and the hurt hasn't gone away.
But the other day, as I tried to think how God might be reacting to all my accusations and attempts to ignore Him, I remembered this moment with my Daddy. I think, probably, that this image that is burned so clearly in my memory, the look of guilt and sadness and pain on my Daddy's face, is probably what God's face looks like as He looks down upon me these days. My Daddy told me on the night that we lost the baby, "I hate to see my baby sad." I think that's how God feels when we experience pain and loss. He too, wishes we didn't have to experience pain, and would give (and has given) his very life to take it away.
(I don't intend for this blog to become focused only on grief or faith, but I do hope that sharing my grief journey and struggles in faith might in some way help anyone who has experienced or is experiencing a similar journey or struggle.)
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Say Something
Through my miscarriage, the loss of my baby, I have come to realize that there are formulaic things people say, well-intentioned but misguided. People don't seem to realize that certain phrases just don't provide comfort in certain situations. Other people's pain makes us uncomfortable, and it is instinctual to want to fill uncomfortable moments with words. People are also uncomfortable with their inability to explain why someone is suffering, so they try to find words that they think will help them do that.
Though I understand this basic human reasoning, and have probably made the same mistakes myself, I have found myself lately wishing people knew better. I've mostly been patient, and have accepted people's words as loving gestures. I've tried my best to have grace with everyone, because I know no one would intentionally hurt me. But nonetheless, I decided to make a list of things I wish people would not say to me to explain away my loss.
It was God's plan. I've always been a "God's plan" kind of girl. I have used this phrase often to explain my own changes in life, both losses and wins, and to comfort others in the same way. Then, when the three-year-old daughter of one of my best friends passed away unexpectedly, I finally realized how painfully unhelpful those words really are in a time of loss or grief. In my situation, I don't believe any part of God's plan includes me walking around with a dead baby inside of me for several days, and then having to have it vacuumed and scraped out of my uterus. I believe that God has a plan for me, but it didn't include this tragedy. This tragedy just happened, and though I'm sure someday I'll see how it fits INTO the plan, the phrase, "God has a plan," does not help me or comfort me in this saddest of times. Silence is better.
You'll get pregnant again. No one knows that. And really, people don't know that's even what I want. It is what I want, but people don't know that. What if I never wanted to try again because I was too fearful? Or what if my doctor had told me that I was unable to have another baby? Saying this is proclaiming that you know more than you could possibly know about both mine and God's 'plan'. It's also dismissive of this pregnancy, this baby, as something that can easily be replaced. This baby was special to me, not just a poor shot for which I've been given a mulligan.
Without my miscarriage, I wouldn't have the children I have now, so in a way I'm thankful that it happened. Several women have expressed this feeling to me, and I completely understand the logic. For me personally, I had not planned to have three children. Therefore, if I am lucky enough to get pregnant again and have a healthy baby, I know I will look at that baby and see it for the miracle that it is, just as I do my first child. I know at some point I'll look at that baby and feel thankful for him or her, no matter the circumstances that led to his or her existence. I also know that this is a gesture of sisterhood from women who have been in my shoes before. However, to me, at this moment in time, these words imply that one baby's life is more important or worthy than the other's, and I just can't reconcile that with my feelings for my angel baby.
It wasn't meant to be. Would you say that to a woman who lost a living child? Because really, anything you wouldn't say to someone who lost a living child, you shouldn't say to someone who has miscarried. It's completely understandable to me that others may not see a fetus as a living child, but to me, it was. I formed a bond with that baby from the moment I discovered the miracle growing inside me, and every day of those blessed 16 weeks, I read about what my baby was doing developmentally inside me. I talked to the baby, sang to the baby, rocked back and forth with my hand on my belly and prayed over the baby. Before my baby stopped developing, he or she had a beating heart, fingers and toes, the ability to insert his or her thumb into the mouth, eyes that could move side to side, the beginnings of a developing voice, and next to come were fingerprints. So to me, this baby existed, and therefore was meant to be.
The timing just wasn't right. Actually, the timing was perfect, or I wouldn't have been pregnant in the first place. Saying this dismisses the perfectly timed miracle that was growing inside me. It implies that something just quit working because of a mechanical defect or because it was throwing God's plan off schedule.
You'll see your baby in Heaven. While I believe this to be true, it does not comfort me now, here on earth, while I'm aching to hold my baby in my arms.
At the end of the day, I realize that people need to say something to make themselves feel better, to feel that they have comforted a friend in need. In light of that, here is a list of things that HAVE comforted me through this loss.
I love you.
I'm so sorry for your loss/pain/grief/etc., or just I'm sorry.
I understand, because I've been through it before. Caution: This line only helps if you actually have been through the same experience before. Be cautious with this line.
If you need to talk, I'm here.
I know there is nothing I can say to ease your pain. It helps to know that people recognize this fact.
How are you doing? Someone who has experienced this type of loss doesn't get over it as quickly as you forget that it happened. Especially a mother who has lost a baby who once grew inside her belly. Her heart will ache even when she gets back to living life, when she goes to dinner parties, when she laughs and plays with her precious first child. Her heart will ache, she will feel empty inside, and she will feel alone in her pain, so don't forget to check on her.
If you have a loved one who has experienced the loss of a child, say something, but be careful and thoughtful with the words that escape your lips.
If you are a parent who has lost a child, I welcome you to comment about words that have hurt or helped you along the way.
Though I understand this basic human reasoning, and have probably made the same mistakes myself, I have found myself lately wishing people knew better. I've mostly been patient, and have accepted people's words as loving gestures. I've tried my best to have grace with everyone, because I know no one would intentionally hurt me. But nonetheless, I decided to make a list of things I wish people would not say to me to explain away my loss.
It was God's plan. I've always been a "God's plan" kind of girl. I have used this phrase often to explain my own changes in life, both losses and wins, and to comfort others in the same way. Then, when the three-year-old daughter of one of my best friends passed away unexpectedly, I finally realized how painfully unhelpful those words really are in a time of loss or grief. In my situation, I don't believe any part of God's plan includes me walking around with a dead baby inside of me for several days, and then having to have it vacuumed and scraped out of my uterus. I believe that God has a plan for me, but it didn't include this tragedy. This tragedy just happened, and though I'm sure someday I'll see how it fits INTO the plan, the phrase, "God has a plan," does not help me or comfort me in this saddest of times. Silence is better.
You'll get pregnant again. No one knows that. And really, people don't know that's even what I want. It is what I want, but people don't know that. What if I never wanted to try again because I was too fearful? Or what if my doctor had told me that I was unable to have another baby? Saying this is proclaiming that you know more than you could possibly know about both mine and God's 'plan'. It's also dismissive of this pregnancy, this baby, as something that can easily be replaced. This baby was special to me, not just a poor shot for which I've been given a mulligan.
Without my miscarriage, I wouldn't have the children I have now, so in a way I'm thankful that it happened. Several women have expressed this feeling to me, and I completely understand the logic. For me personally, I had not planned to have three children. Therefore, if I am lucky enough to get pregnant again and have a healthy baby, I know I will look at that baby and see it for the miracle that it is, just as I do my first child. I know at some point I'll look at that baby and feel thankful for him or her, no matter the circumstances that led to his or her existence. I also know that this is a gesture of sisterhood from women who have been in my shoes before. However, to me, at this moment in time, these words imply that one baby's life is more important or worthy than the other's, and I just can't reconcile that with my feelings for my angel baby.
It wasn't meant to be. Would you say that to a woman who lost a living child? Because really, anything you wouldn't say to someone who lost a living child, you shouldn't say to someone who has miscarried. It's completely understandable to me that others may not see a fetus as a living child, but to me, it was. I formed a bond with that baby from the moment I discovered the miracle growing inside me, and every day of those blessed 16 weeks, I read about what my baby was doing developmentally inside me. I talked to the baby, sang to the baby, rocked back and forth with my hand on my belly and prayed over the baby. Before my baby stopped developing, he or she had a beating heart, fingers and toes, the ability to insert his or her thumb into the mouth, eyes that could move side to side, the beginnings of a developing voice, and next to come were fingerprints. So to me, this baby existed, and therefore was meant to be.
The timing just wasn't right. Actually, the timing was perfect, or I wouldn't have been pregnant in the first place. Saying this dismisses the perfectly timed miracle that was growing inside me. It implies that something just quit working because of a mechanical defect or because it was throwing God's plan off schedule.
You'll see your baby in Heaven. While I believe this to be true, it does not comfort me now, here on earth, while I'm aching to hold my baby in my arms.
At the end of the day, I realize that people need to say something to make themselves feel better, to feel that they have comforted a friend in need. In light of that, here is a list of things that HAVE comforted me through this loss.
I love you.
I'm so sorry for your loss/pain/grief/etc., or just I'm sorry.
I understand, because I've been through it before. Caution: This line only helps if you actually have been through the same experience before. Be cautious with this line.
If you need to talk, I'm here.
I know there is nothing I can say to ease your pain. It helps to know that people recognize this fact.
How are you doing? Someone who has experienced this type of loss doesn't get over it as quickly as you forget that it happened. Especially a mother who has lost a baby who once grew inside her belly. Her heart will ache even when she gets back to living life, when she goes to dinner parties, when she laughs and plays with her precious first child. Her heart will ache, she will feel empty inside, and she will feel alone in her pain, so don't forget to check on her.
If you have a loved one who has experienced the loss of a child, say something, but be careful and thoughtful with the words that escape your lips.
If you are a parent who has lost a child, I welcome you to comment about words that have hurt or helped you along the way.
Saturday, June 21, 2014
God Speaks
God spoke to me today.
But before I go forward, I must go back.
Two weeks ago yesterday, my husband and I waited expectantly while our doctor tried to locate a heartbeat for our sweet second baby at our 16 week appointment. When he was unable to find the heartbeat using just the Doppler, he assured us everything was fine, but sent us to a second room for a scan to get a better look at the baby.
Looking back now, I knew at that point that something was wrong.
This pregnancy was completely unlike my first, with morning sickness and general discomfort that lasted through each of my waking hours until the 14th week. During the 12th week, I began to experience pain in my hips and groin that made it uncomfortable to walk, sit, lay, pick up my first child, and perform normal daily functions. I assumed all those discomforts were due to the relaxin that was preparing my joints for my second childbirth, only a short 16 months after the first. I assumed all the new pains I experienced were due to the close spacing between my pregnancies, and the fact that my body had never fully recovered from the first.
But looking back, I knew. I had spent countless moments during this pregnancy worrying that I was robbing my first son of his well-deserved alone time with mommy and daddy. I had fretted that I would never have enough room in my heart to love a second child as much as I loved my first, perfect child. I was concerned from the beginning that my morning sickness was a bad sign, but I chose to believe rumors I'd heard that morning sickness was an indication of high levels of good hormones, and was a confident predictor of a healthy pregnancy. I had never felt quite settled throughout this pregnancy, but I chose to ignore the signs and feel hopeful and positive, because surely nothing could happen to my baby.
But looking back, I knew. Just that morning, in the restroom mirror at work, I had paused briefly and thought how strange it was that I could see the outline of my belly button, where just the day before it wasn't visible because of the tightness that had developed due to my growing baby. And only days before this doctor's visit, I had told my husband I wished this visit was a sonogram visit, because I felt the need to see, rather than just hear, our baby. I knew something was amiss, but again I chose hope and positivity.
When our doctor brought the image of our baby up on the screen, I had one last fleeting moment of hope when I saw the outline of the human form, including a beautiful profile of his or her face that I'll never forget. But my final moment of hope was quickly destroyed, replaced with a cascade of emotions and events that spiraled out of my control before I could even take a breath. According to the doctor, our sweet baby had stopped developing around 14 weeks, and now had no heartbeat.
I had been walking around with a dead baby inside my belly for two weeks. Aside from the devastation and sadness I felt at that moment, I'll never forget thinking how strange it was that I was certain I had just felt the baby move that morning, and several other times in the past two weeks. I was certain of these baby flutters, and I never questioned myself because I had so recently gone through the first pregnancy.
Over the course of these last two painful weeks, I have felt more coinciding emotions than I thought possible.
I have felt guilty...for not recognizing something was wrong and insisting the doctor check on my baby sooner. For not being as excited about this pregnancy as I was about the first. For not watching how I ate, drank, slept and exerted myself as carefully as I did with my first. For not spending as many hours with my hand on my belly in prayer as I did with my first. For dancing with my fifth graders when I knew I needed to rest. For any moments of fear or panic that my sweet baby might have felt when in distress. For not being able to save my baby.
I have felt embarrassed...for not being cognizant of the fact that something was wrong. For thinking there was a baby moving inside me who was actually dead. For having a body that failed me and my sweet angel baby. For grieving the loss of a child I never even got to meet in person. For not being able to save my baby.
I have felt angry...for being forced to walk around with a dead baby inside me for three more days while I waited for a D and C procedure. For having to have a baby vacuumed and scraped out of my womb. For listening to the non-cynical, optimistic side of myself who told me everything would be fine. For believing that God wouldn't let anything happen to my baby. For all the well-intentioned but insensitive things people say to someone who has lost a child. For the fact that my baby wasn't big enough for the remains to leave any ashes for us to cherish. For not being able to hold and love on my baby before sending him or her to Heaven. For not being able to save my baby.
BUT...I have also felt thankful...for friends and family members, even distant acquaintances, who have reached out in this saddest of times to offer condolences, words of comfort, acts of service, and countless other blessings. I have felt humbled by friends who have lost living children, who have graced me with the honor of considering my loss in any way comparable to theirs. I have felt blessed every moment of every day by my sweet, first baby boy and my loving husband, without whom this experience might have consumed me completely.
I know I have barely begun to grieve, and I know there are so many more ways in which I will feel all of these emotions and more that I can't yet comprehend.
But through all the sadness, the shame, the anger, and the blessings, I have so wished I could lean on my God. I have so wished I could reach out to Him and ask Him for guidance. That I could count on Him not to let me down, and that I could trust that He would lead me, comfort me, protect me, and more importantly, welcome my sweet angel baby home.
But I haven't been able to do this, because I've been struggling with my faith for several months now. Through a progression of tragic events, my faith has been chipped away, dulled by the realization that this God in whom I have so blindly trusted and who I have so faithfully followed, doesn't exact His power to stop bad things from happening to good people, even those I love and even those who are too tiny and defenseless to protect themselves. This realization has caused a rift in my relationship with God that I have been unsure could ever be repaired.
I have spent countless hours in the last year arguing with and pointing my finger at God, and then apologizing for my lack of faith, and for the fact that I am too hurt and angry and confused to speak to and believe in Him. (I have wondered in the last two weeks if all of this arguing and finger-pointing is what caused my baby to be forsaken, which has led to more guilt and anger.)
But today, in my car, God spoke to me.
It needs to be said that though I am not a cynic, I am hesitant to believe in God's ability to speak directly to us. For example, I believe that God places the sunset in our view to remind us of His glory, but I do not believe that God would place a note in my mailbox written by His own hand (a la The Shack). For this reason, what I tell you here seems hokey even to me, but I implore believers and non-believers, cynics and optimists alike, to allow yourselves to be inspired by my story and reminded of His grace, presence and power in our lives. (Disclaimer: HIS refers to God in any form you choose to accept.)
Through the last two weeks, I have had little time to feel my pain. I have had little time to sit and cry, to dwell in this dark place, to be consumed by this all-consuming grief. There have been unforeseen circumstances that have forced me to step up, be strong, and power through each day as though nothing has happened. I personally think I've done a stellar job. ;)
But sometimes, I cry. When I'm in the bathroom alone, I cry. When I'm up and no one else is awake, I cry. When I'm in the car, I cry. I allow myself a few moments to fall apart, and then I pick up the pieces and finish the day.
Today, God found me in my grief, spoke to me, and then moved on to finish His day.
As I drove to a hair appointment, I stared blindly ahead, ignoring the lines on the road, but somehow staying inside them safely enough to get me where I was going; a fine analogy for the last two weeks of my life. I turned on Kari Jobe radio on Pandora, because I felt in need of some spiritual therapy, and music is always my best medicine.
The first song playing was, "You Are For Me," by Kari Jobe. Aside from the fact that this happens to be one of my favorite faith ballads, the words were exactly what my heart needed to hear. "I know that You are for me, I know that You are for me, I know that You would never forsake me in my weakness. I know that You have come here, even if to write upon my heart, to remind me who You are."
I began to cry, unable to sing along due to my failing voice of faith. I cried through most of the song, and as it ended, I whispered a begrudging apology to God. "You took my baby, and this pain, it is so all-consuming, I can't breathe. This grief is filling me until there is no room for You, and I don't know what to do."
As the next song began to play, I actually laughed through my tears. I laughed, because I knew in that moment that God had found me, listened to my cries, and spoken to me.
The next song that played was, "I Will Carry You," by Selah.
The night before I heard this song for the first time, these are the words I read on Amazon as I searched the internet for books of faith on grief. The book I read about was titled "I Will Carry You: The Sacred Dance of Grief and Joy," by Angie Smith.
When I saw the title of the song on my console and heard the first few words, I thought to myself, "No. Way." I was still in tears over the last song, and as the song began to play, I listened intently to this woman's journey through the birth and loss of her child, and how her faith is still centered on God, even though her dreams had been crushed by this tragedy.
I continued to cry then because I knew God had found me in my weakness, and had reached out and handed me a song, not to heal me or make my pain go away, but to let me know that He was still there, still watching me, still loving me. God knows me, and He knows that music is the place where I linger for every blessing, celebration, tragedy and sorrow in my life. Music is my heart, and God came to me, in my heart, and spoke to me.
In the smallest of ways, this began to dissipate my anger, my hurt, and my finger-pointing, and it opened the door for healing and the rebuilding of trust. In no way does this make the pain of my tragedy less present or more bearable, but it does provide me some comfort in knowing that even though my faith is being tested, God has not forsaken me. God still believes in me, even if I'm having trouble believing in Him.
For the believers, optimists, cynics, and non-believers alike, I hope you can put aside the hokey evangelicals, the big business of church, the hypocrites, and the crazy-talk of someone who just lost a child, and believe for just a moment that the same God who spoke to me today is there, watching you and loving you too.
-Dedicated to our sweet Angel Baby ('Avocado' Henry). We will miss you always.
But before I go forward, I must go back.
Two weeks ago yesterday, my husband and I waited expectantly while our doctor tried to locate a heartbeat for our sweet second baby at our 16 week appointment. When he was unable to find the heartbeat using just the Doppler, he assured us everything was fine, but sent us to a second room for a scan to get a better look at the baby.
Looking back now, I knew at that point that something was wrong.
This pregnancy was completely unlike my first, with morning sickness and general discomfort that lasted through each of my waking hours until the 14th week. During the 12th week, I began to experience pain in my hips and groin that made it uncomfortable to walk, sit, lay, pick up my first child, and perform normal daily functions. I assumed all those discomforts were due to the relaxin that was preparing my joints for my second childbirth, only a short 16 months after the first. I assumed all the new pains I experienced were due to the close spacing between my pregnancies, and the fact that my body had never fully recovered from the first.
But looking back, I knew. I had spent countless moments during this pregnancy worrying that I was robbing my first son of his well-deserved alone time with mommy and daddy. I had fretted that I would never have enough room in my heart to love a second child as much as I loved my first, perfect child. I was concerned from the beginning that my morning sickness was a bad sign, but I chose to believe rumors I'd heard that morning sickness was an indication of high levels of good hormones, and was a confident predictor of a healthy pregnancy. I had never felt quite settled throughout this pregnancy, but I chose to ignore the signs and feel hopeful and positive, because surely nothing could happen to my baby.
But looking back, I knew. Just that morning, in the restroom mirror at work, I had paused briefly and thought how strange it was that I could see the outline of my belly button, where just the day before it wasn't visible because of the tightness that had developed due to my growing baby. And only days before this doctor's visit, I had told my husband I wished this visit was a sonogram visit, because I felt the need to see, rather than just hear, our baby. I knew something was amiss, but again I chose hope and positivity.
When our doctor brought the image of our baby up on the screen, I had one last fleeting moment of hope when I saw the outline of the human form, including a beautiful profile of his or her face that I'll never forget. But my final moment of hope was quickly destroyed, replaced with a cascade of emotions and events that spiraled out of my control before I could even take a breath. According to the doctor, our sweet baby had stopped developing around 14 weeks, and now had no heartbeat.
I had been walking around with a dead baby inside my belly for two weeks. Aside from the devastation and sadness I felt at that moment, I'll never forget thinking how strange it was that I was certain I had just felt the baby move that morning, and several other times in the past two weeks. I was certain of these baby flutters, and I never questioned myself because I had so recently gone through the first pregnancy.
Over the course of these last two painful weeks, I have felt more coinciding emotions than I thought possible.
I have felt guilty...for not recognizing something was wrong and insisting the doctor check on my baby sooner. For not being as excited about this pregnancy as I was about the first. For not watching how I ate, drank, slept and exerted myself as carefully as I did with my first. For not spending as many hours with my hand on my belly in prayer as I did with my first. For dancing with my fifth graders when I knew I needed to rest. For any moments of fear or panic that my sweet baby might have felt when in distress. For not being able to save my baby.
I have felt embarrassed...for not being cognizant of the fact that something was wrong. For thinking there was a baby moving inside me who was actually dead. For having a body that failed me and my sweet angel baby. For grieving the loss of a child I never even got to meet in person. For not being able to save my baby.
I have felt angry...for being forced to walk around with a dead baby inside me for three more days while I waited for a D and C procedure. For having to have a baby vacuumed and scraped out of my womb. For listening to the non-cynical, optimistic side of myself who told me everything would be fine. For believing that God wouldn't let anything happen to my baby. For all the well-intentioned but insensitive things people say to someone who has lost a child. For the fact that my baby wasn't big enough for the remains to leave any ashes for us to cherish. For not being able to hold and love on my baby before sending him or her to Heaven. For not being able to save my baby.
BUT...I have also felt thankful...for friends and family members, even distant acquaintances, who have reached out in this saddest of times to offer condolences, words of comfort, acts of service, and countless other blessings. I have felt humbled by friends who have lost living children, who have graced me with the honor of considering my loss in any way comparable to theirs. I have felt blessed every moment of every day by my sweet, first baby boy and my loving husband, without whom this experience might have consumed me completely.
I know I have barely begun to grieve, and I know there are so many more ways in which I will feel all of these emotions and more that I can't yet comprehend.
But through all the sadness, the shame, the anger, and the blessings, I have so wished I could lean on my God. I have so wished I could reach out to Him and ask Him for guidance. That I could count on Him not to let me down, and that I could trust that He would lead me, comfort me, protect me, and more importantly, welcome my sweet angel baby home.
But I haven't been able to do this, because I've been struggling with my faith for several months now. Through a progression of tragic events, my faith has been chipped away, dulled by the realization that this God in whom I have so blindly trusted and who I have so faithfully followed, doesn't exact His power to stop bad things from happening to good people, even those I love and even those who are too tiny and defenseless to protect themselves. This realization has caused a rift in my relationship with God that I have been unsure could ever be repaired.
I have spent countless hours in the last year arguing with and pointing my finger at God, and then apologizing for my lack of faith, and for the fact that I am too hurt and angry and confused to speak to and believe in Him. (I have wondered in the last two weeks if all of this arguing and finger-pointing is what caused my baby to be forsaken, which has led to more guilt and anger.)
But today, in my car, God spoke to me.
It needs to be said that though I am not a cynic, I am hesitant to believe in God's ability to speak directly to us. For example, I believe that God places the sunset in our view to remind us of His glory, but I do not believe that God would place a note in my mailbox written by His own hand (a la The Shack). For this reason, what I tell you here seems hokey even to me, but I implore believers and non-believers, cynics and optimists alike, to allow yourselves to be inspired by my story and reminded of His grace, presence and power in our lives. (Disclaimer: HIS refers to God in any form you choose to accept.)
Through the last two weeks, I have had little time to feel my pain. I have had little time to sit and cry, to dwell in this dark place, to be consumed by this all-consuming grief. There have been unforeseen circumstances that have forced me to step up, be strong, and power through each day as though nothing has happened. I personally think I've done a stellar job. ;)
But sometimes, I cry. When I'm in the bathroom alone, I cry. When I'm up and no one else is awake, I cry. When I'm in the car, I cry. I allow myself a few moments to fall apart, and then I pick up the pieces and finish the day.
Today, God found me in my grief, spoke to me, and then moved on to finish His day.
As I drove to a hair appointment, I stared blindly ahead, ignoring the lines on the road, but somehow staying inside them safely enough to get me where I was going; a fine analogy for the last two weeks of my life. I turned on Kari Jobe radio on Pandora, because I felt in need of some spiritual therapy, and music is always my best medicine.
The first song playing was, "You Are For Me," by Kari Jobe. Aside from the fact that this happens to be one of my favorite faith ballads, the words were exactly what my heart needed to hear. "I know that You are for me, I know that You are for me, I know that You would never forsake me in my weakness. I know that You have come here, even if to write upon my heart, to remind me who You are."
I began to cry, unable to sing along due to my failing voice of faith. I cried through most of the song, and as it ended, I whispered a begrudging apology to God. "You took my baby, and this pain, it is so all-consuming, I can't breathe. This grief is filling me until there is no room for You, and I don't know what to do."
As the next song began to play, I actually laughed through my tears. I laughed, because I knew in that moment that God had found me, listened to my cries, and spoken to me.
The next song that played was, "I Will Carry You," by Selah.
The night before I heard this song for the first time, these are the words I read on Amazon as I searched the internet for books of faith on grief. The book I read about was titled "I Will Carry You: The Sacred Dance of Grief and Joy," by Angie Smith.
As I read the book's review, I again felt guilt as I pondered how much harder this woman's journey must have been than mine. I decided to order the book because it seemed such an inspiring story of faith, but I was unaware there was a song by the same name.
In 2008, Angie Smith and her husband Todd (lead singer of the group Selah) learned through ultrasound that their fourth daughter had conditions making her “incompatible with life.” Advised to terminate the pregnancy, the Smiths chose instead to carry this child and allow room for a miracle. That miracle came the day they met Audrey Caroline and got the chance to love her for the precious two-and-a-half hours she lived on earth.
When I saw the title of the song on my console and heard the first few words, I thought to myself, "No. Way." I was still in tears over the last song, and as the song began to play, I listened intently to this woman's journey through the birth and loss of her child, and how her faith is still centered on God, even though her dreams had been crushed by this tragedy.
I continued to cry then because I knew God had found me in my weakness, and had reached out and handed me a song, not to heal me or make my pain go away, but to let me know that He was still there, still watching me, still loving me. God knows me, and He knows that music is the place where I linger for every blessing, celebration, tragedy and sorrow in my life. Music is my heart, and God came to me, in my heart, and spoke to me.
In the smallest of ways, this began to dissipate my anger, my hurt, and my finger-pointing, and it opened the door for healing and the rebuilding of trust. In no way does this make the pain of my tragedy less present or more bearable, but it does provide me some comfort in knowing that even though my faith is being tested, God has not forsaken me. God still believes in me, even if I'm having trouble believing in Him.
For the believers, optimists, cynics, and non-believers alike, I hope you can put aside the hokey evangelicals, the big business of church, the hypocrites, and the crazy-talk of someone who just lost a child, and believe for just a moment that the same God who spoke to me today is there, watching you and loving you too.
-Dedicated to our sweet Angel Baby ('Avocado' Henry). We will miss you always.
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