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Note: my blog feeds into Facebook, and this entry is an emotional rant that those of you who do not know me well may not care to read. Please know that I take no offense should you stop reading part way through, or choose not to read at all. Also, please know that this entry is more for my own healing, and though your comments and encouragement are welcome, do not feel the need to comment.
I know that there are some of you that will be taken by surprise by what you read. Please send questions to my Inbox, but understand that it may be awhile before I reply.
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Never did I dream I would have to face the nightmare I am facing now.
Some would argue the source of my grief. Some would claim that I did not really lose a child, that what happened to us is no where near the same as losing a living, breathing child.
But I gave birth to him. I held him. I counted his fingers and toes and fell in love with his tiny tiny body. And even though he never got to breathe a single breath of air, and he never got to feel us hold him, he still existed. He was my son, and he was beautiful. And I loved him very much.
I do not claim to come anywhere close to understanding the grief and pain of parents who had the chance to know their child, to hear him cry, to know what made her happy or sad. I do not claim to understand how it feels to lose someone who was being raised and taught, but never got the chance to apply those lessons in his or her adult life. And at the same time, those parents will never understand my grief in never having that chance.
Once upon a time, some friends of mine and I formed the "Men Suck" club. (No offense, guys. We were immature college girls who were tired of being at the mercy of immature college guys.) One of the quotations we held so dearly was this:
"What do you do when the only one who can dry your tears is the one who made you cry?"
Never in my life did I even dream that the day would come when this quotation would apply to my Lord, my God.
What do you do when you are inconsolable, and the only one who can comfort you, the only one who can possibly understand your agony, is the one who caused it to happen in the first place? What do you do when the one whom you sought comfort from for years, in every situation, from break ups to work issues to problems with friends, is the one who took your son, who stilled his heart without any warning. Who allowed you to walk into a routine appointment more worried that you were going to be lectured for coloring your hair than about hearing a heartbeat that was there the two times before?
What do you do when the only one who can dry your tears is the one who made you cry?
I took psychology classes. I know the whole "Stages of Grief" business . . . shock/denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. . . though I thought there used to be some fear in there somewhere, and some guilt, too. I have definitely experienced both of those, even if they are no longer official "stages." I always thought those were supposed to be experienced in order, not all at once. The shock wore off pretty quickly. Anger, fear, guilt and sadness have pretty much been taking their shots at me simultaneously. It's a roll of the dice which one I'm going to wake up with. And where is complete numbness in the process? And does everyone bargain? I have nothing to bargain with. I did everything I was supposed to, or so I thought.
On Thursday, in two days, we are supposed to find out what caused my son's heart to stop beating. . . that is if they can even find the cause. I have had every scenario in the world, ranging from possible to impossible, rational to irrational, go through my head. My second greatest fear is that I will hear on Thursday that I did something to cause this. My greatest fear is that I will hear that my body is just incapable of carrying a child. And it is this fear that nearly had me crippled most of the day yesterday. And at the end of the day, I finally had to break my silent treatment toward God.
We hadn't been on speaking terms for quite a while. Well, I hadn't been on speaking terms with Him, anyway. I'm sure he was trying to talk to me, and I just wouldn't listen. I sure didn't want to ask God for anything. I'd spent the last 16 weeks praying that I would be a good mother, that I would be able to bring up my child in such a way that teaches him to love the Lord. Little did I know what the Lord had coming for me. That's what gets me the most. God knew the whole time, before Ethan was even conceived that he was going to take him away from us.
But when a friend of mine awoke from a bursting aneurysm this week, I really had to at least thank him. People don't always wake up from those. But as far as anything to do with me, I had no desire to speak to him. I wasn't rejecting him, and I never rejected my salvation, but He took my son from me after letting me hear his heartbeat, and I was angry. Who does that? Why not take him before there was a chance to hear the heartbeat, like the first time?
I can carry anger for a very long time. I can give you some names to ask, if you don't believe me. Fear, however, is another story. I don't handle fear well. It paralyzes me. Bugs, loud noises when I'm home alone at night, major life changes. . . it doesn't matter. The fear suffocates me, causes me to be unable to move. . . and the fear of possibly never being able to have children was no different. And no one can help me deal with that fear. I finally had to turn to the Lord.
I cried to him. I yelled at him. I begged him. I thanked him for filling my life with friends who love me and who are there for me to lean on. I thanked him for my husband, who has not a clue how to help me but has just been there for me. I thanked him for my sister, who has been my greatest prayer warrior. And then I yelled and cried some more.
And when I was finished, I slept. Hard. I was exhausted. I don't think I budged the entire night.
And when I woke up this morning, I felt somewhat numb, with a strange sense of peace over me.
I am still scared of what I will hear Thursday morning. But I'm not paralyzed.
I still feel guilty, like this was somehow my fault, and that the better I start to feel, the more I am losing what little connection I had with my son.
I still hurt so much, because I want Ethan back so badly, but, for today anyway, the pain doesn't cripple me.
For today, I had peace. I never understood the concept of "peace that transcends all understanding", but now I do. For today, I had peace, and I do not understand why. But maybe if God is willing to grant me peace, then he will be willing to give us a child.
Day by day,
Leslie
Philippians 4:6-7
"Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus."
