The Truth May Vary

Incongruent (adj.): in psychology- a type of inappropriate affect in which the individuals presentation (verbal, facial expression, gestures, etc.) does not match their mood, emotions, or thoughts. 

An incongruent affect can be a serious symptom of different mental illnesses.  It turns out, to some degree, a version incongruency is a symptom of grief.  A symptom that I cannot seem to fight back against many days. 

There are so many, many times, especially this last month, where I have felt overwhelming, soul-crushing, emotional pain, but I have continued to smile, laugh, and go about my day.  I set out on this journey with the goal of being honest with my emotions and not hiding the pain and grief of infant loss.  To not be silenced as so many others are.  Shatter the stigma and what-not. Most importantly, to honor Mira by speaking of her and loving her out loud.  I do that through my writing, and I talk about her often.  I do my best not to let other’s level of comfort with death affect my choice of sharing her story and her life. But I am so incongruent the majority of the day. My mind is screaming or sobbing or just blank and numb, but my face has a smile.  My heart is aching, in real physical way, feeling so full of emptiness (oh, how can you even be full of emptiness?), but I am laughing with a coworker.  My thoughts say, “I am not doing well,” “I am not okay,” “I want to talk about Mira,” and “You hurt me by not acknowledging my pain.”  My words say, “I’m good,” “Yes, I am fine,” “It’s okay, I understand,” and “No, I’m just tired.”  So incongruent.  

I don't like walking around this old and empty house

So hold my hand, I'll walk with you my dear

The stairs creak as I sleep,

It's keeping me awake

It's the house telling you to close your eyes

And some days I can't even trust myself

It's killing me to see you this way

'Cause though the truth may vary

This ship will carry our bodies safe to shore…

You're gone, gone, gone away,

I watched you disappear

All that's left is a ghost of you

Now we're torn, torn, torn apart,

there's nothing we can do,

Just let me go, we'll meet again soon

Now wait, wait, wait for me, please hang around

I'll see you when I fall asleep

Don't listen to a word I say

The screams all sound the same…

(Of Monsters and Men)

There are many times I want to say “This hurts too much today.”  Or “I need a break, I need help, I don’t know what I need, but I am so lost.”  But I don’t.  Mostly people have stopped asking and I can’t often bring myself to share the true depth of pain with those who do.  I wouldn’t say I’m hiding it purposefully.  I am blessed to be surrounded by many people who do not expect that of me and have never pressured me to.  There are those that have cared more about their comfort and happiness than Joe and I's pain and needs, but they are far out numbered by the caring and compassionate people in our lives.  

I have a desire to be honest about the pain of missing Mira, to talk of her just as often as moms with living children talk of their babies.  So then, what is the purpose of this incongruency? I am beginning to think it is simply all that gets me through some days.  If let out the vast, painful, raw grief all day, every day, I just don’t think I would survive. I would like to have a little less incongruency, but maybe in a way, it is a survival instinct. 

I guess I can just add this strange type of incongruency to the list of side effects of grief.  Right up there on the list with the terrible short term memory, dry skin on my face from all the tears, the difficultly breathing on anniversaries and holidays, and all the extra ice cream.

Today, my incongruent-self walked up to the nurse’s station in the maternity unit of Ephrata Hospital, with a sad smile plastered to my face and my husband next to me. The nurse looked up and asked how she could help us.  In a different world, four months ago we would have walked up to the counter and Joe would have said, “my wife is in labor” with joy (and maybe a little fear) in his voice.  Instead, I said “we would like to donate two books in memory of our daughter.”  As those last few words were spoken, my voice cracked and all the incongruency slipped away with the tears that fell down my face.  Mira's name will now be known by two more families as they are given a book with her name in it.  Maybe they will look up her story and learn of the love she brought into the world.   Four month gone.  Four books donated.  Four months closer to holding Mira again.