Oh, Don't You See?

Emotional strength has become a strange concept to me.  We really only tell people they are strong after they have been through something terrible.  People tell me I am strong all the time.  I don’t feel strong at all.  It is only at the times in my life that I have felt the most broken that people have told me I am strong.  I think that is true for most everyone.  So why, do we say that?  Because it is what you are supposed to say?  Because we actually think that person is strong?  To distance ourselves a bit from feeling the person’s pain? Probably a little of all three.    

You are so strong.  I couldn’t do what you have done.  Your strength is amazing.  People tell me these things.  I nod politely and smile, say something dismissive.  It is what you are supposed to do.  But, dear Lord, I do not feel strong right now.  I have felt strong at times in my career that I have stood up for what I though was right.  I have felt strength when protecting another person.  I have felt strength when I have stood up for myself.  I even felt some strength when I was fighting for Mira’s life by finding more doctors and more research.  I don’t feel strong in grief.  

We, as a society, seem to like hearing stories of the person sick with cancer who beat the odds and talks of how thankful they are for cancer because it taught them so much.  We like stories of parents who lost a child only to adopt needy children and say they owe it all to the child they lost and they are so thankful.  We like people who are in pain and are suffering who smile and stay positive and are inspirational.  I am sure there are so many, many psychological reasons for that.  I am thankful for many things, and I still have good things in my life, and Mira changed my life and I love that I was chosen to be her mother.  I have strong faith and still trust God.  But the truth, the darkest part of grieving my daughter, is that I feel angry, I feel isolated, I feel scared, and I feel broken. 

I feel angry.  I am angry that a doctor told Joe and I that our baby was dead at 6 weeks, then was wrong and said everything was fine.  She was wrong both times.  I am angry that a different doctor tried to force me into an abortion.  I am angry that God gave me a miracle at 6 weeks, Joe and I gave Him all the glory, and He took it away.  I am angry that my body was in so much pain through my pregnancy.  I am angry that my body didn’t know I didn’t need that milk.  I am angry that my body can’t seem to bounce back now, and still gives me pain.  I feel angry when people cannot understand why certain events are too difficult to attend and are not supportive.  I feel angry when people can't show compassion.

I feel isolated.  I feel isolated when the 18^th of the month passes and only one or two people reach out to say they are thinking of Mira and me.  I feel isolated when women talk about their current/past pregnancies and the room gets quiet and awkward if I speak up about my morning sickness.  I feel isolated when people try to give advice on ‘moving on’ or the best way to grieve, or how to feel better, when they have no idea what this is like.  I feel isolated when in a group of people, even if I am having fun and enjoying myself, because the absence of Mira feels so huge to me, but it is not the time to talk about it.  I feel especially alone after I leave these events and go home to my painfully quiet house with no baby crying.   It is hard to not feel invisible and forgotten as a loss Mom.  I go days, over even weeks, without hearing someone besides myself or Joe speak Mira’s name.

I’ve spoken before about how things get harder, in a way, as time passes and the support naturally lessens.  This make the isolation so much stronger.  In the time right after we lost Mira, we had family stay with us and visitors often.  We had cards, and calls, and texts.  That no longer happens, as is normal and expected, but still makes the isolation feel strong.  Joe and I have made an active effort to be less isolated over the last several weeks, and we are making some progress.  But it is extremely hard.  We have gone to small group, we have met friends for dinner.  We planned to return to church this morning.  But I couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t do anything but stare at the clock from 7:30 am-9:15 am and think about how I wanted to go to church but could make myself get ready.  And then it was too late to go.  I couldn’t stop wondering, would I feel more isolated here at home, or if I went to service with all the smiling, happy families?

I am scared.  I am scared that Mira will be forgotten by everyone except Joe and me.  I am scared that the other children in Joe and I’s families will overshadow her memory and make her matter less to others.  I am scared to admit I worry about that, that is not a kind, acceptable thing to think about.  I am scared I will never give birth to and raise a living child.  I am terrified to face trying to have another child.  I am terrified to lose another child, to have a miscarriage, to have a child stillborn, to have a child die of SIDS, to have a teenager hit by a car, and on, and on, and on.  I am scared that I will always be scared.

I feel broken.  I feel who I was before is gone and I am left with a broken version of myself.  The pieces of myself are still there, and come through sometimes, but it isn’t quite right.  It will always be different.  The experts talk about the ‘new normal.’  They assure you will never be the same person again, child loss changes you too deeply, but that it is okay, because you will find your ‘new normal’ and your ‘new self.’  I never asked for a new normal.  My old normal was just fine before I was broken.

It is hard to say all this.  I feel I should wrap up with a list of all the good things and the things I am thankful for. It goes against the ‘people pleaser’ part of me to not do that.  And there are things I am thankful for and things I love about my life.  However, today, I just want to say that I am angry, isolated, scared, and broken.  I’ll talk about the other things another day. 

Oh, don't you see

That lonesome dove?

Sitting on an ivy tree

She's weeping for

Her own true love

As I shall weep for mine

Oh, come ye back

My own true love

And stay a while with me

If I had a friend

All on this Earth

You've been a friend to me

Fare thee well

My own true love

Farewell for a while

I'm going away

(Mary Chapin)