Today is the anniversary of the day my life changed forever. The day I changed forever. Nine years ago yesterday, I was happily, innocently, naively pregnant for the very last day. I would never feel that way again.
The next day, this day, I started to bleed. I prayed and hoped that it wasn't what it looked like, but the following day I "birthed" my first child. And things would never be the same.
Everyone knows that sometimes this happens, but it's not truly real to you. It's an idea, it lacks a certain solidity. But once it happens to you there's no going back, no way to regain that simplicity of happiness in being pregnant. There's no way to see it the same, to have the same kind of joy in it.
The grief was deep and hard and even as we struggled to walk through it, I didn't know far and wide it would reach or how much we had really lost. Today, I still grieve our lost child, but I also grieve the loss of who I was, the loss of a certain innocence, of wholeness, that is gone from me forever. From that moment I could not be pregnant without also being deeply afraid.
As the years passed and loss added to loss, the wound carved deeper into my psyche, the true depth of it not seen until much later. Only the surface fissures, the tears, aches and wails of immediate grief were known. You know that scene in The Princess Bride, where Westley screams, it's heard through the whole forest, and Inigo says, "Do you hear that Fezzik? That is the sound of ultimate suffering." I've made that sound.
The next day, this day, I started to bleed. I prayed and hoped that it wasn't what it looked like, but the following day I "birthed" my first child. And things would never be the same.
Everyone knows that sometimes this happens, but it's not truly real to you. It's an idea, it lacks a certain solidity. But once it happens to you there's no going back, no way to regain that simplicity of happiness in being pregnant. There's no way to see it the same, to have the same kind of joy in it.
The grief was deep and hard and even as we struggled to walk through it, I didn't know far and wide it would reach or how much we had really lost. Today, I still grieve our lost child, but I also grieve the loss of who I was, the loss of a certain innocence, of wholeness, that is gone from me forever. From that moment I could not be pregnant without also being deeply afraid.
As the years passed and loss added to loss, the wound carved deeper into my psyche, the true depth of it not seen until much later. Only the surface fissures, the tears, aches and wails of immediate grief were known. You know that scene in The Princess Bride, where Westley screams, it's heard through the whole forest, and Inigo says, "Do you hear that Fezzik? That is the sound of ultimate suffering." I've made that sound.
I've walked in that pain in loss after loss. And now, nine years later, I still walk in it. It rarely makes that sound anymore though. There are times I still cry, aching over the six children I never got to know, most that I barely even got to be aware of. But mostly the pain, the deep, damaging wound makes itself known in a buzzing anxiety. A fear that I'm afraid will never leave me. I'm terrified to be pregnant now. The slightest hint that I could be banishes all rational thought from my head and replaces it with a days long panic attack, gripping my chest and disallowing me from any measure of focus that would allow me to function. Any sickness settling on one of the beautiful boys I was allowed to come out of this story with, puts me through my paces - practicing the small measures of anxiety coping techniques I can manage reminding myself that it's just a stomach bug/cold/minor virus and they'll get through it fine, or lying awake endeavoring to just breathe through the fear that the unknown sickness they have will take them from me too.
This week, my body broke into pieces of inexplicable sadness and anxiety, reliving the trauma, fear, and helplessness of this week from nine years ago, long before my brain figured out what was going on. There are still scars that I don't even know are there.
Nine years ago I had no idea what awaited me. How very different my life, I, would be from what I imagined. Sometimes I feel like I'm healing, that my spirit is on its way to recovery, and other times I wonder if I've made it out of the gate yet. You've seen the pictures - grief isn't a straight line. Hell, I'm not even sure it's a single line, there are so many roads and side trips it's taken me through. I hope that's it gradually forward progress though, that somewhere at the end of this line I might find health again, perhaps even wholeness. I can't be the same person I was, but maybe I can be whole still.
I hate to leave off writing without hope, so I will speak other truth as well. I am not alone. There are been moments when friends have held my hand or held my spirit up in prayer. My sisters and mother have done and do what they can, offering support and encouragement and simply love. My husband walks beside me all the way, occasionally carrying me through the worst spots. And time after time, my God lifts me out of the darkness and sets my feet on solid ground. He slowly teaches me how deeply I am cherished, just as I am. As broken and damaged as I see myself, he sees treasure, and he leads my heart by quiet waters.
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