A lot of people have been asking how I am doing. It's a hard question to answer because the answer is a fluid one. It changes weekly, daily, sometimes hourly. I'm doing ok, but I'm grieving.
I think one of the hardest parts about miscarriage is that after it happens, nothing changes. My life after the miscarriage looks exactly like it did before it happened. I'm a mom to two kids. I take care of them all day. Ben goes to work. He comes home. We argue about housework. We say "I love you." We laugh at the kids. We eat dinner as a family. I yell at the dog.
Nothing is different.
Except it is. I'm carrying around a wound that no one can see. It's a wound that runs into the deepest part of my soul and yet remains buried under my smile.
Grief.
It's an isolating experience, grief. It's like a broken arm, but there is no visible cast for people to recognize and extend empathy towards.
A few days after the miscarriage, I decided I needed a break from being home. I wanted to get out and breathe fresh air, and do something "normal." So I took Abby Christmas shopping with me. I did pretty well in the store. Even when we walked past the baby clothes, and she asked if we could get something for our next baby, and I had to gently remind her that the "next baby" isn't happening for a while, I kept it together. I was feeling like, "Ok, maybe I'm going to handle this thing."
And then, all the sudden, we were in the checkout line. I was paying for Ben's gifts, and the woman at the cash register was making pleasantries with me, chatting about the busy holiday season. And I was looking at her, and I was suddenly thinking "I don't care about anything you are saying. None of this matters. I wish you knew how sad I am." Tears, out of nowhere, began to well up and I desperately wanted to blurt out "I just had a miscarriage" to this woman I've never met. I wanted to say, "I'm grieving. This is so hard." I had to bite my tongue and force myself to take some deep breaths. Thankfully, for both our sakes, I didn't say it. I can only imagine how awkward that would have been.
But that's the thing about grief. It isn't constant or predictable. It comes in waves. Sometimes small ripples, sometimes giant tsumanis that threaten to crush you on the spot. You never know when they're coming. One minute you're buying your husband some sweatpants. The next you want to hug a Kohl's cashier and cry your eyes out. There's no pattern to it, and there's no choice but to ride whatever wave comes next.
I've read that there are 5 stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I have grieved a lot in the past year. More than I would have liked. And I can say I think calling it "stages of grief" is entirely misleading. To me, the word "stages" suggests that we somehow move through them in a forward motion. Like you move from denial, to anger, and eventually acceptance, leaving the other stages behind you as move onto the next one.
Grief is not like that. Grief is more like a huge ball of tangled threads. You start to untangle one knot, only to discover that it doesn't lead anywhere, so you begin to work on another knot, not knowing if you're making any progress at all, and at the end of the night, you might have a slightly less tangled mess, but it isn't fixed.
I'm a slightly less tangled mess than I was a month ago.
I've learned a lot, though, about miscarriage.
I've learned that miscarriage is not so much an event, as it is a process. Yes, your pregnancy ends quickly, whether through a natural miscarriage or through a D&C. But the process of becoming un-pregnant takes a whole lot longer than that. Even after I lost the baby, I couldn't fit into any of my pre-pregnancy pants. I was already in maternity clothes by the time I miscarried. I found myself digging through my drawers to try and find the pants I wore after the births of my other two children. The "in between" pants. Only this time, I had nothing to show for the pounds I'd gained. And every time I tried, prematurely, to squeeze into my regular pre-pregnancy jeans, I was reminded of what I no longer had.
Becoming un-pregnant is whiplash for your mind. You go from avoiding alcohol, avoiding sushi, taking prenatal vitamins, to waking up the next day and the rules are out the window. You can do anything you want. Except you don't want to do any of them. Because you'd rather still be pregnant. My dear friend came to visit just before Christmas, and she took me out to dinner. And we ordered champagne. And the waitress asked me, "What are you celebrating?" I stared up at her. Speechless. My friend quickly jumped in with some vague answer. But there I was. Looking at the waitress. Thinking, "I'm not celebrating. I'm grieving."
I've learned that grief is complicated. Sometimes it looks like celebrating. I've been celebrating a lot lately. Celebrating what I do have, so that I don't drown in the grief of what I don't have. Every morning, for a couple weeks after the miscarriage, I'd make coffee, put on Christmas music, and the kids would put on wild dance parties for me. They'd sing, make up words, dance around, make me laugh. And I soaked it up. And I joined them. Laughing and twirling with my beautiful babies. Their joy being my joy when I couldn't find mine. Celebrating them. Wishing I still had my third baby inside me as I danced. Grieving. All mixed up at the same time.
I've learned that I am not alone in this experience. Did you know that 1 out of 4 women has had a miscarriage? Think of the 4 women closest to you in your life. I'll bet one of them has lost a baby. I'll bet even if you don't think any of them has lost a baby, it's likely that the one of them who has just keeps it closer to her heart, and hasn't told others about her loss. After I posted my blog last month, I can't begin to tell you how many private messages I received from other women. Messages saying, "I don't share this with many people, but I've lost a baby too."
Messages not filled with advice. Or pat answers. Or false hope. Or perfect responses. Just messages saying, "Me too."
"Me too." Two of the most powerful words in the English language. Simple words, and yet more powerful in bringing me healing than any other. Me too. It means "I know your pain." It means "There is hope for tomorrow." It means "I can't fix it, but I am here."
The day I took Abby Christmas shopping, my grandmother called me while I was walking to my car. I hadn't been answering the phone for anyone for a few days. But when I saw it was my grandma, I decided to take the call. My grandma is one of the toughest women you'll ever meet. Mother of four, head nurse at a hospital, lived through the Great Depression. Even in her seventies she'd hike miles away, cut down her own Christmas tree from the field, and drag it back to her house single handledly. She never wastes, or minces, words. When she talks, it's because she really means what she's saying.
So I answered the phone. She said that my mom had told her about my loss, and then she began to tell me a story I'd never heard before. She told me that many years ago, she also lost her third baby. Just like me, the first three months had gone just fine. Until suddenly, she went to the doctor, and things weren't fine anymore. "Just one of those things," the doctor told her. She said it was hard. And then she told me something remarkable. She said, "It was hard. But I waited on the Lord. And after I waited a while, patiently, He rewarded me with another baby. And that baby was your mother."
"Me too."
My grandmother lost a baby, and then became pregnant with another. And that baby was my mother. And had she not lost that baby, she perhaps would not have had my mom. And then perhaps you would not be reading this blog.
I've learned that God is working out this situation. Just as he worked out my grandma's. He is working it out in me, though it is a painful process.
I have happy moments. Happy days. I have incredibly sad moments. Sad days. I've connected with old friends, and new friends, because we this share experience, who walk with me through all of those moments.
I'm doing ok. I don't know what tomorrow holds, but I know what I have today. And for now, that's enough.
And if you are walking through this now, or you might walk through this one day, I want you to know something.
Me too. I am here. I'm with you. And I know your pain.
His mercies are new every morning.
