Dwelling in Grief

Well, I have returned from my Facebook hiatus. It was a good one. I felt the load on my shoulders get a little lighter. Maybe because I didn't feel the pressure to post pictures of my happy kids and pretend like everything is totally fixed and normal and good again.

I took the break because, on a really dark day I was having, I counted at least four pregnancy announcements in my Facebook feed and I have to be honest, it sent me to the edge of my sanity.

I told the Lord, "I just can't take this anymore! No more announcements! No more ultrasound pictures! I am logging off!"

I felt so wise in my decision. I thought to myself, "I have the solution to my problem! If all these announcements are causing me pain, then I just need to look away."

So I started out on my month of healing.

And guess what happened?

My brother in law and his wife told me they are expecting.  And then a close friend, who has walked a very similar path of loss told me she was expecting. And then another person close to me told me she was pregnant too.

The Lord never lets you walk away from what He is trying to do in your heart. 

With each announcement I shed tears, and asked God, "Why? Why did I have to lose my baby? Why do all of these people get to be happy, while I am stuck in this place?"

And yet, I love each and every one of these people who shared their happy news with me. I want to be happy for them. A part of me is happy for them.

But an equally big part is just hurting.

When I hear these announcements, it just brings me right back to the day I lost my baby. A day filled with so much hope for our first ultrasound, and then that moment of greatest loss. And I see and hear the excitement in these women, and I want to share it, but I feel like a piece of my heart has been lost, and it aches.

I feel a lot of pressure to move on. To put away the grief. To shove the sadness back inside.

I wrote a piece about my miscarriage and it was published a few days ago by MOPS International (an international mom's group). It helped me feel like I was reaching other women, like there was a purpose behind my loss.

After it was published I received a message from a family friend. She said she was sorry for my loss, and was praying for me. And then she gave me the advice to focus on what blessings I have, and not dwell on what I lost.

Not dwell on what I lost.

Those words took me aback. Is that what I am doing? Dwelling on my loss?

She meant well, but the words cut me to the quick. 

I've come to understand some things about grief in the last three months. In our society, grief is accepted for a time. And then, when people have determined that you have grieved long enough, they expect you to move on. My mom calls it "the microwave society." Push the button, zap it, and it's done.  People are understanding for a while, but then it's time to zap it and be done.

This is the thing about grief though:  it takes as long as it takes.

I decided to look up the word "dwell."  It means to linger over, to live, to reside.

And you know what I realized? I am dwelling on my loss. I am lingering over my lost child. I am residing in hurt.

But it's not because I choose to dwell on it.

It's because I am still grieving. And every single day, whether I want to or not, I think about what I lost.

Oh, if only you could understand how badly I want to move on, to dwell somewhere else.

I spent the month of February trying to be as intentional as I could being thankful for what I have. I spent my days playing Candyland with Abby, closing my eyes to listen as she giggled when I drew a bad card and had to start over again. I'd grab my little boy while he ran naked through the house, just to squeeze him, breathe in his baby smell and look deeply into his blue eyes. I'd sit on the floor and stroke my puppy's fur, feeling her warmth under my hand. I'd remind myself to be thankful, to experience joy.

But it's still there. The missing piece of my heart. I feel it. It whispers to me even in my joy,  of what might have been and what is not.

The weather is warming up. My baby was due June 23rd. As we approach spring, I can't help but think about what the summer was going to look like. How different this summer is going to be now.

You see... I am dwelling in grief. Not by choice. But because I have suffered a great loss.

If you only knew how many times I have confessed to good friends, "I am tired of being sad." I mean it. I am tired of grief. I wish it would go away.

But that's not how grief works. Our society tells us that it works that way. It tells us that if we grieve for too long that there is something wrong with us. It tells us that sadness is something to run from.

Well, I tried to run from it. For a whole month. But it found me anyway.  Because, for now, I dwell there.


And, I have learned, that no matter how hard I run, no matter how tightly I close my eyes, no matter how much I try to block it out, I cannot escape my grief.

So, now, instead of running away, I am trying to learn how to dwell in grief. What can I learn in this place? About myself? About the world? How can I reach outside of my own grief to extend a hand to someone else?

For starters, I'm going to speak up and say this: Yes, I am still grieving. And this grief is going to take as long as it takes, and there is nothing wrong with that. There is no ticking clock on grief. Grief doesn't mean you are sad every minute of the day, but it does mean you carry a deep wound.
And let me say this too... you can be grateful for your blessings and at the same time be in pain. You can have hope for the future and still be grieving now. Grief is not an indicator of a lack of faith. Grief is not an indicator of ungratefulness. Grief is an indicator of a love deeply felt and now deeply missed.

When my article was published on my miscarriage, I went onto the site and read every single comment that someone left after reading it. I cannot tell you how many people said, "This is what so many have experienced and felt.  Thank you for sharing."

Miscarriage is a taboo subject. So is grief. I'm not going to stop talking about either one. I can't. Because for now, I dwell there. And I am learning to embrace that, to live with my grief, to try and make something beautiful out of it. Because I can't run from it, hide from it, or wish it away. Just love me in this place, and know, as I do, that it won't last forever. But it will take as long as it takes.