i didn't want to post here at first it was because my rage and grief were so raw and fresh i didn't want to give semi-permanent voice to anything that was coming from that initial tidal wave of emotion. then it simply became the imposition of time & circumstance, where just sitting down to begin typing is impossible. but i'm still finding that it's difficult to speak freely about what's really happening, to be honest about the current process. so at least i can keep myself honest here.
medically and physically, this was a much less painful and traumatic process than with the last baby. (i think at some point i need to write a post about what to expect with "finishing" a miscarriage with misoprostol vs. an MVA, as the resources i found online were the biggest helps in knowing how to deal with the procedures. someone remind me.*) i literally went back to work the next day with my doctor's okay, and while it seems a little crazy that i sandwiched in a "removal of the remainder of the products of conception" between days of working on a tv show, i think it was the best thing i could have done. it lent a sense of normalcy to a totally not-normal time, and forced me to look life in the face and say: i'm coming along; you can't leave me behind. however, the challenge now is to not leave what's happened behind as life continues at a breakneck pace.
see, i'm in the middle of a career transition, which basically means working two jobs at the same time. my parents have come out for a previously-scheduled visit, and my parents-in-law from Germany are also in town. my husband is working full-time while also carrying a full-time graduate student load. and in the midst of all these demands and responsibilities, i feel like my deep sadness is like a heavy wet sweater, dripping and clammy and dragging me down. i refuse to be subsumed by it; i think my inner exhaustion is not only from its weight, but also from my stubborn struggle to not be swallowed in its smelly, scratchy folds.
there's a new emotion this time that i think was somewhat absent from the last two losses. this time i'm angry. yeah, angry. at this point my rage has no object -- i'm not angry at or with anyone or anything -- i'm just seriously f***ing angry. not having had a lot of life experience with this, i feel like it's an exotic, possibly dangerous snake that less emotional me looks at and then pokes with a stick, just to see what it'll do. i don't like how it pulls my filters away and makes me feel like all the irritation and frustration and fury are right there, on the surface. i do like that it makes me feel like i'm still here, and most definitely not numb.
i'm still trying to figure out how to ask the hard questions, and more importantly, figure out which ones need an answer. i'm also still trying to reconcile my rational self (this is real trauma, don't be apologetic for your devastation) with my less-rational self (get over it, this happens to a lot of women, it could be so much worse).
the odd thing about working through lifeshaking grief is that it is bizarrely isolating. despite being surrounded by a strong, loving community -- that's you guys -- and a wonderful family and husband; despite knowing that there are so many other families that carry the same scars and the same sort of loss -- i still find myself feeling alone. alone with my horrible tragic secret; locked in some macabre repeating drama, some sick and twisted play that has the same dreadful ending...and i'm left on stage with absolutely no direction.
i could care less what my lines are supposed to be.
*i have written those posts now. you can find the one about misoprostol here, and the one about an MVA here.
3 comments:
Love it. Love the sweater analogy. Love the rage. Love the fact that your lines are the least important part. Go with it, not against it. It does suck, royally, and there are no pat answers that will help you in the slightest.
I too have been experiencing anger for the first real time in my life, and letting it blow through with its fury and undertow, and then feeling calmer after because I let it have its way. It's just another emotion, and has powerful work to do if we won't turn it into sadness or fear or anything else but what it is: pure, unadulterated fury.
You are loved. You are allowed to feel what you feel at any given moment, and not have answers or direction right now. It is as it should be. Do the best you can do and nothing more.
Words escape me. I hate the old cliche'd responses that always seemed to translate "glad it's not me".
Sometimes the answers just aren't there, and this side of heaven never will be. That's the mystery, and the adventure. And the pain lives there, too, as you know. I still ache, and it wrenches my broken heart.
Our little guy is probably swinging on the jungle jim with your tummy muffins. You were kind to us in our loss; thanks for that. King David said "I can go to him, but he can't come to me." That's my solace that I'll see my son someday. Until then, there's a hole in my family, and my heart.
My wife thinks very highly of you. I have determined it's because you are downright real. Love to meet you! Wish you could come out to Idaho. The stars just poke right out of the night sky. I gazed on them tonight, the very pinholes in heaven's floor. The Maker awaits us all, in a place that our lost children presently enjoy; it's a place beyond compare.
May God give you beauty for ashes. That's my prayer. Beauty. For. Ashes. It's OK if the ashes are steeped in anguish and fury. Don't despair, daughter of Zion.
There's nothing I can say to add to what's been said by the first two commenters E.
Only that I too love you, ache with and for you, and am listening.
Michelle M-K
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