Fear

   Yesterday, I met with a woman from our church. I was both looking forward to it and dreading it at the same time. Here's why. 

   A few weeks ago, I started emailing our pastor, trying to somehow get some answers or help in moving past this gaping hole in my faith. He tried to answer my questions as best he could, but of course it didn't magically fix the problem. He suggested some books I could read, which I have looked into a few of them, and put a few more on hold on the library (still waiting on a couple). I think he could see that something more was needed---or perhaps more accurately, that I am a tough case and he needed some backup. Here is what he said in one of his emails:
  
   I would encourage you to get in community. Dealing with pain and grief in isolation only causes the matter to get worse. Community helps us to gain perspective, grow in and through difficulties, and have a support structure that can help us through every type of situation. We have a number of great ladies in our leadership here who I know would love to call you, connect with you, or even take you out for coffee sometime, if you’d be open to it.

   That sounded really great, but inside, I panicked a little. I've spent the last year and a half trying to keep this inner struggle pretty much a secret, even from my husband. He knows the struggle is there, but he doesn't know the proportions of it, nor exactly where it stands currently. When most of your friends and all of your family share your faith, it can be a great thing---until something happens and you're not sure you want to be a part of that faith anymore. Then it's really not that wonderful anymore. There is a tremendous pressure to conform, to "straighten up", and to just fall into step with what everyone else is doing. So, a struggle of these proportions would put me radically out of sync with everyone else. I'm sure my mom or my sister might have an idea that something is maybe a little amiss with me spiritually, but I'm pretty sure they would be pretty blown out of the water if they knew exactly how amiss things really are. 
   So when the pastor suggested getting together with other people---specifically for the purpose of sharing my pain and grief, I did panic a bit. At first I said no thanks. I'd already taken a huge step outside my comfort zone by emailing him. I wasn't sure I wanted to let anyone else in on this secret I've carried. But after a couple more weeks of reading books, and running into all the closed doors in my mind, I realized this: I am stuck. I don't think I can get myself out of this. I don't know what else to do. I can't afford to get professional counseling---even just one counseling session would cost me about half to three-quarters of our grocery budget for the month. And I'm sure I'd need many, many sessions. So, a bit reluctantly, I agreed to meet with someone. I'm sure the pastor was thrilled to be able to pass off his "project" to someone with a little more time on their hands, haha. Honestly, he's a really nice guy and I doubt it was anything like that, but I know I'm a project, and a difficult one at that. Pastors don't always have a lot of free time, and I hate to tie him up when he's got more important things to do than try to untangle someone's private inner mess. 
   Yesterday was the big day. Luckily, I got to meet the woman on a Sunday in church prior to showing up at her house, so that made it a bit easier. I'll call her M. M was very sweet with my 3 year old son, getting down on his level and asking him if he wanted to come to her house for a visit. She was sweet and engaging. I felt better after having met her. Still, I think I was a bit of a ball of nerves when I first arrived. It didn't help matters that my youngest was screaming his little 3-month old head off by the time we made it to her house. What is it with little babies not liking their car seats? Or is that only my children who have had that problem? M came out to meet me after I'd pulled up and thankfully helped carry my diaper bag and purse inside, so I could get the screaming kid out and my 3 year old (who was doing just fine, thankfully). The baby settled down once he wasn't being restrained in a 5-point harness, and M's teenage daughter was kind enough to entertain my oldest while M and I visited. 
   I'm not sure if she planned it ahead of time, but M took a little time opening up to me about her life story a bit, and that in turn helped me to be open about my own struggles with the miscarriage and my faith. I wasn't sure if the pastor filled her in or not, so I just told it all as succinctly as I could. She listened, we talked for what seemed like an hour or so, had some tea and cookies, and my oldest came back in the room and had some lunch. The baby fell asleep. M talked with me some more, then told me she hoped we could meet together again. She had to leave to pick up her son, so we said goodbye, and I got the kids back in the car and headed for home. 
   Overall I'd say it went well. Somehow I feel worse, though. Probably because I'm cracking open that can of worms---the mess that is me, on the inside. Usually I can just ignore it, because why obsess over something you can't do a dang thing about? That only led to extreme frustration for me, so I learned to stay busy mentally, ignore the problem, and just go on the best I could. Laying it all out in front of someone else who is obviously not in the same boat I am, was difficult. Difficult because it made me face the music. I would love to make the jump as quickly as I can from examining myself internally to fixing the problem, but unfortunately, I don't think that's going to happen. I can only trudge through the mire as best I can until I reach the other side. 
   Why does the grieving process have to be so disgustingly long and painful? Isn't spending 6 months wallowing in misery enough? I got pregnant after that length of time, and I think the pregnancy and new baby gave me something to think about other than my loss, and gave me a break from the drudgery of working through the grief. But here I am, now a year and a half later, baby in arms, and no closer to the "end" than I was when I got pregnant. I'm still just as stuck as I was then. Not that the grief process really has an end, mind you. It just changes as you go along. But I'm not really sure if I want to do this. I mean, I'm desperate to find some change. To get through this, to master whatever is holding me back. But as for what it takes to get there---ugh, I'm not sure I want to go through that. It just makes me angry again. 
    Why do I have to do this? What did I do to deserve it? Who was the one who thought this thing up anyway? You know, this pain/grief/death/dying thing? Whose idea was that? Was it God's? He's the one who gave us the capacity for experiencing pain. I can only surmise that God wants us to experience pain. He created us to feel every exquisite detail when we bash our foot against a chair leg or we accidentally grab that hot pan with our bare hands. Why was it important to create nerve endings for every little pain that comes along? A paper cut, a sliver. A bee sting, a bruise. I'm sure that wasn't absolutely necessary. If God is God, He could have made us able to feel pleasure without feeling pain so acutely. Or at all, for that matter! Sure, we are fearfully and wonderfully made--I've no doubt about that. But why the pain? Why the suffering? Why did God create us for the capacity for those things? Does He enjoy seeing us suffer? Does he somehow take delight in our agony? I can only suspect that He designed us to experience it, and to me that seems unnecessary and wrong. I suppose God enjoys us using our nerve endings to feel, regardless of whether it is pleasure or pain. But I sure don't have to enjoy it. No, I'm not capable of enjoying pain. That is not in my makeup. Maybe others can find some sort of meaning in it, some way to make friends with it. But for me, Pain will always be my mortal enemy. 

   So what is my fear? My fear is that this meeting with this woman, M, is my last hope to right whatever is wrong inside me. My fear is that somehow it may fail and I will be doomed to live the rest of my life without an "anchor for my soul". To live without even the assurance of where my soul will rest on my body's dying day. To be lost forever in the void.

Further Thoughts

   All right so I'm posting twice in one night. So shoot me.

   It's a little crazy how you can be one person on the outside and another entirely on the inside. I think if my friends or family knew the feelings I keep buried, they would be rather shocked and overwhelmed. I think they would wonder why I never said anything before. Well, I have some very good reasons why I don't say the things I'm saying here, to anyone who knows me in real life. Reason #1 is, I don't want to hear all the things they would say to try to make sense of my craziness. First they would just be blown out of the water and want to know what happened to get me where I am. Then, they would try to fix me. They'd try to say something to answer the unanswerable. They would try to fix the unfixable. And in so doing, they would make my pain seem like---like it was wrong of me to be hurting. That my pain was silly, stupid, unreasonable, crazy. That it didn't match up with the reality of what had happened---that over a year and a half ago, I had a miscarriage. 
   That makes me think of something. This month---the month of August--was when she would have been due. My baby would have been a year old this month. That pains me. 
    Anyway, since it's been well over a year, my pain apparently is supposed to be all better now, all gone, dissipated, dried up, poof---vanished. Mostly likely I shouldn't even be mentioning the miscarriage anymore. So, that's what I attempt to convey: that I'm all better. I'm OK! Really! I have a new baby now, and I am so happy. My new baby has completely made me forget I was ever sad about losing the last one. When in reality, while I love my new little guy, he does not REPLACE a life lost. You can't just "go out and buy a new one" when it comes to babies. Heck, that doesn't even work for pets! WHY would people think it works for BABIES?!? Even a kid whose pet goldfish has died, will easily tell you that buying a new goldfish just isn't quite the same as their beloved Goldie. (Or whatever name they decided to name it.) So if even with a pet fish, of all things, it is still sad to lose one even after it's been replaced, then why, why, I ask you, do people seem to think you can replace a child? It's stinking ridiculous! Oh...I know why! Here's why...because a goldfish, you spent time with. You named him, you watched him swim slow circles in his bowl. You spent long moments talking with him about life and love and all that matters. You fed him. You cleaned his bowl. You got rather attached to him. But unborn babies---oh everybody knows you can't bond with an unborn baby, right? It's just a nobody until it's born. (Pardon the heavily-ladeled serving of sarcasm.) As a three-time mother, I can easily say, yes, you CAN get attached to your unborn baby. You CAN bond with them. You can even get a sense of what their little personality will be like.
   With my newest little baby, I recall having a dream about giving birth to him. I was only about 4 1/2 months pregnant, right about halfway. I wrote out my dream, because it was sweet to me. It helped me feel like I was able to bond with my son more, because up until that point I was just scared that I'd lose him and not really able to enjoy the process. Well I just re-read that dream entry a few weeks ago, and I was startled by the fact that the baby in the dream, in my mind's eye, looked like my baby does. And his personality was the same. It was my baby. Before he was even born, I had a glimpse of what he was going to be like. I'm sure that doesn't happen to everyone. Heck, it didn't happen to me with my first baby. But I now know that mothers really can know their unborn children. They get a feel for that baby's soul before they even make their entrance into the world. And that---that is what they mourn when a baby dies too soon. They are mourning their real child---their child's personality, individuality, and the bond that they shared with them, however briefly. You can't replace that with a new pregnancy, nor a new child held in the mother's arms. Because it will never be the same personality, the same individual as the one that died. That baby is dead, and no one can bring it back. 

   The flip side of all these dark feelings is, I think I might be a little crazy for having them. I think I must be too self-centered. I must be just cynical. I must be depressed. I must be having a mid-life crisis. Everyone else seems to do OK. Even people who have a spouse die, or a parent. They grieve, they mourn, and then they move on. They find the silver lining. Why am I still so hung up? Why is my world, as I know it, over? Why can't I find joy in life again? It's been long enough, I think. In the passage of time, it's been chronologically long enough. But in my heart, there will never be enough time. Because it will never be right. It will never be OK  that my baby died. It will never be, "Oh it must have been God's will. We don't know the reason, but we just have to trust." It will never be, "These things happen." It will never be, "Sure, my baby died, but I have found something in it to be grateful for." It will forever be, in my heart, "Something terrible, awful, has happened, and nothing can ever make it right again." THAT is how it is when someone dies. No one can ever say anything to make it any better. But what can help, what can help that person feel just a little less pain, is for people to say, "It's the most awful thing that could happen to someone, and I'm so sorry it happened to you." And to cry with you. And to ask you how you're doing with it a month later, 6 months later, a year later. 2 years. And to let you know that they remember the one you lost. That they remember that your baby would have been a year old, or how your baby might have been learning to stand, to pull themselves up, to cruise the furniture, to walk. The smiles you will miss, never hearing the words "Dada" or "Mama" come out of their mouths. Not even having a grave to visit, nor a picture to gaze at. Never even knowing for sure your dead child's gender. The color of their hair. The way they would look. And having everything in the world around you just go on as if nothing ever happened at all.

Savage Beast

   I'm practicing avoidance again. I don't want to deal with this grief crap. You know why? Because it never seems to get me anywhere. Except angry, depressed, and sad. I don't like feeling that way, with no apparent purpose, so it's easier to just pretend I'm OK and go on. Although usually I have moments where I can look inside myself and know I'm not OK. And that's painful to see. 'Cause things are kind of a mess in there. 
   Way deep down, I feel empty, numb, hurt, alone. Loose at ends. Unsure of myself, unsure of how to go forward. Unsure how to frame my entire existence. I want to go back in time, to a place where I was certain of who I was, of my beliefs. Although heck, I've always been unsure of myself, of where I was heading, of what my purpose in life was. I just had a semi-solid belief system that made me feel like I had some sort of foundation I was resting on. Now I am the same me--lost! But this time with no foundation. 
    Life has a way of sort of ripping your heart up out your throat and shattering it into a million pieces. You realize that the cheerful, fun loving person you once were, say as a child, will never breathe again. It's a sad day when that truth stares you in the face, because I think pretty much everyone would love to be cheerful and carefree. However, being that way comes with a price---the price is, that you close your eyes to all the imperfections, the injustices, and the savagery of the world around you. For you, those things don't exist, and in return, you don't have to bear the burden of knowing them. But then you grow up a little and realize that they do exist, and there's nothing you can do to change the world or make it a better place to live in. It inexorably closes in on you and shows you that it is in charge. So, you retreat into yourself, and sort of just limp along in life and get by. You survive. But you never forget. And you can never go back.