My child - August 9, 2012
This journal feels so familiar. Sad. Desperate. Grasping.
I'm not sinking in depression any more, but it is still present. A daily decision to NOT to let it rule that day.
I had a miscarriage. That's the way I'm supposed to say it, right? It's like saying, "I had an ear infection" or "I had tonsillitis." It's medical. Technical. Cold.
The truth is that I lost a child. I lost a future. The moment I saw that little faint blue line, my future changed. I could smell the top of his head and feel his warm breath on my neck. I thought about what a wonderful big sister M would be, and I wondered how much C would be able to help. Was she big enough to hold him? Feed him? She would so love being mommy's helper.
I thought about baby clothes and a painted bedroom. About strollers and coo's and the proud feeling that rises when another woman - at the church, at the store, anywhere - acknowledges what I already know - that he is a precious treasure.
And I alone mourn this loss. To everyone else, it was an illness, something that "happened." To me, it is happening. I am grieving. I have lost. I, alone.
And isn't it strange that in my loneliest moments, God's presence is strongest. He is truly close to the brokenhearted.
And I'm jealous - that He is holding my child, and I am not.
And I'm grateful - that my child exists and lives without knowing the pains of this world.
And mostly I feel silence. No movement in my womb. No sickness in my stomach. No excitement in my chest. None of the signs of new life that were present only a week ago.
And there's a silent mourning too. I want to tell everyone. I want them to know that I am in pain and am in need of comfort. But when those closest to me can't understand my grief, how can I expect it of others? So there is a lot of silence.
And blood. There's a lot of blood. Six days later and there is still blood - a constant reminder of the death of my child. That part doesn't seem fair. In any other death - even one with a lot of blood - one only sees it at the time of death. For me, I see blood everyday, all day. Constantly reminding me that - even inside my body - my child was not protected from the curse of the garden.
And through it all, there is some kind of secret strength that arises inside of me. Below the emotions. Below the silence. Hand-in-hand with the emptiness, there is a stillness. Still waters.
I feel as if I have joined a secret society - one in which women who have lost unborn children walk in a silent acknowledgment of each others' pain. I see women I know who have lost, and I know in my heart - I am one of you. We are the same. We are alone, and in our loneliness, we are the same.
God is close brokenhearted. He is close to me. And he is teaching me how precious and fragile life is. And I will learn, and I will cherish the treasures that I have. And I will hold them tightly in my arms and loosely in my heart - because they are not mine. They are the Lord's. And He will do as He sees fit. Blessed be the name of the Lord. Yaweh.