Someone Is Missing.

Fear.
Hope.
Sadness.
Joy.
Loss.
Life.
I feel like I don't have a right to feel the way I do.

We lost our baby last July.
No one knows what to say to that. 
I know I didn't. 
Heck, I still don't.
Some people tried to be sensitive, but usually ended up prying too much and bringing it up when I didn't want them to.
Most people mumbled an "I'm sorry," and continued as if nothing had happened. 
In a culture where abortion is normalized, it sometimes feels like first term miscarriages aren't considered a real tragedy. 
But they are.
Our baby died.


After a lot of crying, I started pretending like it didn't happen.
I was really good at that.
Too good.


6 months later, I was sound asleep and I heard a baby cry so clearly that my eyes popped open!
I took a pregnancy test first thing in the morning and it was positive!

Then came the fear. 

I was afraid to be intimate with my husband.
I held my breath every time I had to use the bathroom, afraid to find spotting.
I sincerely thanked God every time there was nothing to see.
Once I was clear of the first trimester, when miscarriage is most common, I stopped looking at the t.p. in dread.
However, I still didn't call for a doctor appointment, afraid that they would look for a heartbeat and not find one.
I would rather cling to "ignorance is bliss" than not hear the hummingbird heartbeat on the doppler.

Finally, we got health coverage and I ran out of excuses to not see the doctor.
My very first appointment was for the sonogram. 
I hadn't decidedly felt the baby move yet, even though I was 18 weeks along, so I didn't know what they would find.

I silently waited in solemn anticipation as fuzzy versions of tiny arms and legs and spine and head showed up on the screen.
Were the images moving? 
Or was it just the the tech moving the wand around?
Then I saw the heartbeat on the monitor.
Until that moment, I hadn't let myself dare hope that there was a healthy baby growing inside my belly.
I didn't stop crying for the rest of the appointment, I was so relieved and happy!


...But I'm not sure if I've let hope in even now.
I'm reassured every time I feel her bumping around in there, but I still don't feel like she's a sure thing yet.
I'm having trouble getting myself excited for her arrival in just a few months.
I think I'm afraid that I'll fall in love with her, allow myself to hope... 

...and then we'll lose her, too.

I dread trying to talk to someone and getting a bunch of feel-good platitudes, or even scripture, or being "one-upped" by people who think they're helping by showing me how they can relate.

I thought talking about it with someone who understands might be good.

But who?

I don't want to drudge up past grief for someone who I know who has gone through this.

I can't talk with women who have just lost a baby - If I were them, I'd hate me just for being pregnant, let alone pregnant and sad.

Baby Blues and PPD moms aren't quite right for me either, though they'd understand the "I'm supposed to be filled with joy, and instead I'm filled with this crappy feeling" feeling.

I should be holding another someone in my arms by now, and instead I'm carrying a different little one in my belly.
Will I always feel like someone is missing?

As much as I'm looking forward to meeting Baby Ellie in October, I am still so bitterly sad that I don't get to meet the little one we lost. 

And I can't help but fear that I won't get the chance to meet Ellie either.

I don't know how to prepare for a baby that I have so much fear and sadness around.

Yet I feel like I don't have the right to feel this way.

God chose to take our baby and I trust Him.

I feel that hearing that baby cry in the middle of the night was a promise that I'll get to meet this one. 

I just wish that I could feel the way I think a pregnant mom is supposed to feel.

"Naked I came from my mother's womb, and naked I will depart. The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away; may the name of the LORD be praised." Job 1:21

UPDATE: Naming Hadassah
UPDATE2: I Got To Hear Her Cry

 

Links:

Pregnancy Resource Center

What To Say When A Friend Or Relative Has Had A Pregnancy Loss

Baby Blues Connection 

HEART - for abortion-related trauma 

Heartbroken

Sometimes life throws something so big at you that time stands still for months.

When you finally remember to look up, you sincerely wonder how the rest of the world has just keep going, as if this life-altering event never occurred. 

Something so traumatic that it changes how you keep time.

All other events are now remembered as "before" or "after" it happened.

You can tell by your Facebook page that it's changed you forever - that part of you died with them.

Your own status updates from the days before are too happy, or complaining about something so trivial that you're embarrassed and contemplate deleting them.


After it happened, I couldn't stand the color red because it reminded me of blood.

I hated the dark and the night. I only slept during the day.

I wouldn't leave the house at all, unless it was to go to court or the police station.

Once I was able to leave the house, I would drive miles out of my way to avoid having to drive by the place it happened.


"Time heals all things" feels like a lie.
You're faced with a never-ending stream of flowers, cards, phone calls, doorbells, and casseroles in dishes you'll have to return.
Well-meaning people tell you they "understand", as if they ever could.
And then as if to prove it, they tell you their own terrible story.
Or worse, they offer you the advice of "moving on" or "getting past this".


But then there's a few people who you realize actually do understand like no one else can.
They've stood in the exact spot you're in now and they somehow came out the other side.
Forever altered, but alive, offering hope that you will survive this, too.

I was once asked if time really does heal all things.
I didn't know how to answer - how to offer hope and honesty in the same sentence.
I finally answered, "Time changes things."
You may never feel fully healed, but you won't always feel so raw.
You never get over it.
And every loss after that seems to compound on top of that one big one.
You feel like you'll never be okay again.
The "okay" you're expecting belongs to the person you were before it happened.
But there is a new normal, a new "okay" ahead for the person you are now.
And you will find it.

One day you'll find that you've learned to breathe again.

I remember one day realizing that I hadn't thought about it at all for an entire day.
I felt confused and guilty, like I had inadvertently betrayed someone I love.

It's been 9 years now.

It's okay that I don't think about it for days.

It's also okay that I remember.

It's okay that I talk about it.

And it's okay that I'm still heartbroken.


But it's okay that I'm happy.

It's okay that I live.


I don't pretend to know why God allows terrible things to happen.
All I know is that He is a loving Father who loved you so much that He didn't even spare His only Son's life in order to be with you again. He is a God who knows your agony first hand and He wants desperately to comfort you in your grief. 


Click here for an article on Dealing With Greif: Five Things NOT To Say And Five Things To Say In A Trauma Involving Children


He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. 1 Corinthians 1:4


He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever. Revelation 21:4


Parents Of Murdered Children: pomc.com



This song has reminded me of my sister, Cassondra Brown 1984-2003, since the first time I heard it shortly after her death: 

So you STILL Think God Is A Merciful God?!

A beautiful perspective from a woman who was at the midnight showing of Batman with her two daughters.