The sterility of a computer offers a comfort I’ve never before
known.
In normal life, I prefer the
handwritten word that my journals welcome, and while I have fully embraced the
give-it-to-me-now satisfaction of e-mail, I much prefer giving or receiving a
handwritten letter.
Somehow written
words, in all their imperfections, offer more of a story than is provided by sole words.
Many of my journals
have stains from coffee I’ve spilled, or ink that has run from tears that have
fallen from my face, gigantic text with bolded words indicating excitement or
importance, words that have been harshly underlined, or daintily doodled.
Seeing those marks, those imperfections,
reminds me of my humanness and my vulnerability, of moments I may have
otherwise forgotten.
I’ve looked at my
journal the past couple days—the yellow one.
I have considered opening it up, pen in hand,
and just trying.
But I can’t.
I just can’t.
Similarly, I’ve thought of making a phone call to beloved friends and
family, just to say hi, to let them know that I sound now as I always have,
that I am still me.
But I can’t.
I’m typically an anti-texter, much preferring
the intimate exchange of verbalized words, but especially now, I find myself
safely hiding behind the sterile, the safe, the less vulnerable, less exposed medium:
the typed word.
I think it is here I
shall remain a little while longer.
Today is the first morning I have awoken alone. Brett was next to me, deeply breathing, in
his sweetness of sleep, but I awoke with an almost tangible awareness that I am
physically alone for the first time in several months. My body no longer shares its space; the home
I have offered is completely empty. I am
no longer carrying, protecting, housing my sweet baby, and I am overcome with
sorrow.
I looked at my naked body in the mirror today, and was in
disbelief upon seeing how thin I am. The
bump of which I was so proud has almost entirely disappeared. My profile is nearly back to where I began in
November. The “shoulding” part of my
brain says, “You should be happy about this!
You should love that your stomach no longer protrudes! You should be thrilled that your normal bod
is going to be back in action in no time.”
But my true, raw, real, vulnerable self is filled with sadness, for I
don’t care to be back to my thin self. I
actually like knowing that clothes don’t fit, and take pride in having a little
extra love to go around. I don’t mind
being “Big Mama.” I find that I don’t
want to return to normalcy: mind, body, spirit or otherwise.
Yesterday morning was the day that my baby and I were
physically separated from one another. I
awoke at 3:30 am with a crushing sadness, one that made the simple act of
breathing difficult. Though I was fully
aware that the little person I was carrying inside was no longer alive, it still
pained me knowing that I had mere hours left to hold it, and protect it as best
I could. I had been grieving the loss of
this Little’s life, but something about having him or her actually removed from
my body was the finality I found myself dreading. Since learning on Tuesday (the Tuesday that was
merely a few days ago, but feels like months) what fate was to be ours, I've grappled with two very
different internal personalities: the first “me” to show up has
wanted to get down to business, rashly button things up, emotionally detach,
get everything over and done with, and move on; the second, more real “me” has
wanted time to stop, thus allowing me to curl up tightly and never move again,
that I may savor, love and honor every last second I have with my baby. Yesterday morning, I was glad at having woken
up so early, for it allowed me more time to be cognizant of my last moments
with the Tiny One…my Tiny One.
Brett and I left for the hospital at 5:15 am, and for better
or worse, time seemed to be in fast-forward.
I’m thinking it was all for the best because the contractions I was
having were becoming quite uncomfortable.
I opted to undergo a D&E, so as not to have any negative association
with the beautiful birth experience, so the day prior the doctor began the
process of preparing my body for the surgical removal of my Tiny One. At a few minutes after 7 am, the
anesthesiologist came into my room and began wheeling me away. I didn’t expect to be fully aware of leaving
Brett, as I thought he would be by my side until I was asleep, but we quickly
clarified with the doctor that this was our goodbye. They stopped wheeling me long enough for B
and I exchange a quick kiss, and a knowing look, and off I went. I wasn’t anticipating much in the way of
fear, but the transport from Brett to the operating room filled me with an almost paralyzing fear. It would make for a really awful roller
coaster ride at some theme park to have the ride be performed in the lay-down
position, being wheeled around innumerable corners, having the view of sterile
fluorescent lighting, entering through an assortment of strange doors, catching
glimpses of strangers wearing the same blue outfits, and the grand crescendo of entering an operating room
with the knowledge that within lurks many sharp instruments with which much
pain could be inflicted, and being wheeled beneath a suspended grouping of
blindingly bright lights. I can tell you
with conviction, I would never go on that ride voluntarily,
thankyourverymuch. The doctor said a
quick hello, and I was promptly asked to scoot over to the operating
table. I found myself shivering
uncontrollably, as seems to be my natural response to heightened nerves. Upon recognizing my shivering the nurse covered
by body with a heated blanket, as the anesthesiologist told me that I would be
drifting to sleep in no time. My last
memory is thinking, “If I am to go, I am incredibly glad to go warm…”
And then I awoke to voices, and a dimness of light, in a new
room. I heard my doctor, and I realized
first, “I’m alive!” I opened my weighted
eyes only to be met with unfamiliar surroundings, and uncontrollably shut them
again. Upon realizing I was awake, my
doctor promptly told me that all went well.
He relayed that my cervix had dilated perfectly, and the removal went as
smoothly as it possibly could. Oh, the
tears, how they began running their familiar, relentless course, for it was in
that moment that my second, more paralyzing realization came, “My child is
gone.” It wasn't a mole, a tumor, or even a limb that was removed; it was my child. And then he told me, per my
earlier request, that it was a girl. I felt tears, seemingly as big as softballs,
streaming down my face, for I not so secretly longed for another girl. I so wanted Scout to have a sister, because I
deem that bond and relationship incredibly sacred and special. I would have been thrilled to have a boy, of
course, but had I been given the chance to choose, my pick would have been a
girl. I found myself filled with despair
at the realization that I would never see or hold my daughter, but at the same
time filled with a thankfulness of heart, being reminded that God knows my
yearnings, He knows my desires. It was
with that thought that I again fell asleep.
I awoke to the nurse asking if I needed anything, to which I
responded, “Just my husband.”
She
promised I would see him soon.
She was
right, for the very next moment I heard his voice, and was so grateful.
We wept together, in our shared sadness, yet
felt satiated in our love and gratitude for one another.
We have found incredible comfort sharing
in this grief together.
Just as I was
filled with a deep and profound love for Brett after the
birth of Scout, I have
found that this process of pain and grief has birthed a new level of love,
connection, and commitment to one another.
I am pleased to say that not once through this process have
I wondered “why?” And I have only
momentarily wondered “how?” I have
embraced the fact that it just…happened.
I know that it was nothing I did, or Brett did, or the next-door
neighbor’s dog did…it just did. I am not
angry with God, nor am I angry with anyone else. We have many dear friends, including my
sister-in-law, who are pregnant, and I am not jealous, nor do I wonder why it
happened to my baby, and not theirs. Oh, I do not wonder this at all. I find myself longing even more strongly for
the health of their babies, the happiness of their hearts. I find myself wanting, with temerity, to
share in their joy, to let them know of my love.
I am heartbroken, but not irreparably so; I am downtrodden,
but not destroyed. I am, at my core,
filled with hope and grace, neither of which has come without the other. It is for this very reason that Brett and I
have decided to name our baby girl Grace Hope.
Knowing our tendency to add an “ie” or “y” to the end of names, she will
most likely be called Gracie. Though we
didn’t get the chance to meet our little girl, it is through her that we have
learned more about the beauty of both grace and hope than we had ever learned
up to this point. I really don’t believe
we could have learned any other way, though I desperately wish it were
possible. Alas, this is the journey
required of us, so we must not only accept it, but we must humbly embrace it,
and claim it as ours.
Brett and I returned home from the hospital yesterday afternoon. Almost immediately, after a brief, but perfectly timed visit from our sweet Scouty, who was being watched by Nana and Papa, I slept for a few hours. Upon waking, I walked out of our room into our quiet house to find Brett. I looked out the kitchen window and saw my sweet husband working in the garden in the front yard. Without hesitation, I walked outside and joined him. As I sat alongside him, watching him work, I realized that for the first time since Tuesday the sun was shining. Tears immediately flooded my eyes, for I was reminded that things are just as they should be: God has our sweet Grace in His arms, and the skies will not remain gray forever.
