The title of this blog post comes from a piece of jewelry I saw on pinterest after Ruby died, and that's so so so true! It's in the moments of absolute brokenness that the light reaches where it never would have otherwise. Having a baby die before I ever got to meet her has broken me more painfully than anything else in all my life. Don't get me wrong, I've been broken many times, sometimes in the same ways over and over again, but NOTHING like this brokenness. The blessing in this brokenness is the Light that shines into those broken pieces in ways I never would have known otherwise. I wouldn't ask for this (I know that I keep saying that) but I'm still grateful for the perspective I have because of it. I see God so differently now, and feel as though I hear Him so differently now, feel as though I can relate to Him so differently now because of this.
I don't think I could ever fully comprehend or accept God as The Father because my own father, and perspectives on what fatherhood looks like have been so tainted in this life. It wasn't until recently I feel like it finally REALLY clicked, but more because I can see His love for me in the way that I love my children. I don't see His love as a reflection of the way I was loved in the parent/ child relationship, but it makes so much more sense to me, as the parent loving her children. When Mya asks me the same question over and over and over again needing reassurance that the plans haven't changed, I've started to see myself and how I do that to God. I tell Mya over and over again "honey, the plans are still the same as they were, if they change, I promise I'll let you know." The plans don't have to be significant, sometimes she just needs the reminder that things are consistent. That's me! I do that to God all the time! Then there's Ava. One night recently at dinner she asked for a cup of water while we were still getting dinner on plates and to the table. It took a few minutes but eventually Dustin brought her the water she'd asked for. Suddenly she was upset and started to cry, because she actually wanted milk. How often do we do that to God? "God, if you're listening I'd reallllly like some water. Please God, just a little bit of water." Then God sends the water...and like a child, we say "God...is this water?! I wanted milk..." God's probably saying "You may want milk, but you asked for water, and that's exactly what I gave you." My biggest fear as a mother is that my kids will grow up, and doubt my love for them. That I'll fall short, no matter how hard I've tried, one too many times and they'll think "I wonder if my mom really loves me?" or "I wish mom really loved me like I needed her to." I've found myself wondering that about God too. I wonder if He ever thinks "I hope someday I'll be able to show them enough, how magnificent my love is for them, they'll never again wonder if I truly love them" I know God doesn't fall short, and that He keeps showing us time and time again how deep and how wide and how great His love is for us but will we get to the point where we stop doubting it, and just hold on?
I can't say that I'm all gratefulness and smiles, or revelations and joy because I'm not, but I am still able to see the growth in the moments that hurt the most. One thing I've been struggling with a lot lately is that people treat me so differently now. I know that I AM DIFFERENT, but the way people make me feel at times, makes it hard to feel like you can do anything other than cocoon yourself. Some of the people who SHOULD care or show even just the smallest ounce of compassion, don't even talk to me. Not a "How are you?" not a "how are Mya and Ava" not "is your hair on fire?!"...nothing. I guess it's true what they say that the biggest disappointments come because of the gap between expectation and reality. I guess I just thought maybe it would be different because I'd do differently, if the shoe were on the other foot. I know talking about this is hard. I have friends who have had to say goodbye to their babies after I have, and I don't really know what to say to them. I'm going through it right now, and I don't even know what to say, because each of our hurts and experiences are so different, but I avoiding me all together is hurtful. You don't have to talk about my heartache, just a "hi, hope you have a good day today" is better than nothing at all, but hard times prove true friends (or family) and this entire season of life has been one HUGE and PAINFUL lesson in that.
There have been times lately that I have had some regret in sharing about this, but when I decided that I would be as transparent about this as possible it was because I hope that someday my hurt and honesty could be comfort to someone else going through it. I realize my baby is not your baby. I realize your journey to conception (whether surprise or years of planning) is unique to you, but when the dust settles we're still parents to babies who are gone. I realize you may not feel completely how I feel or see things completely as I see, but my hope is that somehow, this hurt won't be wasted.
The reason I have had regrets about being open and vulnerable is that it leaves you vulnerable. People say all sorts of things to you that cut like a knife. I realize that most of what is said is well intended and people are trying to be as comforting as they can (after all I DID say that I don't want to be completely ignored) but really there are things that just plain hurt. What's hard about that is its ok for people to say whatever they say but it's not usually ok for you to be honest about it not being helpful or dare I say, hurtful. If you speak up in the least, oh say a facebook post or something because that seems like the safest and most non-confrontational approach, you're hormonal, grieving, and sensitive. Sure, some of that may be true, but if you realize the reasons why what is said is hurtful, you might just be a little more careful. I have heard MANY MANY MANY times now how "so-and-so lost their baby at this many weeks...that has to be so hard." That hurts for several reasons. In a way, you're saying that so and so had more days with their baby before their death, so they loved and dreamed about their baby more than I did. Maybe so...maybe that other mom loved their baby for 4 whole more days than I loved mine, but in the grand scheme of things does that make my loss less significant? If someone's grandma died at 70 years old would you tell them about "so-and-so" who's grandma died at 71 years old, and how that had to be so hard, because well... that grandma lived longer so she was loved more...I certainly hope not. Would you tell someone who's grandma died in their sleep about "so-and-so" who's grandma died of a heart attack, and how that had to be so much worse? Again, I certainly hope not. Sure a heart attack is a tragic way to die, so is a car accident, or cancer, or, or, or, or...but you know what, the results are the same...grief because someone you love has died. Another thing that has been mentioned by even the people closest to me, is about people who have had a still born child. (Please don't take what I am saying as trying to minimize what you have been through, or that I'm trying to put myself in your shoes because I have not been there, I DON'T completely know what that was like for you) I have heard how it must have been so much harder to see their baby, so much harder to hold their baby, but what you don't know is that I wanted to see my baby even though she wasn't alive anymore. What you don't know is that I wanted to hold my baby, even though she was only the size of a blueberry. I wanted to hold her in my hand knowing that was the only time on this earth I would ever get the chance to hold my baby. What you don't know is that for an entire week I stared into a toilet full of blood wondering if the pieces of tissue inside were my baby's little body. What you don't know is that I sat on the floor in the bathroom and stared one last time at the clot I think was my baby, debating on whether or not I should stick my hand inside just to look and see, and maybe get the chance to hold her once. What you don't know is that I had nightmares for weeks about sitting in a bathtub full of blood and clots frantically examining each and every one looking for my baby. What you don't realize is that I labored and delivered a child too, the same way I did the two you can see every day, except I didn't get an epidural, I didn't get an ice pack for my efforts, I didn't get a bracelet with their name and mine, I flushed her. I don't get a headstone that has my child's name on it, or a little urn where people know a little body is inside who's life was over much too soon. People hardly acknowledge my baby as a baby at all. Embryo...that's what they call her. The little embryo that vanished, that I just can't get over. Those parents who's children were stillborn have an experience entirely different than mine, and I don't want to compare our stories...so please stop comparing them for me. In the end what we have is grief, and babies in heaven, how that happened doesn't make any one baby more or less loved or wanted than the rest.
Being able to grieve and think and feel and process things the way I need to, rather than being expected a certain path or timeline is what I need. I don't need you to tell me how it should feel or how long it should take or why I should be grateful for this, because it could have been something else. Trust me, I already know that. What I need is just a little grace, a little compassion, and maybe just a little more kindness along the way. This club is not one I wanted to be a part of, so please forgive me if I'm not this clubs biggest fan and I'm still learning the rules. If we're being honest here, I've reached that angry stage of grief and all I know how to do is process it as it comes, acknowledge why I'm angry, and pray I can get passed it. Please forgive me when I feel angry when I hear a pregnant woman complaining about morning sickness, or aches and pains that come along with pregnancy, it's just that I'd love to be in their shoes, and it's hard to see that they don't understand just how blessed they are. Please forgive me when I get angry because people are so particular about such trivial things as their child's gender, it's just that it seems as though they take for granted that they get to have a baby at all. I'd love to have the glass of water you wanted, when you decided that you'd rather have milk...
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