I'll warn you, it's not pretty. It's not tidy or lovely or graceful. It might make you uncomfortable or disappointed.
Just, consider yourself warned.
The truth is, I'm sad. Really, really sad. And, a little bit angry. Okay, maybe a lot angry.
I'm sad that I'm not planning a birthday party this week. Yeah, I know, we could have an "Evie's in Heaven!" party, but I just don't feel like it. A birthday party without a birthday girl just plain sucks.
I'm sad that my guest room is still a guest room. There's no pink anywhere in my house except for a small hat box on the top shelf of my closet where I keep Evie's footprints and blanket and sympathy cards.
I'm sad that not only is she gone, but she's about to be double gone. A year ago at this time I was still pregnant - she was still alive. I could still feel her. I still had her. Next week I won't even have that.
I'm heartbroken. Yes, still heartbroken.
And mad. I'm mad that I lose my babies. That I'm either producing babies that are too sick to live, or worse, producing healthy babies and my body just can't seem to see fit to keep them around. What kind of a mother am I? It ticks me off.
I'm mad that we ran into a person we haven't seen in a over a year yesterday and they asked us who was keeping the kids. Uh, where have you been?
I'm angry that this beautiful thing that I feel so passionately about, this miracle of pregnancy and childbirth which I have always treasured and thought was just so magical - I'm mad that it can never be that way for me again. There's no room for excitement - only fear.
Positive pregnancy tests don't mean that there will be a new baby in nine months. Not for me. Positive pregnancy tests mean that I'm going to be sick and useless for a couple of weeks until we can go for an ultrasound and confirm that yet another baby didn't make it. Then, several weeks of sadness followed by a staunch effort NOT to get pregnant again!
I'm mad that I'm jaded. That being optimistic feels more like being forgetful or naive.
At least that's how it feels right now. It's a low moment, I'll admit. And, usually I have the good judgment not to set my hands to the keyboard in such low moments. But, there it is. I'm sad and I'm mad and I can't seem to fall asleep tonight to save my life. Too many bad dreams. Believe it or not, bad dreams about being pregnant. I can't believe that it's come to this - to the point where dreaming about being pregnant is considered a nightmare. Oh boy, I really am all dark and twisty, aren't I?
Anyone feeling uncomfortable yet?
Not my finest moment, I know.
I guess maybe I should also assure you that I have much lovelier, much more palatable moments in all of this as well. Moments where I remember that I do have an amazing, healthy little boy who thinks the world of his Mommy and Daddy. I have been given by God a husband who loves and supports the living daylights out of me. Who literally scoops his weeping mess of a wife off the kitchen floor and situates her in her bed to rest and be still, then proceeds to spend the afternoon not only working to provide for the family, but taking care of Oliver as well. True story. The guy's a saint.
Okay, that didn't really prove the "I have lovelier moments" thing. It really just underscored the "I'm a weeping mess" theory, didn't it? Oh, boy. This too will pass. And, I'm too weary to try to prove it, so you'll just have to take my word for it.
Can it be that Christ's blood covers all this ugliness and hopelessness? That his blood alone washes away my fear and doubt and anger and anxiety and presents me blameless before the Throne of Grace? That, folks, is some powerful blood!
I'm just so grateful that I'm His. And I can weep knowing that He will scoop me up too. Only, rather than tucking me safely into bed, He tucks me into the shadow of His wing.
And, I can be angry and sad and loved all at the same time.
A dear friend and her family came for dinner tonight and she gave me the most wonderful gifts.
First, she just cried with me. You have no idea how much that means to a grieving person. It's like I have these big buckets of grief on my shoulders, and when she cried with me, it was like she was taking one of the buckets from me, and offering to carry it for me for awhile. It was wonderful.
And then she reminded me: we're called to rejoice together and to grieve together; to bear one another's burdens. She said that if I couldn't be honest and sad with my friends, then who was there to be sad with?
So, here I am. One big sad sack. Care to take a bucket?