"Good" Grief--and other Blessings

“This is not about where you've been, but where your brokenness brings you to…” 

–Tenth Avenue North

There are times when the experiences that define us come to bear a significance we can no longer ignore. As the past many years of living with endometriosis begin to blur together, I have to acknowledge that it has defined who I am despite my desire for the opposite.  Over the last year, as my life has taken some sudden and unexpected turns, reality has cemented itself with certainty against my stubbornness to accept it. As I sat in the specialist’s office last year—hearing the words I least wanted to hear—I had no idea how quickly we would see the far reaching effects of my condition.

Reeling from the doctor's news that my body might no longer cooperate in sustaining life, I left my appointment bracing myself to choose a positive outlook, coupled with a healthy dose of denial. Her advice that trying to 'beat the clock' was our best option for more children seemed realistic enough. But a miscarriage soon after was a jolt to my carefully constructed reality. Though I briefly acknowledged my sadness—our loss—on occasion, I told myself that it was a good thing that I wasn’t too deeply affected and I was able to continue living my ‘normal’ life.  So I tried not to think too long about the baby we had lost and instead focused on the one who we might have one day. After all, since God’s plan is always for the best, and this was part of it, it meant that I just couldn’t see the bigger—and better—picture, right?

We talked about the future, about baby names, about rearranging the kids’ rooms, the stuff that kept us optimistic. I tried to ignore the worsening pain, knowing that I needed to focus on the hope of what God could do, not the doctor’s predictions. But three months later, driving to the ER and shaking like a leaf, I knew deep down that this wasn’t just another painful episode; something was wrong. It was an ectopic pregnancy this time, and the baby I now carried had no chance of survival. The pain of the first loss flooded me anew, and through the fuzziness of the morphine I tried to wrap my head around the fact that my body once again was rejecting this new baby, a baby we had hoped and prayed for.  Why?

After surgery I focused on my physical recovery, my brain telling my heart that dwelling on the past and getting all emotional wouldn’t help. I presented my cheery self at work, and seldom gave in to the tears at home. I was thankful that I hadn’t fallen into depression, but thought this meant I should spend as little time as possible thinking about the children who we’d lost lest I feel grief.

It’s taken some time, but I’ve slowly come to the realization that grieving doesn’t mean I have to walk around constantly defeated and gloomy. But it does mean that I should take the time to acknowledge the times I do feel the sadness and loss, and allow myself to experience the depth of my emotion and grief instead of running from it or attempting to minimize it. In this way I can honor the children I didn’t have the chance to hold, but still have the chance to love, just as I love my other children. I can also share the burden of this grief with my loving husband, recognizing how he as a father also grieves for his children. Not a day goes by when I do not think of them, especially with the daily reminder that my physical scars bring, but I now focus on the opportunity to thank God for the blessings of each child in the midst of the pain. So many questions remain unanswered, but I know that God in his perfect and unconditional love grieves so much more than me, and the grace he pours out to sustain us is more than we can imagine. My condition, the loss of our children—they are not punishments, nor do they mean that God doesn’t care; on the contrary, through this suffering God has given us an opportunity to draw closer to him and experience the unconditional love we need, the love that he literally gave his life for so that we might experience it.

Some have looked at our ‘perfect’ family and implied that our loss can be validated by the fact that we already have two beautiful children running around at home. They assume that our losses don't matter since we already ‘have our hands full', we 'already have a boy and a girl.' Indeed, they matter. Many see each additional child as a burden, but we understand that each life God has entrusted to our care is an additional blessing, created to love and be loved. Our two children at home have helped us understand the absolute—and eternal—worth of our children in heaven; the essence of who they were during their short lives, and who they are now in eternity. God very deliberately creates every precious soul, and they are on "loan" to us for an indeterminate amount of time, but we are thankful for each moment of all of our children’s lives, no matter how brief.

And all of our children, on earth and in heaven, also allow us to understand the sheer miracle of the new soul I now carry, visible evidence that God is still very much in the business of making miracles, no matter how dismal the world’s prediction!

I admit that the absolute joy of expecting another child is often overshadowed by my limited human understanding, the questions and worries of wondering if and when ‘it’—another death, more loss—may happen.  But when I silence my own imperfect rationale long enough to hear true Wisdom prevail, I see how each moment of this child’s life is a gift to be cherished, that each moment of the past 12 weeks as our newest child’s life has graced our own lives has been special. As all the screenings, precautionary ultrasounds, and doctor’s visits reveal our precious child growing bigger and stronger every day, our excitement grows exponentially. We cannot predict what the future holds; we can only hope and pray that we will be able to love and raise this child in the same way we have our first two. But in light of the past year that has redefined our family in so many ways, I now thank God for the blessing of each moment we have had—and will have—with every one of our children!

 Baby bean at 3.5 weeks old, snuggled up safely with a nice strong heartbeat!

   About 12 weeks along! We got this one good face shot above, but all the profile shots were blurry because Baby was too busy waving arms and legs around, dancing, and even sucking his/her thumb at one point!

12-week bump! (I hit 12 weeks today, 15 April, and our baby could not be doing better!)