John: “Why do you think you’re sick? Did you catch Vincent’s stomach bug?”
I stopped myself from angrily retorting, No, John, I did not catch a stomach bug. This is not a cold, this is not the flu, and it’s NOT my imagination. This is our CHILD, and she is being unceremoniously taken away from me… from US.
Instead, I just shot him a look that shouted, C’mon, you’re not this dense, John. To hit home the point, I said, “It’s only been a couple days, John. I’m still bleeding, and I just don’t feel well.”
Immediately he took his hand from mine and recoiled into himself. Here he was trying to have a fun, cute time talking about our upcoming “honeymoon” to the Bahamas, and there I go bringing up things he’d rather pretend didn’t exist.
This is going to be a long, long road. I just don’t know how to handle things right now. I don’t know what to say or do, so I mostly remain silent. For the most part, I think I’m okay. I’m certainly sad when I think on my child, but I’m also buoyed by my faith that this child is happy and praying for us.
That being said, I want to talk about this. Problem is, I don’t want to talk about it with just anyone. I want to talk to John, but John absolutely bristles at the thought. The last time we spoke about this was Sunday night, and he was itching to be done with it throughout the brief moments we discussed things.
In his mind, I am just wrong. I’ve been so desperate for a child that I tricked myself into believing I was pregnant and got my period early. All the other signs were just coping mechanisms. In a nutshell, he closed himself off to the possibility that I was pregnant.
I’m not sure if he fully believes that or if it’s his way of coping with the possibility of a miscarriage. He said the idea of a miss is upsetting, but he also says that since there’s no way to prove a child existed, I was probably just wrong.
I admit… I almost want to believe that because the thought is comforting. I’m now going back and forth on whether or not I want to believe it was all in my head. But I don’t believe it. In the deepest part of my soul, I know I held a child.
I’ve been yearning for children for YEARS. Why, all of the sudden, would I start developing symptoms now? What would have changed in the last month that would have suddenly set my psyche off balance enough to delude myself (and the physiology of my body) into believing I was pregnant… only to then suffer the heartache of losing that pregnancy within the month?
I just… no. I don’t accept it. I want to. I really, REALLY want to, but the more I try to rationalize that as my situation, the more my heart revolts and says, “No. You shall NOT ignore this gift you’ve been given. You shall NOT forget the life you briefly held that now beckons you, through prayer, to Heaven. This child was made through love in the Image of God. You shall not write her off as some mistaken illusion.”
Chided by love, I’m back to square one. I’m struggling to handle these feelings but I don’t know what to do with them. At times, I’m perfectly calm. I’m able to move about my day as if nothing has happened. Other times, I need a moment to recollect myself in private… a tiny moment to remember what it is to breathe.
Roller coaster implies highs. I don’t feel as though I have any highs. Plateaus of “okay” might be more appropriate. Plateaus of “okay” interspersed with dips in the road. I don’t believe I’ve spiked down into depression, but the hurt and the sadness and the utter hopelessness of my situation does drag me down some dark alleys sometimes.
I just keep chugging along, though. I keep telling myself it’s normal to feel this way. It’s normal to have bouts with these emotions throughout the day, especially given I’m still at ground zero.
But sigh. I just don’t know what or how to say things right now. So I keep silent because I’d rather stay silent than cry. I’d rather stay silent then go off on an angry tangent that only masks the guilt and feelings of failure that I have.
Really, that’s all the anger is there for. I’m not really angry. I’m hurt. Dear God, I am so, so hurt. Sometimes I hate my heart for its ability to keep beating. At least my lungs forget to breathe sometimes, but my heart... What a nasty little contraption to keep on beating – thump after painful thump – when everything else within me wants to crawl into a corner and die.
No… maybe that’s a touch dramatic. I don’t want to die so much as leave this world to see my child. To tell her that I love her and to let her, for even a moment, feel my fingers on her cheek.
Cruel, cruel heart with your rhythmic taunting. I’m grudgingly grateful that you are deaf to my soul’s plea for solace. Keep marching, for though you don’t march for me, you march for Vincent. Maybe that’s enough right now.
Our Lady of Sorrows, pray for us.