In looking back
at what I wrote concerning my first miscarriage, I find myself reaching for the
comfort and solace in words once more, only this time, there is no beauty in
these words. Instead I find a rawness, a coldness that cannot be removed by
searching for the perfect arrangement of words. I wish I could.
I expected to be
sad. What I did not expect was the irrationally powerful anger and overwhelming
bitterness. Certainly I experienced something similar last summer when I lost
my first pregnancy, but we were so hopeful this time, so intent that this time
it would work. I cannot speak for my husband, but I wanted to trust the
numbers, wanted to believe that while miscarriage is common in the first
pregnancy, that 85% of women will go on to have a successful, healthy second
pregnancy. I am not one of these women.
We stared at
that second pink line for several minutes, both of us disbelieving in that
moment that what we both wanted had finally happened again. We wondered if we
should tell our families. We laughed, we talked about how good we felt this
time, how much faith we had in this pregnancy. We told our families. The day
after we made the announcement, I began bleeding.
Along with the
anger, what is most disturbing is that despite my grief, most of what I felt
was a dullness, and even more frightening the acceptance that I somehow knew
this was bound to happen. I had the thought that I had become used to this, and
the idea numbed me. The next day I found
myself laughing and immediately felt ashamed. How could I laugh? How could I
possibly find joy in anything given what had just happened? Some people might
say that laughter is a part of healing, but it chafed at me regardless.
And the anger.
It’s the beast in my belly, threatening to consume and drown. I see other women
with their babies, their families clear faced and smiling; I see other women
with swollen bellies, their skin stretched tight and eyes peaceful, happy with
the life inside of them. These women are my close friends, my acquaintances,
and every social nicety says I’m supposed to be happy for them, excited for the
additions to their families. But I’m not. I want to throw back my head and
howl. I want to curse. I want to tell them it isn’t fair. I want to ask them to
take down their pictures, to not mention how wonderful it is to be pregnant or
to have a baby. Don’t they understand? Their happiness cuts through me, and the
wound is open and ragged. We’re supposed to coo over babies, marvel over
pregnant women and their swollen ankles. I’m the monster who wishes they would
disappear. And when I have these thoughts, I’m even more ashamed. My body is
broken, and my capability to feel happiness for others even more so.
Tonight as I was
running, Ben Harper’s “Amen Omen” began to play, and while I have always loved the
song, I had to stop it for the fear that I would begin sobbing right there in
the park amongst the other joggers. It goes
What started as a whisper,
Slowly turned in to a scream.
Searching for an answer
Where the question is unseen.
I don't know where you came from
And I dont know where you've gone.
Old friends become old strangers
Between the darkness and the dawn
Amen omen,will I see your face again?
Amen omen,can I find the place within
To live my life without you?
I still hear you saying
"All of life is chance,
And is sweetest,is sweetest when at a
glance"
But I live,
I live a hundred lifetimes in a day.
But I die a little
In every breath that I take.
Amen omen,will I see your face again?
Amen omen,can I find the place within
To live my life without you?
I listen to a whisper,
Slowly drift away.
Silence is a loudest,
Parting word you never say.
I put I put your world
Into my veins
Now a voiceless sympathy
Is all that remains.
There
are parts of me that will never be the same. There is a sense of faith and hope
that has died, and while I wish I could say that I can trust in some higher
power, that that force knows what is best, I find no solace in that. The only
thing I know is that time may heal that which is broken, but, oh, how the scars
remain.
Posts
