One Year Later

It's America's Independence Day, and other than my gratitude towards all parties whose contributions have made that possible, I'm not really thinking about it.

It was a year ago on July 1 that my husband and I first learned we were pregnant.  The twelve long months that followed were easily the worst in my life.  Ross felt forced to take a job, within his company, further from home, tripling his commute time.  I took a pay cut to leave the bank for a job with better hours.  My uncle lost both his parents.  And, worst of all for us, we lost two babies.

Even though I fancy myself a writer, I find it hard to find the words to describe exactly what it feels like to learn that a baby has died within your body.  I've written about my own experience, yes, but the waves of guilt, shock, disbelief, fear, anger, depression, hopelessness and jealousy that continually flood over a woman during and afterward are beyond words.

I had really been struggling with the feelings that developed with my second miscarriage.  I knew that healing would not come overnight, but I found myself really wrestling with my feelings towards God, trying to convince myself I wasn't angry with him.  I internalized a lot of anger.  I stopped listening to Christian music entirely because it didn't feel real to me anymore.  It's not that I stopped believing in God or that I stopped being a Christian.  It was just that this situation had become a huge hurdle in my life...something I didn't feel like I was clearing.

It's hard for me to admit this, but I felt completely and utterly deceived.  Deflated.    I could not reconcile the fact that everyone around me, including my church, believed in their hearts that this was it - with the fact that my baby had passed away.  This was supposed to be God's promise fulfilled and it was supposed to be my time.  This baby was supposed to a blessing - which is why we named him Bennett - and he was supposed to bring a lot of people joy. 

We supposed everything wrong.  Having walked through it myself, I can absolutely see why such a tragedy would sour a person's faith in God.  "God," I even found myself saying, "What is wrong with you?  Why did you do this?  Why did you promise everything, and surround me with those who supported that promise, and then allow my baby to die?"  Those half-hearted murmurs of "something was probably wrong with the baby" never help.  I found myself truly fighting, coming out swinging against the Lord.  "God - you created the universe.  You created the heavens and the earth and every star in the sky.  You created seasons and trees and oceans and the FREAKING PLATYPUS, God.  YOU MADE A PLATYPUS.  Why would you not step in and create a healthy baby in my womb?" 

I never got a response.  For a time, I retreated further into myself, snapping more at my husband, avoiding social situations, and craving sleep a whole lot more.  I was seriously considering talking to someone about therapy or counseling.  I was empty.

Over the past several weeks, Pastor Mark has been sharing an excellent series on healing - how we receive it, how we keep it, how Jesus ministered it.  I've been taking what he has been saying and applying it to my life - believing that my womb is healed, even thanking God the next time I get pregnant, it will be at the right time, with the right cells meeting, and that I will be able to sustain it.  Yet I still struggled with doubt and sorrow.  Two weeks ago, however, as he was praying for those who came to the altar for prayer and healing, he leaned over and spoke a few gentle words of encouragement in my ear.  I truly feel that the Spirit had whispered those words to his heart, because they were exactly what I needed - and from a spiritual leader in my life.  It wasn't a deep, profound prophetic word.  I didn't fall to the ground shaking.  There was no deep, booming "THUS SAITH THE LORD" echoing around me. 

But that's the cool thing with God: he knows just what you need, when you need it.  Even if you don't know it yourself. 

Since then I have been able to find peace in my situation.  Of course, I am still sad about my children.  I still have pangs of jealousy when I see glowing pregnant women.  But the hopelessness is gone.  The dragging-myself-through-mud feeling is gone.  I am beginning to believe again that I can have a child.  These experiences weren't the end of the line for me, but they also weren't little bumps in the road, to be disregarded and forgotten.  Maybe they were a detour.  But now I'm back on track. 

A former Starbucks co-worker has asked me to write about my experience for her website.  I was hugely honored, and agreed right away because writing has always helped me deal with my feelings.  I wrote the article but something told me not to send it to her just yet.  I still needed to distance myself a little bit from the event.  A week later, I was able to finish the article with confidence and hope, knowing that hope is the one treasure that cannot be taken away - only given away.  And I won't give mine away for anything.

On Sunday, one year after that big fat plus sign showed up on a stick, one year after tragedy and sorrow filled my life, one year after my emotions have run my ragged...I was able to visit with my friend Dawn's newborn baby girl.

And I was at peace.