Getting Comfortable With the Sadness

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Ugh. I hate feeling this way, I hate writing about this, I hate the idea of getting comfortable in this.

The sadness.

I wish it was all behind me. I wish the grieving process was all worked through, and I’m good.

But I’m not. Not yet.

Some moments are good. I’m not crying 24/7. Honestly, I’m not crying more than I am crying. I wish that meant I was almost finished grieving. But I know that is silly and unrealistic. And, I probably would be worried if I were finished. Really? That soon?

No. Definitely no.

It hits me in waves, with odd triggers, at unexpected times. I went right back to work (the same day I found out, even) because work is a safe zone. I don’t have time to think about it, I have a room full of students counting on me to make their class happen, it is not common knowledge. Not a lot of questions. Not being identified by my miscarriage. Not a lot of sympathetic looks (which I love and hate at the same time – love because people are so kind and caring and hate because I’m so mad at being in this situation that elicits sympathy to begin with.)

But I was in school, and we were watching a movie about Moses. The movie showed baby Moses being born – and it was this precious moment between his mother and Moses, this beautiful new newborn. Cue the tears…

And then there are the hugs and comfort by those who do know – my family, at church, at school. Trying so hard not to cry, to keep it together, but by the end of those hugs, the tears are pushing their way out of my squeezed-shut eyes.

Even yesterday, I was doing some yard work – digging out some plants to transplant, digging new holes. And all I could think of was, “I shouldn’t be able to be doing this! I’m supposed to be pregnant and relaxing and not exerting myself!” Needless to say, the morning chores did not really end well.

It hits me when I am still feeling nauseous and my boobs still hurt – now, for no good reason. It hits me when my clothes feel too tight because I was constantly eating to keep from feeling nauseous. It hits me when I get angry about having to lose these stupid 5 pounds I gained (or more?). You gladly deal when you know it is for a baby. But when there is no baby, it just adds insult to injury. I don’t know if those tears are legitimate grief or indulgent self-pity. They kinda feel the same. It’s messy.

It comes in waves. If I’m busy – too pre-occupied to think about it – I’m usually okay. But any time my mind slows down and I get to contemplate…ugh. It’s back.

If you were to see me when I’m teaching or laughing at Seinfeld reruns or carrying on light, trivial conversation, you would never know. And I’m not faking it; it’s just that it doesn’t hit me all at once.

Sometimes talking about it helps. Sometimes talking about it hurts. Especially when I just want to forget and feel like I am normal. To feel how I felt before all of this.

Sometimes my mind short-circuits trying to take this all in. Did this really just happen? Did I really lose two babies in less than a year? I don’t really like to think about it. Because there are no answers. There are no explanations. And it is frustrating trying to make sense of this.

That isn’t to say that I don’t believe that answers or explanations exist; I absolutely do. Once my saddest emotions settle down to a ‘sane’ level, I can cognitively grasp that God has a reason for allowing this. A good one. I absolutely know that what He allows into our lives are vigilantly guarded and supervised by Him. If there wasn’t a good reason, He wouldn’t have allowed it. Period.

My faith isn’t readily able to push this reality to my heart just yet; the ‘head’ part of me knows this is true, even if the ‘heart’ part of me is still a little pre-occupied with the sadness. I know that some day, my heart will catch up with what my head (and my spirit) knows.

So, it’s just one day at a time. Letting each moment of sadness come. Being in that moment. Feeling it. Then moving on until the next moment comes.

I feel like my relationship with God is a little…I don’t know…distant, maybe. Distant in the way that, when you are hurt and are in pain, you keep people at arm’s length. I know He is there, but I haven’t been able to let Him too close to me. I don’t really know why. I don’t blame Him, but it is hard when you know He could allowed things to unfold differently. Like I said, I trust that His ways are the best, but it doesn’t always compute emotionally right away. And it doesn’t make it hurt less.

I know that He is ‘close to the broken-hearted and rescues those who are crushed in spirit’ (Psalm 34:18). I know He doesn’t judge me for how I am feeling, for needing space.

But I know He is there. I know He is with me. I know He is patient. And I know He will be by my side in an instant when I am ready.

As for comfort, there’s not a lot right now, but there are a few Scripture verses that I am hanging on to, and they actually do bring me comfort.

Psalm 30:5
“Weeping may endure for the night, but joy comes in the morning.”

It might be a really, really long night, but I am banking on that fact that joy will come.

Psalm 126:5-6
“Those who sow in tears shall reap in joy. He who continually goes forth weeping, bearing seed for sowing, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.”

This one especially brings me a lot of hope because of the idea of sowing and reaping. A seed always produces exponentially more than what is sown. That being the case – if each of my tears is a seed I sow in faith and trust, then the harvest of joy will be exponentially greater than the sorrow I am feeling. Doubtless, there will be rejoicing and a great harvest from this. Knowing that helps.

Ecclesiastes 3:1,4,11
“To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven…a time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance…He has made everything beautiful in its time.”

Everything beautiful in its time? Everything? Even a miscarriage?

Yes. I believe that. Even a miscarriage.

Now is not the time to celebrate; now is the time for weeping, for mourning. But it won’t always be the time for that.

One day, there is will be a time for laughing, for dancing.

Joy will come.

I’m counting on it.