The goal of this blog is to give hope. Now that sounds trite when people are in the trenches of grief and sorrow. Grievers do not feel positive like they are climbing upward. Here is what my trench looked like – particularly the last three years. I knew that when Dad died, the experience was going to open a whole new level of stuff. I was going to come out of hiding. There would be more pain and more processing. What I was not ready for was the grief. I mourned the loss of so many things including my childhood, loss of my identity, loss of my innocence, loss of my father figure (no matter how awful or angry I was at him), loss of a bad relationship, loss of being me. You get the point. I still cried a lot. I still reeled with the reality that he was no longer there silently controlling my life with no clue what he had done. I was prone to people pleasing – silently putting myself down to not make waves. I did everything I could to garner Dad’s favor and praise. I wanted it so badly. Work generally didn’t help the situation. It was a problem I had been dealing with for years. I was overloaded. I expected too much of myself. I was worn out from the previous years with work, abusive bosses, and working through the sexual abuse.
In October, six months after Dad died, I conceived for the first time and was thrilled. I had waited eight years to have kids – waiting for my career to settle down and waiting for my husband to be willing to have kids. The clinic I went to was very mean too. When it became a concern that I might miscarry, I called the office asking for a referral to a second ultrasound clinic, and the nurse denied me the referral telling me over the phone that I had miscarried. She was insistent and rude about it. I accused her of malpractice, so she got me a same day appointment but no referral. That led to a week-long wait, but I knew when I left the office the baby was going to die. I remember thinking it was so common for pregnant women to hold their bellies. You know, the pictures of pregnant women in the third trimester with the obvious belly bulge. It felt silly to me to do that, but I let myself go and held my belly as I waited to check out from the appointment. I felt my baby. He/she was sad. Later that day, I had a lights-out feeling. When I felt it, I immediately knew the baby had died. I think in that moment I was shocked. So shocked because I literally was like “WHAT just happened.” A week later they did an ultrasound and confirmed it.
The very thing I did not want to a happen. A dead baby in my womb. I hated my body. I was so disappointed. I had done everything I could. I had followed all the rules. I waited a week, but it was obvious the baby was not going to come out without help. When I tried to get the medicine to force the baby out, it took me all day because the office’s computers had shut down. The manager defended his nurse. I finally got the medicine and snapped at the lady who wanted to check my weight. I’m here for medicine – not to track my weight for vital signs. I got the medicine, shoved it up my stuff, and waited. Sure enough, it worked. Pain, contractions, blood, loneliness. I had no way of telling if baby was in any of the globs of blood. I was used to suffering by myself, so I coped by myself. I know I had friends texting, but I was still lonely. I was sad.
To cope with my continual descent into the abyss, I wore a lot of black. I experimented with black anything and everything. I wore more make-up than I ever had in my life – black eyeliner, mascara, black lipstick, black nail polish. The black lipstick did not look good. I tried all sorts of eyeliner – liquid, glitter, pencil. I invested in black pants and black tops. I had a black coat which helped even more. Death. It hung close around me. I no longer believed life was good, or innocent, or fun, or happy. Also, in order to cope, I got rid of emotional baggage. I stopped criticizing myself. I picked up drawing as a way to show mercy to myself because I am not great at it. I started drawing when dad died.
I reasoned with God. I was angry. I knew from the previous three years that God was strong enough to handle my emotions and feelings. Those previous three years, when I dealt with the sexual and emotional abuse, I would shake my fist at God and blame him. I would curse and swear. I knew it was wrong, but I had not other way to cope emotionally. I believed God would strike me down when I did it, but he didn’t. I was disobeying him by swearing and cursing. Dad would have struck me down at any sign of disobedience. Wouldn’t God? No. He didn’t. God listened. He understood. Instead, he talked to me. He told me things like it was not his will that people died. He told me hard truths like death is a result of our sin, but it still is not his will that people die. He is not trying to rub death in our faces when death happens.
I thought I had overcome Dad’s death enough to have a child only to be thrown back on my face with more grief and pain, but God was not gloating or self-satisfied with egotistical satisfaction that I was hurting. No, instead he got on my level and walked me through it. I was certainly out of commission. I didn’t share the gospel, and I barely saw anyone. I buried myself and hid. Sometimes, I avoided church believing that no one would understand. The friends around me were single or moms with healthy pregnancies and children. One mom tried to reach out which I did appreciate, but one just avoided me. Honestly, until my second child could finally start doing some things for herself, I was in the pits.
When in the pit, there is no light. There is no way to look up and see hope when buried in grief – when in the pits. And that is okay. There is nothing wrong with it. Some might want to hold on to hope and argue that God’s light is in the darkness, but that is insensitive here. God knows how to get in the pit. He understands our darkness because he was buried by it when he died on the cross. He died to carry every pain and sorrow that we experience.
-Leisel
