I’ve cried alone. I’ve cried in front of 50 other people. I’ve cried with my husband and my mom and my sister in law. I’ve cried in a doctor’s office hearing the words there is no baby.. I’ve cried in an ER room after being told to go home and rest. I’ve cried while singing The Lion and The Lamb by Bethel and Leeland. I’ve cried while singing This is Amazing Grace by Phil Wickham. I’ve cried in a coffee shop. I’ve cried in the car on the way home. I’ve cried on the way to places. I’ve cried in church. I’ve cried in my garage. I’ve cried outside. I’ve cried while holding Zara. I’ve cried while being held. I’ve never cried so much in my life.
I’m angry. I’m angry at myself. At my uterus. At my body. I’m angry at David for seemingly not understanding my grief. I’m pushing him away. I’m angry with Zara for reminding me of what Emerson and Judah would have looked like. I’m pushing her away. Why? They need me as much as I need them. I’m angry with anyone who hasn’t cried with me. “How can they not be crying,” I think. “Don’t they understand what a loss this is?” I’m angry at the ER doctor who didn’t/wouldn’t/couldn’t do anything. I’m angry at the nurse who I thought was superficial and insincere. I’m angry at the person who told me to come in to the ER in the first place knowing all I would be told was to go home and rest. I’m angry.
I’ve screamed in my sister in law’s bathroom when the bleeding was getting deeper red and the cramping was getting worse.. I’ve screamed for my husband when I passed Emerson and saw her arm and leg nubs and black spots where her eyes should have developed. I’ve screamed for my mom when I passed Judah and saw his perfectly round face with black eye spots and a little smile shape where his mouth would have formed. I’ve screamed at the end of a church service after the teacher said, ‘anybody who has died that is leaving a hole in your heart.’. All I want to do is scream. I’m holding it in though. I don’t want to scare David…or Zara…or my mom of Phillip or my Grandpa.
I’ve fallen on my knees because I don’t have the strength to stand. I’ve stood and functioned because I have a baby to take care of. I’ve laughed and played with her because she needs that. I’ve laughed with my husband because humor is his way of coping. I feel guilt when I laugh. I’ve slept so much. I wake up and my babies are still gone. I dream of them. They’re happy and safe and taken care of. Those dreams are still nightmares.
I’ve listened to people try to give me words of comfort. People who listened to me while I just cry and ramble on about my babies. My beautiful Emerson and Judah.
I feel crazy. I never got to see their beautiful eyes open and stare into mine. I never got butterflies in my stomach from their big smiles. I never got to hear their cry or laugh. I didn’t birth healthy babies. I birthed babies who were already sitting with Jesus. How can I miss something so much that I never even knew. How can I love something so much that I never truly held. Yes, I held their tiny unformed bodies on some toilet paper…but I didn’t feel their warm bodies next time mine as I fed them or rocked them to sleep. Even so, I can tell you there is no pain like the pain of miscarriage. It’s a completely separate category of pain that I wouldn’t wish on any person. Ever.
I don’t know what to do now. I know life goes on. All I can do is write. And talk with people who have also had miscarriages if they are willing. Or even if they haven’t. And cry. And pray. Some people won’t understand this grief and feeling of loss…but some will…that is who I need to surround me at this time. I just feel confused and lost.
I do draw comfort from this quote. I am happy that they are happy. But I am sad they are not with me.