Day 1 of 100 Days of Grief
"So it's true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love."
-E. A. Bucchianeri
I've been trying to make my way through my grief and I've posted a few posts on social media about parts of it. I feel like I've only posted about the parts I feel "safe" to post. The parts that don't make me feel like a terrible person. But I'm realizing grief isn't pretty. The "grieving" part isn't where you come out a better person a moment later having learned all the lessons. The part I'm in is painful, it's ugly, and it's not something I 100% want to share. It's hard to admit you're angry, you're mad, you don't like people and all the feelings you have that "good" people don't have. Please be patient as I show my very human side and try to express my feelings about what I'm going through.
A friend recommended a book called, "Healing Your Grieving Heart After Miscarriage." It has 100 practical ideas for parents and families. This is my blog going through the 100 ideas or days of grieving.
Today's prompt is:
Tell someone about what this miscarriage has meant to you.
What does this miscarriage mean to me? It means I won't go to each doctor appointment and hear her heart beat. It means I won't get to feel her move. It means I won't watch my body change with her growth. It means I won't get to experience the labor pains with her birth. It means I won't get that life changing moment when I first get to hold her and hear her cries.
It means at the end of 9 months I won't have a precious baby to hold. It means I won't have precious quiet moments while breastfeeding. It means I won't see the sweet smiles. I won't get to watch her sleep. I won't get to watch her take her first steps. It means I won't get to give her that first bath. I means I won't get to experience any of those firsts. I won't get to watch her grow. I won't get to experience those terrible two's or the even worst the terrible 3's. I won't get to watch her play with her brother and sister who so wanted another sibling. I know all the things I'm missing and it breaks my heart.
It means I've had to tell my children what dying means. It means I've had tell everyone that I've lost my baby. It means my heart hurts every single day. It means for now I'm barely hanging on by a thread. It means I'm angry. I means I don't understand why this happened. It means every time I go to the doctors I re-live that moment. I means I have to hear Hannah pray for her baby even when that baby is gone. It means I'm grieving for a baby that was wanted. That has been wanted for 3 years that I don't get to meet. I wanted my baby and I don't understand why I lost her.
A family member shared a post from someone that is trying to help someone through grief and his description is what I'm feeling like now.
"As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and magnificence of the ship that was, is nor more. And all you can do is float. you find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's a physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'l find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come farther apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life."
The part that I loved was that you find pieces of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. It's why I have a bag of used IV flushes next to my bed. It's why one night I sobbed uncontrollably because I had nothing of her to hold onto until my sweet husband found the ultrasound picture of her at 6 weeks. It's why I was devastated when all the bruising faded from my arms because it felt like she was fading away too.
Today I feel like I'm in the second paragraph. I'm trying to function but I keep getting wiped out by waves and at times I feel like I'm drowning in the grief. I feel like I'm trying to hold up all the plates and get through a day but at the end of each day my plates are shattered on the ground. I feel like a ticking time bomb just waiting for the next reminder that my baby is gone.
So what does my miscarriage mean? It means that now I'm grieving and I lost someone that I loved because that is the price of love.