Grief

Grief is not something that just disappears. I know from experience that the sharp, stabbing, fill your eyes with tears pain, will ebb with time. It's only been five weeks since we lost our baby. Five weeks of emptiness. Five weeks of tears. Five weeks of pretending that I'm okay because that's just what a woman's supposed to do.

We spent the holidays in Madison at Alan's parents house. It was bittersweet. I had to leave the room during the reenactment of the nativity by the kids on Christmas Eve. It was too painful to hear scriptures of a blessed womb and the birth of a baby boy. In fact, I left the room a lot during our visit. Several times a day, I would shut myself in our room and just sob, at least for the few moments until Noah came pounding at the door screaming that he needed me. I'm glad that I have other children who need me right now; they're the only thing preventing me from spending my days in bed, soaking my pillow with the grief that pours from my eyes.

Sometimes I want to just tell people that I'm not okay. Sometimes I want to say, "You know what? No, my holidays weren't all happy. Despite being surrounded by people I love, I've never felt so alone. I just lost my fourth baby." Sometimes when I'm asked how many kids I have, I want to answer seven--They are 10, 9, 8, 8, 2, 2, and one due in June. But I can't really do that. And so I stuff it down, then praise God that I have three beautiful children here on earth about whom I can talk in terms that wouldn't leave people thinking I'm crazy.

I worked Labor and Delivery as a nurse. I saw the joys and horrors that come with that career. I know that there are women who carry babies to term, only to give birth to a child who never takes its first breath. I know that there are women who give birth to babies, only to lose them later that day or week or year. I feel that I can't compare myself to them; I only knew my last baby for three months. But the pain is still there and that, I cannot deny.

I don't know why I've been chosen to suffer this trial. I cannot reconcile the image of a loving Heavenly Father with the extreme emotions of pure torture that I've survived four times now. I don't understand it. I don't know if I ever will. But I'm doing my best to believe that all these experiences will be for my good. And I'm praying every day, every second of every day, that I will see these babies again. I pray that they will be the first faces I see when I cross the veil and pass through the gates. I pray that they are together, smiling, and that my Grandma Urs and Grandpa Jim are caring for them until I can. My grandma lost two babies, as well, and she was such an incredible, loving woman. The only peace that I can find comes from imagining her with my four tiny angels in her arms and on her lap.

I had a dream two nights ago that the baby was a girl, but she was still dead and they were telling me what was wrong with her. I don't know if it means anything. Maybe, maybe not. And now I have my first period since the loss and it's like reliving it all over again. Only the cramping is worse and my back is hurting like somebody squeezed all the muscles into a big ball. And the Advil doesn't do jack, but I don't want to bug my doctor for anything stronger because that would mean going back to the office where I saw that my baby was dead. Triggers are everywhere: Birth announcements, pregnancy announcements, family photos. That's why I've stopped going on Facebook.

I have to call mortuaries today to arrange the cremation of our baby. I don't know how to do this. I don't know what to do once I have those ashes. And with my fear of fire, this entire experience is like being burned alive myself. Honestly, that's sort of what it feels like; the pain is that extreme.

This post is just a rambling of thoughts. But I had to get it out. I thought, after my second, and even third loss, that the lesson I was supposed to learn was to be able to help others who were experiencing the same thing. And I really thought I did that. But then why would I lose another one? Again, I realize that there is no sense to be made of this. Absolutely none. But I have to talk about it or I'll lose it, even more than I already am. My kids are living off of Oreos and cereal. I am spending my days hiding the tears rolling down my face, and answering the phone like everything is just jolly. But it's not. It's really not. And I don't know when it will be again. I have a house to pack and sell, three kids to care for, and a move across the country all coming in the next three weeks. But I can barely drag myself out of bed. And when I am out of bed, I'm of no use to anyone. My heart is broken; it's shattered. Truly, I'm not sure how it's even beating anymore.

My faith is waning; I wonder when I pray if anyone is even listening. But that there's an all-knowing being out there somewhere, watching over me, watching over my babies, who has a plan for us, is the only hope I have. And so I'll continue to pray. I'll continue to get out of bed when I can. And I'll continue to grieve, because at some point, the tears will have to run dry.