Brokenhearted or Just Broken?

"Life is full of lines that you don't know you've crossed until you're on the other side. And once you're there, you need to discover who you're going to be." Just One Thing, Holly Jacobs


I've been trying to decide what I am lately. Am I brokenhearted, or just broken? I really can't decide. I'm not sure how to classify how or what I'm feeling right now.

And, before I go any further, I feel like I need to say this...I realize that putting this pain on display isn't comfortable. For me, or for you. I don't know if this is the southern way to deal with pain, but it's the only way I know how. When I can't speak it, I can write it. And, undoubtedly, many of you have noticed that I'm struggling. And I hate it. I hate that it's hard for me, and I hate that you can see that. My daddy always said I had a lousy poker face...he's not wrong often.

So, here it is. I don't want to be defined by just one thing. I don't want my frustration and my anger to consume me. I don't want it to be evident. I don't want to be mad at God. I don't want to question the things I question. But I do. I am.

Because, you know what? Two pink lines don't always mean you get a baby. In fact, for me, two pink lines just brings a whole lot of fear. But I still want to see them. It's a sweetly vicious torture to wait, and wait, and wait to see them. And a whole other kind of self-inflicted agony to finally see them and wonder what they mean. Will they bring pain again? Will there ever be a moment when I feel "safe?" It's an all consuming flood of emotions that never, ever ceases.

And jealousy sets in...why can't it just be easy for me? So many others seemingly have it so easy when it comes to those two pink lines. Why can't it be that way for me?

And, of course, anger sets in next. Same questions, just with a harsher tone.

I think mostly I feel betrayed. And I've avoided saying that word out loud because it's such an ugly, ugly word. But I do feel a strong sense of betrayal. Betrayal of my body, betrayal, in some sense, of my doctors, and my betrayal of my faith.

I've never been afraid to question my faith...questioning brings answers...but, lately, my questions don't have answers. And that leaves me with feelings of guilt and weakness and fear. I don't want to go all Nancy Kerrigan on y'all and ask "why me," but I do want to know what I did wrong. And before you say it, I know I couldn't have done anything differently...but I feel like there has to be an answer. A reason. Something I can fix next time. Anything...anything to give me a direction...to help me find a path...to let me have hope again.


So, I don't know if I'm brokenhearted or just broken. Most days, I think it's a whole lot of both. I've been listening to Danny Gokey sing "Tell Your Heart to Beat Again," on repeat just willing the words into my mind. I wake up with the lyrics in my head. It's a daily mantra...but, y'all,  I'm not there yet. And I'm sorry.
I'm still trying to figure out what I am.

Numb

Many years ago, I wrote a blog titled "Lather, Rinse, Repeat." This one could be titled the same.  

One week ago, we heard a heartbeat. A strong one. Yesterday, we heard nothing. 

I wish I could be as brave and strong and hopeful as I was in my last post, but I'm not. I'm actually kind of angry. Really angry. And scared. And discouraged. And defeated. And, mostly, numb. 

But despite the emotional roller coaster of fear and doubt, I cling to Isaiah 40:31, "But those who wait on The Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint." This was one of my Grandma's favorite verses and when  I saw it on some guy's t shirt yesterday, I felt like she was there. And it gave me comfort, so I cling to that verse and the knowledge that she's rocking my babies until I can see them again. 

Back to God

I’ve lost my keys a few times. I’ve lost cell phones, phone numbers, and library books. I’ve even lost my mind once or twice. But I’ve never lost a baby.

I WOULDN’T lose a baby.

A baby is not a thing you toss on the counter when you walk in the door. A baby isn’t something you lose and forget about until you need it again. A baby isn’t something so easily misplaced or replaced. Because it’s a baby.

So, a week ago, when there was no longer a heartbeat where one was just twelve days earlier, the phrase “she lost the baby,” kept running through my head. I didn’t lose a baby. I wouldn’t have.

Not after years of trying to have another baby would I have lost it. Not after the elation and surprise we felt at becoming pregnant just weeks before we had a visit scheduled with a fertility specialist.

After all of that, no, I wouldn’t have lost a baby.

So, instead, I’ll say I just gave a baby back to God. A baby that, biologically, wasn’t able to survive in this world. And I get that, I really do. I get that there were things that didn’t line up the way there were supposed to and, for whatever reason, this baby wasn’t meant to be here. I understand that…but it still hurts.

I’ve yet to make it a full day without crying, but I hope a tearless day is on the horizon. I’ve laughed since it happened, I’ve teased my husband, I’ve played games, I’ve been “okay.” But sometimes I’m not. Because this was bigger than a death in my family…this was a death in me. A death of someone I never got to meet but loved fiercely. A death of dreams for someone I'll never get to hold.

And because of that death, I feel discouraged and upset and sad and hopeful and scared and crazy and determined and resentful. But I also feel determined to be faithful because, honestly, I’m not sure I could make it through each day if I didn’t have faith that God has this baby…and he has another one to give us.

We were called to follow a path of faithfulness, not a path of ease. So, today is hard, but not as hard as yesterday. And tonight, I can rest easily in the knowledge that I didn’t lose a baby, I just gave a baby back to God.

Every day is gone too quickly...

My students are practicing express and reflect writing. And, as usual, I don't make them do something I'm not willing to do myself...the following are the products of a quick-write session yesterday in class.

Washing dishes the other night, I was struck by a melody floating from the back of the house. Easton and his puppy, Charley, were playing some form of tag/tug on the rope/tackle football. Above the ruckus of a barking puppy, Hot Wheels cars being slung against the wall, and the quiet thud of a rope hitting the floor, I heard my favorite sound; sweet, melodic, full-bodied giggles from my precious baby boy. His laughter now is different from what it will become as he ages. When he enters junior high, and becomes concerned with the thoughts of pretty girls, his laughter will turn to a nervous chuckle. In high school, it will be heard loudest when someone farts. But for now, for today, I get to hear the innocence and supreme purity of his joy. He’s not laughing AT someone, he’s not finding humor at someone’s expense…no…he’s finding joy in the everyday. And every day is gone too quickly, so I must enjoy right now.



 

“Savior, tender, shepherd hear me. Bless your lambs tonight. In the darkness, be down near me, and keep me safe ‘till morning light. Amen.” Every night, from the time I can remember, my mom came into my room and tucked me in with this prayer. Her eyes were bright, her hands were soft, and her hugs were warm. After she’d left me to fall asleep in the glow of my red balloon lamp, all that lingered was the soft, tingling scent of the Carmex from where she kissed my forehead. As a child, I didn’t realize how much I needed her, or the smell of Carmex. My first night in a cold, not-broken-in-yet dorm made my heart ache for my sweet mother and our well-worn prayer. I think I fell asleep with an open jar of Carmex that night. I just needed her near me…