Everybody Hurts

Sometimes events take place in our lives that leave a lasting impression upon our souls. Those events can be good or bad. Even the bad events have a lesson hidden within. Even if you learn the lesson, the pain can persist. I've found that many times, others expect us to walk away from those events and not look back. It's uncomfortable to watch people hurt. We often expect ourselves, and others, to "get over it". Who wants to see another always sad or mentioning how they really feel when it's not good news? Getting over it, however, is usually easier said than done. I call those types of events "emotional traumas". There's a scar. Now, eventually a person will heal, but there's always going to be a reminder of the event.

For me, my three miscarriages have been the most significant emotional traumas in my life. I've been functioning through the hurt of those losses for 6 years. However, I've recently come to acknowledge just how deeply those losses have impacted my spirituality, ability to love others, hope, and ability to have empathy for others. Rather than continue to sweep those horrible losses under the rug to avoid making others uncomfortable, I have decided that embracing the loss and accepting the emotional impact of those losses - all these years later - will be much more healing than continuing to put on the brave face. After all, those experiences have shaped me. For both good and bad. Not that I sit and mope around feeling sorry for myself. Or mention it to every person who will listen. It's more like pointing out the elephant in the room - to myself. Rather than ignore it and try to pretend it's not taking up this huge space, I say see it and validate that it's ok to have those feelings. It's ok to be hurt. I can allow myself to have those feelings and deal with them in a healthy and helpful way. Pretending I never lost 3 kids is not more healthy. It just isn't.

I know first hand that people don't want to hear over and over how hard life is. Listen, I don't want to hear about how difficult someone else has it all the time, either. But, acknowledging hurt feelings is different from wallowing in misery. People were more accepting of my hurt when we didn't have any kids. People at least seemed to understand what the long term impact could be for us. We didn't know if we could ever have kids. We still heard so often, "Well, at least you can get pregnant". Yeah, 'cause getting pregnant, being sick for 12 weeks and then going through the mess of a miscarriage is really fun. At one point, I was talking with a co-worker. His wife was very, very pregnant and very, very ready to be done being pregnant. She had just had a major meltdown. At one point, I remarked, "I'm sure she's sick of it. But, this is your second kid, you had to have some idea of how it would be." His response: "Well, you wouldn't know; you've never been pregnant." Really? I knew this person was an avid pro-life supporter. I wonder if I would have told him we'd aborted a baby if he would have said, "well, you weren't really pregnant anyway." My guess is he would have been infuriated and felt we were murderers. Funny how that works, huh? For convenience purposes, I had never been pregnant. The life that was snuffed out inside of my eager womb didn't count because I didn't carry the baby past the first trimester. For me, though, that was my child.

Our second miscarriage was not as physically devastating for me. But, emotionally, it was considerably harder. I happened to be pregnant at the same time as my sister-in-law. Their pregnancy went very smoothly. Ours, of course, ended very early. I was still struggling with my ability to be completely happy for others who were able to retain their pregnancies. Of course, I was glad for them. But, deep down, a part of me was very hurt. As a couple, we celebrated with them. In private, we mourned our loss. When her baby came, we went to the hospital and cradled the perfect person. We cried in the privacy of our bedroom when we got home. In the midst of the joy of a new life, no one remembered my loss. I didn't expect it, really, but it confirmed to me that no one wants to deal with that kind of issue. It was clear to me that I should be over it.

After that miscarriage, we didn't get pregnant. For a year and half it was just nothing. At least, however, we weren't getting pregnant and losing it anymore. We were told to stop trying. We were warned that getting pregnant would be unhealthy for me. And, of course, we got pregnant. Lexi was early but she was here. I hoped we had gotten over the whole miscarriage hurdle. I was wrong. Months later, we knew it was time to start trying again. We did and got pregnant. We were cautiously optimistic. At 12 weeks, we found out we had lost yet another child. This time, we knew exactly what that loss meant. We saw that child on the ultrasound screen, little arm and legs buds, laying too still. We looked at Lexi and felt such sorrow for everything we knew we were missing out on.

After we had Lexi, it was as if others thought that losing another baby shouldn't be such a big deal. We had one, after all. We should be grateful. The response I received so often was, "Well, you must be so grateful you have Lexi" or "Well, at least you know you can have kids" or "Gosh, it could be so much worse. At least you didn't go full term and lose the baby then". Of course, I'm grateful I have Lexi. Sure, I can have kids. I would never want to lose a term baby. But, those blessings do not negate my experience. Having Lexi doesn't stop the hurt of having lost another. Considering worst case scenario doesn't take the pain away.

Our marriage has been heavily impacted by our losses. We had our first miscarriage when our marriage was in its infancy. A short 6 months had passed and we were suddenly dealing with the death of a child. And yes, it was a child to us. It was the hope for watching my belly become round with life, the hope of high pitched giggling, the toddling of a baby learning to walk - all the things that come with parenthood. Sure, we didn't know that there was a lot more involved. Who does before they have kids? Anyone who has been pregnant knows that the minute you see those two lines, you start to day dream and plan about the future in a way you never did before. So, we were essentially two strangers who had hopes of an eternal family and were, for the first time, learning how to grieve, support each other, how to accept loss, and learn, in a very final and harsh way, that we had absolutely no control over this part of our lives. This was perhaps the most significant part of our lives and our hands were tied. It wasn't like we had spent too much on the credit card and would have to pay the price. We didn't do this to ourselves. We had suffered a terrible blow to our little family and had no way to fix it.

A year later, we were faced with the same loss. We were just coming up for air from the last miscarriage and we were shoved back down in the water. It undoubtedly affected our relationship. We each had hurts and processed them so differently. Allen wanted to hold me; I wanted to lock myself in a dark room. He wanted to talk; I wanted silence. Then, months would pass and the rage and hurt would come rushing to the surface. Nothing he could do would fix the hurt though. He had to helplessly stand by and let me go through the process of mourning our baby. Someone actually said to me, "You guys have really let this get in the way. You know, you could have learned something from this and grown closer rather than allow this distance to happen." Excuse me? What was that? Would you like to die quickly or slowly? I really think my head spun around like I was Linda Blair in The Exorcist. This person was neither married nor a parent. How could they even begin to give advice on how to handle losing a child? How can you tell another how to grieve? How can you put parameters around something so big? The truth is that you can't. Everyone processes grief and loss differently. To judge another because they don't handle the situation as you think they should is completely out of line.

Why not stop with one? Why go for more when you know what your chances are? "You know what you're probably going to get so don't be feeling sorry for yourself when you lose another" is what many probably think. Well, I'll tell you why we kept trying. Because how could we know we had children waiting for us and not heed that prompting? It has been made very clear to us that we are not the ones that choose when or where, but we must be willing. What we have to gain is so great, it would be incredibly short sighted to miss out on an eternity of experiences because of the potential for loss. Sure, it hurts to lose a pregnancy. It puts kinks in a lot of things. It doesn't go away with time. It puts strain on a marriage that many don't come back from. Having more kids doesn't stop the bleeding of the wound in your heart from losing another. But, I try to see the bigger picture. I try to see the whole play, not just this act. It may sound foolish. Or like we're trying to play the role of the martyr. However, the truth is that letting go and trusting in a plan that is bigger than ourselves is a huge leap of faith. Our effort has not been perfect. It has been ugly and touch and go for us at many points. But the refiner's fire is never a place of comfort. I would be a fool to come out of the heat having learned nothing.

What have I learned? First and foremost: Heavenly Father does not take life to prove a point. I believe that with complete certainty. Some have told us, "Well, I'm sure these experiences will help you to fully appreciate your children." Like you have to lose one to love one. I don't think so. I'm not buying that. I absolutely believe that we are subject to the frailties of the human body. We get sick. People die. Wombs don't work right 100% of the time. That is part of the plan. I have learned how I process the big things in my life. I have forgiven myself for not doing that perfectly. I have learned to be happy for others even though my life may not be going that well. I have learned to trust in my Heavenly Father. I have learned to turn over the big things to his wisdom and timing. I have learned how to grieve for my loss with my husband and see his loss too. We have learned, together, how to be available but not crowd one another. I have a secure testimony in the eternal bond among family members. Not because I think I'll get these kids back in the eternities. I don't have the information to know that answer. No, I have the knowledge that my two girls arrived exactly when they were supposed to. I have peace knowing that our family will have whoever it's supposed to whenever the time is right.

So, here I am. We're almost two years out from our last miscarriage. I have been working this out in my mind for a few months now and I find I feel stronger and more complete now that I can admit, without guilt or shame: My miscarriages have hurt me. My heart is still heavy and my eyes still well with tears when I try to articulate the full impact of these experiences. And why shouldn't I be allowed to feel those things? It's not over even though the baby is physically removed from the body. It's the physical toll, the emotional cost and the great length of time it takes to get life back on track that many don't consider when they hear about a miscarriage. But, the pain has dulled considerably. I am no longer seething. Acknowledging those feelings has done more for me than years of trying to "keep on keepin' on." Sure, you can't just sit down and quit because life throws a huge curve ball or the rug gets pulled out from under you. But, you can admit that you've felt the blow. You aren't all right. You do need time to process. No, you can't juggle it all right now. It's ok to have those feelings. I've finally given myself permission to acknowledge and, thereby, work through all that it has meant to me and my family to lose three of our children prematurely. And you know what? It's OK. Everybody hurts. Sometimes.