"Don't Act as if You Haven't Been Hit By a Mack Truck"

Yesterday was Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. What an important day. Everyone's experience with this is unique, I know. But for me (and maybe for many of you who have also walked this road) I find myself moving around in life and then all of a sudden, it will hit me like an invisible wall, "Oh, wait, I had a miscarriage. I have a baby in heaven." My two beautiful children here on earth keep me running all the time, but always in my mind and in my heart is a special place that reminds me of the child who isn't here with our family today.

Before my miscarriage I had no idea. I didn't know how painful it could be. I didn't know that it would impact my life for the rest of my life. I had no idea there were so many women walking around with this hurt--wounded. I had no idea what questions I would face when it happened to me. I had no idea I wouldn't be able to talk to God about it--a minister's wife who (for the first time openly) admits I couldn't open my Bible or pray for 6 months after we lost our baby.

And I had no idea how valuable my support system would be. Family who sent cards and flowers (I dried the flowers and and saved the cards--my only memorial to this tiny life). Friends who cried the moment I called to tell them what had happened. A husband who sat in bed with me at 4:30 in the morning (while we both knew, but couldn't yet admit, it was happening) because the doctor's office wouldn't be opening until 8:30. Those were the longest 4 hours of my life.

And I had no idea how many stories I would hear. Stories so much like mine in so many ways. And so yesterday, I lit my candle. For myself and for the 18 other women I personally know who have experienced the loss of a pregnancy, a stillbirth, or an infant loss. Among those 18 women I counted 27 losses due to the recurrence for so many of the women. And I represent at least the third consecutive generation in my family to experience this (maybe more I don't know of). These are brave women. I just want you to know that.

I met a young woman online (you can see her blog here: http://www.livinglajuicy.com/). You can go there to read her story. Two losses exactly one year apart (to the day). The most recent happening just this past week. Normally I don't confiscate material from other people's blogs, but she shared a poem that was so powerful to me I just had to share it with you. For those of you who have experienced a loss (of any kind really) or who are experiencing one now, I hope you find it meaningful. Keep in mind that it isn't geared especially toward pregnancy/infant loss, but I found many parts of it very pertinent.

I hope to share more soon about where this path has taken me since our loss in February of 2008. There is much to share, much I have been waiting to share for almost a year now. I hope to share it soon. Until then, here is the poem I mentioned.

Advice from La Lloronaby Deborah A. Miranda—a found poem
Each grief has its unique side.
Choose the one that appeals to you.
Go gently.
Your body needs energy to repair the amputation.
Humor phantom pain.

Your brain cells are soaked with salt;
connections fail unexpectedly and often.
Ask for help.
Accept help.

Read your grief like the daily newspaper:
headlines may have information you need.
Scream.
Drop-kick the garbage can across the street.

Don’t feel guilty if you have a good time.
Don’t act as if you haven’t been hit by a Mack Truck.
Do things a little differently, but don’t make a lot of changes.
Revel in contradiction.

Talk to the person who died.
Give her a piece of your mind.

Try to touch someone at least once a day.
Approach grief with determination.
Pretend the finish line doesn’t keep receding.
Lean into the pain.
You can’t outrun it.

Searching

It's been awhile since my last post. I've been in several places at once lately. Mainly just searching. Searching for answers. Searching for resolution. Searching for guidance. Always searching for restoration.