I'm writing this post in the hopes that others who are struggling with something similar will take comfort in knowing they are not alone. I don't like being this vulnerable because I'm afraid of what people will think. I am afraid of being judged.
The only way I know to break through this barrier of fear, though, is to begin.
It's very hard to return to an image of a good, caring, loving God after seeing him allow something terrible to happen to someone you love.
My daughter was the sweetest, most precious little baby girl I have ever laid eyes on. Even though she is now gone, I still love her as fiercely as any mother ever loved her child. And I wish with all my heart that she were here, that I was dealing with diapers and midnight feedings and fatigue and all the things parents complain about.
The strength of my love, from the time of my pregnancy onward, made it even harder to see all she had to go through in her tiny six pound body. She had two surgeries, the first on her abdomen resulting in a colostomy bag, the second with her returning from the ER with her chest still open and a small cloth tent sewn over the hole. We could see her fragile heart beating beneath the fabric patch. It was left open in case emergency intervention was needed. It was traumatic to see my babe of under two months old lying there open, bruised from having her sternum broken and her ribs pulled apart. It was traumatic each time her heart failed, we almost lost her, and they brought her back, each time putting her on more machines to try to keep her alive.
How do people who have been through terrible tragedies return to any trust in God? I think of the victims of genocide, war, rape, torture... For many, relief from the pain and answers on this earth never come. And for me, as for many, the pain of what she had to go through continues to grind away in the core of my being, at times with a literal, physical impact.
I know the pat answers Christians provide to these questions. That God didn't cause the event; a sinful, fallen world caused the event. But I struggle with how a loving God could even so much as allow these terrible, painful things - especially to one so innocent, so small, so vulnerable.
And it makes it very difficult to trust in God, for anything at all, great or small, ever again.
Nothing in my life experience prepared me for this. And it seems like a harsh way to learn.
Showing posts with label exposed. Show all posts
Showing posts with label exposed. Show all posts
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Floundering
Losing a child has made me question everything I believe in. They say this is pretty common, although knowing that doesn't make it any easier.
My beliefs are what have given me steam my whole life. I am motivated by meaning, by purpose, and that has always been tied to my world view and my faith.
I don't think I am going off the reservation completely... at least not for today. But people who have known me for many years and think they know what I believe would probably be shocked at the paths that my views have taken ever since my daughter died.
It all started when she was in the hospital for the seven weeks of her life. Most parents will describe how things changed completely when they welcomed their first child. A massive transformation in perspective takes place. That's when the first shift occurred. Things I once thought were of paramount importance in life paled in comparison. Those things may as well have fallen off the face of the earth. Having a child changes everything.
It is a feeling that has to be experienced in order to be understood.
The second shift occurred when we realized we were losing her. As much as our world had changed when our baby arrived, it changed even more drastically as she faded from this life. The best way I can think of to describe this to parents who have not lost a child is that this shift in perspective is just as dramatic as when a child joins a family in the first place... maybe even more so.
Ever since she died, I have been floundering, especially where my beliefs are concerned. I feel like a fish out of water most of the time, flopping around, desperately trying to get to a place of safety where I can breath again. Yet I am running out of steam and resources trying to find that place back in safe waters, because...well... a fish out of water cannot breathe.
This has been a difficult topic for me to share about, because I feel very exposed when people know the struggle I've been having. I wrote and re-wrote this blog post, trying to figure out how to express what this feels like. My hope is that by sharing these feelings, though, all of you out there who are going through a similar experience will find comfort in knowing that you are not floundering alone, that you are not losing your mind.
Grief does this to a person, and my solution for now is to not take myself too seriously, and to allow myself to keep looking ahead.
My beliefs are what have given me steam my whole life. I am motivated by meaning, by purpose, and that has always been tied to my world view and my faith.
I don't think I am going off the reservation completely... at least not for today. But people who have known me for many years and think they know what I believe would probably be shocked at the paths that my views have taken ever since my daughter died.
It all started when she was in the hospital for the seven weeks of her life. Most parents will describe how things changed completely when they welcomed their first child. A massive transformation in perspective takes place. That's when the first shift occurred. Things I once thought were of paramount importance in life paled in comparison. Those things may as well have fallen off the face of the earth. Having a child changes everything.
It is a feeling that has to be experienced in order to be understood.
The second shift occurred when we realized we were losing her. As much as our world had changed when our baby arrived, it changed even more drastically as she faded from this life. The best way I can think of to describe this to parents who have not lost a child is that this shift in perspective is just as dramatic as when a child joins a family in the first place... maybe even more so.
Ever since she died, I have been floundering, especially where my beliefs are concerned. I feel like a fish out of water most of the time, flopping around, desperately trying to get to a place of safety where I can breath again. Yet I am running out of steam and resources trying to find that place back in safe waters, because...well... a fish out of water cannot breathe.
This has been a difficult topic for me to share about, because I feel very exposed when people know the struggle I've been having. I wrote and re-wrote this blog post, trying to figure out how to express what this feels like. My hope is that by sharing these feelings, though, all of you out there who are going through a similar experience will find comfort in knowing that you are not floundering alone, that you are not losing your mind.
Grief does this to a person, and my solution for now is to not take myself too seriously, and to allow myself to keep looking ahead.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
"I know just what you are going through!"
I love it when people share their own stories of grief, suffering, and loss with me. There are many things I can identify with in the stories that others share. It helps to know that I'm not alone, that other people wrestle with the same agony and questions that I'm going through.
Having said that, there are some circumstances that just don't compare. For example, a co-worker recently shared with me that he understood what I'm going through, because his wife lost their first child due to a miscarriage somewhere around 3 months gestation. I appreciated the fact that he was trying to reach out and sympathize, but the way he did it just grated on me. He acted as if the experience of pregnancy loss is the same as the loss of an infant. No doubt, both are painful in their own way. However, losing an infant that is 7 weeks of age is not the same as a miscarriage.
One of the things that people who have walked through the most painful kinds of grief intuitively know is that they don't know exactly what anyone else is going through. The deepest losses sharpen our sympathies and cause us to realize that we really cannot compare the uniqueness of our situation to anyone else. A dear friend who has been following this blog knows exactly this - she and I have unique and different situations, and yet there are similar emotions involved. We can express how sorry we are for each other's experiences, and ask the other what are going through. And then we can listen. Because beyond that, it is not fair to say we have been through what they have been through. We haven't.
One woman in sharing about her grief after her husband died described eating alone at home a lot, because she wanted to avoid going out and feeling exposed. I can truly identify with this feeling of exposure. People ask the most innocent of questions when I'm in public that feel like sandpaper on a raw and open wound.
For the woman who lost her husband, "are you married?"
For the parents who lost their only child, "do you have any children?"
This kind of exposure becomes even more acute when someone, usually a perfect stranger, claims to know exactly what you are going through. "Oh, you lost your baby at 7 weeks of age? I know just what you are going through. My grandmother, who practically raised me, just died last year at 82 years of age. I know how hard this is for you."
No, my dear fellow human being, you do not know. People's grandmothers are supposed to die when they get older -- it is the natural order of things. People's children are not supposed to die. You are supposed to die before your children, watching them grow strong into their mid-life years as the flame of your candle waxes dim.
I've come to believe that avoiding this kind of exposure during the most painful times of grief is okay, that it is a healthy form of self-preservation.
At the same time, there are times when human contact can't be avoided, and that is okay too. It teaches us (or at least me) to be patient with others, to give them grace, because Lord knows I have probably made the same mistakes. An innocent attempt to identify with what someone is going through can instead create a sharp contrast that clearly highlights the extent to which I don't know what they're going through.
And so I've learned that the best response to someone's expression of a terrible experience is, "Wow, I cannot imagine what you are going through. I am so sorry. What is this like for you?"
And then... I just listen.
Having said that, there are some circumstances that just don't compare. For example, a co-worker recently shared with me that he understood what I'm going through, because his wife lost their first child due to a miscarriage somewhere around 3 months gestation. I appreciated the fact that he was trying to reach out and sympathize, but the way he did it just grated on me. He acted as if the experience of pregnancy loss is the same as the loss of an infant. No doubt, both are painful in their own way. However, losing an infant that is 7 weeks of age is not the same as a miscarriage.
One of the things that people who have walked through the most painful kinds of grief intuitively know is that they don't know exactly what anyone else is going through. The deepest losses sharpen our sympathies and cause us to realize that we really cannot compare the uniqueness of our situation to anyone else. A dear friend who has been following this blog knows exactly this - she and I have unique and different situations, and yet there are similar emotions involved. We can express how sorry we are for each other's experiences, and ask the other what are going through. And then we can listen. Because beyond that, it is not fair to say we have been through what they have been through. We haven't.
One woman in sharing about her grief after her husband died described eating alone at home a lot, because she wanted to avoid going out and feeling exposed. I can truly identify with this feeling of exposure. People ask the most innocent of questions when I'm in public that feel like sandpaper on a raw and open wound.
For the woman who lost her husband, "are you married?"
For the parents who lost their only child, "do you have any children?"
This kind of exposure becomes even more acute when someone, usually a perfect stranger, claims to know exactly what you are going through. "Oh, you lost your baby at 7 weeks of age? I know just what you are going through. My grandmother, who practically raised me, just died last year at 82 years of age. I know how hard this is for you."
No, my dear fellow human being, you do not know. People's grandmothers are supposed to die when they get older -- it is the natural order of things. People's children are not supposed to die. You are supposed to die before your children, watching them grow strong into their mid-life years as the flame of your candle waxes dim.
I've come to believe that avoiding this kind of exposure during the most painful times of grief is okay, that it is a healthy form of self-preservation.
At the same time, there are times when human contact can't be avoided, and that is okay too. It teaches us (or at least me) to be patient with others, to give them grace, because Lord knows I have probably made the same mistakes. An innocent attempt to identify with what someone is going through can instead create a sharp contrast that clearly highlights the extent to which I don't know what they're going through.
And so I've learned that the best response to someone's expression of a terrible experience is, "Wow, I cannot imagine what you are going through. I am so sorry. What is this like for you?"
And then... I just listen.
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