The rabbit sighed. He thought it would be a long time before this magic called Real happened to him. He long to become Real, to know what it felt like: and yet the idea of growing shabby and losing his eyes and whiskers was rather sad. He wished that he could become it without these uncomfortable things happening to him.
-The Velveteen Rabbit
My Dad inflates a green latex glove, tapes a smiley face and eyes onto it, then stands it upright on my bedside table with a plastic clip. The smiley glove-doll wobbles beneath the vase of colored roses that my mom has brought for me. I have just left the recovery ward following my emergency surgery. My family is with me. They are standing by me in the midst of this wild grief storm.
Before the surgery itself, a woman came by with a clipboard and asked if I had a living will or a power of attorney document. No. I didn’t. But I knew why she was asking: in case I died or got stuck in an unresponsive state. A little later, the surgeon commented that my heart rate was pretty fast–you could hear it bleeping frantically on the monitor. Of course it was fast. I’d just realized there was a chance I could die. I ask the medical staff to leave and then I cling on to James’ hand and weep as I apologize for how I don’t appreciate him enough. He’s a tender, attentive husband and I take him for granted. We say we love each other. Then I go into the surgery.
We’d arrived at the hospital at 4am earlier that day. I’d been bleeding for almost ten hours, hoping I wouldn’t have to resort to anything further, but then I get light-headed and I know my blood-loss has surpassed safe levels. Right before the nurses get me into bed, I am screaming that I’m on the verge of passing out. Deja vu. I’ve been here before. The ER doctor tells me that my miscarriage has caused me to bleed too much and they need to perform an emergency D&C to stop the blood loss.
In the depths of my sorrow, I’m tempted to mark this year, 2015, as the year that two of my babies died. A year of pain and waiting and broken hopes. But I don’t want to remember it that way. This grief will not become my master-label.
2015 was the year I turned my birthday party into a Broadway musical sing-a-long. It was the year my baby boy became a toddler. It was the year I watched with pride as my sister graduated from university. It was the year I pushed myself to write something larger and more difficult than I’d ever written, while still taking care of my son full-time. It was the year that I identified mama-hood and writing as two huge priorities in my life. It will be the year that I release my third novel. 2015 is not a year worth burying in a deep hole. But, nevertheless it is a year cut through with deep shafts of sadness.
I wrote the following meditation, based on a pslam, before the bleeding began. I wrote it in the lobby as I waited for the ultrasound that would confirm that my baby no longer had a heartbeat.
Jesus is taking me on the road laid out for me
He won’t withhold anything that I need
He presses my head to a cool pillow for rest from my sobbing
He holds my hand and shows me the gentle babble of the water, tinged by sunrise gold
He touches my heart and fills the wound-gaps
He takes me to these healing places because he is good
As the darkness swallows my hope, Jesus lays out new blessings for me
Even though I walk with broken spirit through the gravestones of my babies,
It’s not a sign that I’m unloved
Jesus is with me, weeping, and supporting me from a collapse
He will continue being faithful, good, and merciful to me for as long as I live
And I’ll be his beloved daughter and part of his family. Always.
I don’t pretend to understand how this new death fits into a greater plan for good. I know God promises to use all things that happen to his children for a good purpose, and some part of me believes that. My biggest struggle is to not choke on the lies and fears that swirl through my head, doubting I’ll ever have another living baby. They’re lies.
I believe we’ll conceive again and have a healthy birth. My son is a testament that it is completely possible.
For now, I am trying to heal physically and emotionally, attempting existence one day at a time. As always, the love of my friends, family, and community have been my lifeline. I’m always astonished when love reaches a new level. My pastor rewrote his sermon for this last Sunday in order to deliver a message of hope and life to my family. I wept nearly non-stop through the entire church service.
I am loved.
My heart is broken but it will slowly come back together. My husband isn’t going anywhere. My son is smarter and more fun to play with each and every day. My friends are bringing me meals and offering to watch my Guppy so that James and I can have time to ourselves to process this.
The web of love tightens around me, making sure I don’t fall. At first I was numb and filled with dark thoughts. Then a ray of light slipped through and I trembled because I am weak and frightened but I’m not alone. Now I feel the army of friends who are standing around me, being strong on my behalf, looking ahead of me and promising that my future is not steeped in black.
To everyone who’s already heard this news, thank you for your prayers, thoughts, messages, and kind words. To anyone learning of this for the first time, I appreciate all prayers and thoughts you want to send my way.
The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.