Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Lamentation of A Lost Unborn Child

Two weeks ago I was thinking to write up some silly poems about morning sickness, that how something my brain wants badly doesn't necessary agreed by my nose. Something my nose says OK doesn't necessary make it through my mouth or my tongue. And even if I ignored all those three super-picky-and-just-being-a-pain body parts, and pushed whatever edible through my mouth, if my stomach didn't agree, it would still come out and go straight into the toilet.
I don't know how two weeks later I am writing about grieve. I don't know how I get here.
I don't know how two weeks ago I was still planning for this new life, and two weeks later I am planning how to say good bye to the life which is already gone. (and I had not the chance to tell him/her I love him/her).
I don't know how I went from throwing up because of the morning sickness but encouraging myself it should pass and I would have a baby to hold and kiss in my arms, to throwing up because of morning sickness but I can only tell myself it will not last long because the baby is now dead, and my body will realize it sooner or later.
I don't know how I went from expecting to feel the life moving in me to now I am expecting cramps and pain.
I don't know how I went from knowing there would be contraction and pain waiting but with it would come a baby crying and kicking his/her legs, but now the contraction and pain my waiting will only bring forth a dead child that is not completely formed yet.
I do not know how we went from trying to name a child, with hope; and now we are trying to name a child, with sorrow.
I don't know how I get here. This is not where I want to be, Lord.
Have I not cried those words to Him again and again the past week?
This is not where I want to be. This road of brokenness is paved with my sorrow and tears. This is not the road I want to travel on, my Father.
But it is as clear as it can be that this is where He wants me to be. This is the road He wants me to trudge on. Yet it is not only paved with my brokenness, my sorrow and tears, but His brokenness, His sorrow and tears as well. This much I know.
Has he not been merciful to me to take the pain away from me?
It was the longest week in my life. Of waiting. Of weeping. Of hoping yet being fearful of hoping at the same time. The night prior to Monday was the longest night. Will the daybreak ever come, Father? Will the sun ever come out again? Will rest eventually come to my weary soul? Are you here, my Father? Will you give me peace and strength and rest? He lifted His protection over my pain that night. The tears that I thought I had finished shedding came pouring out. Pain of losing my child. Pain of losing part of me, my flesh and blood. I should have known He was preparing me, for what was coming Monday. Oh would Monday ever come? Came it still. I tried to stay in bed as long as possible that morning. I did not know how I would make it to the 2.30 appointment. I felt like someone who was waiting for her announcement of fate. Would it be life? Or would it be death? I watched the clock. It kept ticking. I had never felt the passing of time with such intensity. I heard every second ticking away, tick tock, tick tock; I willed it to go faster, I could not bear it no more. I felt like I was suspending in the air, not knowing I was going to crash downward, or being lifted upward. With every breathe I breathed, I cried to God silently, strength, Father, peace, Father.
Strength, Father.
Peace, Father.
I don't know how many times I have prayed for them. I had never prayed for them so desperately.
I knew there would be tears, either it would be tears of overjoyed, or tears of sorrow.
And those tears did come. They came silently this time. Like a gentle creek, tickling down my cheeks. Tears of sorrow.
The same ultrasound technician uttered the same words at the doctor's office.
I am sorry, still no heartbeat.
I don't remember the doctor said he is sorry this time. He came in and he was all business. He still called my name wrong. He still "encouraged" me to do a D&C. He actually laughed when I told him I needed prescription to help cope with my morning sickness which seemed to have gotten worse.
He actually laughed.
I was shocked to the core.
Though I was not weeping, but my heart was bleeding, over the loss of my child. Yet this man had the gut of laughing at my misery.
He said he could not understand why I would want to wait for my body to take the action while I am so miserable with my morning sickness. He doubted that I would last long, waiting. I told him coldly, we shall see.
He did not care to look at the rash I had on my thigh since I saw him last week that had turned into blisters and becoming painful.
When he laughed, I got all the answers I had last week, about whether he understands or cares.
He does not understand. And he simply does not care.
How can this man doing what he is doing, taking care of women's bodies while they are pregnant with lives, and helping the birth of a new life not care about lives?
How can a man's heart became so callous with coldness, and maybe just gain?
How can he looked me in the eyes and said in the end, we will go through this together, again, when he does not really care?
It is not the same with me, you see. It is not the same with me anymore, losing this child.
I wish it was as easy as you think. I wish I could get over this quick. I wish I do not have to lay in my bed, dark at night, and cried my heart out to my God.
I wish I don't have to feel like I am drowning in my own sorrow.
I wish my sorrow would not come when I least expecting it. Sometime while I was eating, not even thinking about the baby, yet a sob came out, and it all came tumbling out. The tears. The sorrow.
I wish I would not lose it when my children only doing what a 2 and a half year old toddler will do, pushing their own limits and their mothers' limit, yet this mother lost it over morning cereal thrown deliberately all over the floor for laughter. This mother lost it and cried and screamed at the child's face and punished her. This mother beat her chest and bang the table and wanted to hurt herself. This mother wanted to run away. This mother screamed at the top of her lungs at her fearful children, do you know how hard is this? Do you know I am having a hard time? Do you know I can't do this? This mother was actually screaming at God. This mother did and said the things that she told herself she would not do them to her children. And the pain and fear in her children's eyes hurt her more and broke her heart more. This mother was shocked and ashamed.
Where did it all come from? The sorrow and bitterness came, you see. They came without notice. They came without being wanted. They came and they stayed.
I wish it was easy as I always thought. I wish I could be stronger. I wish I could tell you I will be fine soon. But there is no woman that I have talked to, that said this will not hurt. None. Zero. It hurts us women, when we lose an unborn child. It hurts, it brings sorrow.
I wish I didn't have to write this. I wish I didn't have to, I really do.
I thought of keeping this journal of pain, of sorrow, of depression, to myself. Away from public eyes. Where there will not be any judgment. Where I will be protected and not felt exposed. Not raw. Not naked.
Yet when I think of many that do not understand what I am, or other women are going through, my heart hurts. When I think of those who find themselves unexpectedly, travelling down on the same path I am trudging on, with fear and tears and confusion (how can this hurt so much), I know I have to write this. I have to write this for myself, I have to write this for those who wants to know how I am feeling, I have to write this for those who can't believe what they are experiencing and they are not sure is it normal or they are simply going out of their mind.
I want to tell them, yes, there will be pain, but He will take it away. He has taken my pain away. I no longer feel it. That part of my emotion is numbed. He has given me mercy.
Yes, there will be sorrow. I still have the sorrow. I do not know how long it will last. But I believe He will heal my sorrow too. I believe out of my sorrow, out of this broken heart, He will resurrect something beautiful out of it. I don't know what it is yet. I am still waiting. I can only hang on tight to Him at this time and wait.
Yes, there will be emptiness. There is this big big hole in my heart gaping at me. All the time. I can feel it. But I believe He will, and only He can fill that hole up.
Right now, I can only pray, and wait for Him.
With sorrow.
With emptiness.
With tears.
But not without hope.
Not without hope, my love. Not without hope.
As long as I am with Him, I know I have hope.
Hope that is beyond life and death. and with that hope I wait on.

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