I have always considered myself somewhat of an “open book”. But within the past few days I have come to realize I am not as open as I thought I was. I just started this blog last week and after going to church this past Sunday – I realized just how many people can read my story (once I start writing it).
It was a reality check. Am I willing to divulge my personal pain for the benefit of others? Or do I want to appear as the ever-smiling, worshipping girl others see? I mean, I am that smiling, worshipping person, but there is also more to me than others know. There are a lot of layers of anger, disappointment, mistakes, and grief that others just know about in “general terms”.
Terms such as:
Yes, we lost the baby.
Yes, God is still faithful.
Yes, maybe I shouldn’t have told anyone until we were officially 3 months along. (by the way, what would that have done? Allow us to grieve in private? I think I would rather my brothers and sisters in the Lord surround us with support…even if that does mean a handful of people say the totally wrong thing.)
Yes, He gives and takes away, blessed be the name of the Lord.
Yes, His timing is perfect.
But no one, except Jeff and I, saw each others’ streaming, silent tears when we held hands in our home office the day we found out we lost the baby. When we asked God why? This was our miracle child. This was the baby we had prayed for.
about six months after our third & most recent loss (Thanksgiving 2008) I started writing. Here is a small excerpt:
J and I sat in the waiting area for my name to be called. Today was the day we had waited for. We would finally see our baby. The room was hot and I was hungry, but nothing could take away the joy we felt of seeing our little one for the first time. We laughed and joked and carried on in the somber waiting room. We could practically feel the light of life coming out of us that day. Each time a name was called, our hearts stopped in secret anticipation, hoping it would be ours. Finally I heard my name! We promptly stood up and proceeded to follow the nurse to the ultrasound room. “Wait here and the doctor will be with you shortly.”
The large room held all sorts of medical equipment, some looking “nicer” than others. I saw the tissue box and thought to myself “I am going to need those soon.” I turned and flashed a grin to Jeff. His eyes returned to mine in large fashion and joy-behind-his-overwhelmed expression.
The doctor entered our room apologizing profusely for our long wait. Her schedule was backed up all day and she was struggling to keep up with all her patients. Now that she was in the room, there was nothing she had to apologize to us for. We were simply ready to proceed!
She turned the lights off and began the ultrasound. She positioned the ultrasound equipment and viewed her small TV screen. Jeff and I looked at each other again anxious to connect with our ears what was already connected in our heart.
After a few silent minutes, I thought to myself, ‘I should be hearing something by now, right?‘ Then I chided myself, ‘Dana, you don’t know everything there is to know about this stuff. Just relax and let the doctor do what she does best.’ The room was quiet and we barely held our anticipation in.
After a seemingly long and silent delay, the doctor said, “I should be seeing something at this point [12 weeks] of your pregnancy. I am sorry, but I am afraid this is a miscarriage we are looking at.” She turned the ultrasound screen toward us. My eyes saw a dark, lifeless circle. The whole world froze. Jeff looked at me. His eyes said, “This can’t be?!” The room moved in slow motion…
This day is still as clear to me as if it were today. I remember feeling jittery excitement to see our baby and then the utter loss I felt at the doctor’s words. I remember Jeff sitting down and standing up, rubbing his hands over his forehead angrily. In his grief he forcefully asked the doctor, “Why?” As the doctor tried to gently answer that she didn’t have an answer to that question, but could do more testing for the future, I remained silent and could not move – I was like statue in the patient’s chair. I couldn’t hear what she was saying. Her voice was like a voice trying to speak to you when you are in the middle of a dream. What was she saying? I did not know – she kept talking and talking. It was fading in the background. I knew that if one word escaped my mouth a floodgates of tears would stream down my face. Already, tears were streaming down my soul. Every plan we had made, every joy we had held close to God in prayer was instantly disappointed. It was simply lost in one sentence from my doctor, “I am sorry.” It was unexpected, it was uncalled for – it was simply impossible.
Many people told us how we should respond to this loss with the sincerest of hearts and motives, but all we could really do was ask God, “Why?” That was literally ALL we could do. There was nothing else we could process.
I tried to sing “Great is Thy Faithfulness” through my tears. I tried to sing songs of praise to God because I knew that was what I was supposed to do. But in that very moment I had nothing more to offer God than my tears.
Now, almost a year later, I can say that we still ask questions.
YES, it is all true. He is faithful • He gives and takes away • His timing is perfect.
AND it is equally true that He is so real that He lets us ask Him real questions!
Please go to the following link to see why I am willing to share such a personal story with you: why blog about SOMETHING SO PERSONAL?