Thursday, May 09, 2013

Next chapter.

I don't know what's wrong with me. I haven't been able to cry or even sleep. I just stare. I don't know if it's because this is the third time, or if maybe I just expected it the whole time, but for whatever reason I don't sleep, or cry... I just get lost in my books.
This time did not turn out like I expected, of course. Nothing does. We had planned surgery for Monday but I guess my plans have a tendency not to come to fruition because Sunday night it started. Makinzy was already asleep so my sister in law came to stay with her. Mama came and we went straight to the ER.
The ER was initially a bit traumatizing. I didn't have to wait and went straight to triage, and then back to a room and immediately met the doctor who was very different than what I wanted, though he was in the end exactly what I needed . He had olive skin and seem to have that demeanor that reminded me of House, smug. Strange sense of humor. He made me lie down. Like, he patted the pillow repeatedly until my head hit it. They could couldn't decide what to do with me at first, and I could tell he was a little frustrated because he didn't have my records. He wanted to do a pelvic exam and ultrasound, which I thought was completely pointless. Fortunately, he was able to call my doctors and get the story and my history. So then he was talking about admitting me. He went ahead and did the pelvic exam (awkward to say the least) but then afterwards seem to really show concern about why I was miscarrying again and again. He reminded me of House, still, how he wanted to figure out the cause, brainstorming aloud. He was factual and practical. Then, he shared stories of his own family, about his and his wife's miscarriage and even stayed with us to talk long after he was off the clock. His words? This sucks. By the time I was wheeled to the big room where I was to spend the night, being monitored until the preset surgery time, I didn't want him to go, because his sympathy was legit without being suffocating , and he did seem to have true desire to figure out the reason why this is happening to me. 
The surgery went well later on Monday and I was able to stay longer in the room and recover. I was not in the day of surgery unit where I am usually booted out of soon as I can stand up on my own. They are notoriously sweet there, but they move you quick. No rush was nice. I guess that helped the healing time. 
Since I've gotten home I have had a real of aversion to sympathy. I don't like the hugs and awkward looks like "I'm So Sorry" and such. What's the most meaningful to me, what has helped most gas been the quiet acts of kindness, a hug, a simple I'm thinking of you, a joke, telling me something unrelated to death or grief, simply normal conversation and company, living life to move forward. I don't want to hear anything about sympathy or sadness or bad things. I just want to go forward, which is one major reason I'm going to go back to work tomorrow, Friday. I think seeing my students and returning to normal life will help me get out of that rut. Earlier today I received a delivery at my door, one of those edible arrangements, from a group of parents, a few women just saying we look forward to seeing you back at school. It wasn't an "I'm sorry for your loss, thinking of or praying for you" ...it was just we want you to come back, welcoming me back to normal, and it meant the world to me. Does any of this make sense?

I guess when your heart has been broken so many times it eventually gets a little rubbery. Maybe it gets a little flexible, instead of breaking it just gets stretched. Or maybe this is just the elephant in the room that I'm avoiding. It could be maybe somewhere when I least expect it, when I least have planned for it, I'm gonna collapse and break in about a million llittle pieces of grief, all because I've chosen not to do it. 
I guess we will have to wait and see.
I'd like to think my heart is too stubborn for that.

As for me and God, well I guess we're okay. We're not really talking that much. It is not that I'm angry with God, I mean I guess I am a little... I know it's completely irrational to blame God for this, if anything I should be running to His arms and not away from Him... but I'm just kind of standing still. It's like that quiet time after you've had a fight with someone you love. You're sorry, they're sorry, and you know they care and you love one another. But it's just too fresh, too recent, too hard to talk about. Because words are not enough. You simply hold hands, stare out the window, and keep on going, knowing it will be okay eventually. There's been no gigantic rift in my relationship with God, so I am just kind of on hold, pressing a pause button. I haven't ran away and never will.  I'm a child of His. Just a kid needing to sulk. 

I wish life was more like a fantasy novel. A book of fiction where you can always turn the page, you can always read a summary, you know there's always a resolution to the conflict. I think those of us who like to plan and see the end before we get there always love to disappear into a book. Literature seems to be the only place where things make sense, where the denouncement always happens after the falling action. 


1 comment:

Melissa said...

Your paragraph about not being mad at God... wow. SO well said. I've been there, in other situations of course. But being hurt or mad but knowing I will never run away. I am His.

I am so glad for your doctor to being what you needed... also, so glad some have loved you in the way you need it.

{HUGS}