The Unhelpfulness of Words

My head has been full these last weeks. And my heart, too, despite the gnawing emptiness that follow me wherever I go. Sometimes that raw emptiness gets just enough ahead of me to surprise me with a surfacing so quick and so violent that there's no stopping the tears. I've been told I look a little stronger each day. I'm not sure what that means, exactly. Maybe it doesn't matter if I do. One thing I do know is that I am very sensitive to words these days. Even before we started telling family and friends and then parishioners what happened I was dreading the words people would use to try to console me. There is no consolation. We told my sister and brother-in-law back in June that I was pregnant. I wanted someone to confide in, and given that she's two states away it seemed safe enough. We told them we weren't going to let the rest of our families in on the news until August, after my first trimester, "just in case." And my sister, even then, said, "Even if you miscarry, at least you'll know you can get pregnant." She said it again when we told them I lost the baby. "At least you know you can get pregnant." True - but "at least" doesn't help much, thanks. I was pregnant this time and look what happened. Besides, getting pregnant is not the point, the point is to have a baby. And I didn't. I don't need people to try to dismiss the grief I'm feeling, or to make it better, because that's not possible. Just acknowledge it. Say you're sorry. Say you don't know what to say and then LISTEN for God's sake. Of course unhelpful words come from all directions lately. It's Vacation Bible School week here at Christ the King in Bozeman. Last week a mom came into the office with her three year old daughter, and another not quite a year old, to fill out a registration form. She asked me, "Do you have kids?" And I answered quickly, "No." She didn't let it stop there, "Oh, so you can go out to dinner or go see a movie whenever you want and..." I could have throttled her. Or made her feel like shit, which was tempting. I refrained from asking her if she'd like to trade her two beautiful girls for the freedom to eat out whenever she wants to. To tell her just how much I'd give up not to be living in the realm of statistics where "these things just happen." I know she had no idea, but I think it would do everyone some good not to assume that the facts and circumstances of others' lives are necessarily the facts and circumstances of their choosing. Fortunately, not all words have proven unhlepful. I've found, and been sent, lots of great writing by other women, and a few men, who have experienced something similar. One blog in particular has been helpful to me, even though the author went through something I can only imagine: the stillbirth of her first child. The Happy Sad Mama writes about the hurtful encounter with someone she thought would bring her comfort:

The tears started before she spoke, tears of appreciation that soon turned bitter at her words to me, uttered with a soft hand stroking my hair, "It will be allright. Everything is going to be allright."

All right? EVERYTHING?

"It is not all right. My baby girl is gone, how can that ever be all right?"

I do not remember her response, if there even was one. And I write here not in dismay at this person, because now I can see with complete clarity that she was doing everything she could to try to help me, but she just didn't know what to say. The emotion I seek to extract here is not anger towards a person, but this pervasive feeling that we, the bereaved, feel when someone who we trusted and care about comes out and says the wrong thing. It has happened to us all. Everyone has someone who has said something that may not have been outright hurtful, but has made our heart sink into our stomach, because here was someone we hoped would say our baby's name, and hold our hand while we cried, and all they can stomach is to try to fix it with one simple sentence.

Nobody knows what to do, nobody. Nobody knows what to say. We are all speechless in the face of loss, of grief, and especially when birth and death, life's two greatest mysteries, intertwine. We the bereaved have all due respect for this not-knowing what to do. But say it, say it. Know not what to do, be speechless with your thoughts, and say so. Let us grieve, let us grieve. It is the only way out, it is the only way up. We must grieve in order to grow, and we must grow in order to live.

Amen, sister.

And then I wasn't

I was pregnant. And then I wasn't. Two weeks ago today my husband and I headed to my first pre-natal appointment, half-way through the ninth week of our first pregnancy adventure. Due to schedule constraints this first appointment came a couple of weeks sooner in my pregnancy than my doctor normally sees pregnant patients, which was just fine with us. We had looked forward to this appointment for weeks already, feeling that seeing my doctor would somehow make it more "official," paving the way for us to share the good news with family in August, then with friends and the congregation. Everything seemed fine: plenty of first trimester symptons of the healthy and the unpleasant varieties, and plenty of excitement and hopes and dreams of (finally!) being pregnant and anticipating parenthood. We couldn't hear baby's heart beat on the Doppler, though Dr W wasn't worried about it - "it's still so early," she reminded us. She could just see baby on their in-office ultrasound, and sent us home with smiles, joy, and another appointment scheduled 4 weeks out. Two days later, I slept in on a lazy Saturday morning, but quickly discovered that things were not okay: blood where there should be no blood. I headed downstairs and told my unsuspecting husband, through a faucet of tears, that we needed to call the doctor. The office staff told us to go to the Emergency Room and that they'd fax over any needed records. The short drive to the hospital, only a few miles away, felt like a hundred, as we held hands and cried and made nervous jokes, not wanting to jump to conclusions. When we arrived, I headed inside while he parked the car, and the waiting began. After the physical exam (thank God for good ER docs), we were cautiously optimistic. "Maybe I'm just a paranoid first time pregnant lady," I said. "Neurotic like me. Let's hope so," the doctor replied with a smile. After another hour-plus which felt like ten, they wheeled me down for an ultrasound. The ultrasound tech was very nice, but the bearer of bad news, "I'm sorry, but I don't see a heart beat. I'm so sorry. And the baby is smaller than it should be for almost nine weeks. It looks like growth stopped at about six weeks," she told us. Our hands gripped each other's even tighter, I thought I would be sick, and my heart broke inside my chest. I have no idea how long it will take to mend. Last week was a living nightmare. After two doctors visits on Monday - one with my regular doctor and one with an OB/GYN I'd never previously met, we decided on the pharmaceutical option to help my body do what needed to be done. Who knew it could take so long. It wasn't pretty or fun, but after a week+, most of the physical ordeal is over, and my body no longer thinks it's pregnant. The emotional ordeal continues. Unfortunately, too many people who don't know what to say (because there is nothing to say, except "I'm sorry," or as my best friend from sem put it "Dammit!") end up saying things that not only don't help, but hurt. It is a real struggle to remember that people are trying to be helpful when all I want to do is scream and say "my baby died, and it's not okay!" I have found some soul sisters online, and in the book the OB gave me - people who have put into words the raw emotion so close to the surface in me. Considering the statistics on miscarriage/pregnancy loss, it's amazing how little it's actually talked about. At the same time, I'm not that surprised - our "fix-it and forget-it" culture doesn't do grief very well, and giving people the time and space they need to mourn is especially difficult when we have such a low tolerance for pain, maybe even more so when it is someone else's pain and we are helpless to change it. I am learning again it is okay not to be okay.

Women in Media

Thanks to the Utne Reader for calling attention to this video. This video comes from a 2006 Equality Now event. Meryl Streep introduces Joss Whedon (you know, the guy behind Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Firefly and Serenity). Whedon has spent a decade explaining why he writes strong female characters, and gives his reasons here (beginning at about the 2 minute mark). This is good.

In Need of God

This is a great poem. For those of you who are interested, check out the whole range of things on the young clergy women project site. Thanks to tensegrities for pointing me back to a great site.

My favorite human petri dish and the disappearance of my voice

This is a picture of my nephew, Erik. He and his parents (my sister and her husband) visited us over Memorial Day weekend and we had a great time. It was a first trip to Montana ("Mon-TAN-AAAaaaaa!!" with arms in the air) for Erik. A first trip to Yellowstone National Park for his dad, as well. I've heard it said that everyone loves the sound of his/her own name. That's exponentially true for me when it's Erik saying "Auntie Lindean." I've also heard it said that kids who spend time in day care get just about every cold virus known to humanity out of the way before they hit preschool. Erik could be a good case in point. I have moved multiple times in the last few years, and usually manage to catch the germs of the neighborhood fairly quickly. Perhaps my previous tenure in Bozeman rendered me slightly more immune this time around, because I'd been remarkably healthy for me, even during the winter, when the queen-of-upper-respiratory-infections usually asserts her reign. Enter nephew from Washington, age nearly-two-years, the cutest petri dish out there. And... I am finally on the mend, after being pretty out of it for a week and a half. I lost my voice completely for 3+ days (it's amazing how much I talk! and how hard it is NOT to talk!). My husband acutally scheduled a doctor's appointment for me and then drove me to it. I missed our Synod Assembly. I'm still a walking pharmacy, with a love/hate relationship with amoxicillin. But those slurpy sloppy nephew kisses are worth it. Every time.

Julian of Norwich

Today is the feast day of Julian of Norwich. I'm a fan of hers. This is one of my favorite "cover prayers":

In you, Father all-mighty, we have our preservation and our bliss.

In you, Christ, we have our restoring and our saving.

You are our mother, brother, and savior.

In you, our Lord the Holy Spirit, is marvelous and plenteous grace.

You are our clothing; for love you wrap us and embrace us.

You are our maker, our lover, our keeper.

Teach us to believe that by your grace all shall be well,

and all shall be well,

and all manner of things shall be well.

Amen

Icon written by Lu Bro

April Showers

We have had some fantastically varied weather here in Bozeman this week. We hit 80 degrees on Tuesday. Wednesday was just as lovely - so lovely in fact that we worshiped outside on the patio at church on Wednesday evening. It cooled down Wednesday night, and yesterday morning the air was filled with the wonderful smell of spring rain. It almost felt like I was back in Seattle, or Belfast.

And then yesterday afternoon snowflakes as big as your head started falling. We woke up to this out the garage door this morning:

And to this out the back door onto our deck:

Of course, inside's not much better: Friends stored a bunch of boxes for us at their house, from the time we moved up here last August until this past Monday night. I spent part of Tuesday unpacking china and crystal, and wedding presents we had yet to use (it felt a little like Christmas morning). Unpacking was far more exciting that keeping the piles of packing paper tidy as I went. Besides, the cat has been having a BALL. No surprise...

I have my weekend work cut out for me!