There was a large part of me that hesitated to share my story of accidental pregnancy and miscarriage with the world. It felt too easy, because not many people knew, to sweep it under the rug. To carry on and not share.
But then there was this very small part of me that wanted everyone to know.
And that’s the part that prevailed.
I struggled with admitting that I got pregnant–without trying–and didn’t want to be pregnant, because I have so many amazing people in my life that long for babies and don’t have them. I’m a part of a beautiful online community where I’ve read story after story of couples that struggle with infertility and are draining themselves and their resources to have a baby. And my heart hurts for them. With that in mind, I was afraid my words would add pain where no more was needed.
I wrestled (and still wrestle) with a lot of guilt for bad thoughts I had when I was trying to come to grips with being pregnant. The shock was literally overwhelming and I thought bad things, wished for bad things, and felt extremely sorry for myself. In my head I know that I did not cause my miscarriage by my bad thoughts. But my heart is having a pretty hard time coming to terms with that one.
I’m mad at my body for not being able to do what it’s supposed to. To create something that was so easy the first two times–why didn’t it work this time? Then I start thinking about wanting and longing for a baby and losing it–I can’t put in to words how that makes me feel. And what it makes me feel when I look at my daughters.
I have such a confusing mix of emotions that at times I’m not sure how I feel about no longer being pregnant. I mourn for the baby that was in my womb and now isn’t. But it doesn’t make me want to try for another one. This roller coaster ride has only confirmed in my head that two is good, that we are done having kids. The miscarriage did not flip some magical switch that shined light on my hidden dream of a bigger family. It actually did the opposite.
Yesterday’s post was written two days into my miscarriage. I was raw and exhausted. And it’s taken me two and a half weeks to write about it again. To begin to process and understand. But writing about it has been the only time I can cry, really cry, about what has happened. Sobbing, actually. Sobbing that hurts my body, makes everything clench up and, later, leaves me feeling sore and tired.
As a writer, I like to end things neat and tidy. Let my writing come full circle, not leave things unfinished and messy.
But right now I can’t do that, I don’t have answers, just lots of questions. I don’t have comfort yet, or peace. I don’t have lessons that I learned or good that has come from this heartache.
Right now, I just have mess.
I know answers and peace and lessons will come from this. I trust completely in my God to redeem this story. Redeem my mess.
Yet God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God’s work from beginning to end.
But I’m not there yet. So bear with me while I just share the mess. Because, really, it’s all I have right now.
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And because I’m uncertain and listening so hard for Him right now, I decided to leave the radio on a Christian station the other morning as opposed to immediately changing it to NPR like I do every morning on my way to work (my husband had been in the car the night before). The next song was this one and I’ve been listening to it non-stop since it stopped me in my tracks that morning on my way to school. It’s my prayer and my cry right now.