In my grief journey there have been some days, conversations and tears I’d just as soon like to forget. I don’t think that I should be allowed to forget these times though.. they make me who I am. I was thinking about maybe the darkest day in my grief journey, and I feel compelled to share the utter depression I felt–in hopes that maybe you will feel less alone.
Jason my husband and I started trying to get pregnant again this past January. It took almost three months for my period to come back, and I had started to fear that it would never come back, and that I would never be a biological mother. My body had let me down, and didn’t have a lot of confidence in waiting for it to “deliver” so to speak. We tried to get pregnant for four months unsuccessfully. Following others stories about infertility I know that four months is nothing…some mothers try for years, decades even unsuccessfully. My heart breaks for them and relates in a very small way to their monthly dread and hope cycle.
Those months were the darkest days for me so far. I would be dreadfully afraid that I was pregnant–so much fear and uncertainty. Then when I wasn’t I would crash. Really crash. The days after I got my period I couldn’t stop crying, and the anger and bitterness really tormented me. My family would know how much of my hopes and happiness depended on those little stupid pregnancy tests. I felt so out of control. On one hand I wanted to be a mother more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life, and the other hand I wanted to be Ellas mother. The thought of having another baby both soothed me and terrified me–made me feel like a betrayer. The emotions were so complex, and they still are.
There is one day that I thought I might have really given up on life. Jason and I were downstate and I had just finished a productive day at a friends recording studio. I felt good actually, my spirits were up and inspired by shared creativity. My husband came to pick me and then told me that some people we knew were pregnant again, some people that already had a perfect baby girl, and weren’t even trying to get pregnant. Some people that were very close to us.
I don’t think I need to explain that the news about our friends was just a match that lit the bomb–but it probably would’ve exploded some time sooner or later. I am happy for them…but at that time I wasn’t thinking about them. I was thinking about myself.
Unless you’ve been here you will never understand my reaction. But I flew off the handle. I was so angry at God. Why would He allow hundreds of babies to be aborted every year and not give me the one that was so desperately wanted? How could He allow drug addicts to have perfect babies that they could care less about, and make my well cared for baby stillborn? How could He give healthy babies to mothers who threw them in the trash, and not give me a healthy baby that I would love and care for? How could He let someone just get pregnant without wanting it like I did? Where was the justice?
My heart had never felt so disappointed and broken. I felt like the future for me was sealed, and there was no hope in it. I felt so out of control–I had hit this wall that I could NEVER climb over. I felt like God didn’t want anything good for me. That He had no joy for me. That He had broken my heart again…let me down again…overlooked me again…set me up again. Honestly, I told Jason I just wanted to die.
Then I felt like a joke. My self-esteem had really plummeted. I can honestly say at that moment and the moments that followed I hated God and I hated myself. I couldn’t stand the person I was. I felt so let down by myself. I felt like a failure…and that everyone knew I was a failure.
I slammed the car door and Jason and I drove. I had all these thoughts racing through my head. The hell of the past and losing Ella, the hell of having no hope or love in the future. We drove in silence and I sobbed. We parked at a Panera, and it actually started to rain. You know the kind of sobbing where snot and spit are pouring down your face and your voice changes into that deep scary voice you hardly know? I finally found words and I began to yell. I told Jason that I hated God…I said “I fucking hate God. I don’t want to believe in Him anymore.” It breaks my heart to write these words. I love God…He has been my closest friend, and I know He has heard every silent whisper and sob. It breaks my heart that I treated Him like this. I actually yelled at Him and told Him I didn’t want to see the rain. I felt like it was Him sending a sign to me about my sweet Ella. I felt Him there. I felt Him saying that she was ok, and that He was still in control, but I hated that sign–because I didn’t want to trust anymore. I told Him to take away the rain–make it stop. Make it stop raining.
A day later I was still very sullen and in utter despair. I talked to my mom and dad on the phone and I sobbed to them–I poured out every broken piece of my soul and what followed was powerful.
My mom told me to put my armor back on. She reminded me that Ella was ALIVE. She told me that Ella was wanting me to keep my faith and my hope–and to fight the good fight so we can see each other again. She extolled me. She reminded me of my hope. She encouraged me to my feet–and reminded me to just stand if all else fails.. Stand firm in my faith. Those days past, and I fought for my joy, and my peace, and my faith. I truly contended for every step I took. Life is hard, and for those who say that faith is a crutch for the weak–Faith is the hardest thing to hold on to. I think that the strongest amongst us are the ones who allow themselves to be carried by faith. They clothe themselves in faiths ashes, and blood and tears. It’s no small feat, and faith is certainly not for the weak. Such a paradox, because I know that when I was at my weakest my faith was proved to be the strongest.