Grieving
Eight days after my D&E, I wrote in my journal: “I told my parents almost a week ago, ‘I always thought grieving meant crying. I didn’t realize it meant hurting.’ Even then, I didn’t realize it also meant anger, dimness and confusion, doubt, mistrust, depression.”
At first, the grief was overwhelming. I spent every moment on the verge of tears. There was one day, in the first few weeks, when I found myself absolutely paralyzed. Andrew had to come home from work to take care of the children, and then a wonderful sister from my ward took the kids and me in for the day. It was an unusually warm day for November. The kids jumped on her trampoline; I lay a bedroom with my wet cheeks and was absolutely still.
I learned after that day that I needed to plan ahead and ask for help. I had loving friends and family who would give me a break or a listening ear when I needed it. I made a list of “things to try next time I get miserable:”
go for a walk alone
go for a walk with a friend
work on my quilt square
read
talk to someone on the phone
go to Andrew for a hug.
The pain was real, and had to be endured. But I could do everything possible to let the sunshine into my life alongside it.
Later there was a stage where grieving was - not easy - but simple. At some point each morning, I would feel the need to find a quiet place to cry, and then I would be okay for the rest of the day. Tears were such a sweet relief.
But there were tempests, too. I remember one black evening that I spent curled up on a couch feeling absolutely certain that I was worthless to myself or anyone else, truly believing (and yet knowing, thankfully, on one level, that these were just thoughts and feelings, they weren’t accurate) but truly believing that the best thing I could do for my husband and children was to walk out of their lives. And that tempest, too, passed.
I wrote in my journal: “It’s as if my soul is being stretched to accept what before was impossible: life without my baby.” Life without Loila. What a tiny, tiny place she took up inside me, and for what a short amount of time, and yet what a big hole she left!!
The next winter, I broke my ankle. In the weeks that followed, I observed something profound about the healing process:
Mentally, I had some control of my outlook and attitude. I could whine and complain, or I could choose to use humor and a long-term perspective to get me through with a smile on my face (on the good days, at least.)
But all the positive thinking in the world could not hasten the physical process of healing. There was a determinate sum of time, pain, and debility that I simply had to endure, while cells grew and bones knit together. The best I could contribute, intentionally, was patience and a safe environment for healing to occur in.
Grief, I came to realize, was more comparable to the physical process of healing than the mental. I couldn’t make up my mind to be okay with my loss; I couldn’t talk myself out of my sadness. There was a determinate sum of time and anguish that I simply had to endure, while my heart knit itself back together again (or my soul stretched.) The best I could contribute was patience and a safe environment for healing to occur in.