For a while now, I’ve had a love-hate relationship with Saturday mornings. They’re great because, with the exception of about half an hour Friday night, they’re the start of family time for the weekend. They’re tough because they’re when I need to transition from parent-in-charge to parent-who’s-part-of-a-team. The control freak in me has some trouble with this.

 

Since we lost Ethan, Saturday mornings have changed. For a couple of weeks, I was sleeping in on weekend mornings. Not out of luxury, but because I couldn’t drag myself out of bed. Once I was up, I was generally okay, although some days required additional naps. Why am I so tired, I’d wonder, yet John sleeps less than I do, commutes to and from work every day, takes care of me in the evenings and of Jacob all day all weekend?

 

As much as I wanted—needed—to sleep in those mornings, as weeks passed, I became more and more disappointed in myself for not being able to care for my family as I thought I should. I knew the reality was that grief was taking its toll on me, and I needed to let myself slow down and accept help. Still, I felt like I couldn’t win. I couldn’t take care of my boys, but I felt horrible not taking care of them.

 

The stomach bug, then weekend away in Boston combination snapped me out of most of that. But still, I am not the same; I do not have the same sense of ground that I did before. Good things are better than they seem and bad things are worse that they are. Finishing a knitting project can put me on top of the world. In the next hour, meeting a boy named Ethan at the park can bring me down and leave me there for days.

 

This means I am harder on myself than I should be, too. Another blow to the control freak in me.

 

I have done a lot of talking since our miscarriage, in person, on the phone, via email, and of course here on this blog. Two months later, I am finding that there are a lot of things I have been told by family, friends, God, doctors—even things I’ve told myself—that I still have trouble believing.

 

This miscarriage was not my fault. I did everything I could. There was no way to know. There was nothing I could do. There’s no risk for future pregnancies.

 

For once in my life, words aren’t enough. I find my overall confidence shrinking because I have had to ask so much (too much?) of other people, of John especially. I find myself wanting forgiveness, but I’m not sure what for. Really, I don’t know that there’s something to forgive. I think there’s something to accept, and I’m not there yet.

 

They say there are five stages of grief. It’s too late for denial, but I have the sadness, for sure. I have the anger too; for instance, getting a $300 bill in the mail for an ultrasound that told me my baby’s heart had stopped beating two weeks before makes me angry. I have attempted to bargain some with God, and I waver in and out of acceptance all the time. But what doesn’t register in that model is fear.

 

I am so scared of being pregnant again, of what would hopefully be a full nine months . . . of fear, anxiety, and stress. Of what that would mean for a baby. I am scared for other people’s babies. I’m scared for people who aren’t even pregnant yet, but want to be. I’m scared of waiting too long and missing the chance of giving Jacob a brother or sister, or brothers and sisters.

 

The only solution is trust in God, let go of my plans, and so on. Words aren’t enough for that either. What would be? Proof that another child of ours will live? But physical evidence will mean a long wait and a whole lot of stress in between. Is that really trust? Then will I trust that child will survive birth, etc.?

 

I am learning that grief is an individual journey. The same event affects everyone differently, and those effects affect everyone in that circle differently. There is something heartbreaking there, but something beautiful, too.

 

I hate to start a Monday like this, but honestly, Mondays are some of the best days lately. I am recharged from the weekend (my Saturday mornings have turned into three-hour creative writing sessions with a latte by my side), and it is usually not until Thursday afternoon or evening that I feel myself starting to unravel again. Honesty is one of the most important aspects of my healing process. Thank you for letting me share it here.

 

Prayers for a blessed, joyful, and fruitful week (Saturday morning, too)!