A dear friend miscarried her baby today. She asked me, “Will this pain get easier?”
The simple answer? Yes.
It will get easier. But probably not right away.
My heart grieves she is not the only one to experience this.
Aside from the physical discomfort of the loss of a pregnancy, the pain my friend feels so keenly involves the elimination of the “what if?” part of a new life.
Once you find out you’re expecting you automatically start planning Your Life — Plus One. You wonder if it will be a boy or girl, how you will decorate their room, what labor will look like for you and if you’ll kiss the anesthesiologist or curse your doctor and break your husband’s hand. The dreams go on and on.
Then one day you go to the bathroom, look down and realize those dreams are at risk. There’s a hot flash of understanding, a dread in your stomach, the churning in your gut as you have to sort through exactly what this means, who you should call, over all your brain asks, “Can this possibly be happening?!”
Sometimes the answer is, “Yes.” You lose the promise, you lose the life. You lose the anticipation. Doubt sets in.
Why did this happen to you? Is your body a hostile environment? Will you ever carry another baby? How could a loving God take away an innocent? Why?
In a time like this, hearing, “God wanted your little one with Him because they are so special,” is NOT ENOUGH. It is trite, unacceptable. Behind the roaring of your ears you find yourself screaming, “Shut up! That is not a comfort! I lost my hope and you’re giving me a platitude! Come now, my world just shattered and you don’t see the pieces of me all over the ground? Seriously?!”
Maybe you haven’t even told people you’re pregnant yet. So you are isolated and unable to give an explanation why you seem”down.” Maybe your body aches and you’ve cried yourself to sleep over and over and over and you don’t know how you can go on.
In your loneliness, your sadness, you take a chance to reach out to someone to ask: “Will this pain get easier?”
Yes. It will.
Give it time. Give it space to breathe. Air it out. Feel. Feel anger, loneliness, and sadness (and – oh the horror! – sometimes you feel a bit of relief). Give yourself permission to feel.
And then, in the pause, where you can finally catch a breath, give yourself permission to heal.
Go to a soccer game. Volunteer in the children’s program at church. Read a book that takes you away. Watch a comedy that makes you laugh so hard you almost wet your pants. Give yourself permission to live.
And most of all, allow yourself to hope. Your life isn’t over. Your promise isn’t over. Your story is still being written.