It's hurting again.
It never really stops, just dulls a little then flares up again. I suppose it's like any other trauma, you go through this horrendous event & need all sorts of surgery.
Maybe you even die on the table, flat line.
Finally, your revived & it's a long road of recovery & you'll never be the same.
That's what it's like to have your child die, or in my case...two.
Those who are blessed to not know this kind of pain don't understand it. I've had harsh words said to me such as "maybe God is trying to tell you something"
As if God had to "try" to tell me to stop having children by killing two of them. Yea, I don't think so. That would be just plain cruel & wicked & guess what?? God is good. Simple words but the truth all the same.
I've had skewed kindness as well. When good willed friends think I'm wallowing in pain & they need to help encourage me by choosing to live in the present instead of dwelling in the past.
Honestly that might possibly be more frustrating then the thoughtless words of others. Because those people are well...thoughtless!
The ones who choose to "help" are the ones who are really clueless because what they don't understand is Isaac & Hannah are not my past, they are with me continually.
They live in the present with me because they are in my soul. Like the rest of my children, they are in my heartbeat. How can I leave them in the past?
Do I dwell there? In their deaths?
No, I don't.
But will I walk away from the babies I miss to please the thoughts of others & their perceptions of my needed recovery?
That all said, I need to cry soon.
To weep & wail & let my heart ache. Because ya know what? The dull ache that is persistently there is flaring up. The pain is demanding to be heard & released & the build up just plain sucks.
My friends out there that have had the dream of raising & loving this much wanted child ripped from them know what I mean.
They know the pit in your stomach that is so hard & deep it feels like you may throw up. Sometimes you do.
The lump in your throat you almost can't breathe. The wave of anguish washing over it feels as though you may not survive this time & drown in the pain.
Those mommies whose arms are empty, they know.
They understand the slow build up of hurt that grows & grows until it begins taking over your very being & the only way to release it is to cry.
Not a normal cry either, a soul wrenching deep within the heart of your being cry.
The cry where only God can hear the innermost pain. The cry of a broken mommy who visits the child she never knew in a cemetery. The cry of a mommy who held her child for only a moment & had to watch as a stranger took your baby away.
I need that kind of cry soon because if I don't allow myself to cry like that all go downright insane. It's not healthy to bottle this up, it will eat away at the fabric of your being. I truly can not comprehend how women in the past survived miscarriages & stillborn children & not be allowed to feel their pain. I know it would have been too much for me. Like I said...I would go insane.
I need to cry & I don't want to because the anxiety of knowing it's coming brings old feelings back.
Feelings I don’t want to feel.
I'm always better after but knowing it's coming is intimidating.
It's scary. Each time that pain comes there is this emotion I can't shake that this will be the time I lose it.
That I'll lose all faith & lose all hope. That never happens & like I said I always feel better but I'm just being honest.
Anyway, the ugly pain that never really even goes away is here in full force. Again. So here I am.
Getting washed over with waves of unrelenting anguish.