The New Normal.

My first painting for Carlie. She's wrapped in her quilt as her spirit soars to Heaven, my little free bird :)

I had my first post partum appointment today.

At the receptionist's desk, the woman said we'd need to speak to the patient representative before I went in to my appointment. I knew that was probably coming, and it wasn't a surprise. We sat down, waiting for my name to be called so we could talk to the lady about how our payment plan would be adjusted due to the recent events.

I tried to keep my eyes to the ground, seeing the swell of several pregnant bellies seated around me.

My name was called, and the patient representative looked right at me and asked...

"Have you already had your baby?"

I froze. I looked over at Wesley for a moment, the question knocking the wind out of me as I stood at a stand-still.

"She...she was stillborn," I whispered with a shaky voice, feeling my face burn with the sudden onset of raw anger and grief.

 I've always hated reducing Carlie Wren to that ugly word. She was very much alive inside of me. She liked Michael Jackson and was a night owl. She had a strong personality, even if we weren't blessed enough to witness the phenomenon outside of my womb.
  I wanted to sink into a hole. I wanted to do anything I could to avoid the awkwardness and fresh wound this woman had reopened. I thought to myself "Couldn't she have checked my file? Why doesn't she know?"

"Oh..." the woman paused, her face voicing the discomfort I felt. "I don't need to see you then."

We walked to the nearest chair, and I sat down, my head in my hands as I tried to force the tears away. I could feel the prying eyes of an extremely pregnant woman, seated in front of me with her hands on her swollen belly. I was mortified at the overwhelming emotion that plagued me, my chest tightening as I struggled to put my mind anywhere but there.

***

 I know I'm not ready to carry the stressful brunt of what my job entails. But, due to financial restraints, I'm not given a choice. My doctor gave me a suggestion (after first telling me that she believed I needed more time emotionally, though it was at my discretion when I wanted to return to work). She said a good idea would be to call my work ahead of time, and tell someone I trust to spread the word around; the word that when I return to work, I'm there to focus on work. I don't want anyone asking me about what's happened. I don't want anyone offering up condolences. I'm coming back to work to offer up the facade of "moving on", not to be reminded of the gaping, bloody hole that still wounds my heart. I thought this was a brilliant idea. The one thing I know I won't be able to escape, however, are the looks.

My husband and I discussed these looks. People know what you've been through, (everyone knows) but they don't verbalize sympathies. It's a double edged sword, because you actually prefer people that don't verbalize sympathies, at least the people who aren't closest to you; but the awkwardness of the looks are searing. They simply stare at you with a face that says it all; how sorry they are for you. Your tragedy is running through their heads, whether you condone this meditation or not. We loathe these looks. They feel manipulative, especially the probing looks that follow the question "Are you okay?" as if the person is expecting to share an emotional breakthrough with you as you cry on their shoulder, with you left wondering how on earth you got through your grief without them. My husband's biggest fear in going back to work is being the recipient of looks. I don't blame him.

Don't get me wrong. I love that we as humans care about other people, and that other people's pain is our pain. I appreciate that people care about us enough to hurt for us. But...when you're living with your own pain, day after day, you don't need anyone encouraging it. To feel that is a threat to the stability you're trying so desperately to create, more for everyone else than for yourself.

I'm reminded of this pain daily.

At night, it's as I cuddle against the tiny quilt made for a preemie baby. It still swallowed Carlie's tiny, 11 ounce frame when they handed her to me. Not a night has gone by that I haven't slept clutching it tightly.

It stares me in the face as I look into the mirror, seeing my belly that still screams "baby inside!" with its swell, but instead is painfully void.

It's in the strokes of my paintbrush as I try desperately to unleash onto a canvas.

It is inescapable. It is normal, my doctor says.
"Most grief takes six months, sometimes longer depending on the person," she explained with kind eyes.

I've felt this pressure to be okay for awhile now. Everyone else seems to be moving on, right? Everyone else seems to be comforted by the fact that Carlie's in heaven. Everyone else is moving on to every day life. What's wrong with me that I can't get through a day without crying?

"It's normal," my doctor said softly, several times during our conversation today as I explained that sometimes I feel such anger that I have to leave a room and regroup; as I described that I'm not sleeping at night, that I exhaust myself completely before I even attempt to crawl into the bed. I do this to avoid the fitful tossing and turning that usually accompanies my nights. With each toss and turn, I'm given another reminder of recent events; from flashbacks of the labor, to the anxious, helpless feeling I experienced each night I felt Carlie was slipping further through my cervix. Some nights I just pray and pray, hoping for the rest God promises to His children. Eventually, it comes, but the next morning I feel exhausted.

"It's normal," I'm reminded once again, my doctor's reassurance replaying in my head.

"Jesus said, 'Now My soul is troubled, and what shall I say? ‘Father, save Me from this hour? But for this purpose I came to this hour. Father, glorify Your name.”  

-John 12:27-28

Wesley's painting of our little Wren :)