| redheadmama | |
![]() | Age: 27 Country: USA Province/region: Northwest City: Partner: Husband - RedheadDada Children: Yes, 2 Pregnant: Please select Occupation: Homemaker & Wife & Mommy |
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| 04-2-2010 - An Emotional Vent | My mood while writing this blog:emotional |
(This was posted on my private blog, & I wanted to share with you ladies here. This is based on and altered from an infertility letter, at http://sharedjourney.com/shared_experiences/A_Letter_to_Family_and_Friends_____.html)
I know that understanding my struggle with miscarriages is difficult; most of the time, I don't even fully understand. This struggle has provoked intense and unfamiliar feelings in me and I fear that my reactions to these feelings might get misunderstood. I hope my ability to cope and your ability to understand will improve as I share my feelings with you. I want you to understand.
You may describe me this way: obsessed, moody, helpless, depressed, envious, too serious, obnoxious, aggressive, antagonistic, and cynical. These aren't very admirable traits; no wonder your understanding of my infertility is difficult. I prefer to describe myself this way: confused, rushed and impatient, afraid, isolated and alone, guilty and ashamed, angry, sad and hopeless, and unsettled.
My recurrent miscarriages make me feel confused. I always assumed I was fertile—I can conceive easily, and never thought it would be hard for me to carry a pregnancy to term. People like to pat me on the head with phrases about “you’re young, you can keep trying” or “when the timing is right, it’ll happen.” So surely if I try harder, try longer, act better and get smarter, I will have a baby. Talk about confusion.
My recurrent miscarriages make me feel rushed and impatient. My life-plan suddenly is behind schedule. I waited to become a parent and now I must wait again. I wait for medical appointments, wait for tests, wait for treatments, wait for other treatments, wait for my period not to come, wait for ovulation and wait for pregnancy. At best, I have only twelve opportunities each year. How old will I be when I finish having my family? Our plan on having six kids before I reach 30 shattered a while ago—now we think, maybe 35? But that’s only if we can handle the awful cycle of treatments, appointments, waits, hopes & disappointments (not mention financial aspects)—for 9 more years. I’m feeling doubtful.
My recurrent miscarriages make me feel afraid. It is full of unknowns, and I'm frightened because I want definite answers. How long will this last? What if we never have more kids? What humiliation must I endure? What pain must I suffer? Why do drugs I take to help me, make me feel worse? Why can't my womb just do what it was created to do? Why do I hurt so much? What if my son grows up as an only child—in the country, homeschooled? I'm afraid of my feelings, afraid of my undependable body and afraid of my future.
My recurrent miscarriages make me feel isolated and alone. Reminders of babies are everywhere—all of my friends and sister-in-laws, and even some of my friend’s mothers are still popping out the babies. It often feels like I am the only one enduring this invisible curse. I stay away from others, because everything makes me hurt. No one knows how horrible my pain is. Although it is hard to feel so alone and isolated, it’s better than having everyone else’s pregnancies and babies shoved in my face every day. Sometimes I wonder if I'll even survive this.
My recurrent miscarriages make me feel guilty and ashamed. I feel like a failure. Why am I being punished? What did I do to deserve this? Am I not worthy of my babies? Is this the end of my family lineage? Will my family be ashamed of me? Will I always feel like the outcast? It is easy to lose self-confidence and to feel ashamed.
My recurrent miscarriages make me feel angry. I'm angry at my body because it has betrayed me. I’m angry that I have to live my life in an open-book format. And that my necessary treatments cost an arm & a leg. And that we can’t have a normal love life how & when we want to. I’m angry at the platitudes we are continually offered. Everyone has opinions about our circumstances, our grief, and our family. Everyone has easy solutions. Everyone seems to know too little and say too much.
My recurrent miscarriages make me feel sad and hopeless. I feel like I've lost my future, and no one knows of my sadness. I feel hopeless; I’m robbed of my energy. I've never cried so much nor so easily. I'm sad that this all requires me to be so self-centered. I'm sad that I've ignored many friendships because this struggle hurts so much and demands so much energy.
My recurrent miscarriages make me feel unsettled. My life is on hold. Making decisions about my immediate and my long-term future seems impossible. I can't decide about education, career, purchasing a home, pursuing a hobby, getting a pet, vacations, business trips and houseguests. The more I struggle with having babies, the less control I have. This struggle has no timetable; the treatments have no guarantees. The only sure things are that I need to be near my husband at fertile times and near my doctor at treatment times. Can we keep trying? Can we afford the medical treatments? Can we physically and emotionally and spiritually handle this stuff? It feels unsettling to have no clear, easy answers or guarantees.
It's difficult for me to expose my private thoughts, but sometimes I have to. Please don't tell me of all the worse things that have happened to others or how easily someone else's miscarriage history was solved. Every case is individual. Feel free to ask me if I want to talk. Sometimes I may want to, and many times I won't, but it will remind me that you care.
I need you to be sensitive. Don't trivialize my struggle by saying, "I'd be glad to give you one of my kids" or "At least you don’t have 3 kids under 3 while you’re dealing with this." It's no comfort to hear empty reassurances like, "You'll be a parent by this time next year"—because you said the same thing a year ago. Don't minimize my feelings with, "You shouldn't be so unhappy—rejoice in the Lord always." Why don’t you understand once and for all that happiness and joy are two completely separate issues?! For now, don't push me into uncomfortable situations like baby showers or family reunions. I already feel sad and guilty; please don't also make me feel guilty for disappointing you.
I need you to be honest with me. If there are things you don't understand, say so. Please be gentle when you guide me to be realistic about things I can't change such as my age, medical conditions, financial resources, and God’s perfect sovereignty.
I need you to be patient. Remember that working through the medical issues associated with my recurrent miscarriages is a process. It takes time. There are no guarantees, no package deals, no complete kits, no one right answer, and no "quickie" choices. Remember that working through the grieving process also takes time. It is a process over which I have no control. My needs change; my choices change. Yesterday I demanded privacy, but today I need you for strength. Please allow me to have anger, joy, sadness, grief, and hope. Don't minimize or evaluate my feelings. Just allow me to have them, and give me time.
Eventually I will (by God’s grace) be beyond the struggle of trying to have babies. I know my struggles will never completely go away because it has changed my life, changed my perspective, and even changed who I am. I won't be able to return to the person I was before my babies died, but someday I will no longer be facing the daily implications of this struggle. Someday I will leave the current struggle behind me, and from that I pray that I will have improved my skills for empathy, perspective, patience, resilience, forgiveness, decision-making and self-assessment.
If you have read this far, I know that you are trying to understand. Thank you for diligently pursuing understanding me in a very confusing, difficult situation. I will never expect you to completely get it—you can’t, unless you have worn my shoes (and trust me, you don’t want to). But thank you for trying. And for reading. And for praying. And for encouraging me through these awful times.