We all know what acute grief looks like.
Integrated grief is reaching a point when those intense feelings move into the background. They no longer lead a person's perception of their life, but move into a position of being led by the person's life.
What does this mean?
It means that grief doesn't just go away.
The thoughts, feelings, and memories we have associated with the deceased person, don't go away, but instead become blended into the background of our perceptions, interpretations, and expectations of life from that point on.
When a person first reaches integrated grief, they realize it because they find themselves laughing. I mean, really laughing. They find themselves having peace. Real, peace.
And this can be so startling, that it can make the person feel guilty or ashamed or worried that they are beginning to forget. They fear that they are not being loyal or faithful to the memory of their loved one. They worry that others will not take their grief as seriously if they can't keep it going.
My miscarried baby was born on April 19, 2011. I was told that I wouldn't be able to tell when he was born, that I wouldn't be able to see him, that I should think I was only having a period. I was told that I put too much pressure on my body and that is what caused my miscarriage. I was told that it was a blessing that my baby died because I had my hands full with my other children, and having children too close together is the kind of mother who would drive her children off of a bridge. I was told that I should be happy, because at least I wouldn't have a special needs kid. I was told that I should find comfort that God spared my child from a cruel life here on earth, and that I should find comfort that God also spared me from having to mother another child. I was told that "these things happen" and that God isn't in control over these things. I was told that my baby is now my own personal guardian angel, and I was told that there is an infertile woman in heaven who gets to be a mother now.
None of these things are true.
As I worked through my grief, I had to discover for myself what the right answers were.
When I became pregnant again, I was told that my miscarried baby left my womb early to make room for this one, the one who will stay until the proper time.
Again, this is not true.
I have three older children, and not one of them "needed room" and therefore had a miscarried baby come before each of them.
I say these things, because it is important for each of us to have accountability in the things we say to others in their time of acute grief. It is a fragile, extremely important time, when the things we feed that person are things that either sustain their grief....or sustain them through their grief. You need to decide which one your words are sustaining. It is not okay to just fill in empty spaces with opinions or things we think seem to sound nice. What can seem nice, can be extremely damaging.
But, I also say this, because even though I received so, so many messages about my loss, I wasn't held captive by them. I wasn't trapped by the anger that rose in my throat at these responses. I wasn't consumed by the startling horror of having to exert my own energy in giving other people the benefit of the doubt. I was frustrated that the most well meaning, the dearest, the strongest in faith of my loved ones, were some of the ones who said the most bizarre things to me. But I didn't resent their effort. I appreciated their attention, and gave them grace for the foolishness that they sometimes gave. I was irritated at often having to be the bigger person, but I was thankful for God's strength that I could be.
November 7, 2011 was my due date. In one week, I could be holding a fresh, beautiful, lovely newborn baby. I could marvel at the perfect design of the crevises of his ears, and the artwork of his wrinkly knuckles. I could offer my breast to provide nourishment and fall in love with him as he took his first ever, tiny little suckles. I could wrap him up tight in a warm, safe blanket and hold him close to my chest, and then undo the blanket just a little bit for one more glance at more of the amazing person who is my child.
Instead, I remember seeing him lay at the bottom of the ultrasound screen, motionless, only to bob gently against the pressure of the ultrasound machine. I remember the doctor putting her hands on my shoulders and telling me that we needed to remove the debris. I remember wanting to punch her in the face, but deciding to ask for prayer instead.
But, mostly, I remember other things.
I remember being just sure I was pregnant again.
I remember buying the pregnancy test, and taking it because I couldn't wait to tell my in laws (whom I absolutely adore and I love making them some beautiful grandkids to spoil!). The first test was negative, but I just knew I was pregnant anyway.
I remember taking the second one, and, thinking it would be clever to involve my husband this time, asking him to read me the results.
I remember waiting in the kitchen for what seemed like an hour as he tried to figure out if it counted when one line wasn't as dark as the other.
I remember the doctor appointment when I heard those sweet sounds of his heart beating.
I remember wondering if we were having a boy or a girl, and feeling very confident that we were having our fourth boy.
I remember, just like all of my other pregnancies, rubbing my flat tummy and marveling that God was at work, just a few layers down, actually knitting and weaving my baby together, and the sheer wonder that it wasn't even obvious to the whole world.
I remember when labor started, only three months later, and I remember the heartwrenching anguish of both hating that it was the end, and longing for my baby to be born.
I remember feeling such deep, profound guilt, but also the frustration of knowing that I really wasn't guilty.
I remember my pastor's wife coming to our house. She prayed over us while I was in labor. The baby was born only a few minutes later.
I remember when he was born.
I remember holding him in my hand, telling him that I was sorry, so so sorry.
I remember marvelling that so many of his features were so very perfect...his tiny little toes....each one.
I remember my husband, holding me as I spoke to my tiny dead child.
I remember seeing him, studying his tiny baby carefully.
I remember my husband crying. It was the deepest I had ever fallen in love with him.
I remember my mother in law, seeming to show up out of nowhere. She was just, there. Ready, to love our family through the hardest time we'd ever faced.
There are so many, many memories I have. So many lovely, special memories.
I have laughed since then. I have laughed, a lot.
And, I am pregnant again. I can already feel the first tiny stirrings of a new baby, telling me that "she" is very much alive and well, and I have plans and hopes and dreams for her. I am excited to anticipate the remainder of this pregnancy, meeting her for the first time, and enjoying watching her grow.
November 7 is only a week away.
I don't wish I could take it all back. I don't wish I could have baby #4 instead of baby #5. And so, I don't face this week, what would be the last week of my #4 pregnancy, with resentment, longing, or forlorn.
I face it with victory. I miss my baby more than words can ever, ever express. I do want him back. But I wouldn't trade in my youngest baby for him. I embrace the blessing in front of me, the blessing within me, and I simply accept that I grieve. I don't wish to undo it.
I know I will cry as I wake on November 7. I will remember all of the memories I have of him, and I will wish that I could have had more.
But then, I will hear whimpering, crying, and fussing. My older boys will be wrestling each other and someone will get hurt. Someone will need to crawl up to my lap and get snuggled back to contentment in a way that only I can do. Someone will need a sippy cup filled or a peanut butter and jelly made for them. And, someone will flutter in my tummy. I will remember how much I've grown, what God has done through me in a way that only He could do, and that only the death of my baby could have done. I will remember that my baby changed me, changed my family, changed the world. I will remember the short time that I was given with him. And I will be thankful for the things that I do have.
