Dear Rowan: Part Two

Read Part One Here


 

Dear Rowan,DearRowen2

It’s very dark here without you. The summer sun is shining brilliantly and very hot. Summer is usually my favorite season, and I had so looked forward to a summer while enjoying the second trimester, wearing little sundresses to accommodate my growing body, and showing my little bump off to your grandparents and aunts and uncles on vacation. I longed to feel you starting to move and kick. To travel and to begin to buy things in preparation for you. To feel the miracle of you growing ever present, ever defined, and ever fully mine.

But instead it’s very dark. It feels as though it ought actually to be winter. I keep the blinds closed at home and often come home from work to lay in the dark living room and cry.

This is the loneliest and darkest summer I’ve ever had. The heaviness of heart that I carry around constantly, the depression, the dark thoughts of rendering myself unconscious for a few months, all make it feel much more like winter to me. I hate that I have no joy, and particularly since I’m supposed to have joy even in the loss of you, where the faithless have none. But I don’t have that either. Humor finds its way into my day–a joke, a teasing word, a humorous situation on tv shows I use to distract myself from what I feel. But humor is not joy, and feels empty again immediately after.

I know that had I gotten to keep you, I would still have faced darkness and sorrow. Lack of sleep, winter months, exhaustion in your first few weeks and onward, would have all driven me to a similar despair. But my comfort would have been in you. You in my arms and on my chest, you bringing our family to us to meet you and care for you. Your life beginning and my joy at introducing you to the world and to life and to God.

There’s no darkness at all where you are. This is my comfort and my irony. You have been spared this darkness and experience nothing but love and joy in the fullest sense now. I wish I could be with you. Even in my sorrow I know the light and joy that awaits me in heaven and I wish I could skip this darkness and be with you now. But I think, I know, God is dragging me through the valley of the shadow of death to accomplish things here, and to love and be loved here, and to one day be momma to your brothers and sisters, and to feel joy again.

In the meantime, it is very dark. I would give almost anything to skip this daily life and its hourly or even minute by minute reminders that you’re gone. But I am stuck moving sluggishly through the days and weeks, dark and heavy, empty and sorrowful. I know for a fact there is light somewhere. I know the world moves on and people everywhere on this planet are moving slowly through their own darknesses into the light with me. I know the darkness is a combination of spiritual, emotional, and chemical, and all of these things are temporary. But in the midst of them is nothing but abject darkness and I miss you hourly and I miss you with the same strength with which I love you.

My prevailing emotions are emptiness and depression, but I’m also drowning in horror, dread, fear, and an impatience to move on, past the summer, past my immediate grief, and on into trying to have another child. But not only can I not do so, I must not do so. God forbid this ever happens to me again, but if I were to get pregnant too quickly after the loss of you, and lose that one too before I’ve even finished grieving you, I think I would be destroyed. But on the other hand, I just want to move forward into the hope and joy of a viable, healthy pregnancy.

But therein lies even more of my darkness. I don’t trust God not to do this to me again. He took you without explanation, and I may never get an explanation. But my fear is that this senseless horror will happen to me again and even again. That my longing for a family and my expectations to be just like my parents and your daddy’s parents and have a big family will be destroyed, and I’ll never know why. But I cannot dwell on this. I still have a lingering hope that your little brother or sister will live a long and happy life and that my joy will be restored into seeing my grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

I have waited. I waited to finish grad school and for your daddy to be ready to have kids. I waited many long and dark months of frustration trying to get pregnant with you. I waited while it felt like the whole world around me was experiencing joy I couldn’t seem to attain. And now I have to wait again. Wait for joy to return and sorrow to ease. Wait for my body to readjust and realize it needs to get back to a normal cycle. And then I must wait again before trying to get pregnant. And the weeks slip into months and the months slip into a year (and who knows how many more months God will make me wait this time before my second spark of joy?), I am hollow inside. And then I must wait weeks of agony when I do get pregnant again, terrified that your little brother or sister is not a real pregnancy, or not viable, or not healthy. Two years and more may go by from my first attempt to my first joy and while God has often made people wait, and perhaps I am one of those who needs to learn to wait, it seems cruel and heartless to keep your sibling from me after all this.

But the bigger cruelty and the cause of my darkness is that I had to lose you at all. I will wrestle with God over my sorrow for weeks, and maybe months. As I have said before, my head knows things of God that contradict what my heart is feeling. There will be light. There will be joy. But for now my present reality is darkness and despair. If I can’t slip into a coma for a few months, I wish I could just gather up all my depression and darkness and toss it away, and let joy and hope and patience take over. I wish I could flip the switch and feel peace flooding me, reminding me that time will pass, I will have joy, and I will have a place to put all this maternal love that’s presently floating in the void. But I can’t do that either. I have to walk through each step, daily and hourly, heavy with the loss of you. I love you.

Advertisements

12 thoughts on “Dear Rowan: Part Two

  1. Pingback: Dear Rowan: Part 3 | Philosophia Women

  2. Pingback: Dear Rowan: Part Four | Philosophia Women

  3. Pingback: Dear Rowan: Part Five | Philosophia Women

  4. Pingback: Dear Rowan: Part Six | Philosophia Women

  5. Pingback: Dear Rowan: Part Seven | Philosophia Women

  6. Pingback: Dear Rowan: Part Eight | Philosophia Women

  7. Pingback: Dear Rowan: Part Nine | Philosophia Women

  8. Pingback: Dear Rowan: Part Ten | Philosophia Women

  9. Pingback: Dear Rowan: Part Nineteen | Philosophia Women

  10. Pingback: Dear Rowan: On Your Due Date | Philosophia Women

  11. Pingback: Dear Rowan: Part Twenty-One | Philosophia Women

  12. Pingback: Dear Rowan: Part Twenty | Philosophia Women

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s