Grieving a Working Body

I’ve been dancing since the age of 2, that’s when a knock-kneed little nugget walked into her first dance class. Almost thirty-three years later (wow, that makes me feel old!) I have a keen awareness of the instrument I use on the daily. I’ve developed knowledge to know when parts of my body are giving me trouble; it means a connecting muscle is tight or overworked. I’ve come to understand the mechanics of my body in a way to make it do movement that doesn’t come naturally. For example, balancing on one leg while spinning repeatedly doesn’t come naturally. One has to learn how to shift weight into one leg, learning to pull up while simultaneously sending energy down, lowering the shoulders down while elongating through the top of the head, etc.

Now translate that acumen of the body to someone dealing with infertility. For years I was forced to have an interesting relationship with my body - in a way that I could manipulate my body and make it do things that don’t come naturally. So I couldn’t help but question, “Why is my body struggling to successfully do something that is supposed to come so naturally? Why can my body do things that aren’t “natural” (like the example above), but can’t successfully hold onto a developing baby?”

Up until recently, I was pissed at my body. Deep down in the pit of my stomach, I would become enraged when my body released another pregnancy.  I became angry that my body, who I thought I knew so well, wouldn’t do what’s it’s suppose to do.

Then God presented me with a different perspective. What if my body IS working the way it’s supposed to. What if my body is working the way HE intends for it work. Sounds odd, no? Just hear me out for a moment.

What is my body is working as such because God’s plan is bigger than mine? What if my body works in the way it does, flawed and all, because He wants me to use my infertility experience to shed awareness and create a voice to those who are struggling in silence?

Now I ask the following questions:

“How is Jesus using my infertility for good?

How is He using my journey to impact others?

How is God using my infertility diagnoses for His glory?”

Thinking with this perspective has drastically shifted the way I view my body, and more so, my infertility diagnoses. I can’t change the details of my life, but I can change the definition – for His glory and for His sake.

A forgotten journal entry.

Truth. 

A year ago today I found out I was having another miscarriage. I'm usually really good at remembering when my miscarriages occur. As the anniversary of each lost baby gets closer my body remembers, it recalls the sensation of loss deep in it's bones.

This anniversary is different. To be honest, I forgot this happened a year ago today. My body didn't remind me by giving my a deep sense of grief like it normally does. My mind failed to replay the memory in my dreams. 

Do I care less about this pregnancy?  

Are my pregnancies starting to matter less because I've experienced so many?

Am I become numb to this infertility journey? 

Reading my journal entry from a year ago was eye opening to me. I'm reminded of a quote my friend shared with me, "Grief never ends, but it changes. It's a passage, not a place to stay. Grief is not a sign of weakness, nor a lack of faith. It is the price of love." 

So although my body and my mind didn't remind me of the anniversary of losing my 10th pregnancy, it doesn't mean my grief has ended. No! My grief has simply changed, it looks and feels different a year later. 

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Journal Entry: December 18th, 2015

10 miscarriages.

Today Josh and I are left grieving another baby.  Another pregnancy, another baby that went straight to heaven.  It's odd to reflect back on our other 9 losses.  Somehow this one feels different.  My emotions are slightly more neutral, almost like I've been in this exact place before.  Oh right, I have.  It's like groundhog day - repeating the same chain of events over and over.  I wish for a different outcome, yet I'm left with the same experience. I'm left grieving a lost baby and grieving what little faith I had in my body.

It's not a coincidence that a lovely friend of mine sent me a necklace this week that is the daintiest guardian angle wing.  With it, her wise words:

"Grief never ends, but it changes.  It's a passage, not a place to stay.  Grief is not a sign of weakness, nor a lack of faith.  It is the price of love."

So I'm gonna put one foot in front of the other, take one day at a time, making my way along this journey.  I know that God is tenderly holding my babies in heaven.

Side note: I also know God won't judge me for the McDonalds large fry and strawberry milkshake I'm about to devour.

I desire to be loved but maybe I don't deserve it.

I desire to love and be loved but there have been times in my life when I felt I didn't deserve that privledge.  

Before meeting Josh, I allowed myself to be in unhealthy relationships. These relationships didn't lift me up, and if I'm being honest, I didn't lift them up either. In fact, sometimes I replay incidents and words that came out of my mouth during those days. I'm embaressed to admit it, but my words and actions were borderline abusive. 

Then I met Josh. I wish the story ended here with me saying, "And he changed my outlook on relationships by bringing out the more loving, compassionate side of me." Unfortuantely, I didn't allow that to happen.

Josh has always had an unconditional heart. From the get go he knew the right words to lift me up even when I was convinced I didn't need a "man" to help me. For the first years of Josh and my relationship I didn't lift him up, I didn't wholehearted believe in us and I found every excuse to test his love for me. I easily got defensive and would quickly jump to anger. Oftentimes I felt he was purposefully pushing my buttons just to get me to react. In fact, early in our marriage I had a suitcase packed by the door, ready to make my escape when a disagreement or conflict ensued.

Then infertility happened and I was forced to reflect on the way I love on others, and more importantly, the way I love on myself. 

I realized I wasn't allowing Josh to really love me. I wasn't allowing myself to accept his love. Why? Because I believe I didn't deserve it.

If I'm being truthful, the negative self-talk that I allowed to run in my mind was self-distructive.

“I’m not pretty enough.
I’m not skinny enough.
I’m not smart enough.
I’m not tough enough.
I’m not perfect enough.”

The reality is, I didn't think I was good enough. I truly didn't believe I was good enough to be loved, especially not by the special love Josh provides.

I'm still working through the journey of feeling as though I'm enough. Every day I have to make a conscious decision to allow others to lift me up and love on me. Most importantly, I need to love on myself and trust, even through infertility, that I'm enough.