I was thankful this wouldn't take long because I wasn't even fully awake at this point, and I was even more thankful for the words "you've lost weight since I've seen you last" as I stepped off the scale.
"I just have to update the system so I need to go over some patient history."
And just like that, the 5 pounds that I lost were suddenly found in the form of grief that was dumped on my lap while I struggled through explaining why I only have three children alive if I've been pregnant four times.
The more calm I try to act, the more my usually well spoken words are jumbled. I feel like a stubborn toddler trying to pour milk into a glass. I can do this. But the white knuckle grip on my words makes my voice begin to shake, and before I know it, incoherent sentences are spilling out and I'm just left with the messy answer of "my baby died."
She walked out and I could feel the relief replace the grief. "Thank God that's over. It's in my chart. I've answered this before. Why do they have to ask me so many times?"
A doctor that I haven't seen before walked in & introduced himself. He had asked about past complaints that I had and how I was doing with those. "Impressive", I thought. "He actually read my chart before coming in here."
"And while I was reading, I noticed that you had a son who passed away, what... in 2012? So not that long ago. How are you doing with that?" he asked.
It's like a punch to the stomach and a hug at all at once. My mind plays tug of war with giving the "right" answer and giving the honest answer. But the honest answer is the right answer, I determined.
"I'm..I'm OK I think. Grief isn't good and it isn't bad. It just is."
He continued to look at me until I gave him something more, something to let him know that I was in fact ok, and that I didn't need any antidepressants that they always try to push on me.
"I go to Guatemala. I get to rescue babies there. I write a lot. I cry too, but not as much as I laugh. Some days I'm driving and I let my thoughts wander to that night and I can still hear the terror in my ex husband's voice as he screamed my name, and it hurts so much that I pull into a parking lot and cry until I can no longer see the world around me to even care what anyone thinks. And some days I'm driving and the windows are down & I'm ridiculously singing with my three favorite backup singers & our laughter drowns out the noise of what anyone else may say. I love Guatemala though. I traveled last August with a medical team and we were able to treat hundreds of patients...."
He went back to typing as I trailed off, and so I imagine that my answer was sufficient.
But all day long I went back to his question. "I'm ok, right? Do I need any help? Do I need to lay on a couch in a dimly lit room and talk about this regularly to a stranger who's responding with "mmhm's?"
I've done it. I've sat in that chair and I didn't find any comfort...in the chair or in the insight I was given.
Maybe that works for some people, but it doesn't work for me.
What works for me are those instances when I have the chance to interact with a three year old little boy. Soaking up every last second of what my life would be like right now if Isaiah was in it by playing tag or listening to the noises trucks make or playing peek a boo while one toddler eyeball is peering out from behind a tree and they're sure you can't see them this time.
What works for me is holding tiny new life. Sure, my heart might ache when I look down at that sweet baby perfection and wish I could go back to the last night I got to gently rock my own to sleep...but I'm reminded of how precious new life is. I'm reminded that God is bigger than all of this and how He not only creates life but overcame death.
What works for me is reading new developments in SIDS research. If no parent ever has to frantically try to breathe life into what was thought to be their healthy baby's lungs, my own would breathe a giant sigh of relief.
What works for me is the hope of having another boy to love one day. And while this comforts me, it simultaneously terrifies me. Because I don't know that's God's plan. Which again brings me back to, He is bigger than this...and so I reluctantly have to hand those hopes and dreams and worries over. And so I'm left with peace.
What works for me is all of the work being done in Guatemala and my pure anticipation of the moment I get to step foot there again. Knowing that if Isaiah had lived I would have never loved these people like I do is the greatest form of therapy. They make it hard to feel like I'm missing out on life, when they've impacted mine so much.
Life works for me. The pain, the tears, the laughter, the friendships, the promise of seeing Isaiah again, the sunsets, the dreams. Yes, there are days when the reality of his absence catches me off guard and I feel myself becoming consumed with anger, gasping for air while I try to make sense of why he just stopped breathing. But there are so many more days when I'm consumed with pure joy, knowing I couldn't see the abundance of God's goodness in hearing a three year old rattle off the food he will nott eat (bwoc-oh-wee is always a top contender), or in the glow of a new mom's face, or the gratitude that's felt in an impoverished village if I hadn't ever seen pure calamity.
Grief isn't good, and it isn't bad. It's only given me a reason to find the good in the bad.
And that's OK enough for me.
And that's OK enough for me.
