Our Limp

I’ve often thought about how mine and Dusty’s lives will never be the same after losing Chandler and Paisley.  I think about how our lives have shattered, broken into millions of pieces, and impossible to find all the pieces to even begin to attempt to glue it back together. 

The missing holes are just too big.  There is too much gone.  Pieces from mine and Dusty’s hearts have been torn out; leaving a gaping hole that will never be filled. 

Perhaps our pastor said it best when he compared our life to that of Jacob after Jacob wrestled with God and from that point on, walked with a limp.  God crippled Jacob and caused him to walk with a limp the rest of his life.  Dusty and I will always carry this, like a limp.  At times, it isn’t visible to the outside world, but at times, it is painfully obvious.  When we see that newborn baby, or that pregnant woman, or hear that newborn whimper, and our natural, guttural reaction is to cringe and we have to fight tears.  Those are the times when our limp is on display for the entire world to see. 

And I don’t mind that at all. 

Unfortunately, the world doesn’t understand our limp, and often times, it is misinterpreted.  That cringe reaction to a newborn baby at a restaurant is often met with judging looks, and I know what those parents are thinking, it’s a baby, it will cry.  Oh how they misunderstand why they see the pained look on our face. 

Three weeks ago at church, we took our seats, and in walked a couple, and the woman was several months into her pregnancy.  Then, in walked two more couples, with big round pregnant bellies.  Then, lastly, in walked a couple with a newborn baby boy.  And every one of those sat on the row in front of us.  We were on the 2^nd row.  I’d hate to even imagine how many reminders I would have seen if I’d turned around.  Every single time, I felt this pain deep in my chest, and I thought to myself, this must be what it feels like to have a knife stab your heart.  And every time, I’d feel my husband cringe, and wrap his arm around me a little tighter.  I know my husband hurts as much as I do, and though my PTSD symptoms at times seem stronger, I know he has the same triggers, and feels the same pain, he just hides it better.  (I’ll eventually do a post on PTSD as it relates to pregnancy loss)  Dusty and I nearly walked out of church.  Neither of us said anything, but there was this almost physical pull that I could feel.  Here we are, 9 months after losing our babies, still without a pregnancy of our own since, and the pain is just as real as it was months ago.  The pain of infertility compounded with the never ending pain of loss.  Our limp. 

Just today, at work, two coworkers were discussing one coworker’s newborn grandbaby, right next to me.  It amazes me how people come across so insensitive.  I try to remind myself that they don’t know, they aren’t trying to be insensitive, they just don’t think.  People really don’t understand the severity of how it feels after losing children, and compound that with the pain of infertility.  At times, it is just too much to bear.  I compared today’s event to lighting fireworks in the living room of an army veteran with PTSD.  There are physical responses to these triggers, and I will go into it more later, but it amazes me how people walk through life so blissfully ignorant to these things.  I know I never will again. 

I’ve found several friends through the child loss community on Facebook and Instagram.  Often times, especially in the early days of loss, I see many people ask, “When will I feel like I used to?”  I know I will NEVER feel like I used to.  Nor would I want to.  What kind of person would I be, or would Dusty be, if this did not change us drastically?  How meaningless would our children’s lives be if we were somehow able to become who we were before them?  Of course we will never be the same.  So, because of that, I am perfectly ok with the person I have become.