Earlier this week Ted decided it would be a good idea to call our grief counselor and schedule a time to see him. Jim, our counselor, scheduled us to come in right away. The last time we saw him, around five months ago, we left our time together open ended because we all agreed Ted and I were doing well at keeping our heads above the ocean of grief.
When we arrive tonight Jim asked me how I was doing and I shared with him how I felt alone. By the end of the session, I was telling him of the loss Mama adage ‘Millions of Mothers for Millions of Years’. I know I’m not alone as I traverse my grief journey but it’s my pain that’s unique.
Rooted deep in my pain is anger. An anger I’ve worked terribly hard to busy myself away from over the last month. Tonight, Jim recommend I start acknowledging its presence and sitting with my anger for awhile. He reminded me of the importance of giving voice to my anger because how I feel is valid and important.
Jim asked me who or what I was angry with. My initial response was ‘I don’t know’. I thought about it and then I decided an adequate answer was ‘everything’. I half heartily joked with him to stay out of my war path.
Just before counseling began I was chatting with a few Mama sisters about the insensitivity of others. We were questioning to ourselves why those of us grieving live a life trying not to offend others when it feels as though the thought might not ever be reciprocated. I asked Jim how I (we, because I know I’m not alone) begin to bridge the gap between my overly sensitive heart and the insensitivity of others.
He reminded me that generally, people don’t know what to say – so instead of being silent, they go on about their normal lives which I now realize creates isolation; aloneness. Jim told me we live in a time where people are signing their names to cards that other people have written.
At the forefront of my anger is God. I shared how even after Sam died, I felt hope. I wasn’t sure where or what or whom my hope was placed in but I believed it existed. But this time was different; this time I feel knocked down.
I don’t know what it’s like to experience solely a miscarriage. I experienced losing Lion through the purview of having already lost Sam. My loss of Lion, while undeniably different than losing Sam, has sparked embers on a worn out heart and is leaving me in a pile of ashes.
I’m tired friends. For the first time in a year and a half, I’m afraid to write my heart’s inner truth. I’m scared someone will look at me and think I want pity or that I’m wallowing, but neither is true. I’m just sad. And I’m angry. The throes of grief have a way of making you feel crazy.
It’s easy to pray to God for something we want but the real theology lies in the life that happens when we don’t get it. How do I pick myself up again? I don’t know this time. What do I need? I don’t know this time. What can you do? I don’t know this time. What can you say? Anything. Nothing. Acknowledge you stand beside me during this loss, too. Lion matters. Sam matters. My grief and it’s many facets are real, and they matter.