Waking Up Is The Hardest Part

"You are getting your PhD in grief." -- My mom, to me

In the last ten months I have lost my father and two children. I can say, definitively, that for me, waking up is the hardest part of grieving. I have always -- for better and for worse -- sought refuge in sleep, so even in the midst of tragedy, I am a sound sleeper. There is little worse than waking up from a deep sleep, and in those first flutters of consciousness remembering, "Oh, shit. That was not a dream." David and I found out on February 27 that this baby, like the one last summer, had not made it. I woke up the next three days sobbing when I realized the memory of the miscarriage wasn't some messed up nightmare, but our reality. I had this same exact experience in the week or 10 days following my dad's death: wakefulness, consciousness, heartbreak.

February 27 was a day of sickening deja vu. Being at the radiology clinic almost 11 weeks pregnant, a pessimist and worrier of the highest order hoping that my bleeding would turn out to be the spotting that about one-third of women experience in a pregnancy. I knew the minute I saw the ultrasound that we were in trouble. Again. You then have to endure the worry for your spouse, the "I'm sorry's" from the doctor, the getting out of the clinic and into your car while sobbing or trying not to sob in public, all the while passing women with swollen bellies or children already born. I am so over crying in public now, which is part of the PhD in grieving. My crying comes in waves. Sometimes I'm fine, sometimes I collapse in a heap, and that can be in my kitchen, if I'm lucky, or if I (and others) aren't so lucky, I might be in public. I've learned that the best thing I can do is let it come, wash over me, and then fade away. The more I try to fight it or stifle it, the longer it'll stick around. So I surrender to the crying, even if I look like the crazy person on the bus.

The bad deja vu continued with the consultation with our obstetrician followed by the D&C at Sibley, although this time it was less nerve-wracking since I knew what to expect.

Blimey, what can I say about this? There are so many feelings, all of them personal, though I'm pretty public, if you haven't noticed. One thing I can say with surety is that I am pissed off at God. This is not a feeling that is helped by the rapidly-depleting pregnancy hormones leaving my body; you get postpartum moodiness without the postpartum joy of a kid. I got enraged seeing David pray on February 28. I said, "It pushed my buttons seeing you pray to a capricious, cruel God." He had a brilliant and true response: "You don't know what I'm saying to Him." Someone left us a voice mail in the days after the miscarriage commending David and me on our faith and expressing some envy of it. I was thinking, "Are you fucking serious?!" Me, whose spirituality after this event ranges from giving God the Silent Treatment to cursing at God?

I don't feel bad about this in the slightest, by the way. I think God can handle my wrath, and Yisroel (Israel) doesn't mean "struggle with God" for nothing. I just see this as continuing my Jewish tradition of fighting with God. I have told my Jewish spiritual teachers that I am pissed at God, and they all say, "Sounds about right. You should be." I only went to services on Purim night to support my husband performing in the shpiel; I survived being there by knitting through the entire megillah reading [reading the book of Esther]. It was that or Xanax, kids, and I chose the non-pharmaceutical approach. I was ok there until I recited mourner's kaddish for my father, the memorial prayer for the dead, and became wracked with grief over the child we had just lost. I felt like I was saying kaddish for him or her too, and it completely knocked me off my feet. If I had thought about it before hand I probably could have anticipated this, but I didn't, and it bowled me over. Once again, the crazy lady sobbing in public!

I went to services last night, and approached them with mixed feelings. Sometimes I just took comfort in the familiarity of the melodies and prayers. Sometimes I was the master cynic. For example, singing "Yedid nefesh, av ha'rachaman..." -- "Beloved of the soul, Father of compassion...," I thought, "Seriously? Father of compassion? Try again!" Sometimes I just thought, "You suck, HaShem," even as my heart acknowledged that I don't have all the answers, or access to the master plan, if there even is such a thing. I don't know, nor do I particularly care. My friend said to me of the miscarriage and my anger at God, "Sarah, this is not a matter of God. God wants life. We are fragile, biological creatures, and this stuff just happens." Perhaps she's right.

I have a lot more to say about this, including a pointed post about what to not say to someone who has miscarried! All of it is heartbreaking and awful, though I feel like I am finally coming back to life at this point. Laughter is coming more easily, the tears slightly more infrequently. I am starting to talk to people I was avoiding. I want to blog again; I was so sick during my pregnancy that anything optional went out the window, including writing.

I am trying to balance grieving a tremendous loss in a healthy, mindful way. I'm not avoiding the painful feelings by: staying too busy; numbing out with food, alcohol, or illicit substances; or engaging in self-destructive behaviors. I'm trying to give myself room to take care of myself while not sliding into outright depression. So, yes, I nap when I need to, but I also am getting together with supportive friends, working out as much as I can, and making plans for the future. It is truly a day at a time, and some days are better than others. Heck, some hours are better than others.

I want to close by saying that I am so thankful that David and I haven't gone through this alone. Our friends' and families' practical and emotional support has been invaluable to us. They have cooked meals for us, come to spend time with us, called/emailed/texted us, sent cards and flowers, and just generally been there for us when we've needed to cry, vent or talk. Many of my friends have helped me collect myself when I wanted to haul off on one of the many people who said something heartless to me in my grief. For all this and more, we are grateful. Loss of a pregnancy is hard enough to go through with the support of loved ones. We have so many friends who have miscarried and told nobody, and I can't imagine going through this alone. I'm grateful we don't have to. Love you all.

The Journey

I am in Phoenix helping my father die, and move on to the next leg of his journey. It's 1:30 a.m. I'm physically, emotionally, & spiritually exhausted, but sleep is elusive. I just listened to Sia's song "Breathe Me"; it captures my feelings pretty well at this moment. I'm writing, with sore arms, on my iPhone, so more later. Please pray for my Dad to have a peaceful death, and for my family. Blessings, Sarah

Reflections on an Intense Day

If I had to rate my Wednesday on a scale of 1-10, I'd give it a 9. We buried David's grandmother yesterday. She strongly influenced me, and I wrote about my deep feelings for her here. She died at the end of October, but because she was having a funeral with full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery, and the men and women dying in our current wars get first priority (rightly), this was the soonest Grandma could be buried. My in-laws were staying with us; they are perfect house guests, but having any house guests comes with challenges, so the week was already not normal for us. Tuesday night was Grandma's wake at a funeral home. The closed coffin was in the room with us, and it was mostly like a party without any food or drinks. People laughed and caught up with relatives they haven't seen in a while. A few people told mostly-funny stories about Grandma.

Since I didn't react emotionally to the coffin in the funeral home on Tuesday, I was surprised by the cry that welled up in my throat on Wednesday morning, when we arrived at the church for her funeral mass, and I saw her coffin draped in the American flag, lying in the back of the hearse. The cry left my throat by the time her pallbearers, her grandsons, had carried the coffin into the rear of the sanctuary, where the priest covered the casket in a cloth the same color and with the same pattern as the ones on his vestments.

Grandma was a devout Catholic (she was even a member of the perpetual adoration society), so I was glad that she had a service that reflected her beliefs. However, it was a little surreal on many levels: first, the fact that with the exception of one Grandma's sons (and his wife), the rest of the family are ex-Catholics. There were not very many people taking communion at this mass. But what really made it surreal was how antithetical the tone/content of the mass was when compared with Judaic beliefs and philosophies about death. There was a lot of liturgy talking about what a happy day it was, and much to my shock, included a lot of hallel (!!!), in English, of course. Hallel is a Jewish prayer composed of Psalms 113-118 that is said on joyous occasions like Jewish holy days, or Rosh Chodesh, the beginning of the month, when we welcome the new moon. Hearing it said at a funeral was the spiritual equivalent of having a bucket of ice water tossed on you. It really highlighted the difference in religious philosophy between Christianity and Judaism: Judaism thinks that death sucks and finds no joy in it whatsoever. This is one of the reasons that it is in poor taste to send flowers to Jewish mourners. That said, I think the mass was a fitting way to say goodbye to Grandma, and it certainly would have met her approval. All of her granddaughters who were in town for the funeral participated in the church service, and my mother-in-law delivered a lovely eulogy.

It was perfect weather for a funeral: cold and rainy. The rain turned to hail during the short ceremony at Arlington. Attending a military funeral is intense in its own right; I can't imagine someone not being moved by it. I started to cry, again, when I saw the horse-drawn limbers and caissons -- I should've taken David's advice to bring two handkerchiefs instead of my one, which was soaked half-way through the mass. The firing of rifles, playing of taps, and folding of the flag covering the casket -- all by other sailors who performed perfectly and in unity even as they were pelted, hard, with hail, was profound, but not as profound as the relief of Grandma finally being buried next to Grandpa, and her son, Michael. One of David's cousins handed out roses, which we all laid on the coffin as we touched it and whispered hurried goodbyes; they were hurried because Arlington officials want you away from the grave as soon as possible. As soon as the service is over, they ask you to return to your vehicles. I really liked that option of going up to the casket, and it's one I've never had at a Jewish funeral. As a Jew, it feels deeply wrong to me to leave a casket above ground; people at a Jewish funeral all pitch in and shove dirt on the coffin. It felt weird to me at Grandpa's funeral to walk away from his casket, and it felt weird to me yesterday. As soon as the family cleared out, Arlington's crew was there to lower the casket and fill in the grave.

It was touching to see Grandma's kids, grandchildren, and great grandchildren support each other and celebrate her complicated, but authentic life: a life really devoted to service of God, her family, and her country, probably in that order. After the funeral, we gathered at David's cousins' house, which felt satisfying, but soon we had to brave the storm to go home. A 22 minute drive took us two hours, but thank God, we made it home safely. To say that the day was emotionally draining was an understatement: we all had headaches and sore eyes from crying all day, and by 9:30 p.m. I felt like I had run a marathon.

Today has been all about rest and revitalization. My massage therapist and I mutually agreed to cancel my appointment today. I showered, prayed, meditated, did my physical therapy exercises, roasted a chicken and brussel sprouts for dinner, took Kacy on a short walk, did one load of laundry, took very few phone calls (although I chatted with my sister for almost one hour), and watched "The Girl Who Played With Fire" on my Netflix instant que. Oh, and now I'm blogging. And that's it! I needed to have a self-care day to decompress from the tensions of the week. I thoroughly enjoyed the movie, which might be the subject of my next blog post.