Four months ago today, I was having that godforsaken procedure done which means I’ve officially been mourning the loss of a baby longer than I was actually pregnant with one. What a surreal thought to grieve someone that you never met, longer than their actual life. Prior to all of this, I would have naively expected a woman to lose a baby and find the cure in immediately getting pregnant again. I suppose the joke is on me because a) it’s not that fucking simple and b) I’m not pregnant, still.
16 weeks have gone by since I laid in that chair, in that cold doctor’s office and gripped my husband’s hand and sobbed in the direction of my aunt. We said goodbye that day and life has resumed, people have stopped giving me the sad, puppy dog eyes and I’ve ceased to bring the topic up because “hello, awkwardness.”
In all honesty, I am doing better. There’s some truth in the assholes who routinely said “time heals” or “it’ll get better over time” because it has. The initial wound has closed up some and the blows have softened.
But then I have my hard days and when they’re bad, they’re bad.
For example, two weeks ago I injured my knee running. Well, let me rephrase that because I didn’t do jack shit.
My knee decided to be a little wuss and stop cooperating while running (there, much more accurate).
Last Friday, I decided to try a treadmill run to test out my pansy ass patella (some medical jargon for you all). Needless to say, it did not go well.
In fact, while limping on the treadmill determined to keep running, I had a complete mental breakdown that spiraled from my knee injury to the miscarriage to somehow openly, and loudly, fighting with God.
I’m not the most religious person which must be shocking to you all because I have such high morals and such a pious persona, but organized religion generally scares me. Why are we all shaking hands? Why are we chanting in unison? Why are bad singers invited to sing? Why are we eating stale bread and drinking shitty wine AND sharing a glass with strangers?
Sidenote: if Church allowed me to openly drink red wine as some type of BYOB then maybe I’d attend more.
These are pressing questions. But trust me, I get it. There’s something comforting and reassuring about believing in a higher power. I got married in a Catholic ceremony and achieved all of the compulsory sacraments as a youth, but my faith has admittedly waivered through the years. I’ve felt disconnected and have too many questions that no one, on this planet and in this life, can answer.
One of those questions as I literally stumbled through my run was “why?”
Why do bad things happen? Why do we give thanks to God when all is right, but disregard his presence in his “plan” for us when things are really bad? We chalk it up to “everything happens for a reason” or silence our questioning under the belief that we can’t question God.
But last Friday, I did question Him.
Why, when I am a good mother, was I not given that baby? Why is running, the only thing that distracts me from the loss, taken away? Why are undeserving women who make poor decisions and don’t have a pot to piss in given perfectly healthy babies? Why are babies born into unhealthy and unstable homes when we can offer them stability and love? Why do I have to pee on an ovulation stick every day for nearly a year, but some drug-addicted floozy in the middle of a one-night stand can conceive effortlessly without fertility trackers and ovulation calendars? How is that fair?
Why is that fair?
After I hit “stop” on the treadmill, I sat on its edge and sobbed. Hard. So loud and violent that my children who were innocently playing outside came running in to check on their mom. They hugged me, didn’t ask questions and returned to their playtime after I reassured them that mom was just frustrated.
I suppose frustrated is a grand understatement. The inability to run forces me to recognize how deep this hole really is. There’s no distraction. Running has always been a hobby, but lately, it has served as some type of necessary therapy. Now it’s painful and actual doctors have advised me to cut back. (Um, no. Rest is for the weak!)
Maybe that’s my why as to why I can’t run– don’t rely on a band-aid to power you through deep cuts. Running is a mask and disguise for a much bigger problem regarding my recent sanity. Take it away and the real me is exposed: a struggling woman that’s trying to power through emotions that society tells me to suppress. If I were a celebrity, fans would be applauding me for my openness and raw approach to grief, but I’m just an average civilian which means I just look fucking insane yelling at God on a treadmill.
The universe does what it needs to do and without much explanation. Asking for answers is useless, but accepting unfairness seems like a sign of maturity and strength. I’m not there yet. I want a concrete resolution, but I know I won’t get it in this lifetime and I need to come to terms with that. Certainly, people have bigger questions that demand deeper answers than me, but we are all walking our own walk and right now this is my path.
I’m making my way through, one limping and painful knee at a time.