behave at the dreaded delivery? I imagined her jumping up and down when my baby was handed to her. She would celebrate our grief, our tragedy, our sadness, as her joy, her triumph, her miracle. Even though I knew we would have taken our baby from her if the situation had been reversed, I resented her as if she were the one who had done this to us.
I tried to cry quietly so Sean wouldn’t hear. I didn’t want to upset him. He couldn’t help me anyway. Despite my efforts, he woke up to my tears.
“What’s wrong?”
I didn’t want to answer.
“What’s wrong?” he persisted.
His questions made my tears come quicker. I really wanted my bed to open up and swallow me. I finally answered.
“How am I going to do this? I think God screwed up.”
I turned to face him, but his back was to me. I waited for him to turn around, but he didn’t.
“How can God think that I can do this?”
Still no response.
My body shook with sobs, yet he hadn’t rolled over. As I waited, I began to feel that, by keeping his back turned to me, he was scolding me for being upset. This made it worse.
“I want this baby. He feels like mine. I can’t give him away.”
Sean’s silence only upset me further.
I finally went into the bathroom and closed the door behind me. I leaned my back against the wall and slid down to the floor, burying my head in my knees. If I couldn’t speak to Sean about this, where would I turn? I was struggling with the insinuation that this was all part of God’s plan. The few people who knew of my pregnancy had said that when they heard the news. Really? God planned this? Not the gentle, loving, and constant God I worshiped. The idea that all of this had happened because of God made me angrier than I had ever been. It also made me feel helpless and out of control. I prayed to God.
Where the hell are you in this? This is your plan? What did I do to deserve this? I have been a good woman. I have sacrificed for you. I dedicated my career to you. This is how you repay me? You force suffering on me that I cannot bear? I don’t think I can be pregnant and deliver a baby to another woman. How will I withstand watching her celebrate my sorrow? You chose the wrong woman. I am not strong enough.
I begged God for strength and for courage, but both eluded me. I felt like I was such a wreck all the time. My world, once so open and alive with many friends and all of my commitments to the boys and to the community, had shrunk to the square footage of our bedroom. My mood was terrible too. I am the kind of person who tries to think the best of others and always give them the benefit of the doubt, but this event had changed that. I imagined that Sean was disappointed in me for saying such hateful things and that he wasannoyed with me for being sick, having no energy, being so crabby, and having to struggle to stay positive even in the happy moments.
Please make me stronger. Please make me a better person. If you can’t, then just let me die.
This thought immediately conjured guilt in my heart. I would never want to leave my kids. I would never wish that kind of tragedy into their lives.
I was so upset by my mind lurching between such extreme feelings that I felt nauseous. I steadied myself against the bathroom door, hoping that having something firm against my back would keep my stomach from spinning. It didn’t. I bent over the toilet, throwing up, trying like hell to stop the retching because I feared it might hurt the baby. Finally it subsided, and I rested my head on the toilet seat and tried to catch my breath. Calm down, Carolyn. Calm down. I shuffled over to the sink to brush my teeth and wash my face. What I saw in the mirror was pitiful. I was pale, my eyes were again bloodshot from crying, and my neck and face were covered in splotches. I knew I needed to get some sleep, but I wondered what the heck Sean was doing in turning his back to me. Wasn’t he worried about me? Didn’t he care?
I finally turned
I tried to cry quietly so Sean wouldn’t hear. I didn’t want to upset him. He couldn’t help me anyway. Despite my efforts, he woke up to my tears.
“What’s wrong?”
I didn’t want to answer.
“What’s wrong?” he persisted.
His questions made my tears come quicker. I really wanted my bed to open up and swallow me. I finally answered.
“How am I going to do this? I think God screwed up.”
I turned to face him, but his back was to me. I waited for him to turn around, but he didn’t.
“How can God think that I can do this?”
Still no response.
My body shook with sobs, yet he hadn’t rolled over. As I waited, I began to feel that, by keeping his back turned to me, he was scolding me for being upset. This made it worse.
“I want this baby. He feels like mine. I can’t give him away.”
Sean’s silence only upset me further.
I finally went into the bathroom and closed the door behind me. I leaned my back against the wall and slid down to the floor, burying my head in my knees. If I couldn’t speak to Sean about this, where would I turn? I was struggling with the insinuation that this was all part of God’s plan. The few people who knew of my pregnancy had said that when they heard the news. Really? God planned this? Not the gentle, loving, and constant God I worshiped. The idea that all of this had happened because of God made me angrier than I had ever been. It also made me feel helpless and out of control. I prayed to God.
Where the hell are you in this? This is your plan? What did I do to deserve this? I have been a good woman. I have sacrificed for you. I dedicated my career to you. This is how you repay me? You force suffering on me that I cannot bear? I don’t think I can be pregnant and deliver a baby to another woman. How will I withstand watching her celebrate my sorrow? You chose the wrong woman. I am not strong enough.
I begged God for strength and for courage, but both eluded me. I felt like I was such a wreck all the time. My world, once so open and alive with many friends and all of my commitments to the boys and to the community, had shrunk to the square footage of our bedroom. My mood was terrible too. I am the kind of person who tries to think the best of others and always give them the benefit of the doubt, but this event had changed that. I imagined that Sean was disappointed in me for saying such hateful things and that he wasannoyed with me for being sick, having no energy, being so crabby, and having to struggle to stay positive even in the happy moments.
Please make me stronger. Please make me a better person. If you can’t, then just let me die.
This thought immediately conjured guilt in my heart. I would never want to leave my kids. I would never wish that kind of tragedy into their lives.
I was so upset by my mind lurching between such extreme feelings that I felt nauseous. I steadied myself against the bathroom door, hoping that having something firm against my back would keep my stomach from spinning. It didn’t. I bent over the toilet, throwing up, trying like hell to stop the retching because I feared it might hurt the baby. Finally it subsided, and I rested my head on the toilet seat and tried to catch my breath. Calm down, Carolyn. Calm down. I shuffled over to the sink to brush my teeth and wash my face. What I saw in the mirror was pitiful. I was pale, my eyes were again bloodshot from crying, and my neck and face were covered in splotches. I knew I needed to get some sleep, but I wondered what the heck Sean was doing in turning his back to me. Wasn’t he worried about me? Didn’t he care?
I finally turned
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