Deep, Dark Fears and Secrets

I was just sitting outside, enjoying a nice sunny day in my backyard reading a book.  Before I came back in, I took some time to stop by each of my babies' plants to talk with them.  It was peaceful and pleasant.  I spoke to them by name and cleaned the dead leaves and cobwebs off them, like a good little mother.  And I felt good doing it.  I actually didn't feel sad, not a tear in sight.  And that, my friends, is an amazingly good feeling.

Then I got to thinking back, in contrast, to a very different night about a month or so ago.  Shannon and I had a fight.  Over what, it doesn't really matter.  What matters is that I was still in the midst of my grief, was still so wrapped up in being so sad and lost that I couldn't see past it.  What matters is that I ended up completely breaking down, sobbing uncontrollably in a fetal position on the bed.  He came to me and asked what was wrong.  And he meant, really, what was wrong, what was truly going on in my head.  So, finally I broke down and shared with him all my deepest, darkest fears and secrets that I hadn't shared with anyone through all of this.  I know he hates to see me cry and doesn't like to see me weak and suffering, so I usually hide this front him and hold it all inside.  But that night, I finally opened up and let him in.

I told him how I'm so afraid it's my fault that we lost all the babies.  That I did something, either physically or cosmically, to lose them.  That it scares me to death to imagine that each of them was perfectly healthy, but it was my body that failed each and every time and they could not live because of me.

I told him I'm so afraid that even after all this trying and fighting to have a baby, once we do have children, it won't be enough for me.  That I'll be a failure.  That I'll still have this empty hole inside of me.

I told him I still think about the babies each and every day.  That the necklace I wear every day makes me think of them because when my mom gave it to me for Christmas, we had only lost three so far and the necklace has three butterflies on it.  How I kiss it (now four times) every so often during the day and tell them I love them and miss them.

I told him how I go talk to the babies at their special plants in the backyard sometimes.  How I call them by name.  How I've secretly named each one of them and never ever said their names out loud to another living soul.

I told him how I don't like myself lately.  That I'm not sure where to turn.  I'm not sure where to focus my energy.  Nothing I do feels good enough anymore.  I've let everyone I care about in my life down.  I'm a failure in every sense of the word.

And through it all, he was there for me.  He held me and comforted me and didn't freak out when I told him all these deep, dark fears and secrets.

Then he left the room to let me splash water on my face and collect myself, but then surprised me by coming right back and asking me to tell him to names of the babies.  It felt so strange to say their names out loud.  He had me say them over again several times and to explain why I'd chosen each name for that particular baby.  And he began to cry too.  Sweet, loving tears.  And hugged me close and truly was with me in the moment of our unique shared losses.  I felt heard and validated and understood and that means more to me than I could ever express.

Ever since then, I've felt better.  Lighter.  More hopeful.  Like I've turned a corner and can finally start to more forward.

Recently Shannon and I were sitting on the couch together, watching TV and I told him "I'm so happy being married to you lately."  He asked why and I didn't have a good response.  He said "I think it's because you're finally happy with yourself again."  And wouldn't you know it, he's right.