How do we grieve?

What is grief "supposed" to look like?

My father passed away from amyotrophic lateral sclerosis when I was 22 years old and I remember mulling over this question in my mind for days.  What are you supposed to feel?  How long does it last?  Is what I'm experiencing "normal?" And if not, what does it say about me?  Why am I spending countless hours poking, with morbid fascination, at this psychic wound, waiting to see if it will bleed, when what I should be focusing on is the life that was lost.

Psychological literature informs us that there are five stages of grief:

1. Denial
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Depression
5. Acceptance

Things I know to be true:

1. For me, these so-called "stages" do not occur in stages.  They occur simultaneously, or randomly, or not at all.
2. For me, grief is nothing if not unpredictable.  It hits me in response to the most benign of stimuli and at the most unpredictable, ridiculous, and incomprehensible times.
3. I do not progress through the stages of grief, in whatever order they may occur, and go on to heal.  Grief is not something from which I ever truly "heal."  Time passes, the hurt lessens, life goes on, but grief continues.

My family received a lot of well-intentioned but misplaced advice when my dad was sick. Advice on how we should care for him, how we should spend our time, what aspects of our lives we should focus on or forgo so as to be able to enjoy our time together as best we could.  When he died, we received equally well-intentioned advice about what to expect emotionally in the months to come.  These well-meaning individuals intended to be supportive.  I know that beyond a shadow of a doubt.  They wanted to smooth our journey down a twisted, rough, bewildering path.  They were mistaken.  I don't blame them.

Things I believe to be true:

1. Grief should be embraced.  Let yourself feel what you feel.  Don't try to control it, speed it up, or make it into something it isn't.
2. Grief is solitary, but it doesn't need to be lonely.  I have found that I have drawn a lot of strength from the people with whom I have shared my grief.  I have been open with friends and family about my process in dealing with my miscarriages and the loss of my father and I have found that for me, this is a vital part of preparing myself to move forward.
3.No one can tell you what grief is supposed to look like.  Grief is as unique an experience for each individual as is life itself.  Anyone who tells you otherwise, who tries to give you advice about how things will be or, worse yet, who tries to tell you how you are "supposed" to feel is simply mistaken. Or so I believe.

But my grief is mine.  And yours is yours.

Where do we go from here?

Where do we go from here?  I don't know.  That's the point of doing this, I guess.  I'm hoping that by writing out my thoughts I'll be able to better understand what is going on in my own head and begin to heal.  It is my intention to use this blog for something more interesting than self-pity and self-examination, but at the moment I feel I've earned the right to be utterly and completely selfish. I apologize in advance.

Then again, I feel there are so many women with stories like mine and perhaps we can help each other by sharing our experiences...

My husband and I have been through hell these past few months and I'm still struggling to re-learn how not to feel crummy all of the time.

I'll back up a bit.

I have been married for just shy of two years to a man who drives me a little bonkers but with whom I hope never to have to do without.  About a year ago we decided we were nearly ready to grow our family.  Eight months ago we started trying to conceive.  Seven months ago I found out I was pregnant.  Five-and-a-half months ago I started bleeding, sped to the ER, and sobbed and screamed my way through a bloody mess of a natural miscarriage in a sterile exam room with nurses who looked at me with pity in their eyes and a doctor whose sympathy seemed genuine but so impossibly, insufficient.  I met with my primary care physician and pleaded for any testing that could give me an answer as to why my body had betrayed me and flushed itself of the child I wanted so badly.  She brushed me off.

"Approximately 20% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage.  You were unlucky.  Better luck next time."

Where do we go from here?

Like clockwork, four-and-a-half months ago my body was back on track.  Three-and-a-half months ago I found out I was pregnant again.  Five weeks into the pregnancy I got sick.  Nausea so intense that for the first time in my life, eating became a chore.  A good sign, I told myself.  Friends who had miscarried before me agreed.

"Morning sickness is a sure sign all is well.  Sticky babies make you feel like hell!"

At week nine I went in for my first ultrasound, nausea in full swing but glowing and excited to see my little bean for the first time.  We waited forty-five minutes, thumbing through the folder of pamphlets and books detailing the miraculous and somewhat horrifying process that is pregnancy, delivery, and life beyond.  The nurse practitioner with whom we were meeting bustled in, congratulated us, hinted at the many things we had to discuss (Choosing an OB! Discussing upcoming appointments!  Addressing that pesky morning sickness that gobbled up the small-but-noticeable doughnut around your middle!)

"But first thing's first!  I know you're anxious to see the baby, so let's take a look!"

The NP pulled out her portable ultrasound wand and we excitedly watched the screen.  She fell silent.
"I'm having trouble finding the heartbeat.  It's late, but I'll call down to radiology to see if there is still a tech who could perform a trans-vaginal ultrasound yet tonight."

How long did I hold my breath?  I bumbled my way to the elevator, holding tight to my husband, trying to see well enough through my tears to make it to radiology to undergo the exam I KNEW was going to confirm something I refused to believe. The ultrasound tech came in.  Blurry, grey images on the screen were eerily and heartbreakingly still.  The radiologist and the NP joined the tech.

"I'm so sorry."

Laying spread-eagle on a cold, sterile exam table, pants in a sad pile on the floor, sticky with surgical lube, curled in a ball, screaming, sobbing, gasping for air, clutching my husband like he'd slip away too if I loosened my grip.  Any shred of dignity I'd maintained on my blurry-eyed trip from the clinic to radiology was gone.  So too was baby number two.

Where do we go from here?