A Rainbow Doesn't Heal All

Experiences of others that I've read indicated child loss was individualized, that there are usually some kind of similarities between experiences of mourning such that mourning can teach one empathy for another mourner, that faith can help one find solace, and, above all, the secret to healing from grief is to have a rainbow baby.  The new baby isn't supposed to replace the old baby, but mothers and father everywhere are supposed to find comfort in a new baby. 

This is one of many reasons I kept praying for a rainbow baby.  Instead, I tacked loss upon loss until my loss count was a lot higher than my live birth count.  I have had three live births, one of whom passed at four months, plus 15+ miscarriages, and we've found peace with giving up the futile efforts of talking my body into giving live birth.  People will often equate pregnancy with expecting.  After a while, the only thing I began to expect with another pregnancy was yet another loss.  I was never to find out for myself if a rainbow baby would help or hinder the healing process.  But that's okay because pregnancy and fragile babies became causes of fear rather than joy for me.  

With my expectation that healing can become more complete with the advent of a rainbow baby, I was surprised when people we knew had their rainbow, and it wasn't all happiness and joy.  I know they've had a lot of happiness and joy with their new pink bundle, but everything their new baby does makes them yearn to have their older little girl to be there to enjoy the experience.  They keep wishing that their departed angel could see this or be part of that.  Instead of having

perfect bliss with their rainbow, they've had new kinds of heartache.  I had no idea this would happen.  

I guess the real moral here is expectations for someone else's grieving experience don't help.  Our expectations in the face of someone else's raw pain really mean nothing.  Phrases like, "Shouldn't you move on?" or anything that follows "at least" are attempts to force our own expectations on someone else.  Even trying to manipulate our own grieving experience according to how things should be doesn't help.  Grieving is what it is. All we can do is accept what is and seek solace and peace and seek to offer solace and peace to others.  We can't tell people they're doing it wrong or feel like we're doing it wrong because there is no right or wrong about mourning, grief, or loss.  We can plead with the Lord to carry our burdens, but that doesn't mean all pain will be gone.  He can heal our hearts, but it does take time and may never be complete in this lifetime.  We certainly can't expect everyone else to do the same.  What we can do is love and support each other and allow ourselves to be loved and supported when we need it.  Accept and respect others in how they need to mourn, and healing will come a lot faster.  

Scar Tissue

I imagine most of us--those who live with life-altering loss--have a way to survive from day to day.  There are people who, even after years, still stare into the face of that bloody, angry hole in their heart with no way to look away.  But most of us have coping strategies.  Some work to avoid thinking about it.  Some self-medicate with either legal or illegal drugs.  Some seek out counseling, professional or unprofessional.  Most of us find a way to build scar tissue to block out the pain.  This doesn't mean the wound isn't real, isn't there, isn't painful.  It just means we can live with it without thinking about it every waking hour of every day.  

The nature of scar tissue is it's not as flexible, as supple, as real as the original tissue.  It's not like our loss didn't happen.  Nor does it mean we're necessarily healed of that wound.  Many of us will live our lives still feeling we're one small step from staring into the void and falling apart.  

It's hard to define what healing even is.  Professionals would say being healed from loss means being able to move forward and live life.  That those who have children or remarry, those who engage in life in what seems like a normal fashion, are supposed to be healed.  Some people say that those who are able to look back at their time with their loved ones and the photographs with more joy than sorrow are healed.  They're both good definitions.  I'm never going to be able to have a rainbow baby, though I tried (only to rack up several more losses).  It still hurts more than I can say to look at those pictures in the book I don't see on my wall every day.  To those pictures on the wall, I've build up scar tissue, tissue that lets me look without puddling on the floor in a teary ball.  But when I look at those other pictures, the ones I only trot out on her birthdays and angelversaries, there is no defense.  I am a helpless, mewling ball of agony.  There is more pain than joy.  

Does it mean that I'm healed or not healed that I've built up enough scar tissue that I can move forward in what appears to be a healthy, well-adjusted fashion?  I can function.  I can engage in life.  I can smile.  I can mention my loss in that distant, storytellers' fashion that allows me to say it without feeling it.   But the lava of emotions is there, lurking, waiting for a song or a photo or some other trigger to rip off that scar tissue to expose me to the pain.  Someone expresses real sympathy, and that emotion threatens to bubble up.  The hot tears force their way to the surface.  

I am a dormant caldera like Yellowstone.  I can function in predictable ways like everyone else around me.  But under the surface is a bubbling mass of pain just waiting to show off its heat and agony.  A thin crust of scar tissue keeps up the appearance of peace.  But I don't want to step off those well-beaten paths.  I don't want to step into those tender places that may break through.  I imagine I'm not alone in living with such a fragile peace.  I long for the day I can truly say I'm healed.  But it won't likely be until I hold her in my arms again.