I was nine weeks and two days along when I miscarried on Wednesday. The pain when it started was blinding, and the kids began running in my bathroom to the sounds of shrieks and screams I hadn't known I was capable of emitting.
My husband - who had been allowing me to awkwardly hold onto his hands - was probably relieved when my sister showed up uninvited. I was crying, she was crying, and my whole world was blood and tears. I was grateful for her presence (and presents...she got me chocolate, and lots of it.).
The whole gut-wrenching experience lasted five or six hours, and all these following days have been filled with recovery, well-wishes from intuitive friends, and meal after meal after meal.
After talking to a few people today about the experience I felt confused. I wondered why the only actual pain I'd felt was physical. I'd compared my suffering to having my insides digested by the Sarlacc from Return of the Jedi, but I'd only shed emotional tears for a grand total of thirty seconds. This baffled me, because my previous two miscarriages had wrecked me emotionally for days.
I'm an emotional person. I thrive on it. I soak it all in for better or worse, and it's made me a person full of passion and empathy and spirit. So when I was praying this afternoon, I gave God a piece of my mind. I told Him that it felt empty without any of the sadness I felt I deserved to experience. I said that I needed it to feel closure.
Then something very peculiar happened in my mind. I saw a literal image of floodgates being opened and vaguely felt the sensation of drowning. And a voice as clear as anything spoke into my mind, "You would not have been able to bear it."
...
Well, I'm humbled. Once again, my testimony that God has a vested interest in my livelihood is evident, and I'm...beyond eternally grateful for His love and wisdom.
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