My counselor says I have to grieve.
I've been watching Downton Abbey instead. And Grey's Anatomy. And Modern Family. And reading books. And playing Spider Solitaire on my phone. Basically, whatever I can do with my time that is:
A) not work
B) not school
C) not grieving
D) not thinking about grieving
So I'm avoiding. But to be fair, she might as well have told me that I needed to procure the left front hoof of a unicorn, because I feel equally equipped to do both. The bottom line is that I don't know how to grieve. I don't know how to conjure up feelings of sadness if they aren't already there, or if they are there but are buried deep. And when they do make an appearance (which does happen from time to time), I get so caught up in wanting to do the right thing that I totally over-think it and then the moment is gone. I'm way too cerebral for grieving. And yet, according to the therapist, it must be done.
That's all I have to say about that. I'm labeling this with "transition", because I'm hopeful that's what it is.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Monday, January 23, 2012
Suffering Can Be Communal
Suffering is one of those realities of the human condition that cannot be avoided. We’ve all experienced it at some point, albeit in varying degrees. It is unavoidable, and it is everywhere. Even with its pervasiveness, I’ve noticed of late that there are some tribulations that aren’t handled very well by the community at large. One of those afflictions is infertility. I haven’t experienced this condition for myself, but several of my friends have. One such friend is in the throes of the battle as I write this post.
Hannah’s struggle with infertility is one that I’ve had the privilege of witnessing by way of emails (yes, I intentionally used the word “privilege”; we’ll get to that later). She emails another friend (Addie) and me frequent updates about her condition. Sometimes those updates involve medical information, but mostly they’re about the condition of her heart. These emails have been full of brutal honesty, tearful admissions of fear and doubt, encouraging scripture and prayers, much swearing, and enough socially unacceptable humor to make one nervous about ever allowing the three of us to appear in public together. In short, it’s been awful. And awesome. All at once.
In a recent message, Hannah was test-driving a blog post about how to care with people who are struggling with infertility specifically, but it could also be a reference for how to deal with any sort of deep suffering. In it she describes ways in which she has felt supported, as well as ways in which she has felt...well, not supported. As it turns out, Addie and I have loved her well. She feels comfortable enough with us to be genuinely, recklessly honest. She knows that Addie and I have suffered much ourselves. We know how to bear burdens. We are her safe place.
On a cognitive level, I have known that Hannah feels well cared-for by me. However, on an emotional level, it was vaguely surprising. My knowledge is kind of based on an if-then statement: If Hannah continues to email me, then that must mean she feels supported. She does continue to email, therefore, she feels supported. How I’ve managed to make her feel this way has been sort of a mystery to me.
Here’s the thing about suffering: when we witness it, we want to make it stop. We want to say the perfect words to alleviate pain or find the perfect solution to the problem. We want to make it go away. But you know what? Those perfect words? That perfect solution? Those things don’t usually exist. My friend Hannah might not be able to conceive. That’s some heavy shit. There is not a thesaurus in the world that can help me find words to make her grief go away. I can’t fix her endometriosis. I can’t make a baby grow in her uterus. I can’t make this go away.
When Hannah started down this road, I wasn’t sure how to conduct myself. Part of my own baggage is that I am uncomfortable with emotions. I’m getting better, but it’s a slow process. Obviously infertility is a very emotionally-charged issue, and I was worried that I might be out of my league. Like maybe I just wasn’t cut out to be the kind of friend that she was going to need me to be. But my love for her wouldn’t let me be someone who faded into the background, so I had to do something. The problem was that I just wasn’t sure what that something might be.
In the end, I decided to write her a letter. A handwritten one, because she's worth it. In it, I said that I didn’t know what to say to her...other than how deeply sad I was for her. I didn’t know how to react...other than to pray. Basically, I didn’t know what to do...other than be available. In short, all I had to give was myself. I can offer her my imperfect support, knowing that at times I’m going to say and do the wrong things. Because I’m broken. Because I’m human.
So that’s what I’m doing. I’m being sad. I’m praying. I’m listening. I’m suffering with her. Sometimes, suffering with her means that I listen to her cry. Sometimes it means that the only thing I know to say is how much everything sucks. Sometimes it means that I write profanity-laced haiku about her endometriosis. You take the good with the bad, you know?
Suffering is awful. But in all of its wretchedness, I feel so honored to be on this journey with my friend. It is a deep privilege to hear about her doubts and fears. It is life-giving to watch her wrestle with God over the loss of her dream of what motherhood is supposed to look like. I cannot count how many times I’ve read scriptures meant for her and felt them burning a hole in my own conscience. Hannah’s fight helps encourage me. My faith helps strengthen her. The suffering, while painful, shores up our faith.
Hannah’s struggle with infertility is one that I’ve had the privilege of witnessing by way of emails (yes, I intentionally used the word “privilege”; we’ll get to that later). She emails another friend (Addie) and me frequent updates about her condition. Sometimes those updates involve medical information, but mostly they’re about the condition of her heart. These emails have been full of brutal honesty, tearful admissions of fear and doubt, encouraging scripture and prayers, much swearing, and enough socially unacceptable humor to make one nervous about ever allowing the three of us to appear in public together. In short, it’s been awful. And awesome. All at once.
In a recent message, Hannah was test-driving a blog post about how to care with people who are struggling with infertility specifically, but it could also be a reference for how to deal with any sort of deep suffering. In it she describes ways in which she has felt supported, as well as ways in which she has felt...well, not supported. As it turns out, Addie and I have loved her well. She feels comfortable enough with us to be genuinely, recklessly honest. She knows that Addie and I have suffered much ourselves. We know how to bear burdens. We are her safe place.
On a cognitive level, I have known that Hannah feels well cared-for by me. However, on an emotional level, it was vaguely surprising. My knowledge is kind of based on an if-then statement: If Hannah continues to email me, then that must mean she feels supported. She does continue to email, therefore, she feels supported. How I’ve managed to make her feel this way has been sort of a mystery to me.
Here’s the thing about suffering: when we witness it, we want to make it stop. We want to say the perfect words to alleviate pain or find the perfect solution to the problem. We want to make it go away. But you know what? Those perfect words? That perfect solution? Those things don’t usually exist. My friend Hannah might not be able to conceive. That’s some heavy shit. There is not a thesaurus in the world that can help me find words to make her grief go away. I can’t fix her endometriosis. I can’t make a baby grow in her uterus. I can’t make this go away.
When Hannah started down this road, I wasn’t sure how to conduct myself. Part of my own baggage is that I am uncomfortable with emotions. I’m getting better, but it’s a slow process. Obviously infertility is a very emotionally-charged issue, and I was worried that I might be out of my league. Like maybe I just wasn’t cut out to be the kind of friend that she was going to need me to be. But my love for her wouldn’t let me be someone who faded into the background, so I had to do something. The problem was that I just wasn’t sure what that something might be.
In the end, I decided to write her a letter. A handwritten one, because she's worth it. In it, I said that I didn’t know what to say to her...other than how deeply sad I was for her. I didn’t know how to react...other than to pray. Basically, I didn’t know what to do...other than be available. In short, all I had to give was myself. I can offer her my imperfect support, knowing that at times I’m going to say and do the wrong things. Because I’m broken. Because I’m human.
So that’s what I’m doing. I’m being sad. I’m praying. I’m listening. I’m suffering with her. Sometimes, suffering with her means that I listen to her cry. Sometimes it means that the only thing I know to say is how much everything sucks. Sometimes it means that I write profanity-laced haiku about her endometriosis. You take the good with the bad, you know?
Suffering is awful. But in all of its wretchedness, I feel so honored to be on this journey with my friend. It is a deep privilege to hear about her doubts and fears. It is life-giving to watch her wrestle with God over the loss of her dream of what motherhood is supposed to look like. I cannot count how many times I’ve read scriptures meant for her and felt them burning a hole in my own conscience. Hannah’s fight helps encourage me. My faith helps strengthen her. The suffering, while painful, shores up our faith.
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