Blasphemous Rant

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

WARNING: There's some not so nice things said in this post.  If you are easily offended or dont want to hear a grieving mother's rant and questioning, then this might not be the post for you to read today.  Check back later for something better.


It's not even noon yet... And I want to fall apart.

Thank you, period, for deciding that today was the day you needed to start.  After Grace's miscarriage, this cycle was 38 days, about a week longer than usual.  But, it means that there was no January cycle.  I kind of hoped I'd have one so that I wouldnt have the added reminder of bleeding through his birthday, but, deep down, I anticipated a February 1st start date.  Because, really, why not!  Why not add insult to injury!

We went to Mass this morning and it was all I could do not to break down into loud, snotty sobs when Fr. B. announced that the Mass was being said for Nicholas.  I had it together, but my heart... Not so much.  I dont want a yearly Mass to be said for his soul's repose.  I want to be throwing a birthday party.  I dont want to wake up to an alarm so that we can get everyone ready for church.  I want a little one waking me up to squeals of "It's my birthday!!!"  I dont want to have breakfast after Mass.  I want to eat birthday cake surrounded by his friends.

This year, there is more anger than in years passed.  More asking WTF.  (Forgive the language and the blasphemy this post may contain.  But it's my space and it's my feelings and God forgives.)  The Gospel for today was the story of the raising of the daughter from the dead.  Here is an abridged version, but you can click here for the full readings of the day.
Then the president of the synagogue came up, named Jairus, 
and seeing him, fell at his feet and begged him earnestly, saying, 
'My little daughter is desperately sick. Do come and lay your 
hands on her that she may be saved and may live.'...While he 
was still speaking some people arrived from the house of the 
president of the synagogue to say, 'Your daughter is dead; why 
put the Master to any further trouble?'  But Jesus overheard what
 they said and he said to the president of the synagogue, 'Do not
 be afraid; only have faith.'...So they came to the house of the 
president of the synagogue, and Jesus noticed all the commotion, 
with people weeping and wailing unrestrainedly. He went in 
and said to them, 'Why all this commotion and crying? The child 
is not dead, but asleep.' But they ridiculed him. So he turned 
them all out and, taking with him the child's father and mother 
and his own companions, he went into the place where the child 
lay. And taking the child by the hand he said to her, 'Talitha kum!' 
which means, 'Little girl, I tell you to get up.'  The little girl got up
 at once and began to walk about, for she was twelve years old. 
At once they were overcome with astonishment, and he gave 
them strict orders not to let anyone know about it, and told them
 to give her something to eat.


I knew, when the priest began reading, what lay ahead.  And I tried, so desperately, not to have the feelings that I knew were going to cloud my head.  But they came anyway.

Why her?
Why that child?
What made her so special?
What made her father's faith so much greater than mine?

Why her and not my children?  Weren't they special?  Wouldn't they have served as proof of the Great Spirit's awesomeness?


WTF Jesus???  And yes, I asked the question, in my mind of course.  But I asked it.  And it wasn't an acronym either.  I figure He gets me and wants my honesty, so there he had it (hey, I told you you may find my post blasphemous).

I had faith.  I believed that there was hope that my son could somehow be saved.  I believed that Sophia could stay in my womb for the months needed to save her life.  I believed that my cervix could stay closed long enough to get Alexander into this world safely.  I believed.  I had faith.

I believed in each of my pregnancies.  I believed that I would one day hold my babies in my arms, living and breathing.  I believed that Peter and Dimitri and Zoe and Grace would all one day be running around and laughing and playing.  I believed.  I had faith.

I have 7 dead children.  No amount of belief or faith at this point can make that untrue.  Even Job's children weren't returned to him after they died (although he did go on to have other children afterwards).  And, today of all days, the Gospel brought me anger instead of peace.  Hurt instead of hope.  A slap in the face instead of a hug.  His child was given a second chance.  WHY WEREN'T MINE?  WHAT THE HELL?

I know there are no answers.  I dont want to hear that my children are in heaven or any of the things that people say, true though they may be, to comfort the living.  You cant comfort me.  My children are dead.  My son turns three today and, instead of throwing a birthday party, I'm remembering that this is three years ago since my sweet little Nicholas was born and died.  Three years since he left my body.  Since he struggled for air which his poor little lungs couldnt breathe and process.  Three years since he struggled and God forbid it suffocated to death.  Three years.  No little boy running around with curls for me to tousle.  No laugh when I tickle his ribs.  No picking out a special birthday outfit or helping make his dinner or blowing out his candles.

WHY?  Why do parents kill their children, abort them, abuse them- why do these children suffer at the hands of the people who should love them most and do everything in their power to help them and mine died?  Why are some children saved and some- mine- arent?

There isn't an answer.  Men and women will kill their babies and mine will still be gone.  Some babies will be saved and mine will still be dead.  And it will still suck and still be unfair.  And my heart will still hurt.  I'll still go on breathing while they wont.  And some of the worse guilt is the knowing that I wouldnt have it any other way...  I wouldnt give back the past if it meant not having my present...  All my babies and, especially on days like today, my sweet Bobby and sweet Maya.

I needed to let this out today.  I'm a believer that if we handle our grief as it comes then it cant consume us.     Today's grief happened to be twinged with anger and questions.  It's good that the Divine is merciful because I need it today.  Mercy and a big hug.

Keeping the name of Brighid on my lips today and reminding her to give a special squeeze to my oldest boy who was born on her special day...  Hug him, Holy One, until I can do so myself...

And so, this day, continues...

12 comments:

Joanna said...

Dear, sweet, Michele,
There are no words of comfort that I could possibly offer that would ease the pain. The coincidence of that particular reading is very difficult. It just seems to rip the wounds open. Thank you for sharing your feelings, as I think the sign of a friend is to share not only the joys, but also the tough times (and I really feel like the blogging BLM's are my friends). So please, just accept a HUGE hug from me...hugs and understanding my friend.

sonja said...

Sending you that big hug, Michele. I felt so angry at God during my IF, but that doesn't hold a candle to what you have endured. God can take it, let it out. I wish I knew why -- it is so unfair the way the world works, so confusing.

Ms. J said...

I wouldn't dare try to "talk you down" . . . know why? Because I agree with every single word you typed. I admit I skimmed it because I started sobbing and couldn't see straight, but what I have managed to read through my blurry, snotty, tears, I agree with 100%.

Nobody had better dare suggest "Reason" for dead children. Or children who are ill. Or children born with physical or mental problems.

As you know, I am struggling here, too, and I keep going back to what a preist said to me in May 2007 . . . "God doesn't punish parents or childen this way. He cries with us. He holds them until we can again."

I am here with you, not on the same journey of course, but beside you, and validating your feelings and reasonings.

Wuv you.

Mrs.Hunt2006 said...

The anniversarys are the hardest. Hardest to get through the day. Hardest to imagine the "what if's." I know I constantly wonder what my babies would be doing if they were still alive. It's tough. There are days where I just want to fall apart, but I think thats okay. I think its fine for us to sit there and mourn our dead children. To be angry at those mothers who chose to kill the baby growing inside of them, or those children who they cant stand to listen to them cry. I'm angry. I'm sad, frustrated. I question things daily. But its good to let it out. Botteling it up, will only do harm to our mentality. So scream, cry, vent, question as much as you like!

Reba said...

thinking of you today.

about your other post...we truly are not the people we were before.

big (((hugs)))

Emerging Butterfly said...

It's grief. It's pain. And it goes on...and on.

Yes...your questions and screams are valid.

No...none of it is fair.

I'm so sorry...

I'm sorry for the losses that are so needless and painful. I'm sorry for the continued unknowing. I'm so sorry...because it's simply painful.

All the stories of the resurrected. I remember asking the same thing...why them, why not my twins?

My aunt once told me not to worry and to have faith...told me my children would always be protected. I remember wondering why MY children were more important than the little children dying of starvation and intestinal worms overseas. I wondered how she could say that. And then...when my eldest's brain was smashed on the pavement, altering his life into mental illness and a lifetime of social security..and when my twins were ripped from me in death...I remembered that wondering. And I knew...my babies, they were just as vulnerable as EVERYONE'S babies. They were not "protected".

And I was so angry about it.

Angry about what people say to calm and comfort us.

I'm so sorry...
With love...and understanding.

Trennia said...

I'm so sorry my friend...(((HUGS)))

Catherine W said...

Oh my dear. I can't say it better than you already have, there are no answers.

I hope your oldest boy is held so safe in those arms xo

Sophie said...

I am so sorry Michele. Sending many mnay hugs. xx

Once A Mother said...

Michelle,
My heart just hurts for you. Little Nicholas SHOULD be here, running around laughing, having his curls tousled by his momma and daddy, helping to make his special dinner. He SHOULD be here. I will never understand the injustice of this world. Maybe when we go to that next place we go the lightbulb will go off and it will all make sense, but not now. Now it just feels too cruel for words. Holding you close and abiding with you.

Your other post, when you say "3 years ago, today was the last day of my life. The woman who emerged after the next day would never be the same." Never have truer words been spoken.

Thinking of you
xx

one-hit_wonder said...

Say what you need to say - that's important. I can't speak for your other reader-friends but I can handle it and I'm asking those questions right along with you. :(

Amy MEV said...

In tears...tears that I am convinced will never end this side of heaven. My daughter should have just turned one, and instead her little body is on the ground.

Although I have left the depths of despair, the anger still rears it's ugly head now and again. I too believe it must be let out, lest it should consume us.

I believe parents who lose children in such a way are faced with a conflict so many others do not, cannot understand. Our child's death was not at the hands of any other human being, and as such, we have only God to "blame". We have only Him to yell at, to curse, to take down off of the wall and stick in the bottom of a drawer because you cannot stand to look at His face. As the author of life, HE did this, HE could have stopped this, and HE did not.

This does help me to realize how magnificent heaven must be, for if upon arrival every tear and every sorrow is wiped away, even my deep, deep grief will disappear, then wow; I cannot even fathom such power. In the meantime, my tears are all I have left. They are all I can give my children whom I cannot hold, cannot feed, and cannot watch run across the yard. Somehow they, my tears, count for something.