Sometimes I can’t tell the difference between being angry and being sad. I can’t tell if I am feeling sadness in ways that feels like anger because it is different than sadness I have felt in the past. I don’t feel angry at anyone in particular. I am not angry at God.
It’s been almost a month since we discovered our baby has a problem. It was hard and frustrating to find out that our pre-born child had something wrong that we had never thought could happen, and something that no medical advancements could fix. I remember feeling angry at the ultrasound that the pictures I got to see of my baby were blurry when my other pregnant friends had such detailed, lovely 3-dimensional pictures of their own unborn children. I didn’t realise it was me that was the problem and not the equipment. I feel angry at times perusing social media when my pregnant friends post about their baby showers and gifts and new cribs and how they are decorating baby’s room and other such inconsequential things that new parents do. I am not angry at them, I am not angry at the doctors, I am not angry with God. Maybe I am just angry at needing to feel sad because I can’t share my own anticipation. I planned on being particularly private anyway, but the fear of making others unnecessarily sad because of this great heaviness. It seems that no one else has these sorts of trials. I know that is not true, and that probably makes me a little angry, too.
I keep reminding myself that marriage is martyrdom, and that in the marriage ceremony, the deacon prayed that God would give us children as is expedient for our salvation. I know that everything that happens is because we need it. For some reason, we need a child praying for us in heaven instead of one we can teach to pray here in our arms. It makes it much more difficult though to know a prognosis before it happens. We still have faith that God is in control, and we will always have faith that He knows best. We believe in miracles, but we know not to have “faith in faith” as our spiritual father warned us against. We know what is most likely to happen, so I know we must be prepared for that. We still pray, we still hope, we still try to rejoice in whatever small ways we can. It’s still hard. It’s still sad. And we still feel like we’re grieving backwards, which is the hardest part.