Faithful Paradox

I was a big fan of the epidural. The Bible says that pain in child bearing is a curse and I saw the epidural as a mercy from God to alleviate some of the pain that came with that curse. It was glorious!

With my first four pregnancies, I had plenty of time to receive the epidural. Although each delivery was different, each allowed me the time to get fully drugged before those precious little bundles arrived in a wave of (numbed) excruciating pain and suffering.

One might assume that having had five full term pregnancies, I would know when to head to the hospital for my fifth delivery. This was not, however, the case.

Labor with my youngest began on a Friday afternoon. The contractions were irregular and inconsistent. Being the rule follower that I am, I was waiting for the 4-1-1 of labor… Contractions arriving 4 minutes apart, lasting for a minute for at least an hour. This consistency never arrived. After about 4 hours of contractions that were all over the map, Vince finally said, “why don’t we just head to the hospital?” I reluctantly agreed, as I was certain they would just send me home to wait it out. This was my fifth. Of all people, I should know when to go in, right? Pride does indeed come before a fall.

As I stood up, I realized that Vince’s suggestion was correct. I was immediately in the transition phase of labor. My contractions were 2 minutes apart and coming with white hot fury.

As we arrived at the hospital, I told every person I could make eye contact with, “I want the epidural.” I knew how things worked. I knew they’d have to call the anesthesiologist and if he was in a different procedure, I’d have to wait on his schedule to open up. I knew I didn’t have that kind of time so in my line of thinking, if I could just let everyone know (nurses, doctors, custodians… really, anyone who could go ahead and get word to the anesthesiologist) he’d get the message and come to my rescue.

My doctor was on call that night at the hospital and when I got to the room she checked all things out. As she walked out of the room she quietly whispered to the nurse, “Get things ready. This is going to be fast and furious.” In my panicked, pain-induced state, I actually screamed at her, “I HEARD YOU!”

Within minutes, I was pushing and our youngest was out of womb, safely in my arms. I had barely arrived at the hospital in time to deliver. I had the full labor experience on my last delivery and I can say with full assurance, the epidural is absolutely a mercy from God. Who even knew there was such a thing as thigh labor? And that phrase, “ring of fire” when the baby crowns? They were not joking!

I recently read an author that said that grief is like pregnancy, labor and delivery, but in reverse. The pain starts with the thigh labor and then the ring of fire; there is an unbearable pain that leaves you wondering if you’ll survive it’s so intense. Once the point of pain comes and goes, the grief arrives in intense waves, like contraction after contraction. The sorrow feels unrelenting and the waves come so consistently and constantly that you can hardly catch your breath before the next wave comes. Much like labor, at first, grief takes every ounce of concentration to breathe through. It takes all your energy, all your focus, all your time. Those first days, weeks and months of grief felt like a labor that never ended; wave of sorrow after wave of sorrow.

In those early days of loss, I longed for an epidural for my broken heart. I wanted to be numb, to forget the pain. It was so constant and unrelenting that I wondered how I would ever get through. I better understand now why some might turn to vices for relief. It’s exhausting to sit in so much pain with no hope of relief. Unfortunately however, much like an epidural, these vices simply numb the pain for a moment. As sure as the sun rises each morning, so comes the painful reminder that your story is not a nightmare and the pain is as fresh as the dew on the ground. At the end of the day of pain, unlike delivering a baby, there is no joy to behold. It’s just wash, rinse, repeat. It was deeply exhausting and discouraging.

Now, two years out, I can see that the pain of grief is not quite so intense. I’m so grateful for this and also for its recognition. Rather than the pain of delivery, grief is more like those middle to late days of pregnancy. It’s there, but the pain is not as sharp as it was at its start. Two years out, I recognize that my day to day life is not as painful as it was at the inception of grief. The pain is not gone and may never be, but it’s not as intense.

When I was pregnant, I never forgot I was pregnant. My pregnancies were relatively easy with few complications, but I still never forgot I was pregnant. Whether it was that my body was changing shape or I could no longer reach my toes, whether it was the constant heart burn or the kickboxing event taking place inside my belly, there was never a time that I simply forgot that I was pregnant. It affected everything about my life and changed me. It changed the way I looked. It changed how I lived, how I breathed, how I thought, how I planned. It is the same with grief.

Grief is like pregnancy and delivery, but in reverse. It starts with the intense pain of delivery and then moves backwards. The gift of the pain that comes with pregnancy is that height of pain comes at the end of months of waiting. It’s the final culmination of months of wondering and praying. At the end, there is a tiny life in your hands to hold and cherish.

In grief and loss, we start with the pain and move backwards. It can often feel like there is no reward. It’s just pain. It’s just a game of endurance with no end. Pregnancy has a timeline. Grief does not. Looking a little more deeply, however, I recognize that there are small pockets of hope and comfort on the long road of pain.

There is comfort in recognizing that it’s not as hard as it was. My life today is not the intense, breathe-through-every-second-of-every-day kind of life. It’s comforting to know that God has sustained me through the worst of it. He has been faithful and I’m certain he will continue.

It’s also comforting to know that I understand deeply now that this life is not all there is; and I long for what is to come. I used to see heaven and life with Christ as an after thought; it’s what comes after I finish life here. Now I see it as everything. It is the exclamation point; the cherry on top. This life is a moment and then it’s gone. There is comfort knowing that one day, because of Jesus, it will all be okay; not just okay, but amazing! There is hope in that.

I’m grateful for these pieces of hope. They don’t make the endurance any less painful, but knowing that one day there will be an end and it will be good helps endure the grief-contractions for a little longer.