Helpless

Posted by Justine | February 18, 2008 | 8 Comments

I touched his tiny leg. He started to jitter his leg around. I couldn’t help the tears, I’d tried so hard to not let them come. “I don’t think he likes having his legs touched. He doesn’t seem to shake so much if you try his head or hand.” She was so calm. So composed. I was the one who was a train wreck, and it wasn’t even my son lying there. We quietly stood over his tiny body and all the tubes that were keeping him alive for a few more minutes, quietly talking about his prognosis, the other children, her emotional state.

“I’m being supported right now. I really feel it. I don’t know how I can be so strong when everything is falling apart.” she still seemed so, well, stately. Frankly, she looked so beautiful. Her one day old baby son was slipping away from her, and she looked positively radiant. The spirit that was supporting her physically and emotionally was more powerful than I can easily describe.

I didn’t want to leave. It had been such an enormous privilege to meet and feel this powerful spirit housed in such a broken body — I couldn’t imagine walking away from him. I cried as I brushed my fingers over his head — a perfect, tiny little head. Then my dear friend started to console me. “I know the Lord has sent him to our family so we can all have these powerful experiences. I know we’ll all be stronger because of him.”

I was so embarrassed. I was the one in need of solace. But I had come to help her! I had come to be the strong one. Instead I had crumbled — and quickly. She was suffering so I could learn. I felt very, very small.

She called last night. He’ll be gone by mid-week. She said she promised she’d be the one falling to pieces by then. I fell to my knees and cried. The Lord knows what my friend needs, but I had to tell him anyway. There are moments that there is simply nothing else to be done but cry to the Lord. Helplessness is a difficult emotion. This morning, leafing through our Consecration issue over my oatmeal, I happened upon Rynell Andersen Lewis’ poem, Give. I think I’ll pass it along to her — and try my hardest to be the strong one this time.

Comments

8 Responses to “Helpless”

Kathryn Soper
February 18th, 2008 @ 2:36 pm

Oh, Justine, I’m so sorry.

During the 2 neonatal crises I experienced I had the same calmness, radiance, and rationality you’ve described. People would call me, crying, and I’d tell them everything was okay. I had this surreal peace. While I believe the spirit played an important part, I think a great deal of that peace was numbness and shock. It wore off. And I was ashamed of myself when it left me, because I thought I had been so in tune with God that I was able to transcend grief and fear.

So if the situation you’re describing is anything like mine (and I hasten to add that it very well may not be), I would say this: You’re not being weak, you’re being normal. Your friend isn’t being strong, she’s being normal. Your normal is different than hers because you’re playing different roles. It will take longer for her body and mind to begin processing the loss because it’s so much larger and more threatening on her end. And whether it’s the spirit or denial or both that’s enabling your friend’s calmness, I imagine she will need lots of love and care when other emotion breaks through.

What a great gift you’re giving by crying for her. Don’t be ashamed, it’s the best thing you could do for her right now.

I worried when I read your line “she’s suffering so I might learn.” I’m not sure what you meant, but just in case you’re shouldering unwarranted guilt, let me say this: Your learning is a poignant and valuable effect of this sad situation, but effect is not the same as cause.
Emily M.
February 18th, 2008 @ 11:03 pm

Thank you for this, Justine. I think your son gets his deep empathy from you.

And oh, that poem. I’m so grateful for writers who write their pain in a way that allows me to feel the experience without being… preached to. She doesn’t say “Stillbirth is wrenchingly painful;” she says “Babies fall through me, birthed to return straight to heaven,” and then I, the reader, think how wrenching it is. I appreciate the artistry involved in making pain into powerful, communicating art.
Tiffany
February 19th, 2008 @ 10:29 am

That was a beautiful post. While attending the funeral of my cousin, who had left four small children behind, my dad made a very poignant observation that the Spirit really takes over and supports the ones left behind so they can cope. My dad lost his first wife to a severe illness and he was left with his three young daughters. From his comments, I gather that he felt that same uplifting at such a devastating time.
Justine
February 19th, 2008 @ 10:56 am

Kathy, your comments were really good to read. I feel like I understand what’s happening more now. And I know I can stick closely to her in the coming weeks as this reality settles in.

And no, I’m not really harboring any unwarranted guilt, I think I’m just more fully realizing that sometimes I can learn from someone else’s suffering, and sometimes they can learn from mine. That gives me the opportunity to serve through their suffering and they through mine. So, in that sense, her suffering is teaching me new ways to serve and nurture. It’s a rough time, though. I kind of feel like time has stopped.
Kathryn Soper
February 19th, 2008 @ 11:14 am

I agree, Justine. “Bearing one another’s burdens” is a very real, very hard, very beautiful thing.
annegb
February 20th, 2008 @ 9:36 am

I realize I need to do more blogging. Not blogging, visiting, because there’s so much here. So much to learn and grow from. Thank you for sharing this, Justine.
Amy
February 27th, 2008 @ 12:37 pm

I’ve been really touched, both by reading your post and the poem Give. Thank you for sharing your thoughts.
Justine
February 27th, 2008 @ 12:46 pm

All I have to add to this discussion is that I hope I never again have to see a father carrying a tiny little casket in his own hands down the aisle of our church, or anywhere else for that matter. It was a brutal day.