• Terms and Conditions
  • Privacy Policy
  • Privacy Tools
  • Cookie Policy
  • Disclaimers

Mobile Menu

  • About
  • Faith
  • Parenting
  • Grief
  • Living
  • Contact
  • Menu
  • Skip to right header navigation
  • Skip to main content
  • Skip to secondary navigation
  • Skip to primary sidebar

From Strength to Strength

From Strength to Strength

  • About
  • Faith
  • Parenting
  • Grief
  • Living
  • Contact
You are here: Home / Grief / Push into the Pain

Push into the Pain

December 2, 2019 //  by Zori Bogard//  1 Comment

Childbirth

Grief is kind of like childbirth.

“Push past the pain,” my midwife told me.

I could feel the tiny head emerging, like a soft cone, but then slowly retract after every contraction subsided. I could cup the tiny little head in my hand as I pushed. I could feel the tuft of thick hair waving in the warm water of the birthing pool. Out and in, out and in, over and over. The pain kept coming back, trying to get the baby out. Each time I pushed until the urge was over, but could never get past a certain point. It was not quite satisfactory, but I just wanted relief from the pain.

Relief came between contractions, when I could rest my head against the side of the pool and try to relax. But those contractions kept returning and seizing my lower back with waves of pressure and pain.

“Harder!” I commanded my husband, whose hands attempted to press away the pain in my lower back. Pain was coming at me from all directions. I writhed to find escape from the incredible internal ache in my lower back and hips. Simultaneously, my hand eased the pressure of the baby’s head stretching me, burning, trying to push through. Tremulous moans attempted to release the pain through my mouth. When contractions came, they seized all of my being. I knew the only way to escape the pain was to birth my baby. But my cautious pushing was just not quite enough.

I don’t know how long this continued. Eventually, the baby’s head started retracting much slower than at first—some progress, however minute. Finally, as the final urge began to subside and I prepared to relax, the midwife suggested, “Try pushing into the pain.” The burn was greater than before, but I knew each push until this point had never been quite enough. So reluctantly, but determinedly, I leaned into the pain, pushing longer, harder than before, reaching to feel the rest of the head emerge, hoping I wouldn’t tear. It worked. Just as I realized with satisfied relief that the baby had finally crowned, the rest of her body gushed out of me in one giant “swoosh.” It was over.

The pain was over. No more burning, no more giant cramps in my back, no more shuddering moans. I could lean back and hold my baby.

Grief

Grief is kind of like childbirth.

The natural human tendency is to shrink back from pain.

When we first received the diagnosis that our second baby, like our first, also had the same combination of malformations known as the VACTERL association and would likely not survive, I threw myself into all the fun I could—camping trips, gardening projects, play dates for our 5-year-old. If life was scheduled to bring us more pain and grief, then I was determined to enjoy every minute I could until that point.

After the stillbirth of our daughter Portia, I rested and recuperated by sitting and working on puzzles. I didn’t drown myself in mind-numbing TV, but instead buried my mind in a puzzle. Something I could solve. It gave my reeling brain something to focus on, while sheltering my heart from reminders of anything painful. A puzzle could suck me in as I focused on finding just one more piece to place. When I was tired, I could leave it at will and come back to where I left off whenever I chose. I had no power to change the outcome for any of my pregnancies. No power to give myself a living, healthy baby from my own womb. Working on a puzzle gave me a small sense of control.

As my body healed and my energy increased, I returned to small household tasks. Dishes. Laundry. Sweeping the floor. These required neither brain power nor an investment of my heart. I could bury myself in busyness and not think. I could feel fine, normal, even happy. Happy to have a tidy house. Happy to be on top of the laundry. Happy to return to a normal routine after the craziness of birthing, losing a child, and receiving visits, flowers and food from family and friends.

And then there was food. Comfort food. Cookies, apple pie, strawberry cheesecake, and more cookies. I excused my indulgence this time—many times—days and weeks of snacks, meals, in-between snacks, bedtime snacks. Because I was hurting and I deserved some comfort.

All of these examples were ways I avoided the pain of losing my daughter. I shrank back because it was easier to just be “fine” and act normal. I could corral my loss in the back of my mind until quiet moments—maybe a few silent sobs alone in the shower. Or I could walk through the day with a sadness underlying my happy face and cheerful conversations; all the while desperation was slowly building in the recesses of my heart.

That first day—showering after delivering a dead baby, resting and taking some food after the birth, visiting with family and the midwives—all I felt was the relief that the birth was over. The hormones coursing through my body carried me that first day with the elation that I had survived labor, that I had conquered my fear of childbirth, and that I had earned my badge of full-fledged womanhood . I had just lost my baby, but wow! The triumph of having the birth experience I longed for—peacefully at home and without complications—felt great.

Grief had not even begun. I joked with the midwife’s assistant as she helped me out of the shower and cleaned up my blood that wouldn’t stop dripping. I wondered how sacrilegious that must seem to her, to have a sense of humor right after losing my baby. But in that moment, I wasn’t in the mood to grieve. I wasn’t ready. I knew that would come later. Maybe days or weeks later. But in that moment I was fine. I had to deal with other things first.

A healthy handling of grief does require comfort, distractions, and escape from reality for a time. But those can’t be the sole means of dealing.

It wasn’t until, weeks later, I picked up a book that a dear friend had sent that I realized I needed something to usher me into the grieving. I had been closed—fine, but closed. I needed something else. Something painfully raw that could connect to my experience, arouse my empathy, and release my fountain of grief locked deep underground. Browsing the first few pages of that book over my lunch, I was pulled in to read one more page, and one more, but those pages brought tears.

“Push into the pain,” my midwife had urged.

To read this book required a commitment to weep, to sob, to grieve however I needed. So I set aside that next Sunday afternoon to lay in the autumn sunshine in the back yard, alone, and read, and to let the tears come as they may. Page after page, that raw account of another couple’s infant loss elicited deep, shoulder-shaking sobs, and even deeper strangled moans from my throat. Each page opened up the floodgates of grief a little more. As far as text difficulty goes, this book was a quick, easy read. But emotionally, it was exhausting. It summoned forth dormant emotions I didn’t realize I had been holding inside.

Not every day, not every moment after loss, is supposed to be spent in tears. (In fact, sometimes we can’t “push into” all sources of pain equally or at all times. We do have to know what we can handle. Today I can read a book about loss but I cannot stand to look at pictures of friends’ babies. Maybe I can handle that another day.)  But avoiding the pain of recognizing, of FEELING, the raw depths of loss can delay healing. When I don’t give myself time or space to grieve, all the little  things that are wrong in my life build up even if I ignore them, adding exponentially to the enormous loss I am trying to cope with. Then the pressure builds up in my chest and behind my eyes, and either comes out in anger or impatience, or more likely, in tears over “nothing.”

That emotional pressure to be “okay” and to keep myself together in front of others physically hurts, like rocks piling up on my chest. My eyes burn with the tears I keep inside. My throat aches, feeling constricted by unseen forces. My chin wobbles, the final sign that big feelings are about to spill over, either in vulnerability before others or in private, if I can escape. Tears reach a point of no return when the pressure has built and has nowhere else to go but out.

When the tears come, when I ALLOW them to flow freely and give full reign to my misery, my grief, my pain, my loss, my anger at the unfairness of it all, THEN I feel cleansed. Free. Sweet like the refreshing coolness of a shower following a hot, muggy summer day. I am renewed, strengthened, empowered  to go on in contentment or even joy for the next moments, hours, or even days.

Avoiding the pain, hiding from reminders that bring it all back, does not keep it at bay. It just prolongs it in a muddy mess of denial, misery, effort to feel normal, being mostly okay but never completely fine. Pushing into it, CHOOSING to come face to face with all the ugly reality and emotions of loss, releases the tension that builds up in our bodies and brings another level of healing and peace, at least for that day. This release may have to be repeated again another day, but there is a happiness, a relief in dealing honestly with the depths of the heart. There is a certain ironic comfort in tears.

Blocking the thoughts, shoving emotions to the back can actually add another layer of loss. This happened to me when my grandfather was killed in a head-on collision during my second month at a new, stressful teaching job. The next day I had to perform well for a scheduled observation by my principal. Then I had to prepare detailed lesson plans for the sub for the two days I took off to attend the funeral and spend time with family. I felt I must keep tears at bay to attend to my responsibilities, or else my grief would incapacitate me. But after the stress of that week, I could not find the tears I longed to cry.

I don’t want that to happen to you.

Grief is hard. Uncomfortable. Miserable. And desperately painful. But, as you are able, “push into the pain” anyway. It will bring relief. It will speed healing.

If you found this article worthwhile, please share!

Related Posts

You may be interested in these posts from the same category.

woman sitting on dock, blaming god for infant loss

Blaming God for Infant Loss

baby toes should I foster an infant after my baby died?

Should I Foster an Infant after My Baby Died?

welcoming a baby who is stillborn

Portia’s Story — Part 2

Zori by garden

Portia’s Story — Part 1

detail of tulip bud bitten in half

Beauty in Resilience: Lessons from the Tulip

Authentic motherhood heart not biology

Motherhood: A Matter of Heart, Not Biology

hydrangea blooming

My Gracious Reminder of Motherhood

Ways to Help a Grieving Family

Beyond Meals: 10 Ways to Help a Grieving Family

How Do I Rejoice with Others When I Am Grieving?

Turning 40 Childless

On Turning 40, Childless

Hidden Griefs

Hidden Griefs of Anticipated Infant Loss

Baby Bumps and Body Image

Baby Bumps and Body Image

Previous Post: « Thanksgiving: Seeing Beauty in the Little Things
Next Post: How NOT Celebrating Christmas Taught Me Gratitude »

Reader Interactions

Comments

  1. Meredith

    December 3, 2019 at 6:37 AM

    Oh zori….I cried through that entire post. It’s rawness, and truth, was beautiful. You have an amazing gift of words.

    Reply

Leave a Reply Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Recipe Rating




I accept the Privacy Policy

Primary Sidebar

Hi! My name is Zori.

I am a Jesus-follower who is passionate about growing to be more like Him, a Pennsylvania girl transplanted to West Virginia, and a wife to the man who sometimes knows me better than I know myself. I have been a mother to 9 who have entered our lives through birth or foster care in the past three and a half years, yet am only currently mothering one dear girl who does not yet share our last name. I’m a lover of all things peaceful, beautiful, and outdoorsy. Read More…

Recent Posts

cat in birdcage surrounded by birds, when life doesn't go my way

Giving Thanks When Life Doesn’t Go My Way

November 22, 2021

glory of October leaves

The Gospel According to Autumn

October 25, 2021

Simple Activities for a Summer Routine

July 14, 2021

fruit of gardening labors

Garden Reflections on Fruitful Living

June 28, 2021

  • About
  • Faith
  • Grief
  • Parenting
  • Living
  • Contact

Site Footer

  • Terms and Conditions
  • Privacy Policy
  • Privacy Tools
  • Cookie Policy
  • Disclaimers

Copyright © 2023 · From Strength to Strength · All rights reserved

Cookie Notice
We use cookies on our website to give you the most relevant experience by remembering your preferences and repeat visits. By clicking “Accept All”, you consent to the use of ALL the cookies. However, you may visit "Cookie Settings" to provide a controlled consent. Read More
Cookie SettingsAccept All
Manage consent

Privacy Overview

This website uses cookies to improve your experience while you navigate through the website. Out of these, the cookies that are categorized as necessary are stored on your browser as they are essential for the working of basic functionalities of the website. We also use third-party cookies that help us analyze and understand how you use this website. These cookies will be stored in your browser only with your consent. You also have the option to opt-out of these cookies. But opting out of some of these cookies may affect your browsing experience.
Necessary
Always Enabled
Necessary cookies are absolutely essential for the website to function properly. These cookies ensure basic functionalities and security features of the website, anonymously.
CookieDurationDescription
cookielawinfo-checkbox-analytics11 monthsThis cookie is set by GDPR Cookie Consent plugin. The cookie is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category "Analytics".
cookielawinfo-checkbox-functional11 monthsThe cookie is set by GDPR cookie consent to record the user consent for the cookies in the category "Functional".
cookielawinfo-checkbox-necessary11 monthsThis cookie is set by GDPR Cookie Consent plugin. The cookies is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category "Necessary".
cookielawinfo-checkbox-others11 monthsThis cookie is set by GDPR Cookie Consent plugin. The cookie is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category "Other.
cookielawinfo-checkbox-performance11 monthsThis cookie is set by GDPR Cookie Consent plugin. The cookie is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category "Performance".
viewed_cookie_policy11 monthsThe cookie is set by the GDPR Cookie Consent plugin and is used to store whether or not user has consented to the use of cookies. It does not store any personal data.
Functional
Functional cookies help to perform certain functionalities like sharing the content of the website on social media platforms, collect feedbacks, and other third-party features.
Performance
Performance cookies are used to understand and analyze the key performance indexes of the website which helps in delivering a better user experience for the visitors.
Analytics
Analytical cookies are used to understand how visitors interact with the website. These cookies help provide information on metrics the number of visitors, bounce rate, traffic source, etc.
Advertisement
Advertisement cookies are used to provide visitors with relevant ads and marketing campaigns. These cookies track visitors across websites and collect information to provide customized ads.
Others
Other uncategorized cookies are those that are being analyzed and have not been classified into a category as yet.
SAVE & ACCEPT