Not So Much!
”I was pregnant… 17-18 weeks pregnant…”
The story often starts the same way. It’s not so much rehearsed as it is well worn. It always
begins where our lives changed… pain cloaked in a myriad of medical history.
Being asked how we found out about our daughter’s diagnosis has become part of our family story. It is as common to us as someone being asked where they work, how they met or where are they from.
The tragic circumstances by which we found out about her diagnosis and grim prognosis have been replayed so often in the last eight years that the depth and sorrow we felt during those months have been nullified.
The pain, the concern, the paralyzing feelings of hopelessness and helplessness are absent from my answer. Does the person asking really want to know the truthful details of how we received the news?
Not so much!
Not so much do ‘most’ people want to dive into the depths of the unspoken realities of life, marriage and pregnancy over a cup of coffee.
We hide. We hide our fears— to others and to ourselves. We live in a world of comfortable denial. It is easier to stay above the fray and to chat about nonsensical drama, potty training, eating habits, the weather…. anything, anything at all other than something that might strike a chord with our own insecurities.
It’s not that we are shallow or self-absorbed. It isn’t that we don’t care about other people.
It is because we are afraid. We are afraid their story might become our own. We are afraid to overstep the boundaries of conversational niceties. We are afraid to veer too much off of our comfortable track. We are afraid to offend. We are afraid to inquire. We are simply afraid to feel— too much.
I’ve been there. I am sometimes still there. It’s a comfortable place for a visit. I certainly rarely discuss my own personal history, unless I am genuinely asked (and not casually so). I don’t self edit out of shame. I do it because most people just don’t want to really know, or maybe they want to know, but they don’t want to discuss it.
The later, is in part why I continue to urge people to read my book. Life happens, and as it changes (or unravels) you go from not wanting to know, not wanting to discuss it, to feeling utterly alone because these unspoken realities are just that— unspoken. And even if life isn’t unraveling for you, it probably is for one of your dearest friends or it has in the past for you, for someone you know, or it will in the future. That is the essence of life— it is always changing, sometimes for the better and sometimes for opportunities for growth.
My story might not be your story, but at it’s core it is a story of surviving “the suck of the day”. It is about surviving the diagnosis of an unborn baby and so much more.
If you haven’t already, I encourage you to pick up a copy of the book— for today, tomorrow or for the moment you need it. Within its covers lie uncomfortable truths, but they are realities. They are realities that I am not ashamed by, defined by or realities from which I hide.
And afterwards, if you want to really ask questions seeking honest answers— I am here.
The story often starts the same way. It’s not so much rehearsed as it is well worn. It always
begins where our lives changed… pain cloaked in a myriad of medical history. Being asked how we found out about our daughter’s diagnosis has become part of our family story. It is as common to us as someone being asked where they work, how they met or where are they from.
The tragic circumstances by which we found out about her diagnosis and grim prognosis have been replayed so often in the last eight years that the depth and sorrow we felt during those months have been nullified.
The pain, the concern, the paralyzing feelings of hopelessness and helplessness are absent from my answer. Does the person asking really want to know the truthful details of how we received the news?
Not so much!
Not so much do ‘most’ people want to dive into the depths of the unspoken realities of life, marriage and pregnancy over a cup of coffee.
We hide. We hide our fears— to others and to ourselves. We live in a world of comfortable denial. It is easier to stay above the fray and to chat about nonsensical drama, potty training, eating habits, the weather…. anything, anything at all other than something that might strike a chord with our own insecurities.
It’s not that we are shallow or self-absorbed. It isn’t that we don’t care about other people.
It is because we are afraid. We are afraid their story might become our own. We are afraid to overstep the boundaries of conversational niceties. We are afraid to veer too much off of our comfortable track. We are afraid to offend. We are afraid to inquire. We are simply afraid to feel— too much.
I’ve been there. I am sometimes still there. It’s a comfortable place for a visit. I certainly rarely discuss my own personal history, unless I am genuinely asked (and not casually so). I don’t self edit out of shame. I do it because most people just don’t want to really know, or maybe they want to know, but they don’t want to discuss it.
The later, is in part why I continue to urge people to read my book. Life happens, and as it changes (or unravels) you go from not wanting to know, not wanting to discuss it, to feeling utterly alone because these unspoken realities are just that— unspoken. And even if life isn’t unraveling for you, it probably is for one of your dearest friends or it has in the past for you, for someone you know, or it will in the future. That is the essence of life— it is always changing, sometimes for the better and sometimes for opportunities for growth. My story might not be your story, but at it’s core it is a story of surviving “the suck of the day”. It is about surviving the diagnosis of an unborn baby and so much more.
If you haven’t already, I encourage you to pick up a copy of the book— for today, tomorrow or for the moment you need it. Within its covers lie uncomfortable truths, but they are realities. They are realities that I am not ashamed by, defined by or realities from which I hide.
And afterwards, if you want to really ask questions seeking honest answers— I am here.
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