This post is inspired by a small conversation with my husband a few nights ago. He had come home from work early (early for his job is around 8:30 at night) and were sitting on the couch talking while the baby was asleep.
We were talking about church the day before, and he said, "Yeah. When that guy got up front and was talking about how hard it was just to worship, how it took everything he had to even lift up one hand, that's how I felt."
"How you felt when?" I asked him, suddenly perplexed at the serious direction our casual conversation was headed.
"When we lost Ivory. I didn't think I could make it either. I didn't want to worship God."
I always get frustrated because my husband isn't as open about our loss as I am. He compartmentalizes it a lot, which I can't really be upset about because I do the same thing, except for when it comes to our baby. We've had many arguments over the last year and a half because I felt like the loss didn't matter as much to him, that he wasn't as attached to the baby, or because I thought he felt like I was overreacting. Then, he'll randomly say something like our above conversation and I'll realize it absolutely did matter to him and he still feels the pain. He's admitted before to feeling like he has to keep it together for me - even though sometimes I wish he would lay on the floor and just cry like I've been known to do.
My point is this - men process grief a lot differently than women. Just because they don't cry at the mention of your baby's name doesn't mean they feel any differently about it than you do. It took me a long time to realize this. You have to understand that everyone's journey through grief is completely different. I'm still mucking through the waters nearly two years later, but for some people they begin to feel healing much sooner. You can't put a timeline on grief and you can't compare your journey to anyone else's.
My husband isn't a tattoo guy, but I got a tattoo on my wrist to honor Ivory. He got a knife engraved with "Ivory Genesis" and Job 1:21. I put together a shadow box with Ivory's ultrasound picture (I carried this box around the house with me, room to room, for about a week after the miscarriage). He admits to hearing a song on the radio and getting flooded with emotion and memories. We both process things differently, and that's okay.
I'm still waiting for the day that we can sit down together and just talk about the loss without any walls up. It hasn't happened yet, but that's okay too. It will one day, but both parties need to be ready. It can't be rushed.