Friday, January 6, 2012

The Fault Zone

earthquake Pictures, Images and Photos

Natural miscarriage takes time. It doesn't happen all at once, like a baseball falling out of the sky. Nor does it start, necessarily, at its most intense. If I'd understood what was to come, I would've been too terrified to traipse around the children's museum (let alone to attend choir practice and prayer meeting) on Wednesday; I can tell you that.

The horror commenced at 4 am, yesterday, and I was reminded how blessed I am to be married to a biology major. I asked him to take the day off, and he did; he took care of the girls while I spent a good part of the day in bed.

At close of business, the head of ultrasound called to talk through my two-page letter of complaint. She validated each of my six, carefully-written points of offense; still, at only two weeks down the pike (and bleeding), the discussion felt like ripping off a Band-Aid, along with the scab just under it.

Around the same time, Clementine awoke from her late nap smack-dab in the middle of an allergic reaction. She was covered from head to toe in hives, and her limbs were solidly orange-red, as though she were sunburnt. I gave her some Claritin and called her new pediatrician, who agreed that--since her breathing wasn't affected--she'd probably be fine.

By bedtime, Clementine was much improved, and, this morning, you'd never know it happened. Strangest thing I've ever seen. I haven't the faintest idea what caused it.

After the girls went to bed, I felt it: quaking in the fault zone of my heart. I decided right then and there to shed even more yuck, and I called up the one person for whom I'd been waiting, the one person who hadn't bothered to show up...not just for weeks, but for years.

I'd been making excuses for them.* I'd been avoiding confrontation because I love them and those associated closely with them. I'd told myself there was no point in sharing my hurt because they wouldn't change their behavior. But I could see, suddenly: the one thing I couldn't abide for one more second was their being unaware.

I knew from past experience: someone can be an utterly insensitive hineyhole, and after you finally snap, finally confront them, they blink innocently and say: "I'm so sorry. I had no idea." So I decided--regarding the person I called last night--whatever they do (or don't) in the future, they won't do (or not do) it blindly. I'll no longer share responsibility for the problem by failing to voice my hurt.

It was a hard conversation, but I spoke truth in love. Please pray for the person who was on the other end of the line.

Afterward, Jim--who had been with (and for) me all day--asked: "What can I do to help you, right now?"

"Nothing," I told him, and I climbed the stairs to call my "no matter what" person. Her voice wafted through the line like smoke, curled around me, tucked me in. It found its way from ear to heart, and I let it fill the gaping places where I couldn't feel Christ. I let it bind up the cracked places in my fault zone.

*pronouns used erroneously and deliberately so as to disguise the gender of the subject whilst avoiding the tedious usage of him/her, his/her, etc.

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