I’d never passed out before. I’d seen it depicted in movies, the way that the sound would go distant and the visuals would go blurry, and the image would fade to black. But I’d never experienced it before that day in the hospital.
We had been there for at least an hour. The pain was intense. In a flurry they were putting in the IV and drawing blood for testing. My heart started to race and I could feel myself get clammy. I could hear Tim and the nurse talking, but their voices got further away and harder to hear. I tried to fight it until Tim told me to just give in, so I did. The sound got more distant and my vision became like going through a tunnel in reverse, the bright light getting smaller and smaller until it disappeared. I was probably only out for a few seconds, but as I came to the process reversed. Such a strange experience.
I’m in a limbo right now, angry that my body betrayed me and thankful that my body held up. As the scars on my stomach heal, they remind me of my c-section scar, in all the ways they differ. I never hated that scar, the evidence of the journey that brought me my children, but these scars are different. They tell the story of how my child died. And I hate them for it.
I went clothes shopping today, thinking that somehow this would be a lighthearted adventure to get my mind off of things, but as I stood in the dressing room scorning each new thing I tried on, I hated my body again for its continued betrayal.
I arrived home this afternoon only to have the doctor call me to inform me that I’m severely anemic right now, and we need to work hard to get it under control. Apparently when you lose a pint of blood from internal bleeding, that should be expected. But I cried. My body had failed me again.
Even without trauma, we women have a tenuous relationship with our bodies. From an early age we are taught society’s ideals and we learn quickly that we will never live up to them. How many women starve themselves or push their bodies beyond reason in the vain attempt to vindicate their self worth in their appearance? It’s the trap we sometimes fall into, even when we recognize we are doing it. And for a brief time today I lost that battle. I felt defeated, but the truth is my worth isn’t in the way I look, not even a little. My worth, your worth, is so much more.
My worth is not reflected in my scars. My worth is reflected in the scars of someone else. My worth is reflected in the scars of God’s only Son, who while hanging on a cross, pleaded with His father to spare me (and you.) My worth isn’t in the many ways I may try to earn my place by His side, but that I am loved enough for Him to earn that place for me. And in that, I can find such incredible joy!
Please don’t worry, I know the sadness and frustration I felt today is a normal part of the healing and grieving process. I know my body went through a lot and I am still deep in the trenches of recovery- my scars aren’t even scars yet and my body is still mending from the ordeal. I’m not looking for pity, just sharing my thoughts.