When we were struggling with infertility I was angry. Angry at my pregnant friends for “having it so easy”. Angry at Andy for being so calm and rational. Angry at well-meaning relatives for being “clueless”, “naive”, or “insensitive”. I even went through a phase where I was angry at “our culture” for being so child-centric. “Why,” I would ask, “does every major life event, holiday and family get-together have to revolve around children and their parents? Are Andy and I invisible because we’re childless?”.

My grief and the anger that went along with it was not rational, it was an unseeing reaction to the pain I felt. My anger, more than anything else I think, isolated me from my community and darkened my thoughts. The one person I never expressed anger towards, at least outwardly, was God. I think way deep down I was too stubborn to tell God how angry I was. Too proud to admit that I had expected better. Too insecure to express how deeply disappointed I felt. So I directed my anger at the people around me, alienating them with my negativity.

This time around, as I grieve the changes in our plans for Ramona, I am trying to keep an eye out for anger. I’ve felt it creeping in these last few days. When someone doesn’t seem to “get” how serious her situation is. When I feel that no one can “meet me where I am”. Of course they don’t get it! Of course they can’t meet me! They are trying their best but this is our story. This is our nightmare to navigate. If I’m only willing to take support, encouragement and advice from someone who knows exactly how I’m feeling, I’m gonna be one lonely lady. If I can’t direct my anger appropriately, I’m gonna be miserable. So here goes.

God, I’m angry at you (or You, whatever). I’m angry that you’ve created a world where something like this could happen to our sweet Ramona. I feel tricked. I feel like you were just waiting for me to let my guard down and feel happy so you could tear me down again. I wonder why you would send Ramona to us, only to put her life in danger this way. Some perfect plan. I’m angry that Simon has to pay a price because of our extended absences. I’m angry that Ramona has to fight every day for her life. I’m angry that we just can’t have a normal life, that I can’t just stay at home with my babies and plan our future together. Can you hear me all the way up there on your high horse?

See, now I feel just a little bit better, a little more understood. Forgive me for being negative. Forgive me for being dismissive. Forgive me for being cynical. Thank you all for your love and care.

Jane.