Unfelt Feelings: What It’s Like Raising a Medically Complex Child

This past week there was a morning I couldn’t keep myself from crying.

I was emptying the dishwasher. Every time I looked up at my girl, I felt it—sorrow, worry, fear—all at once. The tears fought, like they always do. I tried to keep moving. I tried to stay busy. But eventually I sat down on the floor. I couldn’t get back up. I just wanted to weep.

When crying has to be scheduled

People who know me know I say strange things sometimes. Things like, “I need to cry this weekend,” or “I need to push myself into crying.”
They usually look at me like I’ve lost my mind. Who puts that on a to-do list? Why is it hard for you to cry? And why would you need help doing it?

The only way I know how to explain it is this: the fight of unfelt feelings.

We all have them, I think. Those feelings underneath. The ones you know are there, the ones you know need to come up—but you keep them buried. You don’t ignore them. You just… store them. Underground.

In a life that’s a little more complex than others—like raising a medically complex child—that fight feels heavier. Now, I know I’ve never lived another life, so I can’t really compare. But I believe it’s true because of the reactions I get when I talk like this. For some reason, letting tears fall is harder for me than it seems to be for others.

Whether it’s personality or circumstance, some people fight harder to feel.

Recognizing it in someone else

I saw it again recently. I was with another mama in a hospital setting. The memories it brought up for me were overwhelming. The conversations—the hard conversations—she has to face every day. And yet she never broke down. She didn’t lash out. She just kept going.

I recognized it immediately.
The fight of unfelt feelings.

When your body won’t let you stop

It’s a defense mechanism. Your body refusing to let you fall apart because it knows if you do, you might not be able to get back up again.

If I sit down, I’m afraid I won’t stand back up.
If I go to sleep, I’m scared I won’t wake up when the alarm goes off.

Some of this probably sounds like depression. And maybe there’s overlap. But for me, it’s not so much hopelessness as it is never stopping. My mind doesn’t rest. My body doesn’t rest. Stillness feels dangerous.

If I cry, if I sit, if I really think—I’m afraid I won’t be able to handle what comes next.

There are things I’ve written, especially during Paige’s ICU stay, that explain this better than I ever could in a blog.

Underneath

I smile, I laugh
A couple things make me cry—
Yet underneath,
A chasm darkens

When silence comes,
I face the truth
Fear overwhelms me—darkness threatens

I fall, I descend
I’m scared to cry out,
I’m afraid to breathe

But something catches—
I’m left in between

It’s still underneath,
But I’m mostly above

I smile.
I laugh.
A couple things make me cry—

The silence is next to me,
The pain is underneath.

The thoughts that live under everything

How do you cope with this kind of pain?

The kind where your baby girl could stop breathing at any moment. Where her brain may not function in five minutes. Where she can’t walk—where she’s different than the rest. Where you know you’ll never see her walk down the aisle with her daddy. Or braid the hair of a younger sibling.

You may not even see her reach five years old. She could be taken suddenly. She could fall asleep until the Lord calls her home.

These are the thoughts that live underneath.

They’re underneath the dishes in the sink.
Underneath the spreadsheet on my computer.
Underneath the argument with your spouse.
Underneath the hug you didn’t realize you needed.

And then, at some point, you let yourself feel.

The pain rises from your feet into your chest. You feel like you might drown. Your throat closes. The sob doesn’t make a sound because there’s no air left. Your body shakes. You don’t know if it will stop.

And then… somehow… you fall asleep.

And the next morning, there’s just enough relief to stand back up.

What the fight has taught me about God

This isn’t meant to be depressing. It’s not meant to be a dramatic, over exaggeration of life experiences. This is why I tend to write poetry – it is symbolic, it is meant to help you understand the thoughts and feelings even if you’ve never lived it. I do not walk around like a zombie, I live a joyful, immensely fulfilling life. Yet, I have these feelings.

In this fight—with unfelt feelings—I’ve learned more about God’s design than I ever expected. He made my mind to protect me. He created adrenaline so I wouldn’t curl into a ball and disappear. He made me a mama bear so that I can fight.

The fight isn’t bad. It’s hard—but with God, there’s trust. Trust that when I finally break down in the closet, He will lift me. That when all I can do is weep, He will cover me in His presence and somehow help me breathe again.

So yes. I put crying on my to-do list.

And I ask His Spirit to meet me when it finally happens.

Uncomfortable Silence

They say to sit in silence,
To process all the wrong

I’m sitting here—in silence
And my mind has no peace at all

I’m scared of the silence,
Afraid of the quiet
It takes me places I don’t want to go

Yet in that silence,
Something shifts
Healing begins

And slowly,
Silence starts to feel
Quiet again.