4am today Jack shook me awake. You were yelling Why?! over and over again, he said with a bewildered expression. I have no recollection but Jack told me I’ve been having outbursts like this the past few weeks.
I thought I’ve been dealing with my second loss better. I don’t cry daily. I don’t sit and fixate on what happened. I felt relieved that somehow I’d manage to hurt less this go around. Today as I made an appointment I turned a page in my agenda and bug’s u/s picture drifted out and landed in my lap. It’s been a month since I lost bug. Her presence in my womb while my numbers tanked shocked my doctors, but there it was, a fact I will never forget: My bug was a fighter. She wanted so badly to survive. For the time she lived, she beat the odds.
I keep telling myself not to mourn this loss. Missing bug makes me feel I’m missing a mirage. But apparently subconsciously I am missing bug like crazy. I’ve wondered for some time why I showed my mom the u/s pics when she visited me after my loss. She saw it and burst into tears and kissed the picture holding it close to her chest. I felt a weird sense of relief. Now I think I know why. I think its because I wanted someone else to care. If someone else cared, bug was real, bug mattered.
Today at my hematology appointment the doctor said how far along were you when you lost your two children, I’m sorry, I meant, your babies? I felt like someone jolted me. It took all I had to not to bite my lip from crying, not of sadness necessarily but relief. He got it. He didn’t try to negate my pain with neutral words such as “losses or incidents”. He called them my babies. No one IRL ever called them that before.
Long story short, the hematologist ordered THIRTY different labs on me. He said the current results don’t indicate there is a medical need for lovenox so wanted further testing. The results come back in two weeks. As I was leaving the med tech who drew my blood approached me. Listen, he said, I read your chart. What’s happened to you is horrible. I really hope that whatever is wrong we here will find out and fix it for you.
I’ve been so busy trying to move forward I haven’t really looked back. Yes I’m jolted by grief from time to time but I try not to look at it too deeply. I run, or put on music, or turn on the TV. I’ve learned something today: you can run from the past but it catches up to you, releasing from you like the steam from a volcano. What you hold in will either come out or destroy you from the inside. I’m grateful for being the P word again, and despite the past I remain hopeful and grateful for the opportunity to try again. Still, I will never forget who I lost, and today on this one month anniversary I’m allowing myself a moment to grieve my little fighter.
Spain in July is sizzling and after eight days of blistering weather, we decided to drive up to the Sierra Nevada and its snow capped peaks. Chilly weather guaranteed. The guide book directed us to one mountain in particular promising a mere 100 yard hike to reach the summit from where the ocean and Morocco would be visible with the naked eye. Eager, we began our hike uphill. But the mountain was deceiving for it curved. The further we hiked the longer the horizon of mountain stretched before us. Jack took long strides while I stayed further behind taking baby steps, pausing to catch my breath (little did I know I was pregnant with loss #2). After an hour we looked at each other puzzled. Certainly we’d walked 100 yards. Finally I asked a hiker coming downhill, How much longer? She smiled, not much, about two hours. Our jaws dropped. We never knew it would be so far. Want to keep going? Jack asked. I nodded. I’ll keep going until we get there. We hiked another hour and finally Jack turned around The sun is setting and we still have far to go. I think we should turn around. I protested. I wanted to keep going. You look drained, we brought no water, how do you want to continue? I shook my head. I didn’t know why, but we had to see the ocean. Gently he put his hand on my shoulder we had no idea it would be this far. The guide book was wrong, we need to stop.
Today at work I clicked on a blog and was assaulted by the image of a lovely woman rubbing her belly with the words: Due date November 3. That was my due date. I pressed play on my answering machine. My insurance company congratulating me on my third trimester and wondering why I haven’t filled out sent questionnaires. I sat down, tired, and thought of my negative pg test. The guide books lied. Sex and pre-natals and little fairy dust is not all it takes to have a baby. Lately it feels the longer I hike, the further the mountain stretches before me. As the sun sets around me I wonder will I ever see the ocean? Will these blistered feet ever stop aching?
I’m trying not to let my infertility own me, but sometimes that bitch just tackles me to the ground. Still I trudge on because I’ve heard once you reach the summit the painful hike feels light years ago and you nod and say it was worth it. Will I get to see it for myself? Most days I think I will, but sometimes like now, I feel doubt.
Each morning I feel so exhausted I doubt my ability to get out of bed, and on the weekends that ability crumbles and I find myself in bed until noon at the earliest, and even when I get up I know full well I could have slept for several hours more. During the day, I remain tired and though the amount of exhaustion ebbs and flows the common theme is a strange sort of exhaustion which affects me physically and mentally. I can’t figure it out, the hormones have surely left my body by now, why am I so tired?
I’m trying to lose weight and doing all the right things. I’m watching what I eat and working out but the scale won’t budge past 4 pounds. I’m going to continue trying. If you eat less and expend more, science tells me I must lose weight. I know have PCOS so this makes weight loss more difficult, but it shouldn’t entirely preclude weight loss.
Its been two weeks since my last miscarriage and I’ve channeled all my energy into losing weight and contemplating the steps to take for the next pregnancy. What to do when in-laws come. Lovenox versus Heparin. Timing of ovulation. I’ve been so busy trying to plan for the future perhaps hoping it will allow me to forget what happened in my recent past. But you can only run for so long and then the past, it catches up to you.
Today after days of being okay I sat watching TV and a beautiful name on television made me think I want to name my daughter that. That’s all it took. I gasped as it hit me as though anew: Yeah you’ve been pregnant twice, but what have you got to show for it? You don’t have a baby. You don’t know when you’ll have a baby. Will you ever get pregnant again? Holy shit, it hits me as though its some sort of revelation: I lost my babies. They aren’t here. They’re gone. I’m empty. I’m literally empty. I don’t know what will happen. The future is blank.
Before I met Jack I had bad luck in the guy department. When we married I remember waking up in the middle of the night sometimes in a cold sweat from a nightmare that I had dreamed it all, that I hadn’t met him, that I hadn’t married him, that I just thought I did and it was all a making of my mind. I’d wake up and see him with his head buried in the pillow and breathe a sigh of relief.
This is the opposite. My dreams are haunted by a little girl. She wears gold earrings and short black hair. She wears a blue dress with red frills. She is beautiful. I chase her around the room while she giggles and then I lift her up and kiss her. She flashes me a large toothless grin and I feel a love I cannot bear. Then I wake and its me alone in my darkened bedroom. No crib. No tiny shrieks of joy. It’s just me. No breath of relief just a stifling of grief always waiting to carry me away.
I fight my grief, I promise you. When my friend Lucy called me today and as I told her I’m leaving my job she saidYou should just have babies and make them your life, I think that’s what you were meant to do [oh and yes she knows about my infertility, I know how to pick them it seems] I shook my head and told myself she didn’t mean it, I hung up and went on with my day. I say this to say I’m trying like fucking hell to not let my feelings own me, but sometimes like now when I’m feeling so physically tired, the emotional strain is more than I can bear. Some days like today it feels like my feet are made of bricks and heavy boulders weigh on my head.
A friend likened my struggle to solving a puzzle. First there was the puzzle pieces of actually conceiving which appear to have fallen in place (knock on wood, throw salt over shoulder, any and all superstitions go here). Then we ran into the next obstacle of actually, you know, keeping the child ticking in my womb. We might know the answer to this puzzle and be able to kiss our third baby. [Which, by the way, for others who have miscarried multiple times, does it ever get less surreal when doctors ask you “how many pregnancies have you had?” to answer them with multiples when you have nothing to show for it? It blows my mind to tell them two, surreal]
I’ve decided I can’t wait to solve the puzzle. I’m still bleeding from my miscarriage so I won’t get my period until the end of August so September we try again. I’m nervous because my job ends in September, the month we plan to try and I don’t know what that means as far as insurance, but as long as insurance stuff can be worked out and I can keep my doctor it will be September. I’m so nervous about losing my doctor and having to start this all over again with someone else. Hopefully it will all work out.
In the meantime I’m fighting bitterness which is threatning to close around me like a hollow shell. We went out to Target and as I passed the baby section filled with prams and baby seats I felt a tangible bitterness like biting into a mango peel. I had to literally look away. I saw my mother smile at a small white frock and run her hand over the lacy material and felt my insides turn. Every baby I see sends a hollow echo through my womb. The news of baby genders from people who conceived when I did the first go around are pouring in and they are frankly suffocating me with grief. Not bitterness towards what they have, just bitterness about what I do not. My therapist raises his eyebrows when I say I shouldn’t have miscarried. He says life has its own ways of working, we can’t say what should or should not happen. Should rings of entitlement which leads to hurt and bitterness when one does not get what they think is their right. But fucking hell, I do feel I’m entitled to carry the child I conceive to full term. I think that is my right. If I miscarry I think its a fucking crime and I think it shouldn’t have happened and if I could arrest someone and prosecute to the full extent of the law I sure as fucking hell would. Still, though my feelings are understandable I need to fight this bitterness. Bitterness is like the vines that wrap around abandoned buildings blocking the windows from light, cracking the walls, hiding all beauty. If I stand still and allow the seeds of bitterness to take root they will take over leaving me a shell of who I am. I don’t want this and I’m determined to fight the feeling that threatens to take me hostage. How do you fight bitterness? How do you keep yourself filled with hope and joy despite the seeds of bitterness that fall every day against your doorstep?
I can’t sleep. This is nothing new and its getting old- fast. My friend’s announcement (from the post below) that she’s having a boy makes me miss Speck like crazy. Like her, I too would know now the gender of my baby. I’d be coming up with baby names and trying on maternity clothes. It should be my baby’s kicks keeping me up at night, not the hollow ache of grief. Sometimes I’m so proud to have shaken the shackles of my grief, to have moved forward towards a hope filled world but just as I feel myself escaping grief’s clutches she finds me, pulling me back into her lair. Is it possible to be hopeful yet at moments filled with the sharp stabs of grief?
My HCG is 60 today. I re-test in two weeks. I’ve lost three pounds. I’ve struggled for years to drop these nagging ten pounds that will put me into my target BMI, but now post loss, I need something over which I have control, and this eating business, at least its something I can do something about. My OB-GYN theorizes once I reach my ideal BMI my PCOS will self-resolve. I’m doubtful of this theory since I know PCOSers of all shapes and sizes but at least I can get her to stop saying that.
Lillyshephard reflects on her losses on her blog and refers to her season of grief. That term says it all. I’m still in my season of grief. August is here, pushing July, my month of joy and instant loss into a firm calenderical past. I normally cringe at a new month with nothing to show for it, but this time I’m thankful for August. Perhaps it will lead me closer to my season of peace.
All my life I’ve been blessed with the ability to sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. Lately I toss and turn each night and then relocate to the couch watching reruns and researching miscarriages, PCOS, lupus anticoagulant, anything and everything I can find. I havent slept before 3am in over a week and its catching up to me. It’s approaching midnight now and I know it will be another sleepless night. I hate the dark thoughts that whisper to me in bed, and I fear the uncertainty of not knowing what the morning will bring.
Today was a tough day physically. I’ve been having sharp contractions. I’m taking Lortab a painkiller and its having wonky side effects. I took it last miscarriage and felt fine, but this time I’m feeling nauseous, dizzy, tired and very drugged. I couldn’t drive to work, so I thought at least I’d clean up since my parents are coming into town tomorrow, but I couldn’t do anything except curl up in bed. I am afraid to take Lortab again, its a debate at the moment between the painful contractions as tissue is expelled through my body, or the feeling of being heavily drugged. I have an appointment with my OBGYN tomorrow afternoon. We spoke yesterday when she called in my pain killer prescription she said I’m afraid I won’t be able to tell you for sure what caused your miscarriage but next time you’ll get Lovenox from the get go. We’re still waiting for lab results for a comprehensive test the Maternal Fetal Specialist ran on my blood to determine what other disorders I have. I want to know if there’s testing that’s available to know if I have low progesterone levels, and what can I do if I do have low levels considering most experts say you must start supplements as soon as you ovulate and me with my PCOS never know when/if ovulation occured.
Emotionally I’m doing better. I’m trying to battle my dark thoughts. I’m telling myself that 30 is not too late, I still have time and shouldn’t lose hope (right??). My parents are coming tomorrow. I’m afraid of crying too much around them. I just feel like I’ve disappointed them and seeing them reminds me of this. I know that’s not the case but just thinking about it makes my eyes well with tears. I wish I could kick this unhealthy guilt.
Finally, I’ve been humbled to read Michele‘s blog. She’s been commenting on my blog as I wade through my darkest days and only today did I realize how much more she herself is going through right now. Every day I’m amazed at how strong you all are. You comfort me and give me support in the midst of your own fears and unique heartaches. I don’t think I can say it enough, thanks.
**Updated to Add**: Holy shit. I woke up this morning around 6:15 to take a shower and see my therapist at 7am before going to work. I woke up feeling a weird coat of sweat on me and kind of shivering, then suddenly I had an overwhelming desire to vomit but I couldn’t, but I wanted to, its the most terrible place to be. So I think to myself that a shower will help so I turn the shower on, and the next thing I know I’m lying on the floor and Jack is on the phone with 911 screaming wake up wake up honey wake up. Apparently I passed out in the bathroom but fell backwards hitting my head against the bathroom doors and landed with a thump on the floor. I don’t know how long I was out for but apparently long enough for Jack to rush over and see if I was okay and call 911. I still remember hearing his voice as I was coming to, not knowing where I was, what was happening. I looked up the side effects of Lortab and one of the serious ones is nausea, dizziness, clamminess, and fainting. Clearly I won’t be taking any more of these painkillers but I wanted to post this for anyone considering taking Lortab, monitor yourself closely or ask for a different pill.
I thought going to work would do me some good. I wondered if immersing myself in work would help me escape. Today as I got out of the car in the parking lot I saw a baby seat in the car next to me and suddenly my breathing was so painful I thought a rib cracked. I couldn’t believe this is me, standing next to my car going pale trying to breathe in and out. Keeping the tears at bay is impossible business when there is a leaking dam behind your eyes. I have never had to take it one step at a time. I stood in the elevator and said just make it through this elevator ride. I got out and said good girl, now get to your office unlock it and get in. You can do it. I’ve never felt this fragile before.
Last night Jack and I had a very intense conversation. We really talked for the first time in months. For so long he’s been my rock and he told me sometimes he feels like that’s all he is, a rock for me while I deal with loss and infertility. He said he sees me obsessed with children and the fear of never having children and he wants to go back to how it was the first five years of our marriage when we were more than two organisms set on this planet to reproduce. He feels like I don’t care about him anymore, that all I care about is having a child. That I don’t appreciate our relationship anymore. I couldn’t believe he could think this. I thought how much I loved him was a given to him. I guess that’s the problem, I’ve let it become a given. I’ve taken it for granted. He said me focusing on this one area in which we lack spits on all the areas that are good and beautiful in our life. It’s not your fault, he keeps telling me.
How can I explain that I feel like a failure as a woman. At my basest core what sets me apart from a man is my ability to bear life. My breasts are to feed a child. My hips are to hold them and help their passageway into the world. I never imagined a life without children of my own. I feel I’ve failed at the most basic level of being a woman sometimes. I know this is logically not the case but sometimes it feels very much this way. He says not to blame myself but people never realize how subtly they do put the blame on me. The nurse in the ER said you didn’t wait long enough to try again. The ultrasound tech said you must stress out a lot, stress causes miscarriages. Well meaning friends say relax and it will happen. Simply saying this is all your fault you know? would be simpler and more to the point.
Jack says not to lose hope but to start focusing on other things in life, to let go of this obsession. I think maybe I need to do a little less hoping. Maybe I need to go into the darkest part of myself and face what life would be like without the one thing I thought with certainty I would someday have, children. Jack says if I do that then I’m giving up. I feel like I’m facing my darkest fear to put it to rest so that perhaps I will have peace. I’m not sure which way to go.
But Jack’s right, I am obsessed. I can’t focus on all the other great things in my life. I know them, I can list them out but I don’t feel them in my heart. He told me you’re a writer! you love to cook, you scrapbook, you work out, you read, you have more going on in your life than just this one thing. This is why he wants to take a break for a few months. We’re definitely taking a break until someone can tell me what’s wrong with me, but he said take a mental break from all of it, try to find out who I am again. Infertility and grief has been so all consuming this year in particular I dare say I really have forgotten who else I am besides a miscarrying infertile.
Has grief ever threatened to strangle you? Have you ever felt its sinewy arms snake around you and tighten clamping against your neck making you feel you might literally actually die. I was okay yesterday. Sure, sad, but not feeling like I might go mad with grief. Today I woke up and suddenly the world seemed like a dark inhospitable place. I’m so angry. My head throbs with fumes of fury. My tears are hot they burn like acid on my skin. Please don’t tell me the stages of grief. I know them backwards and forwards. But stages, and charts they make me angry right now, cataloguing my emotions telling me in a didactic voice how I should be feeling. I am mad that I had to put through a run around for ten days only to have a conclusion like this. I’m so fucking mad that I don’t know what the road ahead has in store for me. Will I be 80 reading back my words and have nothing to show for it? How long will I write in this infertility blog about my struggle? Will it spill over into another year? Another decade?
I want so desperately to be at peace. I want so desperately not to feel this pain scorching every cell in my body. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to hurt. Two losses, and I know that there is no guaruntee that it will stop at just two. Right now there is a dark cloud over my head, its real and its black and its rife with thunder and lightening and any moment it will strike and it will knock me dead. I don’t know if I will ever be the same. I don’t really know, how I’m supposed to go on. Two miscarriages. Two. All innocence is loss. All banal attempts at yeah sure it’ll happen for you mean jackshit. My thirtieth birthday looms large mere weeks from now and what have I got to show for it?
I can’t sleep despite my best efforts so as I thought I’d share what happened. The doctor called around noon and from her voice I could tell things were bad. My HCG level, instead of doubling from 3500, dropped to 3000. She said this miscarriage is different from the last one. The last one was so close to the second trimester. We saw a heart beat and she’s convinced the lupus anticoagulant caused it. This one, due to how early its happening, she thinks is a more standard first trimester loss. One of those shit happens time of deal. She told me to still see the maternal fetal specialist tomorrow so that we can get a go ahead on lovenox the blood thinner. This way next pregnancy as soon as I see two pink lines I can start the shots right away. She called it pre-pregnancy planning except that technically I’m still pregnant. She told me I’m a high risk pregnancy person now.She wants to test my HCG levels Monday and asked me to give it two weeks to see if I’ll miscarry naturally. For such an early pregnancy she doesn’t want to put me through a D&C. It’s not easy to walk around knowing something is in you that no longer has a chance.
We ordered Chinese take out and watched two silly comedies in a row (Paul Blart Mall Cop, He’s Just Not That IntoYou) Those helped take my mind off of things but as soon as the television shut off and we went upstairs to sleep I can’t stop thinking about what happened. I can’t believe I’m going through this again. I thought it was a blessing from God, how I found peace of mind and began to just trust in the process. I found prayer and meditation and then out of the blue it happened. I was pregnant! Except it really didn’t. Two things swirl through my mind whispering in my ear:Its so hard for me to get pregnant. Now when I get pregnant, I’m high risk to lose the pregnancy.
I feel numb like someone dipped me in Novicain. My head is throbbing but inside I just feel empty. Except I’m not empty am I? There is an embryo within my womb falling apart pieces at a time. I cringe at the BFP HPT I wrapped and placed on the dinner table for our seventh anniversary. Jack’s face lighting up with joy makes me now sink further into darkness. My thoughts weave and meander through empty buildings and tiptoe over landmines. Will I ever get pregnant again? Will I ever be a mother? When can I try again? Am I ready to try again? Should I just give up? It is a sickening feeling to know that I now have to wait to miscarry. Wait to bleed. Try again. Two Week Wait again. Have any of you ever considered just giving up? The feeling consumes me at the moment.
My dad sent me an e-mail. It was actually a note I wrote to him 14 years ago when he lost his job and the small business he opened didn’t work and we were on the brink of losing our home. He time traveled me back to the past in an attempt to comfort with me with my own words:
Lately life seems hard and I know its very stressful for you. But please remember never to feel guilty b/c you did what you thought was right. Always keep in mind that this stress is only temporary. We have dealt with worse and we all love you very much.No matter what may happen as long as you have us and we are all healthy and safe, there is no reason for stress. I love you so much, and it makes me sad that you have so much to deal with. But keep in mind all the good things in your life. I am proud of you, and I love you more than anything else. Every night pray to God, He loves you and you always try to help people. I love you and I want your happiness.
Thank you so much to all of you who read and left me words of comfort. I read them and it felt like a hug from each and every single one of you. I don’t know what I would do if I did not have this small space in the blogosphere to let out my feelings and if I didn’t have your support who unfortunately know all too well my pain. With the way IF is such a hush hush ‘shameful’ topic I shudder to think how alone I would otherwise feel.
My dream for myself and each one of you reading is that one day our blogs will be gathering dust because we’re too busy playing with our coveted children. Until then, I’m here. Wringing my tears with the written word.
No one really knows what’s going on, and honestly, I don’t want to verbally talk about it with anyone. Jack knows, but the thought of explaining this and the real possibility of an impending miscarriage, I just can’t do it. For that reason I’m writing a lot on this blog of mine. Thanks to those who are reading. If you think I’m talking too much, sorry, I just need some way to sort through my feelings.
I didn’t wake up to pee two nights in a row now. My boobs are a little bigger, a little sore, but otherwise I have no symptoms. None of the comforting irritability I had with Speck. With Speck I could want to kill you or weep for hours just for looking at me funny. So irrational, but so secure to know the hormones were running rampant through my blood. I feel so normal right now because the progesterone isn’t running high through my body. Honestly, if anyone ever complains about bad preggo symptoms in my presence, I’m not sure what I will do. Cursing nausea is cursing a healthy thriving pregnancy. I can’t judge them, if I didn’t have these issues would I be similarly sensitive?
Last night I was changing my clothes and pressed my hand against my stomach. I felt overwhelmed with so much grief and so much fear. You see, its one thing to be patient and calm for me in trying to get pregnant, that is hard and a struggle as is, but to know that someone is growing inside me and then may not, that is double pain. Pain for me and pain for who I loved and lost. A big part of me wants to accept this is over. The symptoms aren’t there. The progesterone is low. I just might miscarry. The other part, the hopeful part raising its hand from the back of the classroom squeaks, but you might not.
I’m trying hard to distract myself. I’ll shower now and blow dry my hair. I’ll read a nice book. I’ll clean my bedroom. I can’t walk around with this sharp stabbing pain for the next 48 hours. I don’t know. To lose two beings I love in the span of months, it makes my head throb.
If you get hit by a paintball you won’t die but at the time of impact you feel you just might. The bruise aches for days to come. Last night I went to dinner with some friends and Tricia (who I wrote about here). All the women were either pregnant or new mothers. I knew this was coming and had tried preparing for the onslaught to come. The onslaught came. Sitting at the center of the table the conversations swirled around me like swarming bees threatening to sting. The talks about labor, feeling a child kick inside you, motherhood’s triumphs and burdens and the joy a child brings to your world.
I was fine. I prepared for these conversations. I felt like a soldier standing on the front line. Until. Until, Maria said with a smile the time that you hold your child within your womb is the most magical time . It’s so amazing to know you are sustaining them and that you both share a unique connection. Sting.
I felt in an alternate universe as the conversations continued around me. I held Maria’s ten week old baby and all I could think as I looked at her cherubic face was ten weeks. Ten weeks since I lost you Speck. I lost you for as long as I held you. I must sit with this smile plastered on my face while my heart crumbles inside my chest as I remember you. I saw you on the ultrasound. I felt the exhaustion and the nausea. You were real but you didn’t make it. You will never know these babies. I will never hold you. Maybe other babies, but not Speck, not my first.
Our friends followed us to our house for dessert and I cried the entire way home. I felt empty. Luckily dessert went much better. We ate chocolate cake and laughed and conversed until three in the morning. She made me smile when she said, Sometimes I just sit and watch her sleep. Then she said with a dreamy look Labor was amazing. I felt pain but I couldn’t help but think, wow I’m bringing a being into this world. I turned to her, and with a raised eyebrow said, labor was amazing? She laughed and said, Kate, I thought I would never be a mother. I wanted to be one so badly that every minute of pregnancy and now every minute of motherhood is a complete and utter blessing. I love hearing her cry. I love waking up at 2am to feed her. I don’t take a minute for granted. Wow- I got goosebumps.
As they were leaving Maria said to our husbands, Give us a second I need to talk to Kate privately.
Turning to me, she said Are you considering IVF. I did a double take. Was I that obvious? The huge IF stamped on my forehead? Or maybe IF sisters can recognize one another better? They notice the subtle clenching of cheeks or imperceptible sighs. I’m not sure. As we walked to the car she said Kate, consider this time a test from God. Consider yourself singled out to be drawn closer to Him. You have a good life, you met the guy of your dreams young, you went to law school, you have a house and great families, we can get stagnant spiritually when life is going well. Consider this struggle a blessing. It’s a time for you to grow stronger and learn a lot about yourself. Just remember if He wants it to happen, it will. I got pregnant naturally after four failed IVF cycles. He just has to say BE and it is. Consider yourself blessed and grow from your pain.
For the past few years I felt so conflicted about God and spiritual matters that though I believed, I kind of packaged it all away, observing some rituals but not really letting it enter and settle into my heart. But when moments like the one I shared with Maria occur. Those out of the blue moments where someone tells you exactly what you needed to hear . . . seeing Maria after two years and her opening up to me and sharing her infertility struggles and then, just when I reached my emptiest moment to pull me aside and advise me…. I can’t help but wonder if perhaps she came into my life when she did for a purpose.
There is a constant ache in my heart. I can smile, I can laugh, I can behave like a functional member of society, but the truth is, inside I am constantly splintering into a million different peices. Rebuilding, then crushing like dust once more.
My body is playing tricks with me. Still exhausted. Still no period. Still sore boobs. Still thirsty. Still strange discharge. I woke up at 4am last night to pee. Only did that when I was pregnant. I took another test, BFN.
I know that PCOS means wonky cycles, but Metformin was supposed to fix that. The first few months on it, I had regular cycles. This troubles me: out of 12 possible cycles, my lengthy cycles give me around 8 chances and of those, with PCOS, who knows when I ovulated, if even? My doctor will fight me on progesterone to jumpstart this cycle. She will fight me on Clomid. If I can convince her I’ll need to first get an HSG test done, and Jack will need to get a Sperm Analysis. This will take many months. I won’t be on all of this until at least August. The thought of this, of all the obstacles, and all the time, and all the uncertainty its tearing me apart.
I scheduled to see my therapist tomorrow. Jack was so happy when he found out. Ask him what I should do? Ask him how I can be a good partner for you. I asked him, Are you getting frustrated. He said, Honey, I love you but this is killing me. Your constant pain, your tears, I just don’t know what to do anymore. He said it with love and it broke my heart. I’m hurting. I’m hurting Jack. The thought of hurting this good man brings tears to my eyes.
I can’t keep doing this. I can’t live my life this way. I need to do some serious soul searching. I need to find a way to make peace with the facts of my life, with my condition, with the reality that I don’t know the future and that I may never have children. I wish I knew how to do this.
Jack asked me today, Help me understand: You have a loving relationship with your brothers and parents, you and I get along wonderfully, you’re quitting a job you hate to pursue a dream, we travel the world together, and eat lots of delicious chocolate chip cookies. Your life is the same as it always was. Yes you want something, but even if you don’t get that, what you have, isn’t that good?
This is how I can explain. Imagine a drawing, a cartoon drawing you make as a kid. The portrait has a stick figure boy, and a girl, a big heart between them. Next to them is my parents and brothers all cute stick figures with big smiles. There is green grass and a lake nearby and fish swimming with wide grins. You see a house in the back with a little chimney, and I’m holding an album of “Our travels” in my hand. Now imagine a hole. A rip on the top right hand corner of the page. It’s a large hole. It does not take away from what’s drawn on the page but its there, and you can’t help but notice this ugly hole just there. The more you try not to look at the hole the more you see it. Soon its all you can see.
That’s where I am right now. I’m trying to learn how to co-exist with that hole. I’m trying to appreciate the rest of the picture. The difference between Jack and me is this: Jack thinks I see the world mourning for what was never there. I look at our world and I see something missing. There is a difference.
I once had a friend. She was my best friend. We did everything together and I trusted her completly. Our husbands were friends. We had standing invitations to one another’s house each weekend. I felt grateful to have them so dear to us. One day out of the blue she stopped speaking to me completely. She made new friends. When I saw her, she would turn her back and ignore me. One day her friends tore up pictures of me in her home and stuck them on the fridge. To this day I have no clue what I did. In the beginning I’d call and beg her to tell me what I did wrong. Our friendship was worth more than a misunderstanding, or if I made a mistake, worth more than ending over a mistake. At least, I asked, tell me what my mistake was. She refused. She as a bubbly vivacious girl attracts friends like honey and bees. I withdrew from all the social circles because it was uncomfortable to be in a corner while all the people crowded around her. She hurt me so badly. She is pregnant.
She called me three weeks ago after two years of silence and cold glares and left a message saying she wanted to tell me what happened. It did not sound like an apology (which I would have accepted so we could move on) but instead a time to rehash what happened two years earlier. No, I thought. I’m done with the past. I’ve moved on. I wondered why now?
My friend who told me Tricia was pregnant was not prepared for my face to go white. For me to get tears in my eyes. I told her about my miscarriage. Otherwise I’d look really weird wouldn’t I? It was uncomfortable. I wish I hadn’t shared though she is very supportive. I just have a very hard time talking about face to face I guess.
I told Jack. He’s out of town. He said he knew. My friend’s hubby [Chris] is still in touch with Jack I guess. Chris told Jack before Tricia called and left the message My wife has PCOS she finally got pregnant and she wants to call and apologize to Kate. Jack told Chris that it was up to me what I wanted to do. He didn’t tell me any of this because he didn’t want to influence my decision and he knew how emotional I could get.
I’m just thinking to myself: Why. Why two days before my period? As I sit on a heap of negative pregnancy tests when Jack is not here When I’m in a darkened home all by myself, WHY NOW do I have to hear this? This girl was downright mean. In the end she won by having all my friends. Now she wins the battle of fertility too.
That’s silly isn’t it? Were not competing? But she did win. She gets a room full of friends while I sit here alone. She gets to have a baby while I sit and mourn mine.
Why God. Why does it work that way? I’m crying. I’m feeling a mix of emotions. Jealousy. Guilt over my jealousy. Anger at the All Mighty. Self Pity. Grief. Hopelessness. A huge helping of hopelessness. Fucking hell, infertilyt sucks. I hate being powerless. I hate having no control. I hate this SO much.
I talked to Jack about it today and he says I’m darker than usual. He said that the level of emotionality that I’m displaying is like how I was weeks after the miscarriage. I’m wondering if this is because of the fact that I’m due for a period on Saturday (I think- you never know with PCOS). This is PMS times twenty. Is PMS post miscarriage more horrifying for everyone? I’d like to think my emotions are just my hormones getting the better of me. I hope so.
Last night my husband looked at me with an expression I never saw before. What’s the matter? I asked him. Nothing, he said, I just wish so much you could be a mother. You want it so much and each time I see you I see someone who does not feel complete. I so badly want you to feel complete.
I’ve been thinking a lot during this two week wait (incase the incessant posting has not made this obvious) about infertility and the nature of the emotions that course through me. My miscarriage was one huge blow, a hammer thrown from across the room tearing my insides in two. My infertility is a twisting around my heart every month. I grieve my miscarriage but it happened. It was a tangible thing that was. I can count down, two weeks since my miscarriage… three weeks… two months.. three months… but this infertility business- this is horrifying. It’s month after month after month of fresh new pain, fresh new disappointment and grief.
Being infertile makes me sometimes feel I’m trapped in a maze and I’m unable to find my way out. I am so tired of trying. I am so sick of two week waits. The prospect of months or years of more of the same is so daunting that a part of me wants to just give up. Just forget about having kids and accept being childless. At least I can move on. This infertility thing is a sentence to an eternal grounddog day.
I’m sick of being Charlie Brown. I’m sick of Lucy pulling the football at the last possible moment. I’m sick of falling for it each and every single fucking time. I’m really tired. Part of me really wants to stop playing.
My hair dresser discussed how her two sisters are pregnant. Yeah, they plan their pregnancies for the same time. Must be nice, I think. Again, I am asked when will I have kids. I tell her not everyone can plan their pregnancies, some of us just get pregnant when we can. I did not say it with snarky intent. I said it because I am tired of being a silent sufferer. I am not about to tell my relatives at the wedding when they ask about my childless state Hey y’all, I’m infertile. My mom in fact, rushed up to me with my bottle of Metformin, hide it! She said. Can we find a unlabeled container to place these in! People will know! I’m not ready to tell my relatives but, but I can tell others so they are aware its out there, because we’re a whole a bunch of people and we tend to walk around like we must be ashamed. I felt good about this.
I came back to my parent’s house after the appointment. A cousin I have not seen in a year is over. She stood up to hug me. She was pregnant. Correction: She is pregnant. I was pregnant. She is 20 weeks pregnant. I would have been 17 weeks pregnant. She said, yeah, we wanted the next to be two years apart from Nora.
It felt like someone picked me up and threw me against a brick wall. I’m not exaggerating. I feel ripped to shreds. The reaction is not an intellectual one. I am about to write what I feel. It will not be eloquent and it will not be nice. It is not me. It is the basest part of me. Please don’t judge me. Please don’t hate me because I am about to wallow… and let myself self pity…. I am so FUCKING angry with the world right now. Speck, why are you gone? WHY did you leave me? Why me? Why did this have to happen to me? What did I do wrong? What did she do right? Why can’t I plan my fucking pregnancies? Why can’t I have a nice big pregnant belly? Why is my baby gone? Speck my heart remains torn into shreds. It’s raw and it smarts each time its touched. Can someone tell me what to do to take this pain away?
I’m getting ready for a wedding in the family and things have been so hectic I have hardly had a second to eat or sleep or even think too much. The thinking part has been good. It’s been nice to get my mind off of things as best I can. Right now, though, everyone is out. My dad is sleeping, my mother is shopping. My brothers and husband are out on a barbeque (a very G rated bachelor party).
When a river is running swiftly you cannot see what lies beneath as clearly as you can when the wind stops and the flow slows into calm stillness. The wind has slowed and grief is whispering my name. I’m trying to ignore it because I fear if I look I will turn into a stone Medusa.
Relatives fly in tonight. Dammit how I had dreamed of this day just this April. Letting them discover my joyous news by the swell of my growing belly. I iron my clothes for the big day and I remember that these no longer need to be altered to fit my changing form. I remain unchanged.
Last night I had a vivid dream. I was breast feeding a little baby. I watched him nourish himself and as the days passed I watched him grow. I saw him learn to smile and I felt a flutter when I realized he recognized me! I woke and felt a deep sense of longing. Another glimpse of the beauty of motherhood.
Today at the nail salon, the manicurist asked me, so you married seven years, no baby? I guess you want to make money and save up before? I told her I’ve been trying for a long time to have a baby. I dont care about making more money. I care about having a child. She went silent and nodded. The moment felt freeing.
I hesitate to say that I may be ovulating today. I hesitate since with PCOS you can never trust the signs your body emits. Still, if it is the case then I am ovulating on a regular schedule. I could tell you I’m not getting my hopes up, but I am. Despite my pessimism, I am a hopless optimist. As an infertile I continue to grow more comfortable with this paradox.
I promised myself this time I would not attach myself to any new pregnancy like I did last time. No nicknames. No talking to it. No reading up on developmental stages. No pregnancy booklets. Yet, this morning my mom called me baby bug. We all laughed when she explained it meant I was her baby and I was bugging the ever living daylights out of her. Jack turned to me and said Baby bug. The next one, she will be our baby bug.
I’m not even pregnant. I don’t even know when I will be, or if I will be. I don’t even know if I will continue to miscarry each time I conceive, but fucking hell if baby bug isn’t the cutest damn thing I’ve ever heard. Just the sound of it makes me crave the fullness in my womb stronger than before.
I’ve been crying at the drop of a hat today. I think part of it is I’m emotional since my baby brother is getting married. He’s my best friend and I’m happy he’s found love but its a big change and I hope we will remain close. It’s the other reason that’s hurting more: this is the first time I’ll see my family after my miscarriage. Last time it was baby talk all the time. We debated names. My mom took me crib shopping. My brothers drove me to midnight taco bell runs. Speck would have been the first grandchild. One of the joys I felt about my baby was imagining their faces as they held the first grandchild. This week my relatives were going to find out I was pregnant. I would be sixteen weeks pregnant. I’m scared to see my family. I’m scared I will break down and weep. No one but Jack has seen me break. I’m afraid of scaring people with the rawness of my emotions. If I hurt I know my parents will hurt, so I plan to do my best to keep it to myself. This will be difficult because as my parents they can usually tell if my heart is breaking. Still, I’m going to try. This weekend is about my brother, not me. I plan to keep myself in check and smile and pretend there is no nail jamming into my heart, but I am scared that the acting job this time may not be sufficient.
Jack and I went on a trip to the pacific northwest this past weekend. We flew into Seattle and also spent two nights in Portland, OR. I have always wanted to live in Portland based on what I’ve heard about it. The world’s largest bookstore, beautiful rose gardens, a wonderful small town which is quaint but cultured and beautiful! I am proud to say that I had only one day where I got a bit teary but otherwise, I have not wept in about four days.
It’s funny how my view on my miscarriage and my infertility has changed since my miscarriage. When I saw parents with young children and babies, I always felt a tug, the biological clock, tapping on my empty womb, but now, its different. I wish I could explain it. We walked by the space needle in Seattle and I did not want to go up because judging from the people standing in line, it was something you do with kids. They had a whole carnival set up, for kids. In Portland, I was browsing through Powell’s books and stared at the large children’s section. They had the “Hungry Caterpillar” series. If I was pregnant I would have purchased a suitcase worth of kids books. I kept seeing pregnant women and feeling a feeling like homesickness… except I can’t go back.
I always felt a sense of sadness over my infertility but now I feel childless. I keep thinking of my baby. The life I had so briefly planned. I see children and I see little ones who made it through the first trimester. I feel like a poor kid who craved a lollipop for weeks. The shop owner says, “You want it? Go take it. No really, you can have it.” The kid reaches out and holds it. He unwraps the plasic cover and glances at the shop owner who smiles and nods encouragingly. As he opens his mouth to taste, he shop owner grabs the lollipop, kicks him to the floor, the lollipop now shards. That’ll teach you to think you can just have a lollipop!
Before my miscarriage, I stared at the lollipop with large longing eyes. Now, I’m tending to bruises and feeling stupid for having dared coveted it. Before my miscarriage, I longed to be pregnant. Now I am scared to dream.
So in short, I think I’m moving on, though in some ways I remain running in place.
I think whoever named the dot at the end of the sentence a period was someone who struggled with infertility. A period is the end. It is the final point. It is an emphatic statement. It is telling me no, period. Don’t waste money on a pregnancy test, period. You are not pregnant, period.
A new month. A new cycle. The endometrial lining sheds. The period ensues. The body forgets what the mind cannot, that a child once resided inside. My body, it has moved on. Body, I appreciate you started a cycle as you were supposed to. This is a feat I don’t recall you ever doing. But body, since you’ve decided to move on, why couldn’t you take the rest of me with you? This bleeding should comfort me that hope lies ahead, but all it does is remind me of the blood I shed four weeks ago. The little being that left me bereft. The soul that still does not know how to mend.
I feel like pounding my hands on the pavement and yelling to God I don’t want to be infertile. I tremble with tears and rage. I tremble with fear for my future, this unknown journey. Next cycle is out because my supposed ovulation will occur during my brother’s wedding weekend for which my mother has arranged all the men to stay in hotels and all the womenfolk relatives to invade the home. I laugh at this worry since it took so long to get pregnant, am I really foolish enough to think it will just take one cycle to conceive?
The cramps hurt more. The bleeding is worse. The emotional devestation scorches my soul yet again. I called it my miracle pregnancy. I’ve heard lightening does not strike twice.
I rarely get on twitter anymore. I never was big on it anyway. Today I checked in. A friend who is a new mother tweeted After nine months I can finally eat raw cookie dough! I missed it so.
I am now biting my lip to fight back tears. You see, I ate raw cookie dough. I ate sunny side up eggs, twice. You’re not supposed to eat raw eggs when you’re pregnant. The day I found out I was pregnant, I had eaten sushi. No! Said the doctor- no sushi for you! I drank tea almost every day. Some caffeine okay, but better none at all! I lifted a carry on suitcase. No straining yourself when pregnant! I remember seeing a man looking at me as I lifted it and thought, I shoudl ask him. But I didn’t. I did it myself.
I read that one sentence and guilt now seeps through my pores like acid. What kind of mother would I be? Could I not push away for nine months my selfish desires? Did I in any way cause my baby to die? Is this my fault? Do I deserve to be a mother?
Dear God- if you still listen to me. I promise to be better next time. I swear.
When my friend Linda called to express her condolences, she said I heard it happened a while ago. I sat in my car considering the words a while ago. When my miscarriage first happened, a blogger who struggled through this too e-mailed me. She told me it took her about a month to see a ray of light. One month ago, on April 13, 2009 this felt like a very long time away. Now, I can’t believe its been a month. It feels like two weeks ago, two days ago, sometimes it feels like two minutes ago.
Things are certainly different now. On the whole, I’m better than I was a month ago. Its been four days since I curled up and cried until I shook. It used to be every day, and it used to involve expletives. I can go five minutes and not think about it. Its an improvement from every second of every minute of every day. In short, I am better. From where I was, I’ve climbed K2.
I’m not sure what I would do if I did not have this blog as my safe place to let out my feelings and frustrations. What Iv’e shared here are things I have difficulty verbalizing because a) they are too painful and b) what on earth do I expect anyone to say? My mother would be shocked if she came across this. She knows I’m sad, but I shield her from the depths of my grief. Having briefly held the dream of motherhood myself, I can only imagine how much my pain would hurt her.
I remember two years after my wedding a friend said, “I saw your wedding pictures! I know it was a while ago!” and I felt stunned at how it really had been a while ago though it felt like yesterday. It still feels like yesterday that I married Jack and yet it truly has been a while ago. Will this miscarriage be the same? Time will continue to distance me from the child I briefly knew and the horror of the night that was April 13, 2009. Time will certify that moment as a while ago but will I continue to feel like it happened yesterday?
Two weeks ago when I saw my therapist I discussed my attempts to supress my tears, to try and not listen to sad music, to move on. He told me not to do this. He said I should let myself cry and not judge myself and if I want to listen to sad music while I do so, its okay. I’ve resisted doing this until today. Today the grief weighed so heavy and dark over me I couldn’t stand it. I worked out and then lay down, my ipod in my hand and listened to all the songs that I avoid and I cried. My body wracked with sobs. I cried for sixty minutes. As I calmed down Jack walked in and saw me weeping and lay next to me and held me. I feel so empty now, but in a good way. I feel calm. I know this is temporary. The eye of the storm. But I am grateful. I share this personal story so that if you are like me fighting against your grief, let yourself sink into it from time to time. Not always, but at certain times each day or each week, however frequently you need it, and let it out. I’ve fought it for so long but I think allowing yourself to sink from time to time is the only way I will heal.
Incidentally, someone found my website with the search term: I fucking hate infertility. To you who found me like this I’m with you. Infertility is fucking awful. I feel your pain.
Sometimes, like today, I feel like a freak as grief attacked me in the middle of the day at work. I sat with an odd expression, far off and lost. Someone made a joke about a good looking co-worker and I must have looked at her with a strange expression for she mumbled I was just kidding Kate…
I feel like my husband is tiring of this continuous grief. I feel like people wonder when the hell I’ll move on. How many times can someone nod their heads with sympathy? How many times can they see my distant expression and feel compassion? They must wonder: She smiles and laughs one minute and the next she looks suicidal. How can I explain this to anyone when this baffles me too? There is only so far anyone can travel with me in my grief. They can follow me to a point- and then I must walk the rest of the road alone. My pain is private and only I reside within its reaches. Only I know how empty my heart is, how profusely my soul bleeds. I hate grief and how it can wreak havoc within me casting its shadow onto my exterior expressions despite my best attempts to hide it.
My mask is cracking. I’m tired of wearing it. I just want to be whole again.
Sometimes, like today, I feel all alone. I want a hug. I want someone to promise me it will be allright, and I want them to mean it. I want to melt into nothingness, numb to the pain that resides with me. Loneliness is an island, and though I am surrounded by people- in the end I am truly alone.
Last night during my training, I lay in my double bed and chatted a little with my roomate. She talked about getting unexpectedly pregnant at 34 and then marrying her husband. She said I’m so grateful it happened though I was not expecting that my life would involve children. My son has transformed my life. Before I had him, I did not know how incomplete I was, how many holes there were in my life. By having my son I realized I am now complete. She called to wish her son good night and said to me, when you have kids you’ll see how hectic life gets and how your world revolves around them. In the morning she yawned and stretched saying Wow I slept in past 6am. You not having kids don’t have to deal with that! She doesn’t know about my miscarriage and how fully aware I am of the holes in my life that being childless pokes in. She has no clue how I crave 2 a.m. feedings. I cannot begrudge her, but I am so blown away by how innocuous words and comments by one can have the potential of body slamming the soul of another.
Just now at lunch, the guy sitting next to me asked me if I had children. It hurt to tell him no because the answer should have been: November 3. How long hae you been married he asked. Seven years, I responded. Then he joked, I’m sure you’re having a lot of pressure from the in-laws to get pregnant.
I sit down to drink coffee and a co-worker brings his children. They are sweet and good. They talk in girlish voices of how fun school is and other childish things. Will I ever have children is all that rings through my head. Will I always be an outside observer.
Feeling sharp jabs to my heart I get up and leave to sit outside, get some fresh mountain air before I go inside and take another class and I hear a woman as she walks to the gift shop say out loud Gotta go to the gift shop and get my kids a gift- that’s what mom’s do. They always think of their children.
Now I’m sitting on the verandah of this lodge. My training begins in 12 minutes. There are people sitting a distance away, I’m biting my lips, I’m trying to still the tears dripping down my face. I’m trying to focus on a lot of good in my life, etc. but I just hate being infertile. I fucking hate it.
You left this world three weeks ago. I only knew you for two months but now it feels like you were with me forever. I wish you could know how much I loved you. I didn’t know if you were a girl or a boy. It didn’t really matter. You were mine. A combination of your daddy and I. I would find myself daydreaming while you grew inside me. I knew your hair would be dark and filled with curls like both your father and I, but I wondered: Would you have your father’s lovely lashes that curl at the end? I dreamed of the day I would hold you against my chest, your soft baby skin against mine, the ultimate connection a mother has to her child. I dreamed of kissing your downy hair, and fretted so soon about how I would clip your tender nails. Your daddy, he was so excited he found a deal on diapers and almost bought a pack of 100. Your grandma? She already spoke to you. She patted my belly where you hid and she told you she couldn’t wait to see you. She was going to buy your crib, and your bassinet. Your uncles defend you against names they feared you might get teased for. Oh, my baby, I tried for so long to see you, when I found out you were coming you were all I could think about. I would lose myself in meetings daydreaming about your smile. I read every pregnancy book imaginable. I kissed your sonogram picture, you curled up floating in my womb. I closed my eyes to remember your heart beat, so strong. I have to move forward now, baby. I have to accept that we won’t ever really get to know each other as I wanted to. There will be days I will smile. There will be days that I will not be consumed by the pain of losing you, but baby, don’t you ever for a minute think I can ever forget you. You were a part of me, when you left, you took a part of me with you. There may be other babies in my life, dear baby. These other babies, I may one day hold as I wanted to hold you and kiss as I so badly wanted to kiss you. But baby, you will always be my first pregnancy. You will always be the first to inhabit my womb. I will remember you until the day I die.
The need to be a mother is not an intellectual desire. Call it spirital, emotional, animal- its a raw undeniable need. I’m a thirsty beggar praying for rain but I am so scared of the road ahead. My doctor said I can start trying again after my period which should come in four to six weeks. I see the path of infertility I’ve wandered on for a year, and I feel afraid.
I don’t want to “try” again. I don’t want to count my ovulation days. I don’t want to check my cervical mucus. I don’t want to time my sex. I don’t want to sit contemplating phantom symptoms for two weeks. I don’t want to wait two weeks for results, and with my wonky cycle, often three to four weeks. I don’t want to see one more negative pregnancy test. The thought of seeing the blank space where I have now once seen a line, I fear it may break me. I am so scared my hands tremble.
And yet- I will try again. I will count my ovulation days. I will check my cervical mucus and time sex, and check my body for phantom signs and wait two weeks and take pregnancy tests. I don’t know why on an intellectual level, but I am willing to take the risk of going through the depths of hell again. Either I am crazy, or its a force beyond myself that pulls me to try and try again.
I wanted to share this youtube video from Sesame Street days. Whenever I think of trying to conceive again, I always think of the little kitten in this video. I must have watched this video 100 times growing up. Watching it now at least made me smile. If you are reading this and are thinking of the road ahead like me, perhaps this video, if not give you comfort will at least bring back a nice memory or a smile.
Two weeks to the day of the miscarriage and the pain remains so close to the surface. Certainly I’ve refined the mask I wear when I’m out. I can smile and small talk like the best of them. Why, this weekend, I spent 48 hours with friends who had no idea, and I cried only twice.
Reminders lurk in every corner. In every baby I see. In every swollen belly. Today I listened as Jack congratulated a friend who just had a baby. I heard a conversation about happy grandparents and diaper changing and the cries of the new one keeping up her weary parents. I cleaned out a bathroom cabinet and turned over the positive pregnancy test. Each instance is a punch to my gut. Each moment a reminder of what should have been, and what is not.
I don’t want to be sad. I want to move on. I want to let it go. I want to stop counting the weeks and remembering this could have been a second trimester. But dammit. I can’t move on. I am stuck in what feels like an emotional groundhog day. I wake up each day hoping the snow has cleared and the radio is playing a different song, yet right now its gray clouds, followed by more of the same.
I consider taking a happy pill, but that won’t change my reality. I may not eat organic food as much as I should, but I’m too organic to fake my own joy. I try to embrace my emotions for they are my authentic self, yet I just wish that my self would just fucking move on already.
Seriously, I should be on the big screen across from Tom Hanks or Mark Ruffalo. I am that good.
I sat through conversations about the specialness of motherhood and ten different conversations on babies and how cute and fun they are. I participated. I smiled. I laughed at the appropriate moments. Sure sometimes it felt like someone was jamming a crushed piece of glass into my heart. Sure I now am very seriously concerned that I may be developing what feels like an ulcer, but dammit I learned something about my self. I learned that I am in the wrong career. I am one brilliant fucking actor.
If you have never heard of Ray you should, he is the best kept secret of art in the US. I went to his concert last night. I sang along and smiled and danced until he finally sang “Let it Be Me”….
There may come a time, a time in everyones life
where nothin seems to go your way
where nothing seems to turn out right
there may come a time, you just cant seem to find your way
for every door you walk on to, seems like they get slammed in your face
thats when you need someone, someone that you can call.
and when all your faith is gone
feels like you cant go on
let it be me
if its a friend that you need
let it be me
feels like your always commin on home
pockets full of nothin and you got no cash
no matter where you turn you aint got no place to stand
reach out for something and they slap your hand
now i remember all to well
just how it feels to be all alone
you feel like youd give anything
for just a little place you can call your own
thats when you need someone, someone that you can call
and when all your faith is gone let it be me.
I used to listen to this song and feel inspired. I thought of God and of hope. I thought of how when your chips are down, when things are tough at least you always have God…. This time when I heard it, and heard him sing it live and raw with passion every wall I kept up to make it through this concert collapsed and I fell back in my seat shuddering with sobs. I felt so alone, so empty. Yet in the strangest sense, those tears felt healing…
Maybe Baby? 