This really sucks
How am I? How are we doing?
Fine, I say automatically. Well, um, okay. Y'know. The usual.
Sometimes that's true. But mostly, I think, we're still struggling.
I got an email from someone else who has been dealing with recurrent miscarriages. While she didn't want her name used publically, I hope she won't mind my sharing some of her words, which resonated with me so deeply.
She said:
It sucks.
It's not fair.
No one should have to go through what you and Pili and [me & husband] are going through. Ever.
I wanted this baby.
I wanted you and Pili to have that baby.
We don't get what we deserve. We all deserve to have these children that we want so badly. We do.
Thank you, my friend, for your words that so eloquently describe what words fail to describe. I share them in the hope that they will comfort others as they have comforted me.
And thank you, all of you, for your comments and emails and general e-love.
They have meant so much to Pili and me. They help as we struggle to hold onto our hope that someday we will be parents. As we try to balance putting this particular Tootie shaped dream away in the box (thanks Julia) while still holding on to our larger dream.
On Tuesday night, I held Pili and felt her belly pressed up against mine and imagined that there was already A! Baby! In! There!
On Wednesday, I held Pili, and couldn't bear to touch her belly. Every time I did it just reminded me of the dream that had, soap bubble like, just collapsed around us. Coincidentally, I had an appointment with a new therapist on Wednesday afternoon. When she asked me if I had any kids I did not burst into tears. For about thirty seconds.
On Thursday we held each other and I reclaimed Pili's belly. I kissed the two adorable moles near her belly button. And for a minute, I didn't think about how there wasn't a baby in there. It was just Pili's belly, that I could happily rub and tickle and zerbert (STOP IT she yelps) all day. I tickled her belly button with her pajama drawstring, resulting in a tussle that almost sent me falling off the couch. And I thought: maybe we're okay. Maybe we can get past this okay.
Tonight... Pili is snoozing on the couch. She has been since about 9 pm. I just put another log on the fire. (The fire! In May! Ridiculous!) And I keep thinking about how quickly things can change. For a minute, I think: She's tired! She's pregnant! That's a good sign! And then I remember. No, this has nothing to do with pregnancy.
And I burst out in tears again, because I just want some piece of our life not to be poisoned by this sadness. I want to go away next weekend, just get the hell out of the house and the City That Always Sleeps. I want to be out in nature or to go to a romantic b&b. But then I think: what if Pili is finallymiscarrying is getting her period is I don't know what the fuck to call it next weekend? The truth is we can't escape it. And then that place too will always be tainted.
Friends who have adopted after infertility assure me that once that child is placed in your arms, it all settles down. You stop feeling like this - like a tree that has grown twisted and distorted around an invisible obstacle. I hope so.
And the other thing this blog is about? All I can say is that depression and comfort eating are not friends to exemplary diabetes control.
Fine, I say automatically. Well, um, okay. Y'know. The usual.
Sometimes that's true. But mostly, I think, we're still struggling.
I got an email from someone else who has been dealing with recurrent miscarriages. While she didn't want her name used publically, I hope she won't mind my sharing some of her words, which resonated with me so deeply.
She said:
It sucks.
It's not fair.
No one should have to go through what you and Pili and [me & husband] are going through. Ever.
I wanted this baby.
I wanted you and Pili to have that baby.
We don't get what we deserve. We all deserve to have these children that we want so badly. We do.
Thank you, my friend, for your words that so eloquently describe what words fail to describe. I share them in the hope that they will comfort others as they have comforted me.
And thank you, all of you, for your comments and emails and general e-love.
They have meant so much to Pili and me. They help as we struggle to hold onto our hope that someday we will be parents. As we try to balance putting this particular Tootie shaped dream away in the box (thanks Julia) while still holding on to our larger dream.
On Tuesday night, I held Pili and felt her belly pressed up against mine and imagined that there was already A! Baby! In! There!
On Wednesday, I held Pili, and couldn't bear to touch her belly. Every time I did it just reminded me of the dream that had, soap bubble like, just collapsed around us. Coincidentally, I had an appointment with a new therapist on Wednesday afternoon. When she asked me if I had any kids I did not burst into tears. For about thirty seconds.
On Thursday we held each other and I reclaimed Pili's belly. I kissed the two adorable moles near her belly button. And for a minute, I didn't think about how there wasn't a baby in there. It was just Pili's belly, that I could happily rub and tickle and zerbert (STOP IT she yelps) all day. I tickled her belly button with her pajama drawstring, resulting in a tussle that almost sent me falling off the couch. And I thought: maybe we're okay. Maybe we can get past this okay.
Tonight... Pili is snoozing on the couch. She has been since about 9 pm. I just put another log on the fire. (The fire! In May! Ridiculous!) And I keep thinking about how quickly things can change. For a minute, I think: She's tired! She's pregnant! That's a good sign! And then I remember. No, this has nothing to do with pregnancy.
And I burst out in tears again, because I just want some piece of our life not to be poisoned by this sadness. I want to go away next weekend, just get the hell out of the house and the City That Always Sleeps. I want to be out in nature or to go to a romantic b&b. But then I think: what if Pili is finally
Friends who have adopted after infertility assure me that once that child is placed in your arms, it all settles down. You stop feeling like this - like a tree that has grown twisted and distorted around an invisible obstacle. I hope so.
And the other thing this blog is about? All I can say is that depression and comfort eating are not friends to exemplary diabetes control.
posted by art-sweet at 1:15 AM
8 Comments:
I can't even imagine how craptastic this all is for you guys. I wish there was something I could do apart from send cyber hugs over the optic cable *hugs*
I am so sorry for what you are going through. I remember that sickening feeling all too well. As I told a friend of mine recently, when you finally get your baby, all of this will fade. It will never go away completely, but it *will* cease to be the defining fact of your life. Hang in there. You guys will get through this. Wish I could help.
Art-Sweet -
This entry, (even moreso than the last) brought big, heavy tears to my eyes. Through your pain, you are creating something eloquent, and touching, and real.
I hope that both you and Pili can take good care of each other over the coming weeks.
It's sounds like you are off to a good start.
I'm glad (glad - what a weird word to use here) that you two are grieving together. It makes it easier. And it will recede over time. It doesn't really go away, but that breathtaking pain fades a bit to become a dull ache and eventually a remembered hurt. And it will take as long as it takes to get to that point, with lots of back and forth in between.
Thinking of you...
You're such an eloquent writer. And yeah, damn it, you deserve what you want. I, too, wish there was something I could DO other than think of you. Which I am.
I know that nothing that I, a stranger, can say could make any difference to how you & Pili are feeling, but I just wanted to say how sorry I am for what you are going through. I ache for you.
Oh Sweets-- I was crying too. I think you guys are so loving to each to each other, it can only work out somehow.
I'm thinking of you guys so much. This time is such a weird time.
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