The Last Before the Next

It hit me hard sometime today that we are in the repeating times with not-so-anticipated results. On this day, one year ago, I took a pregnancy test that came back positive. We had a new year's eve get-together and N&A came over and were promptly told the good news by the husband. This year, we're spending new year's with N&A (they were nice enough to invite us over). So not too much has changed. But that one little thing.

Last year at this time I had no concept of pregnancies that didn't end in babies. No idea how much a miscarriage costs without insurance. I didn't know I could cry so much or so often about one life changing event. I was under the impression that I could fix whatever was broken with more books, more blogs, and more dr's office visit copays. I was naive and now we're here.

I'm to the point now where I've lost faith and hope - C has to carry that for the both of us. Somehow, I still manage to be proactive about the situation and willing to try about anything that anyone will tell us will help. Guess that means I'm packing a sick desperation. It's sort of like hope, right? Quite frankly, I'm more afraid to be pregnant than to not be pregnant. The not pregnant thing is something that I've been forced, over the last year, to become very familiar with. We know each other. Me and pregnant? We didn't make such beautiful music last time. I walked out of the bathroom on this day last year crying and excited - C asked how I was doing and I told him that I was terrified. I know that I was, but if possible, I'm even more scared now. I'm aware of what can go wrong; painfully aware. I have no desire to make myself hurt that much again - much less C or our friends or family.

I want this next year what I've always wanted: life to come easy. Doesn't work that way. Do I make wishes on new year's? I wish for a happy year. I wish for healthy everything (dammit): family, friends, crops, pets, marriages, jobs, coping mechanisms, and last, but certainly not least, babies. For me or whoever else decides to have them.

After a year, I can understand miscarriage. What it is, why it happens, the effect on mother and baby's bodies, the reasons. It's biological and medical. Perhaps a god thing, but I don't feel like giving him the credit at this moment. What I still don't understand is the year (plus however long it takes) that god/biology/whatever decided to give me to think about it. Just sit here and write about it, read about it, cry over it, fixate, obsess, push people away over it and pull them closer. I still don't understand the year. The long painful year that has failed to be fruitful in so many ways.

The beautiful things I cannot overlook remind me: that husband guy that has stood by me through it all (pain, bleeding, crying, obsession, kitchen remodel, more crying), that N finally married A and they are happy, that AM&R have forgiving hearts much bigger than mine, Boris and Bella are the entertaining children that I haven't yet had, and a hundred other things. I've got to find a silver lining to make this all seem worth it. Still doesn't seem worth it and I seem the wrong person to carry the message or the burden, but so be it. Enough rambling, thanks for reading. Should I put this last year into a book and wipe it all clean? Perhaps what we carry with us does not only weigh us down, but also has the capacity to uplift. Not always, but perhaps sometimes.

The Deal with Christmas

Here's the deal, in case I am not making myself clear:

Christmas this year is not so great. Why? Ahhh, there is someone missing. Something, if you'd like to get abstract about it. Maybe I should include that in my Christmas card. Maybe I should include the damn tag "There is no way in hell that you understand this (despite your best intentions) unless you have experienced it." Quickly followed with "And I hope that you never have to fully understand." You have no freaking clue what runs through my head. The murderous rage that flashes in a red hot second when yet another friend, acquaintance, innocent bystander announces her pregnancy. The ripping, physical pain that announcements such as these ravage on my heart and mind. How much the phrase "knocked-up" tears at me because it invokes the careless ease with which pregnancy was achieved. I don't even understand how I manage to smile and ask warm, thoughtful questions at these times.

My child, my little boy, would be almost 4 months old right now. Do you understand how the truth of that colors the way I cope with my life now? I don't repeat it over and over again, but it's there - a very real fact. Everyone EVERYONE is waiting WAITING for our OUR announcement. I don't have a fucking announcement to make, so stop looking at me. I need a reason to be happy just as much as everyone else does. I need the benefit of another wonderful miracle to take the edge off of this god-awful pain.

Yes, I might be obsessive, but I am trying, DAMNIT, I am being proactive. I am trying so very hard to achieve what it takes so many women one night to attain. Or a broken condom. Or ineffective birthcontrol. Or a few months at most. We're up to a year and a half here. Waiting. Trying. If you don't know what that entails, don't presume. It's not a state of being that you even want a window into. I feel guilty about what I've burdened welcome ears with.

Here's the Christmas Letter:

2007 ~ Family's good, house is good, jobs are good, school's good, dogs are good, baby died. Have a great holiday season.

Do you want that to come to you in the mail? I wouldn't. But if one did, I'd know there was another person out there hurting like me.