Clinging

I find myself clinging to the memory of what it was like, that one week I knew I was pregnant. The nausea, the frequent bathroom trips, the testing, the excitement mingled with fear.

And I read these posts on the forums, and I think, I could answer this question. I had a BFP. I tested on 11 DPO and got my +, I felt this, I felt that... but then I'd have to explain that mine didn't last, and that my experience with such and such doesn't mean this poster will m/c too. I don't post at all, I mean, why be a downer for this expectant happy mother. I don't post. I want to, I want to so bad, but I refrain.

I keep clinging to these little things.

That surprise positive digi when I wasn't even sure I Ov'ed because I didn't have a temp rise until CD44.

That tenderness in my bosom, that nausea in my tummy, that frequent running to the bathroom to pee, and that annoying gas.

I am so glad I got all my symptoms strong and early, that I could experience them before it all came crashing down. It's better than nothing I suppose. But, I cling and I cling.

I want to say, "Yeah, I remember what that was like when I was pregnant."
But, I don't have a baby to show for it.
Most people don't know about my m/c and they'd be puzzled, and it would reopen the wound.
Not that the wound has closed or anything, but I feel like maybe, soon, it will start to scab over.

I hate being silent, but everyone gets hush hush if I mention my loss.
And even trying to recall the good, to remember how happy I was to have horrible gas, how happy I was to be sick to my stomach...

it doesn't matter because who am I going to laugh about this with. It's not like I'm going to have my New Years baby and talk to my family about those first few weeks laughing them off;

those first few weeks are all I had and they're all I'll ever have with my first pregnancy.

And I am stuck wondering when I am going to feel like that again. That week was the best week of my life, and the worst week of my life. Here I thought I'd never get pregnant, but I managed to trick my body into doing it. I managed to beat the odds, I was on cloud nine. And then the cloud shook with thunder and I came crashing down to earth as the blood leaked from me like rain and I shook in terror as I waited to go to the ER.

And like that I went back to being a hoveled scared little girl, afraid of never being able to concieve, but now this added weight, this fear of never carrying to term.

So I have found myself recently trying to cling to that glorious week, a week I should have found uncomfortable but instead found delightful. That one almost perfect week, if only Sunday morning hadn't made everything come crashing down. That one most beautiful week of my life.

I named my baby Sebastian while I was in the ER starting to m/c. I knew, I just needed confirmation. I held the slightest hope that I was wrong, but I knew the whole time what was happening. Sebastian means "Revered." And so he is.

My beautiful baby that I will never get to see, thank you for the gas.
and the nausea.
and the exhaustion.
and the tenderness.
Thank you for that one perfect week.
Mommy loves you.

Shiver

I almost made it through the bridal shower today.

I almost made it through and almost got to my car before bursting into tears.

But
I still can't handle a few things.
I can't handle gatherings of people.
I can't handle being around babies.
I can't handle Sundays.

All three were incorporated in this bridal shower.
Laughing happy people.
A one year old.
And it was Sunday.... I hate Sundays.

It didn't help that they spent a good 15 minutes trying to coax the baby to walk... right in front of me, all these happy people engrossed in this child. I was the only one not happy, not smiling, not excited about him walking. I was fighting back tears. I was fighting back anger, I should be 12 weeks today. I should be happy. I should be excited. Instead I'm sad, I'm angry, I'm a mess.

AF has sort of started today finally. This means that I start the Clomid on Tuesday. I'm scared, nervous, anxious... terrified. This probably hasn't helped.

And MIL kept wanting to ask about the treatments, talk for a minute, then talk to another family member about the one year old, then try to start the conversation back up.

So I left, with little good bye, I tried to slip out but everyone tried to yell bye to me... I mumbled bye, waved my hand, all this without turning back, kept walking. I don't care what they think about me, I really don't... part of me used to, but it died with my baby. I don't care anymore. What's the point?


So... Another shitty Sunday. I wonder how long Sundays are going to hit me this hard... I mean, everyday is hard... but Sundays? I hate Sundays.

Billowing Leaves

I planted a tree for my baby when I lost him. It was a dwarf cherry. DH was leaning towards the cherry, and I was undecided for the most part. I thought, it was either this or an apple tree. I wonder if I should have bought the apple tree.

The cherry tree is dying, it's leaves keep turning a sanguine yellow and falling off. I keep thinking, "Don't die. Please, don't die." The same thoughts I thought in the ER when I started miscarrying.

I don't know what to do if it dies. Should I buy another? Should I leave the empty brick circle in the middle of the back yard with the dead tree in it. And then when the bark dries up and the bracken limbs fall... just let it sit and return to the earth? Or should I replace it, plant another. Would it be replacing it, or starting over?
Will/Do people think I'm replacing my baby by trying again, like I might plant another tree in the passing of the old one?

Don't die tree.
I don't know what to do to revive it.
But I'm going to try.
I have to try.

Clutter

My house is a pig sty.
I haven't really cleaned it since May fourth, when I started miscarrying.

I wonder if I'll ever finish cleaning it.

Every time I start doing something I don't finish it.
Which is a shame, really.

I started setting aside time today to write.
To work on writing exercises, to work on stories that lay upon my laptop cluttered, incoherent, and unfinished. And I did work, for several hours today. I started two stories, worked on one that I was already working on, read and re-read writing exercise prompts... and got very little accomplished.
Maybe I should chalk it up to first time real writing work jitters.
What can you do with an English degree anyways.
I'm not working towards a reasonable, grounded in reality career... I want to sit around home and write. I want to lose myself in my own stories.

I wanted to be a stay at home mother/writer... but the first one's not working out so well, so I better start taking the second part more seriously.

When I found out in November that I might not be able to conceive, I slathered paint on the would-be-nursery walls and made it my own. Instead of letting the room sit empty, waiting for the baby that might never come, I turned it into my Art/Office room. I put all my craft supplies, my art easel, my charcoals, my paints, my books, my portfolios, my stapler and three hole puncher... I bought a desk, and a couple bookcases... it's my creative chaos.
And even though it gives me a place to focus, a place to work, to create... I'd rather the room served it's original purpose.

I moved one of the bookcases from down stairs, from the den, up to my room tonight. I was tired of having to go all the way downstairs to find a book... and now, except for the boxes and boxes of books in the attic, all my books are with me, where I need them. Need is such a strong word.
But yes, I need my books.

I need them so badly.

When I lived in poverty, when my father abused me, when my mother lost it, when we lived with her abusive alcoholic boyfriends, when we lived with one relative to the next, when I got so depressed I almost killed myself, when I found out I was infertile, when I lost my baby... I was able to stay alive deep inside my books. I was able to live the life I never lived in my books. My books are why I decided I wanted to write.

I wanted to save someone, the way my books saved me.

I don't really have any other skills.

And I wonder if I'll ever be a mother, like I had dreamed.
And sometimes I wonder if I'll ever be a writer.

If I lose those dreams, the only ones I have, what will I have other than the emptiness?
I struggled with this a lot when I discovered I was indeed infertile... I almost gave up then and there. I was ready to. But... I didn't.
But what else do I have if I don't have those.
I hold onto writing, because I have to. I want to. I need to.
Need.

Such a funny word.


But I have no other dreams. I have no other real goals for my life personally.
Maybe a nicer house, a better neighborhood, a better car... but I can live without those things, I always have. Those are just material things, I don't care about them.

But having a baby,
and being a writer...

those dreams are non-negotiable.

But, at the same time, I'd trade being a writer, to be a mother, any day.
I'd much rather be a mother.
I wouldn't regret it, not for one second.

August winds

August is leaves turning orange, their leaves falling, crumbling with time to the ground.
It's cold, unruly, weather that brings frigid snow and a turning of seasons... here, August might as well already be winter.

To my family it is sadness.
No baby due in August has lived to be born alive.

Sa- was born in August.

My grandmother had Sa- in August. Still born... my grandmother never, ever, forgot Sa-. Even when she was 70 with 11 grown children and over 100 grandchildren/great grandchildren she still missed her Sa-. Of course she did. You never forget your child.

When Sa- was buried, my grandmother, totally grief stricken, went to the cemetery and tried to dig her up. I have never got that image out of my head. I wasn't alive then, but I can see it clearly. Her small 4 foot 11 inch frame digging in the dirt with her bare hands, trying to get her baby back.

My sister lost her Am- in August, at 42 weeks. Her first baby, her only daughter.
I was young, and didn't reach out to her as I should have.
She sat in the nursery for weeks, suffering, alone half the country away.
August is hard for my sister. It's hard for us as a whole.
That was ten years ago this year.

My baby wasn't due in August, but he died.

And even before he died I realized how painful it truly is, before I was even pregnant, I was making plans to do something for my sister this year.
I wrote her a poem, I was going to send her a card...
but now I wonder if she'll take it the wrong way.
I did this before I lost my baby,
but will she think I am only recognizing how painful this year is for her because of how painful it has been for me?
Does that matter?
I don't know.

But I wanted so badly to do something for her this year.
For her and Am-.
My sister would have a beautiful ten year old daughter this year... if Am- had lived.

It seems like such a long time... but it doesn't seem like it was that long ago at all.
Not long ago at all, when a fourteen year old me heard my mother say the baby died.
Am- didn't make it.
And I cried, and understood she was in pain... but I hadn't understand the depth of it.


I think I will send her something this year. Something to show that someone remembers...
Because no one really talks about Am- anymore... they used to...my sister's sons sometimes still do. They remind us that they have a big sister in heaven. From the mouth of babes, I guess is what they say.

No one mentions my baby at all. Not ever.
Just like he never existed.

This post is kind of jumbled with reflecting on outside situations and inside realizations...
but it's more like I'm throwing words up in no coherent order.
Hope you don't mind, if anyone is reading.

clutching

I left the appointment feeling relieved.
Someone was going to help me.
Us.

I clutched the prescriptions in my hand and tucked them away safely into the dark recesses of my bag, safely in the book. And then went and got my blood drawn, all the while feeling the papers burning in my bag... afraid they'd go somewhere.

Relief.
I have a chance.
Fear.
I could blow it. Get pregnant... lose it too. It might not even work.
It could happen.

____________________________________________________

I used to think my back was stupid.
I hated it, it and it's swervy spine.
I hated it worse than any other part of my body, it caused me pain.

No, I didn't know hate then.

Hate is now reserved for my ovaries.
Stupid, stupid ovaries.
Why can't you just do what you're supposed to do!
__________________________________________


I wonder if it's normal to curse your body parts for not functioning correctly?
Am I alone in this?