two weeks (and six years)

Thanks to Facebook's "On This Day," this morning I came across this note I wrote two weeks after our miscarriage (in 2010):

Two weeks...

February 24, 2010 at 12:34am
It's been two weeks since we lost the baby. (Which may be the silliest way of saying someone died, but quite literally s/he slipped out of me, so it is apropo in this case.)

Since the end of last week, I have cleaned out four closets and three big hot spots where junk accumulates. I've also started a nightly yoga dance practice. I'm clearing out my surroundings and my body, the way my uterus (oh so sadly) cleaned itself last week.

The irony isn't lost on me. I found my maternity jeans in the attic yesterday. I had started to worry I'd given them away and wondered (in those last days of being pregnant, or at least thinking I was still pregnant) whether spring would arrive in time for me to just switch to capris. Now it is a moot point, but I know I have them for later, if I get a next time.

That's the thing. I know there's no guarantees. I tried for just shy of two years to get pregnant with Remy and his conception felt miraculous. We knew we would never get that involved with trying again. (i changed my diet, my routines, everything. I spent so much effort and money on non-Western treatments, acupuncture, shiatsu, osteopathy, chiropractic. It was a production. And while it worked, I don't have it in me to do it again.)

So we just said we'll see and I got pregnant without much fuss and just when I thought infertility had passed me by this time round, I miscarried. And wham bam thank you ma'am, I'm back in infertile land. I think I really never left, though. Once infertile, always infertile (even once you have the miracle baby).

Want a baby? If life were a Chose Your Own Adventure book, I'd say "yes!" and skip to page 54. (And another woman would say "no!" and skip to page 16. Easy Peasy!)

Infertility kicks that choice in the balls. "FUCK YOU for thinking you have a choice," infertility screams. "I call the shots, bitch! NO BABY FOR YOU!" (Yes, infertility sounds a lot like the Soup Nazi. Whadidya expect?)

Miscarriage (and stillbirth and SIDS) is even more a kick in the nads. "HAHAHAHA, thought you were gonna have this baby? Try THIS on for size, motherfuckah! How you like THEM apples, bitch!" (Infertility likes to swear a lot. I'm sure it felt right at home on the set of Deadwood.)

Anyhow. I'm coping. Yoga, decluttering. Some coconut rum before bed. Letting myself cry when I need to and writing.

This too will pass, but the memory will remain, a blessing.

That decluttering spree was just the beginning of prepping our house to sell later that spring (put it on the market in mid May, got an offer the next day, closed in July right before we moved up here to NJ). I went to Goodwill so often that spring/ summer that the people who worked in receiving greeted me like a friend. ("Is that all today?" "See you again soon!")

We didn't have a job offer yet, but M was on the market and we were hopeful.

And I typically deal with late winter by decluttering.

I did end up giving away those maternity pants eventually, because we made the decision not to keep trying (or not-trying but just "seeing what happens" for a few months) and made that choice permanent, with a vasectomy. Neither of us was up for actually trying again.

That next year was when I really rededicated myself to my blog.

And to poeming: 2010 was the first year I did NaPoWriMo. I'd forgotten that, til I looked through my archives.


It was difficult, that first year. But oh, those poems make me grateful to myself-of-2010. Thank you, past self. Thank you.

Poeming every day can still be difficult - the end of my current poem-a-day month is coming up and sometimes I still find myself at the end of the day staring at a blank screen as I poem it out. Stopping. Starting. Erasing. Restarting. Erasing again. Restarting.

And that's totally ok.

I am comfortable with stopping and starting now. Comfortable with realizing it is all practice. Comfortable with knowing that even if that day's poem isn't the best of the month, it all adds up.

This too will pass, but the memory remains: a blessing.