This past Sunday was an anniversary.
But not the kind you celebrate with an extravagant weekend getaway.
If you’re like me, it’s the kind you await with anxious trepidation, wondering what sick emotional games your head and heart will play with you.
The bottle of Prometrium prescribed by the kind, helpful, and compassionate doctor on the other end of the phone with a sobbing, fretful, worried mother that night, one year ago last Sunday, still sits in my kitchen cabinet.
I still don’t have the heart to throw it away. Yet, I have no use for it. Seeing it reminds me of the baby. That’s not a great thing, but it’s not altogether a bad thing, either. It’s just… a thing thing.
Even though that first miscarriage ripped my heart out, and then I got an injection of Unexpected Hope only to suffer another Cosmic Sucker Punch, I have experienced a bit of healing in a whole year’s time.
But I don’t want to forget. And I don’t mean forget the babies (which I most certainly will not). I mean the pain.
There is something about the pain that is left after something that tears at your heart so fiercely. There is something about it that I don’t want to lose.
That sounds crazy, doesn’t it?
Perhaps it’s just the idea that this pain is the only thing I have left of this baby (of both of these babies), and the thought of letting go of it and moving on is just… well, shitty. Unpoetic as it may be, that is the best word for it. Letting go of that pain feels shitty.
If I can smile all day long every day (even when I’m looking at the damned bottle in the kitchen cabinet), then it feels as though I have nothing left of them. As if it does not matter that they were here one moment and then gone the next.
Fault me for it if you will, but nutty as it sounds – this pain is a tragically beautiful thing, and I don’t plan on letting go of it until I am holding my babies somewhere. Whether that is in some eternal dream or Heaven, or wherever else… that’s when I’ll release this gnawing grief.
Until then, that very pain helps me appreciate every hug, flower, and ray of light in this world. Because I’m a foolish girl, and when the light of the sun shines too prettily for too long, I have a tendency to take everything that’s good in my life for granted.
This pain? The way it lingers and sometimes flares up? It taps me on the shoulder and says, “Be grateful, woman.” It’s my reminder.
I refuse to even want to let go of that.
This past Sunday, I planted flowers for our lost babies, who we call Taylor and Davin.
They were purple alyssum, a choice made in order to simultaneously bow my head to another soul that was spirited away too soon.
I could want to be numbed (and some nights, I kind of am) or I could wish for complete healing, to leave these feelings behind and forget them.
Instead I’m going to hold onto what’s left of this pain, and when it feels the most raw, I’m going to try as hard as I can to turn that prism of pain toward the light, so that it creates the most beautiful rainbow I can make that effer shoot out.
I believe you can choose, to a certain extent, how you perceive everything around you. What you choose to see, to acknowledge, in each moment will have a significant impact on the quality of your life.
You can focus on the positive or the negative.
I spend a lot of time focusing on negative things.
This is not a recent thing. This is a life-long tendency. I have wasted so much time doing this thing, this sad, silly thing.
You know how they (you know, “they” – and I’m not referring to the Underwear Gnomes, like I usually am when I whisper “they” with emphasis) publish statistics on how much of your life you spend eating, or sleeping, picking your nose, and such? I shudder to think what are the horribly consuming number of hours… days, weeks… even YEARS of my life that I have wasted focusing on the negative. The Poopoo Stink. The Crud Suckery.
What she thinks of me. How they reacted to what I did. What I looked like in those pants. What he must have thought of the things I said. How I could have done that differently. How much better I wish I was. What if I hadn’t done that. What if I had done that. What if I could just do everything better. Like other people do. The way I wish it were. The way things aren’t. The way they could have been, if only….
Or the countless hours I’ve wasted in my shower/in bed at night/in my car/etc having fake arguments inside my head with people. Just in case. So I could practice what to say IF the situation arose.
Can you believe that?
I IMAGINE AND ELABORATE ON CONFLICT THAT DOESN’T EXIST YET.
I know other people do it, too, but that doesn’t make it any better. (Well, ok, a little bit better. Heh.)
Inspired with the idea of having Grace in Small Things (aka Waging a Battle Against Embitterment. Hell.Yes.), and by my own need to lift myself up (drag myself out of the emotional stinkhole) this year, I’m going to try something.
I’ve tried really hard, at times in the past, to focus less on negative things… especially that fake arguments thing. For the love of banana pudding (and mmmm, do I love me some banana pudding), that really has to happen less.
So I need to stop myself from doing that. Redirect. That will be a start. It will help.
But what’s going to help more, is to consciously start focusing on positive things.
And my first step is going to be… instead of having fake arguments with other people?
I’m going to start making an effort to tell people I come into contact with, on a regular basis, that I value them. I’m going to tell them what I like about them. I’m going to thank them for being there.
Anyone that moves me. The bagger at the grocery store. My best friend. The person I follow on Twitter. My husband (a revolutionary idea, that one). Maybe you.
I’m going to tell these people the positive things about them that occur to me. Or how they’ve added to my life in a good way.
I’m going to encourage them.
At least one person, every day.
It’s going to help me start feeling more positive.
And maybe, just maybe, it will give another In-the-Shower-Fake-Argument-Having-Person something more positive to focus on that day, too.
You know, something other than those damned Underwear Gnomes.
Have you ever been going about your business as usual, not hungry at all, and all of a sudden you want to eat everything within reach? Like, your appetite doubles times infinity plus seventy-eleven, in the blink of an eye?
Or, you want greek olives, peanut butter, apples, and tuna fish all at the same time? Along with your tropical punch flavored juice?
Yeah. That was me earlier this evening, and I have absolutely no reason why. And before your brain cells start rubbing up against each other all excitedly and “squeeing” as they trip over themselves, anxious to stimulate you hurriedly to suggest that I am pregnant, that’s gonna be a big N-O, Roger.
I can’t stop myself from interjecting here to say that every.single.time I see/hear/think the name “Roger” nowadays, I instantly hear an asian man’s voice saying, “Sorry, Rogah, you tigah now.”
And it makes me happy. Every time. Why is that so funny to me? Anyway…
See, certain things have to happen to make a baby. For a baby to get inside of a Mommy’s tummy, a Mommy and a Daddy have to love each other very much and then get really close to each other, and the Daddy has to hug the Mommy and then… Ok, you know what? This is going nowhere.
Ya’ll KNOW how babies are made. If you don’t, you are either too young to be reading this blog (I AM SO GOING TO TELL YOUR PARENTS! YOU BETTER GO BACK TO NICKELODEON.COM RIGHT THIS MINUTE.) or you are not very bright, and in that case, perhaps it is for the best that you do not understand the whole process. The rest of you are probably visualizing dirty bits and such now.
(Haha, I made you all think about doing it. Well, except for those of you who were already thinking about it anyway. Pervs. You know who you are. I see you over there, stop trying to hide and avert your eyes. Oh, I also see you, you who are making really, direct, uncomfortable eye contact with me and twitching a little. You are freaking me out. Stop that.)
Uh… so, what was I saying again? Oh yeah. I’m definitely NOT pregnant. I mean, John was on the west coast of the US while I was ovulating, and while he is.. uh… not lacking in the manly parts department by any stretch of the imagination, he isn’t THAT gifted.
And really, if there’s any wenis out there that can reach from California to Tennessee? I AM SCARED. Keep that thing away from me. Also, inform the owner of said Giganto Wenis that he could make a FORTUNE in endorsement ads for all those creepy companies that send me emails claiming that their product will enable me to “knock down walls with your penis!” and “tear her apart with your rod!”
For the record, knocking down walls with my penis would be really cool, tearing someone apart, not so much. Maybe work on that ad campaign a little. Possibly only send it out to violent rapist types. And people who ACTUALLY HAVE PENISES.
Also, I do routinely joke that I actually have a penis (it’s funny, I don’t care what you say)… and you know what? Both my penis and I are pretty offended that I’m getting those emails at all. How insulting!
I wonder if John gets emails for products that will enable him to crush a man’s head to a pulp with his cleavage?
It’s hard to believe I started this post by talking about my weird cravings considering where it has lead.
Maybe that’s what happens when you eat dried cherries and pork sausage together. Hm.
Just so you know, it would totally be okay with me if you wanted to just… you know… leave. For awhile. Get out. GO AWAY. Consider it a vacation, whatever! WE really don’t need one another right now anyway, right? And the ripping, tearing, and cramping pain you’re causing me today is really not what I’d call “pleasant” or “enjoyable” or even “moderately bearable.” It’s more like “excruciating” and it “sucks ass.” It makes me want to “smash myself in the head with a sledge hammer to numb all feeling in my body.”
You’re also creating quite a mess around here. I, for one, don’t appreciate the stained crotches in my underwear that I can never seem to avoid when you start doing your special thing every month. Furthermore, I’m quite tired of feeling like a regularly tapped keg of Hawaiian Punch.
In case you’re trying to leave a “trail” because you were thinking I was lost in the woods and needed to find my way home, let me set you straight. I’m just fine, here at home, and there are no witches trying to eat me. (In fact, as long as you keep it up, Uterus, NO ONE is going to be trying to eat me. Thanks for that!)
So, really, please treat yourself to a Bahamas Cruise several times in a row, or a couple of months in Europe. Really, that would be great. Hell, go spelunking in some caves somewhere and get eaten by bats for all I care. I just think we need some time apart.
It’s not me. It’s you.
Dear Mind/Brain, Back, Stomach, and Legs,
Look. Just because Uterus gets the notion once a month to start acting like a total jerkface doesn’t mean that you should, too. I would really appreciate a little support here. I mean, at a time when I’m literally feeling like The Evil Undead is clawing its way out of my gut, you could step up to the plate and try to help me hold things together instead of chiming in with The Chorus of Pain and Insanity.
But no, you’re just a bunch of shameless lemmings. If you weren’t attached to me, I would say something like, “I hope you just fall off/out/rot/die/snap.”
But, um, don’t do any of that. Please.
Holding Onto Last Shred Of Sanity
(for as long as mind allows me to, damn you, mind)
It was a SNAKE.
AN EFFIN SNAKE!
Really? You had to listen to a SNAKE?
I HATE YOU.
One of Your Many Daughters, Bound To Your Sin,