all those things I've always been

What I am realizing lately, more than anything, is that if I take it day by day, and let go of past misery and loss, then each day carries itself - and me - forward.  Each day is pretty good.  Days like today: I made pancakes, played with Katie, drank coffee Geoff made me, put Katie's hair in pigtails (on request) and took a few pictures (including the one below - it's hard to be sad when you're living with THAT), took Katie to daycare (and got lots of hugs and kisses - I hardly ever drop her off), worked from home all day, listened to music, washed some dirty windows and mirrors, worked out to a The Firm DVD in my living room, took a shower, ate a salad for lunch in the backyard (with Geoff, in the sunshine), played with the dogs (ours and the neighbors').  This is a good day, not even over yet.  Day by day, things are pretty good.

I wrote this in mid-August:

I am still angry about the miscarriage.  I'm angry about the fact that it is now 20 months since we started trying to get pregnant (and I'd been wanting to try for a second child for around 6 months before that, but we waited for the start of the year so that new insurance would kick in), and I have nothing to show for it except a lot of grief and disappointment, not to mention physical discomfort.  I am angry that I have put too much stock into the idea that I could get pregnant at any time, so I have foregone making plans for too many other things. 

I'm not just angry, though; I'm also sad.  And tired - Katie has not been sleeping well lately, sometimes waking me up as often as four times a night, and almost always at least once.

I have been hard on myself for a lot of things, including feeling bad. Yesterday Eliza and I talked, and she suggested that when we went home that night we should make it a goal to do something nice for ourselves, to be kind to the ones we love, and to spend that time with open hearts.  And you know what?  It made a difference.  I came home, and Katie and I made chocolate chip cookie dough, then ate dinner, then she took her bath.  After she'd been in the bath about five minutes, she called out, "Mommy, aren't you going to take a bath with me?"  I was tired, and a little headachy, and my first instinct was to say "no, not tonight," but I stopped myself, and thought about opening my heart, and I said yes.  Baths with Katie involve a lot of splashing and tickling and laughing. It was a good way to spend 30 minutes or so.  And then we got out, and it started to rain, so she ran out onto the front porch, naked, to feel the cold rain on her little body.  After a little while, I put her in her nightgown, and put her to bed.  After she was in bed, I looked at the pictures I'd taken during the day, and I uploaded some to Flickr.  And after that, I drank some green tea and did some yoga for beginners with a DVD I have. 

Things are very much the same now, but better (and with more sleep).  It is still painful, to work with a woman who was due 6 weeks before me, as she approaches her due date in October.  It still makes me rage, occasionally, against the universe and everything, about the unfairness of it all, although one ironic thing about the miscarriage is that my grief from it, as great and intense as it was, was (and is) less than the grief and depression that arose (and arises) from trying and failing to conceive, for month after month after barren month.  I have decided that the major reason for this is that the miscarriage was a large event that called for grieving, not just by me, but by almost everyone who knew me, whereas the seemingly endless months of infertility do not fit in with anything that I know how to grieve appropriately, and they do not lend themselves easily or comfortably to public support.  Each month of failing to get pregnant is certainly not worthy of the grief that the miscarriage caused me, but all of the months put together have affected me much more than the miscarriage.  Now that we are back in the months of trying to conceive, I find myself trying to hold onto a mentality that does not involve tallying up each month as another personal failure. 

When people wonder how I am, I am torn between explaining that I am still in mourning (not only for the miscarriage, but for the failure, so far, to have another child, and the knowledge that I may never have another child) and between explaining that I am good.  I am fine.  I am loving and loved, busy and happy, blessed and lucky.  All those things I've always been.

Comments

[dana]

jessie, i love you.

[Carrie]

{{{Jessamyn}}}

It is so very, very hard, and it's so easy to feel alone in it, surrounded by people who will never have an inkling of an idea what it is to go through the waiting, wanting, and cyclic hurting. But you're not alone, and there are too many of us out here who have felt or are feeling what you are, and sometimes knowing that makes it easier. (Sometimes, anyway.)

Katie is beautiful. You are, too.