An American Sunset, October 29, 2012

So, a little over two weeks ago, I sat against a wall of windows that looked out over an airfield of giant planes, all fueling up for different destinations. We were in one of the Aer Lingus terminals, and surrounded by Irish folk waiting to return home.

As we sat there in the late afternoon, something funny happened. About half a dozen burly Irishmen stood up and pulled out camera phones and their other photographic "weaponry." They began shooting pictures of the New York skyline as the sun was setting. I couldn't help but chuckle. And then it occurred to me--maybe I was missing something. So, I popped out my iPhone and snapped a couple of pics myself.

It was a beautiful sunset. And without the excitement of these enthusiastic photogs, I would have ignored it, in favor of surfing the net or flipping through a magazine or guidebook.

I couldn't see things the way they were seeing them--through an outsider's eyes.

It wasn't the only time during our recent travels that an outsider shed light on a world that I think most of us in America are too disillusioned, and downhearted to see.

On our flight from Chicago to New York, I overheard a young Italian woman discussing her future, and the hopes and dreams she has for herself. She was traveling home after spending time in the Midwest studying. She very much hoped she would be returning to the U.S. for her collegiate studies, and the man she was talking to seemed surprised to hear about her eagerness.

She explained that there are no jobs for her back home, and the freedom she might have to explore career opportunities at home is very limited. I found her account a little surprising myself. The young woman said she wasn't sure what course of study she wanted to follow, and back home the educational structure requires students to select a specific course of study. In America, she would have the opportunity to study with a much broader approach, so she could discover the right career path and avoid having to take a job she didn't like.

As an American, I always took for granted the educational opportunities I had, and while I know that many Americans struggle to have an opportunity for higher education, at least if they get there, they can choose their own path, or even change it.

I know that in the current economic situation, millions of Americans are unemployed, or find themselves in low-paying jobs that are barely making ends meet. It's a tough time. In times like this, it's hard for us to care much about how the rest of the world is doing. But the Irishmen with the cameras, and the young Italian woman reminded me that sometimes we need to look at our situations through different eyes.

We had the opportunity to watch a lot of news while overseas, and we were shocked to learn that unemployment in Ireland is at about fifteen percent. That's nearly double the current unemployment rate of the U.S. Ireland, along with Greece, Spain and Italy, has found itself in the news in recent years for their serious levels of debt, and the fabric of the European Union threatens to unravel as the more economically powerful and successful countries try to keep it afloat.

Along with watching a lot of news, we road in several taxis. And as fantastic as the anchors of RTE' and the BBC are, nobody has the pulse of a nation better than an Irish cabby. On our ride from the Dublin airport to the town center, we had the opportunity to talk to Tony. We try very hard not to be the brash, hurried and impatient Americans that we often see traveling around us. Jeph usually cracks a few jokes about whatever travel dilemmas we "dumb Americans" have found ourselves in, and self-deprecates to the max. In our thirty minute drive, Tony revealed his view of how Ireland got into such dire straits. In the EU, immigration is pretty easy, and in most countries, the government provides for you if you don't have a job. It's expected. The Irish economy is teeny tiny, by comparison to many of its neighbors, and obviously miniscule compared to that of the United States. But he made a point of saying that unlike Las Vegas, what happens in the U.S. economy doesn't stay in the U.S. economy. When we nosedive, the world nosedives. They're all watching the U.S. Presidential Election with concerned and baited breath.

So, when it comes down to it, we may not care about the rest of the world, or our impact on it, but rest assured, the rest of the world still looks to us as a beacon. We're the country that still shines a light of hope for the rest of the world--whether we want to be or not. They view our success or failure as their potential success or failure.

I'm not naive, and I know many of my friends and associates look at the current economy, and want to point fingers of blame. I haven't made my political views a secret, but regardless of what I believe, I'm not so certain that I'm right, and everyone else is wrong, that I would even begin to pontificate about who people should vote for, or what they should think.

A New York Sunset

But a week before our nation peacefully elects the leader who will try to steer this ship for the next four years, I think it's work sharing that while we may be looking at ourselves, and we may be thinking about how bad everything is, there are people everywhere else still seeing America as the place to be. They still see the best hope of change, vitality and greatness on our shores.

Having a positive outlook doesn't create jobs. It doesn't bring down the costs of health care. Positivity isn't going to save Social Security or Medicare. But looking at everything through the mucky, filthy, gray glasses of hopelessness and negativity isn't going to get us anywhere either.

And at the end of the day, we may not care about each other, and we may despise each others' views, but ultimately, just like all of the people who came to this country with hope, we are each other.  And we still are the hope of the world.

In God's Country--U2

Rings Around Fingers, October 28, 2012

So, I have this little, silver ring I wear on my right ring finger. It has Jeph's name engraved on it in the ancient Irish alphabet called ogham. When I put it on, I try to make sure I face the letters up and down so when I look at it, his name is read right to left by me. I bought it for myself about ten years after we got married. It was inexpensive, and by now it is all scratched up and has definitely seen better days.

Since I bought the ring, I occasionally see advertisements in magazines for jewelers selling flashy, bejeweled rings designed for a woman's right hand. These rings are supposed to be a statement about the owner's personal independence and freedom to live her life. Like a lot of women, I'm enamored of the right hand rings in those pictures. I'm a little bit of a jewelry nut, so why wouldn't I be attracted to a little bling?

When Jeph and I first started talking about the prospect of getting married nearly 17 years ago, I was just graduating from college, and he had his first job out of grad school. Paying rent was more important than saving a couple months' salary for a big rock to put on my left hand. We picked a marquis diamond solitaire that he could afford to make payments on, and I picked out a wrap in which I could have our birthstones set. I didn't know much about picking out a ring. I didn't know what to look for in the way of durability. I just picked out something I thought was pretty, and that I could turn into something meaningful.

Sadly, my lack of knowledge netted me a ring that wouldn't hold up. I repeated lost stones out of my wrap, and had to have it repaired multiple times, and even replaced. Over several years of battling this infernally beautiful ring that wouldn't last, I gave up. I stashed the wrap out of sight in a box, because I couldn't wear it, and I couldn't bear to see it sitting around and not on my left hand.

Eventually, Jeph and I agreed that we would get the ring replaced, and I found a fantastic jeweler to work with. We designed something really special that reflected my Celtic sensibility, and I was assured that this ring would be built to withstand the type of work I do on a day to day basis. A year or so after I got my new ring, Jeph took it in to have it cleaned and he had an oft used phrase engraved on the inside of it for me: "Nation of two."

Over the years of our marriage, we had come to realize that in times of struggle and in times of joy, we were together. We would get through those tough times, and enjoy those fantastic times together. Sure, we have friends and family, but at the end of the day, our life together is ours. We are a "nation of two."

When I bought that little, silver ring with Jeph's name on it, it was another ring I chose. And I wear it on the finger those magazine ads suggest should be the one signifying that I still have my freedom and independence--as if to say that the one I wear on my left hand is the one I wear signifying my sense of being tied to my husband.

I suppose it depends on how you look at it. And I suppose that there are as many different kinds of marriages as there are rings to be worn. Over the weekend, I was thinking about my ring fingers and what the rings I wear mean to me. I am very fortunate. The marriage I find myself in is one based on partnership and commonalities, but it is also based on a knowledge that we are two equal and separate individuals. I grew up watching my mother's first marriage--specifically the struggle of her husband to control her, and her struggle not to be controlled.

Those struggles are not a part of my reality. For that I am grateful. In my jewelry box, there is a tiny little ring with two entwined hearts. Each heart has a tiny little diamond chip. This was the promise ring my mother's first husband gave to her. This pretty little ring I fell in love with as a girl, is now a symbol of promises broken--a ring that was intended to be a symbol of my mother's submission to a man who needed to feel he was in control. I still think it's pretty, but I am wise enough to understand that even the most visually beautiful things can be dark and deceptive.

Love, and the symbols we use to mark each other, should always be like those rings in the right ring finger ads. Love shouldn't bind us. Yes, it makes us responsible to each other, but only because we want to be. It should make us hope for each other and the happiness of one another. It should be an opportunity to share a lifetime, but also to support and work toward each others' dreams. Love should understand that when we commit to each other, we do not discard ourselves.

When I look at the rings on both of my hands, I know that I have a fortune that not everyone gets to realize. I have two rings that are just like those right hand ring ads, and so much more. They're symbols of my chosen partner in life, and symbols of the freedom I feel in loving him.

Everyone should be able to look at the rings on their fingers and feel so lucky.

The Book of Love--A cover by Peter Gabriel

Surrendering the Dream--Let it go

So, there are moments in life in which you have to accept that a dream is coming to an end, and you didn't even realize you were sleeping.

The world of work is difficult. There are a billion things we all would like to be doing everyday, and in the perfect world, we'd find a way to get paid for all of them. Most of the time, we end up sacrificing something in order to pay a bill, have a roof over our heads, and shoes on our feet. But, hopefully, we don't hate what we do in order to meet those needs.

I've been guilty of putting all of my eggs into one basket, multiple times. I've been guilty of believing in things that sometimes didn't believe in me back.

The first time around, I was going to be a journalist or writer. I still love to write, and I still hope one day that doing so will be a larger part of my existence than it is. For one, I know it will take far more discipline than I have now, and a wellspring of energy that I don't have most days. For two, being successful at it, will require that I find people who believe in me as much as I sometimes believe in myself.

The second time around, I realized that the first basket wasn't going to help me meet the needs of bills, roofs, or shoes. So, I fell in love with an idea, and went back to school to become a veterinary technician. I still believe in the idea with which I fell in love, but it took me a while to recognize that idea didn't necessarily believe in, or love me as much.

I had allowed myself to be consumed by what I do, what I thought I should be, and what I thought I had the chance to become. In the process, I forgot that I was more than all of those things. I think we all do that a little bit when we don't have anything on the outside to anchor us to the ground and remind us who we are while we are reaching so high for those possibilities we may always be left...reaching for.

Very recently it took a year and a half of being knocked to the ground (hard) repeatedly for me to realize who I am, and who I want to be. I'm still not there yet, but everyday, I think I see myself a little more clearly. I see when I start to slip and let all the other wind in my world blow me around, and I mistakenly think myself powerless to stand against it. I forget that we all have power...power of self, it's just a matter of choosing to use that power in our lives when we really need to.

What do I mean by that? It's not a simple answer. Sometimes it means that we say "yes" when we want to say "no," because we know the currency we stand to gain. Sometimes it means that when we leave work, we really leave it there. Sometimes it means we accept that what's good, outweighs the bad for us, and we are doing more than paying bills, keeping roofs over our heads, or shoes on our feet. What's good are the friendships we build with people who share common struggles, values and hopes. What's good is the satisfaction that we do it better than most. What's good is knowing that someone waits for us at home--four-legged or two, and even if nobody else we encounter all day believes in us, they do. Sometimes the power of "self" means we know when a dream has been just that, and we are worth more than that dream to ourselves and the people who love us. And even when waking up from that dream hurts like hell, we're going to be all right.

Being aware of "self" means you have the power to recognize what's worthwhile in your life, no matter what else might be happening around you. There's always something worthwhile, and you always had some part in making that happen. There's always something to believe in--it's you.

I have a friend going through a tough time today. A day of disillusionment and loss. Tough places to be. It's a painful to wake up from dreams, but just as hard to have the feeling that somehow, you were asleep along the way, and that you've given so much of yourself over to a non-wakeful state. Letting go is never easy. But when you let go, you find, you can...let it go...surrender.


Bad--U2

Friends Need and Love You, Even at Your Worst.

So, a friend recently reminded me of something I already knew: friendship means you're there for the long hauls, and the illogically sad moments, just as much as you are there for the incredibly joyful ones. And surprisingly, in those moments, sometimes they need you just as much or more.

It's been a long summer, filled with more downs than ups, and it seems, in some ways to have dragged on way too long. Getting passed the emotional upheaval of loss is difficult when it's so deeply tied to your physical being; especially when your physical being is extraordinarily abnormal.

I've written about the miscarriage Jeph and I suffered over the summer, but I haven't written about the frustrations associated with how long it takes to become whole again. The one positive situation to come out of the process is that my ambivalence about motherhood is resolved. But we haven't been able to start over, and it still may be several months before we can. No one ever tells you that, but then again, everyone's situation is different.

We chose our path. We chose to wait until we were really ready before we tried. We chose to be at least 10 years older than most other couples before taking this leap. I often find myself in a world of women who chose more wisely, and who are starting their families long before the odds are against their success. Sometimes, that's difficult.

A dear friend of mine who suffered major obstacles in having her daughter, and only succeeded through in vitro, recently posted something on her Facebook page about the feelings you have when everyone else around you can get pregnant and stay pregnant without additional help. I certainly have not yet found myself having to go down the many difficult roads of seeking help for infertility, but I identified greatly with the feelings on that list.

And even as I admit my feelings, I know how unfair they are. It's nobody's fault that I had a miscarriage, and it's nobody's fault that we cannot yet try again. It's not fair that I sometimes feel so overwhelmed by the loss when I am surrounded by people who deservedly are experiencing so much joy.

I had such a day recently. I had an opportunity to go to lunch with a couple of really great friends, both of whom are expecting. One of those friends has played a major role in helping me get through the worst of the pain. The other friend is one with whom I also have shared some very difficult and life altering moments. And yet, I found myself in such a dark place, I just couldn't bring myself to go.

About a week later, the latter of those two friends helped me realize my mistake. In the moment I fled the scene, I thought I was protecting the two of them from my unfair feelings of sadness, and that they were better off not having to deal with me. I didn't want any of my feelings to take anything away from them, and I was afraid that's what would happen.

My friend has been going through some ups and downs with her pregnancy, and reached out to me. I explained to her what I had been feeling that day, and she told me she wished I had just talked to her. As I talked my way through the feelings I was having, and the difficulties in the process I have been going through, I came to understand that I had been a terrible friend--not because I was sad, but because I didn't share it. My friend needed me as much in my heartbreak as she needs me in my joy.

It's hard to share the bad with people. It's hard to feel like you won't be bringing them down. It's especially hard when there is guilt attached to those feelings. But if your friends are truly your friends, they don't want you to hide from them--no matter what.

That's hard to remember in the moment. And I'm not going to say that I will always get it right. But, I'm going to try to remind myself that I am not just the feeling I am having at any given moment. I am still the person I always have been. I always have something to share. Sadness and experience do not define us, they refine us.

Shake it Out--Florence + The Machine

What stole the "care" from healthcare? July 8, 2012

So, I haven't made it a secret that Jeph and I recently suffered a very painful loss. Losing the promise of a child is a tough experience to go through, and I know I wasn't prepared for it. It's taking time, but I'm doing better.

As the weeks since this loss have ticked slowly away, I have had moments that remind me how loved and cared for I am by people; how oblivious some people can be to your pain; and sadly, how little care there truly is in human healthcare.

I've been working in a different hospital for almost three months. While I've come to care about the people I work with there, I hadn't anticipated how understanding and caring some of them would be toward me. One day, Elton John's "Your Song" buried me while I cleaned the teeth of a dog, I now can't even remember. My doctor that day was about eight months along in her second pregnancy. She knew I needed a moment, and she knew I needed to talk. I will always appreciate how she rescued me that day.

A dear friend, who frequently rescues me sends me "check-in" texts at least once a week, and in the beginning of this painful experience, she texted me multiple times a day. I think she kept me from spiraling into despair a thousand times. I hate that she can relate to my experience, because her kindness to me makes her loss seem even more unfair. I'm envious of her ability to convey the strength she does in the face of such a loss. I had always known she was amazing, but now, I will never forget it. And I will never forget how she continues to support me and make me feel cared about--even weeks later.

Some people overwhelm you with loving gestures, you can barely show appropriate appreciation for. A friend I've known since first grade, and reconnected with a few Twilight years ago, had one of her favorite series of books shipped to me. It's amazing how the love of a friend, and a few good books can help you escape a world that can be hard to face at moments. Still another friend, who has clotheslined me with her thoughtfulness before, sent me a handmade card offering me a bit of Bono's mojo.

The outpouring of care from these women, who are now woven into my memory of this experience forever, is something for which I can never thank them adequately. Aside from Jeph, they have been my "primary care providers."

And that is actually what I really want to talk about--the state of human healthcare.

Just two short weeks before we lost our pregnancy, I was driving Jeph to a hospital because he was experiencing terrible pain every time he tried to breathe. Through the course of the three days he spent in the hospital, we experienced a wide range of care. From concerned and helpful, to distracted and oblivious--we saw it all. There were moments we were frustrated, but when you're stuck in a hospital bed, you often forget that it's your right to ask for better.

I had been waiting to see my new OB/GYN until I was at least nine or ten weeks along. The appointment scheduler had made it very clear that I didn't need to be seen when I initially called. I freely told her that I knew nothing about the process and was happy to follow their lead on what I needed to do--no additional information was offered--not even what to do if I did find myself in trouble. When trouble came, I had no idea what I was supposed to do, and surprisingly, nobody else I asked knew either. We ended up in the emergency room, where I had a sonogram Jeph couldn't be there for, and the technician was not allowed to answer any questions about. In one of the most vulnerable situations of my life, I was completely alone and in the dark about what was happening. As that day progressed and trouble continued, I desperately phoned the office of that new doctor I was waiting to see, and the on-call doctor chastised me for going to the emergency room at all. After having additional testing added to my blood-work, he ordered me to find a 24-hour pharmacy to get a prescription filled. I desperately Googled for said pharmacy--never in my life had I needed to know what pharmacy would be open at midnight on a Saturday. The doctor made it seem urgent that I make it into his office the following Monday. Interestingly, it was only to have more lab work drawn, which I was assured I'd have the result of later in the day. Nothing. After leaving two messages, his nurse called the following day and failed to listen to half of what I told her. When I finally got her to listen, she very frankly told me she believed I had already miscarried. I'd never met this woman, or the doctor she worked for.

A good friend of ours has been dealing with a fairly painful health issue over the last week, and landed in the office of a nurse practitioner. He soon realized she wasn't listening to him, because she was too busy saying what she wanted to say. When I heard how inappropriately appropriately he had called her out on the situation, I was proud of him. Surprisingly, getting her attention didn't change the tenor of the visit, and he walked out to seek help from someone who might actually care.

And that's the thing. I think many of us are raised to respect doctors, nurses and people in the healthcare  profession. They go to school for a long time and they know more than we do. We accept that when we try to schedule appointments that we won't be able to see them for weeks, unless we are near death. We accept that we must arrive early for our visit. We must bring a book or magazine to entertain ourselves in the waiting room, while we wait passed the time of our scheduled appointment to see the doctor, or nurse practitioner. We sit, uncomfortably naked in those horrible gowns on those horrible exam tables with the same book we brought, while we wait for another extended period of time to see our healthcare providers. In most cases, they breathlessly breeze in, to spend as little time with us as possible, and as they walk out of the room, they remind us that we haven't lost any weight since the last time they told us to.

Why do we accept all of this? I don't know. But I'm done.

When I asked my last primary care provider what things I should be thinking about as I approached the idea of becoming pregnant, her only responses were that I would be fine and I should get some exercise. She shares an office with my new primary care provider and her bio states that her special interest is in obstetrics and gynecology. My new primary care provider, which I stumbled upon because I wasn't able to see the other one, is from India. She is an internal medicine specialist, and surprisingly, she spends time talking to me. When Jeph got out of the hospital from his pulmonary embolism, she wanted to see him right away, and when he got there, she had already taken the time to review his case front to back. When the office of my OB/GYN failed me, she made the calls necessary to get me face time with the doctor. They had been perfectly content to leave me in limbo for another couple of days.

I work in veterinary medicine. We deal with "crazy" people everyday. Until last month, I didn't understand what it was like to be one of those crazy people. Now I do. It's difficult at times. In my business, people are not the patients, they are more like the insurance providers. They decide what kind of technical care I can provide to my patients.

As I have learned what kind of care I won't accept for myself anymore, I have learned what kind of care I will not provide. I know my patients would always want what's best for themselves. I know that their "insurance providers" can't always provide that level of care. But now, I also know that most of them really do care, and really do want help, or else they wouldn't be in front of me. Perhaps if I show how much I care, they will be able to face providing whatever level of care they can with as much comfort and dignity as I can give them.

I don't know who or what stole the "care" from healthcare. I imagine there are a million things they deal with  I will never understand, and somehow, those things have chipped away at their ability to listen, to understand and to empathize. But I also imagine that I will never sit in a waiting room to see someone who has lost their ability to care again.

"I Won't Back Down" Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

June 22, 2012--The Other Side

So, I've been seeing Facebook posts over the last couple of days about getting through things, and finding the way to the so-called "other side." One of those was a quote by the late Doors front man Jim Morrison.

“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.” 

 

My response to this post from my husband: "It's there, whether you want it to be or not. And if you try to ignore it, you can't ever get through it. That's why I let myself cry when I need to, if I can. You can't "break on through to the other side." You have to get there one tear at a time; one heartbreak at a time."

 

In forty years, I've managed to survive and overcome a lot of very painful things. People who know me well and all of the things I've gotten through in life think I'm strong. I suppose I should still think of that as a compliment, but any more, I just find it annoying. The thing about having a reputation for being strong is that when something hits me like a sledgehammer,  I feel guilty if I can't keep my shit together. I feel compelled to keep putting one foot in front of the other, even when I want to fall to the floor and crumple into a limp, damp ball. 

 

Another master of words has come to my mind often this week: Bono. Every time I hit a wall in life, there is a string of lyrics that never fails to flash through my mind. "Sometimes I feel like...I don't know. Sometimes I feel like checking out. I wanna get it wrong. Can't always be strong." I think these words mean so much to me, because of my annoyance with my reputation for being able to keep things together. Isn't even the strongest person entitled to a major emotional breakdown, and the occasional unbridled fuck up in response? 

I haven't done so well this week. 

After my last blog, a dear young friend reached out to me, and spoke of how strong my relationship with Jeph is, and how much she hopes to build something as strong as we have in her own life. 

Jeph and I have been through things we never imagined possibly being so hard. The loss of two of our dogs brought us to our knees. The destruction of a giant chunk of his home town brought Jeph to places so dark and disturbing that I can't imagine. Job losses. Dreams crumbling. We've seen a lot. He's the strong one this week, and I envy him, though I know he's being so for me. 

As I have slogged through the quicksand of learning what the fate of our lentil bean would be, I have gone from the moment I knew a heartbeat existed, to the moment I knew there was nothing. I've gone from cautiously optimistic to hysterical, and every place in between. 

I don't want to feel the pain; not because I can't bear it, but because I can't bear for anyone to see me bearing it. I want to skip the period of time in which I will be fine one moment, and a puddle of tears the next. I want to skip the hours of sleep I can't seem to get right now, because my brain and heart won't shut down. I want to get to the other side of this agonizing time.

I know Jim Morrison was driven and inspired by a fast life of substance abuse, and overindulgence on many levels. If you believe the version of his life presented by Oliver Stone in the movie "The Doors," he was more than a little crazy. But the quote my husband posted shatters my already broken heart with its clarity and truth. 

Whether it's pain, fear or desolation, you can't get through these feelings without feeling them. You can't be real with yourself or anyone else unless you let what your really feeling pass through you so you can get to the other side of it. 

Some people will argue that you must remain positive. You must keep a stiff upper lip. You must carry on. I found myself dealing with medical professionals who were less than sensitive. I found myself hearing life altering news from people who didn't know me. In the midst of this, I came to an understanding about how I deal with people who are in pain, or even just in a state of worry. In my business, people often make demands on my time and the time of my colleagues that feel unreasonable. Until this week, I had never been a person seeking help, seeking information and seeking comfort. I had never been the patient or client going off on the person on the other end of the line. I had never been made to feel so trivial and so helpless. And over the course of the week, I realized that I could think of times I hadn't been any better to those so-called crazy and nuisance people.

 

Not only was I uncomfortable dealing with my own pain and fear, but I didn't want to deal with anyone else's either. It's easier to avoid pain than to feel it or face it. It's the reason why so many of us never take risks or leaps in our lives. It's the reason why so many of us stay put in situations we don't like, rather than chancing a loss of stability. If we never try to do something amazing, we will never fail at it, and we will never have to recover from anything. We will never lose. 

The thing we often overlook in living our lives that way is that we also will never win. Every great thing we dream of, or aspire to will never happen. 

We spent a lot of time hemming and hawing over whether we would try to have a child or not. I think we mostly waited because we didn't want to risk that it would change us and our lives in ways we would regret. But when I think of Jeph explaining to people that it came to him that we should, because he wanted to finally do something meaningful with life, it occurs to me that maybe he's right, and maybe our fear of failing to remain who we are has kept us from living as meaningful a life as we might have for longer than we should have. 

We were afraid to feel the pain of mistakes. We were afraid to feel the discomfort of change. In the moment of hysteria I experienced last Saturday night, that fear and pain of loss made me understand how much I really wanted our lentil bean--how much I really wanted our child. While the agony of the loss seems to be hitting me in waves, without this pain, I wouldn't know that I must try again, and I must try better. Without feeling this pain, I couldn't get to the other side. I'm not going to break through, because pain doesn't work that way. The giant gaping wound heals slowly, and side to side. The pulling back together of my spirit won't happen overnight, and as another friend shared with me, I may still feel the scar so many years from now. I may still be feeling the pain as a reminder of how I made it to that other side. 

So, wallow, when you have to. Choke back tears when it feels right and you can. Eat a whole pie. Let the tears fall in the car while you sing along to songs on the "New Moon" soundtrack. Feel what you need to feel to get where you need to go. Because you're never going to get through it by trying to get around it. 

Possibility--Lykke Li

A Miscarriage of Certainty

So, I haven't written for a while. For a number of reasons, I just haven't felt like it. I had been experiencing a sense of immaturity about it and the way that it sometimes feels like open mic night at a comedy club, when there are only a couple of people in the crowd, and they're really just there because of the fabulous potato skins and chicken tenders. I've also been wrestling with a new work assignment that has left me feeling drained mentally and physically. Writing seemed, once again, to have become something that really didn't do anything for anyone, except me, and like so many people, I felt like it was hard to justify something that seemed kind of self-centered.

Being self-centered isn't a hard concept for me, as I am sure it's not for many of us. It's easy to get stuck in moments that aren't great and be consumed by them. It's easy to get wrapped up in little events, things and excitements. But occasionally, life clotheslines us, and we realize that some things are really huge.

About four weeks ago, Jeph and I found out that we were going to be parents--to something without fur. Some things are impossible to believe, no matter how many times you see evidence of it. Like most women, I had decided not to spread the unbelievable news around until I felt like it was "safe" and that we were out of the scary time.

And then, the next life altering event: Jeph Blanchard throws a blood clot to a lung and spends three days in a hospital bed, completely out of control of one of the things he is constantly in control of--his body. The awareness of the gravity of the situation was not lost on me, and of course, the fear that something could happen to my partner in this big adventure hit me like a freight train. I'm sure the mere two hours of sleep I got after learning of this crazy made the weight of the situation significantly greater.

When you overcome the odds of age, percentages and a bullet, you figure that the biggest bump left will literally be the biggest bump your body will ever experience. The pursuit of getting pregnant and the thought of trying to become a parent is really pretty abstract. In the early days, I really haven't "felt" pregnant. But reading about it in multiple sources and visiting about it with experienced friends assured me that I was normal. At this point, it's important for us to all switch off the goggles and extendible ears that allow us to see and hear that biological clock ticking away as I get halfway through my fortieth year. My age was my only hurdle. My only fear.

I had already decided not to be a hero. I thought of the many women I have worked with over the years and how they had managed their pregnancies. They ranged from the very protective and needy, to the obscenely independent and blase. I've literally worked with women who have gone into labor at work. I don't see the sense of that. I was just going to do what I felt comfortable with. Unfortunately, in our work life, most of us feel compelled to be what everyone else needs, and most of the time, we put what we need on the back burner.

I had also decided not to be a crazy pregnant lady. I wasn't going to worry about every soda I shouldn't drink or every pound overweight I already am. I wasn't going to request that we purchase a special mask for me to wear while I managed anesthesia at work, and while I clearly wasn't going to clean any litter boxes, I was still going to touch cats. I wasn't going to freak out about every little bloat, cramp or spot. I wasn't going to be the wife who looked at her husband and said "no, honey, it might hurt the baby."

I know that there's really only so much anyone can control in life. I've made it pretty clear in past blogs that I'm not relying on some mystical, unknown being to save me or to magically wipe away any bad. But I never expected to feel the way I have felt in the last twenty-four hours. I never knew how horrible uncertainty and waiting could feel. I never knew that I could feel so protective about something that is so small. I never knew that potentially losing something the size of a lentil bean could make me feel so stripped bare. The limbo state of waiting for "threatened" to become "eminent" is painful. The prospect of things ending badly, and having to try again is sobering.

Part of me doesn't want to hope that the tiny intervention might work, because what if we are trying to save something that just wasn't meant to be? Part of me wants beyond all medical knowledge and reason to fight hard. Part of me wonders if there's something in our nature that helps us know when something is wrong, and if that's why I hadn't been ready to start writing in that journal I picked up while baby shopping for a friend.

For weeks, I have been thinking about one of my favorite movies about becoming a mother: "The Waitress." Jenna, played by Kerri Russell, finds herself in the family way while in the midst of a miserably unhappy marriage. One of the first things she does is write a letter to her unborn child, and she continues to do this periodically throughout the movie.

"Dear baby..." all of the letters begin. That's how I had been envisioning this time would be. Almost as if giving up writing here would be replaced with writing there.

As I sit waiting for my body to decide what to do, I am filled with uncertainty. I am filled with grief. I am filled with the emptiness of not knowing. But I think that no matter what happens, I am reminded today of how I cope with life. I cope with it using letters and words, and they don't have to be for anyone else. They can be just for me.

Dear lentil bean,

We don't know if we will get to meet you or not. We hope that you know we were finally feeling ready for you, and we were going to love you so much. We know if you can't make it, that there is a really good reason, and we will hope some piece of who you were going to be will find us again. For now, just rest quietly while we all wait to see. We're going to do our best to do the same, and hopefully tomorrow I will be able to write you again and tell you that everything looks much better.

Love,
Lima Bean

Fires--Band of Skulls