finslippy

Nothing to see here

It was four weeks yesterday that I had the miscarriage, and it's a milestone that's whapped me upside the head. I'm not doing so well, folks. Who knew? I thought by now I'd be moving on, and instead I'm right back where I started. I'm hoping that with therapy and time and some helpful pharmaceuticals, I will regain the ability to move through the day and its many challenges without crying or  unleashing my rage at some unwitting bystander (oh, my poor husband).  If posting is somewhat light over the next couple of weeks, you won't stop coming here, will you? Of course you won't. Stop nodding like that.

I've tried to respond to all the amazing emails I've received, but some have slipped through the cracks. And I'm realizing that taking care of myself might mean not spending hours giving back to everyone who was kind enough to open up to me. So if you don't get a response, please know that your email (and/or comment) was read and appreciated, and that I would write a response if I weren't so busy watching "What Not to Wear" episodes and staring at my hands. I lead a rich, full existence.

But did you know? I actually managed to compose my Alphamom column for last week, somehow. And that's not all! As you may have noticed over on the right-hand column, over there, I'm in the anthology "Sleep is for the Weak," (the best title ever in the history of anthologies, if you ask me) edited by the infinitely capable Rita Arens. I'm proud to be in such excellent company, and so glad that Rita persevered in her quest to get this book out. I can't wait to read it.

Want to hear something funny?

I actually thought I was being hilarious, with that last entry. I thought that was a return to form. Hilarity was mine again! I'm back, baby! So imagine my surprise when the comments were in the "oh, honey" and "I am inappropriately hugging you in my mind" vein.  I then read the post again, and, huh, well, yeah. I guess all that talk of doldrums and not being able to dress myself appropriately said more than I meant it to. Now I feel a little silly. Silly, and odd.

To those of you who are worried that I need to seek professional help, please be assured that I have an entire army of professional helpers at my beck and call.  I seek the counsel of mental health-keepers  more than I talk to my friends these days. And oh, I wish I were exaggerating.

I went to see one of them today, one of those medication-prescribing  types, who declared that I am more depressed than I think I am, and menacingly waved her prescription pad at me. She, like the Internet, refused to be dazzled by my hot jokes and my jazz hands. Instead she wanted to know if I've been sleeping and eating, or just entertaining thoughts of suicide. Oh, therapist!  Who has the energy for suicide?  All I ask is to sleep for six months or twelve years or so. Is that so crazy? 

I actually don't think I'm doing all that badly, for the most part, except when I'm doing so badly I can barely breathe. I can engage in chit-chat, and play with Henry. I can go to the store, and do store things! I go about my day and no one is the wiser. There's just this niggling pain roaming about my insides, is all, and at intervals that pain will reach an intolerable level, whereupon I retreat to the bathroom and cry for a little while, or else a long while. But usually the former. These crying retreats have become less frequent, so that's encouraging. Right?

Meanwhile, my professional helpers are telling me that my grief is "normal" but also that I'm depressed. I can't quite wrap my mind around this, because as we know depression is abnormal,  and if this is normal, than it can't be depression. That's logic! Then again, I seem to be unable to think clearly, so maybe there's something I'm not getting or something they said that I forgot to listen to. Next time I should take notes. Or bring a translator. Or just stay home and mail them checks. 

I don't think I'm depressed as much as I am emotionally unmoored. Is there a prescription to help that? I don't know what to do, or what I'm supposed to feel, or how I'm supposed to… hmm. I can't remember how I was going to finish that sentence. I'm a solution-minded kind of person, ready to read the book or take the course or do the work that will make things better, and there's no solution for this. And I'm more than a little dissatisfied with this state of affairs.



 

Nor breath nor motion

Why, hello. And welcome! Welcome to my doldrums. I apologize for not fixing up the place, but there's been so much to do: sitting around, staring into space, muttering at the dog, attempting to nap. Making a sandwich and then halfway through forgetting about the sandwich and wondering why I'm standing there with a butter knife. Like that! So much.

Would you like some tea? I think I have some, somewhere over here. Of course making tea means heating up water and finding the tea bags and. What? Was I saying something?

Why are you jumping on the couch? No, no, that's not a ferret scurrying out from under the couch to attack you. That's a dust bunny composed of the intermingling of Charlie and Izzy's fur. Sorry about that. I would have vacuumed but the vacuum cleaner is so heavy, and who can figure out how to plug stuff in? It's like you need a science degree for that. With the larger prong and then the other one. Why not just one prong? I ask myself that more than you would imagine.

And yes, I was wearing these sweatpants the last time I saw you, thanks for asking. Stained, are they? Huh. None of my pants fit me, if you must know. This is frustrating. But then, at least I don't have a stupid ass face like you do.

Whoa! Where did that come from? I'm sorry. Your face is not even a little assy. Pants are a sensitive topic for me. As are shirts. Also, life. Can you just sit over there and avert your eyes?

I know the phone is ringing. It does that. It will stop, don't worry.

Also, just so you know, if you ask me how I'm feeling I may start screaming and not stop until you leave. I'm just getting a little weary of that question, is all. I feel like having a sandwich, is how I feel. If only I could work through how that's done, again.

Time for you to go? Lucky! I'm glad at least one of us can enter and depart as we please. If it's anyone, it should be you, and I mean that. Sorry about the, you know, dust bunnies, and the insults. Next time you come, we'll find some cups, and then we'll drink some water, maybe with ice cubes! Now if you don't mind, I'm kind of wiped out. You can open the door yourself, right? I thought so. Next time you're here, you'll have to show me how that's done.

Here's the thing.

I know I can have another baby—at least, I'm pretty sure—but right now I don't want another baby. I want the one I had. I saw that baby on the ultrasound, and I liked that baby. That baby was MINE. I spent hours staring at the print-out of what essentially was a gummy bear, and cooing over it. I decided it was some kind of genius baby. In the picture we have, it's kind of sticking its arms out, like it's waving hello at us. Genius! Clearly! Having people tell me that it's for the best, that I'll have another, that what I'm going through right now is all hormones, does not address the difficulty I'm having with the whole idea of THIS baby being gone. Indeed, it seems to imply that the baby wasn't real or meaningful to me. Having someone define the words I wrote in the throes of all this as "good thing it died, because it might have been disabled" makes me want to tear that person's throat out. No. I lost my baby, and it was a good baby, and it was the one I wanted. I realize I never met it, and that I'm not making any rational kind of sense. I realize said baby might have been a genetically nonviable scramble of material. But only I can say that. As for you, you badmouth my baby and I will kick you in the teeth.

I'm a little angry, these days.

Clarification.

We're hoping that we get some answers from the pathology report, that we find out that there was some chromosomal defect and that we were spared unspeakable pain down the road. Anything so we can feel like this isn't the worst that could possibly have happened.

I found out today that the words I wrote were interpreted by some as "at least we didn't have a disabled baby."

That was the furthest thing from my mind, when I was wrote those words. I was thinking of the fetus's nonviability. I was thinking at least the end happened now, and not deep into the second trimester, or at birth.

The last thing I wanted to do was bring any other parent pain, and I'm sorry if I did.

What are you doing tomorrow night?

Answer: you are coming to Brooklyn, to see me.

Also some other people.

No, but seriously. Tomorrow night at 5:30 p.m. I will be at Soda Bar with Heather, Doug, Sarah, and Greg. (Scott, aka Pretty Rambo, will be there as well.) We will be there to sign copies of Things I Learned About My Dad (In Therapy), which you might notice over there in the right-hand column.(If you like you can BUY A COPY AND THEN WRITE SOMETHING NICE ON AMAZON. No pressure. Do it. Doitdoitdoit.)

And that's not all! After the Soda Bar festivities, we will be moseying a few blocks away to Cringe, the monthly reading hosted by Ms. Sarah Brown. Supposedly I will be reading something at this event. It seems incredible to me that I will be able to scrape myself off the ground and shower by tomorrow, much less get to Brooklyn, much less talk to people and write my name on things and then get up in front of friends and strangers and read my pre-teen tribute to Billy Joel. But I have promised, and at least I'll be able to have a drink, or four.

Isn't it nice when someone tells you what you're doing? All that confusion about what's to come—all of it has been washed away. It's all so clear, now. Brooklyn, you, me. See you there.

Overwhelmed.

I cannot begin to tell you how much all of your emails and comments have meant to me. I read each and every one of them, and every one of them helped more than I can say. (And yet I'm still sadder than I've ever been. This seems mathematically impossible, but my emotions are terrible at math.)

Right now I'm feeling a lot of things, and soon enough I will write long and confused posts about this bizarre rollercoaster ride I'm on, but first I wanted to say thank you. To all of you out there, and to those close to home. I have an amazing family who have rallied around me, parents who came and cried with me and made dinner and cleaned my refrigerator, friends who visited and sent gifts and let me cry all over them and took Henry on extended playdates. I have an impossibly sweet boy who has remained, I am pleased to say, mostly oblivious to what's going on. (Although this morning he pointed out that I haven't played with him in months. I have some serious catching up to do.) And I have the greatest husband of all time. (Sorry, ladies, but I win.) And if I say anything more about how much he's done for me, I'll start crying again, and sheesh, my mascara is already messed up enough. (Yes, I applied mascara this morning. I had this delusion that today maybe I wouldn't cry. Ha ha! HAAArggh hmm.)

More later.