finslippy

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.