And so it goes...

You know what's not fair? Getting the bill for your IUI on the same day you get your period.

Harrumph.

Good things about today

Because I've been dwelling entirely too much on the bad things lately...

1. My Beloved searching for something to make me smile and finding a bloopers show on TV. For an hour I sat and laughed. Laughed, if you can believe it.
2. Playing Ping Pong for the first time in months and getting soundly beaten. Twice. (Okay, so that part wasn't so good, but it wasn't unexpected either and consistency is good, right?)
3. A tall glass of iced tea when I was hot and thirsty after coming home with a thousand bags of groceries.
4. The ice-cold beer store (A perfect place to browse through when the mercury climbs into the high 20s).
5. The boxes (and you know who you are).
6. Looking at my angel garden and watching Thomas' tree sway in the breeze.
7. Homemade rhubarb pie.
8. Filing several months worth of bank statements and bills (I really need to file more often...).
9. Not ironing.
10. Chocolate.
11. Perfectly BBQ'd salmon.
12. The fact that three of the things on this list are food and I don't care.
13. Warm kitty snuggles.
14. Internet access.
15. Neighbours.
16. Hope. Not because I happen to have any at the moment, but because I know that there's still time to find some. We're not beaten yet. We have time - we have months to go. And so we also have hope.

Sorry. I need to rant again. And whine. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

Okay, I know I whine about this every time I'm in one of my great, foggy-headed Clomid hazes, but seriously, why is this stuff so flocking AWFUL???

It's like having PMS ALL. THE. TIME. And it's all I can think about.

Literally all I can think of is how much I don't feel like me when I'm on this miserable fertility drug trip. And how much I miss the me I am when I'm not.

Yeah, the mourning, barren, slightly obsessive compulsive and mildly paranoid me. I actually miss her.

For the blissfully uninitiated, it's a little like standing in a giant water glass that is slowly filled to the brim while you stand on the bottom looking out at the world. By some miracle you can breathe and you don't actually die, but you can't react to anything around you the way you're used to, and you see and hear things WAY differently than you normally do. And no, you can't swim up to the top. Or get out. All you can do is stand there on the bottom, stupidly and helplessly, while the pressure of the water relentlessly squeezes the crap out of every little bit of you.

Everything makes you cry. Except stuff that actually should. And every once in a while you think you might actually be going insane, but you're not.

That's when the Clomid laughs its hardest.

Well, it also has a giggle when you allow yourself to consider the prospect of having to do it all over again when the current cycle fails. And it always seems to, doesn't it?

Doing it all again is terrifying to me. It builds up in your system, this heinous thing, and the amplification of crazy is...well, who the hell wants to amplify crazy???

Seriously, why can't they make something that doesn't fuck with your mind in such an awful way? Why? Why? Why?

Women are walking bags of hormones to begin with, can they not invent something that DOESN'T upset that easily upsettable balance??

We can put a man on the moon, but heaven forbid we should find a way to create a drug that doesn't contribute to an infertile woman's pre-existing brand of insanity.

Ugh.

And on that note I'm going to bed. Last night I dreamt that a naked man was carving a life size wooden sculpture with a sword out on his front lawn while My Beloved and I pondered a way to drag the life-sized matchbox car he'd just bought home.

I'm not even safe in my dreams...

Clomid, you are a bitch.

No whining or ranting (I promise) - just a few pictures

The vegetable garden, newly planted (you can just see the two rows of very, very tiny beet seedlings if you look reaaaaally closely...). I added a sage plant tonight and will fill up the remaining spaces with herbs, I think...



The Angel Garden, complete with its brand new arbor! I planted two "Little Duckling" Clematis vines on either side of it this evening, but from what I understand they can take a few years to really take hold. Good thing the arbor is purdy all on its own (if I do say so myself!).

Thomas' tree is off in the background.



And finally, what picture show is complete without a big fat cat ass?

10 things I happen to hate about infertility

1. Feeling broken (the not-quite-half-a-woman style of broken).
2. Fertility medications that make you a raving lunatic, burying the real you under layers of artificial hormones, crying jags, tantrums, paranoia and black moods.
3. The fact that trying to conceive is no longer something between you and your spouse. The fact that your uterus becomes public property that everyone seems to have a stake in. The longer your innards sit empty, the more people wonder, the more people ask, and the more they think they have a right to know every single little thing that's going on. Even when it's no one's business but you and your Beloved's.
4. Telephone calls from the clinic telling you to have sex.
5. Repeated poking and prodding in areas that, ideally, shouldn't be subjected to poking and prodding more than once a year for 39 seconds at your annual physical.
6. Did I mention the drugs?
7. The devastation of each failed cycle.
8. The ticking of the clock.
9. The hopeful looks and the pitying looks (particularly when under the influence of #2)
10. The guilt, the jealousy, the uncertainty, the sorrow, the anger, the confusion, the frustration and the mental gymnastics necessary to muster up the strength to carry on after each failed cycle.

This self-indulgent little whine-fest, albeit admittedly gross and unpleasant, is a necessary evil. It just is. Sometimes you just have to let it out lest it consume you from the inside out.

For the most part I quietly deal with the intense displeasure I have for this whole process because it's just what needs to be done and whining about it won't change a thing, but for the record I hate this with an all-consuming passion. I hate the intrusion into our lives, I hate the way it all makes me feel, I hate the way I act and react when I'm in the throws of drug-inducted hell and I hate the lost innocence.

Oh I hate that so much.

I miss the days when I didn't have to discuss the intricacies of every cycle with nurses, doctors, ultrasound techs and phlebotomists. I miss the days when that was the farthest thing from my reality.

I miss when it was just My Beloved and I who knew what was going on. I miss being able to have the intimacy of that shared secret. I miss waiting and wondering and having only HIM know why.

I realize if I'd stop talking about it here I could probably get back some of that privacy, but it just feels too late for some reason. Even if I shut up right now there would still be questioning looks and prying questions from people I know mean well.

And you know what? There would be even if I'd never talked about it at all here. After two years, there would be a LOT of questions, curious looks, whispers and speculation.

I. Just. Want. Another. Baby. For God's SAKE, why is this so hard???

And that's the kind of day it's been

I made it all the way through a funeral on Thursday with just a little minor welling about the eyes.

Today, however, four and a half seconds of Dumbo set me off on a 10 minute crying jag.

Seriously, I hate Clomid.

And so in the end...

...the discussion with my priest went well. It went really, really well.

He was all for the idea of a Mass of remembrance - or some sort of memorial service - for lost children. The plan is to have the first one sometime in the Fall and to see where it goes from there. Maybe it'll be an annual event, maybe it'll take on a life of its own and become a monthly event, or maybe it'll spin off into a group of some sort - who knows? The sky's the limit.

The sky's the limit, can you imagine that?

He was kind, understanding and compassionate . And he didn't seem to mind all the crazy lady babble at all.

Will wonders never cease?

Whew. Seriously, whew.

Walking

I was working in the communications department of an e-commerce solutions provider when I was pregnant with Thomas. I'd been there on contract for almost three years when I had him. I didn't go back after. I haven't set foot in the building since, as a matter of fact.

It belongs to my old life.

But when I did work there, back when I was a very different girl, I used to walk to and from the train station using the underground pathway beneath the streets of Toronto. There's a whole other city down there - hundreds of stores and businesses connected by miles of pathway snaking below the city.

I have a terrible sense of direction. Atrocious. The first day I ventured down into the underbelly, I figured I'd either end up at work or end up a hundred miles away from it, lost forever in the never-ending subterranean mall. By some miracle (and with the help of some surprisingly good maps and directional signs) I made it to work. With time to spare.

So I used the PATH (as it's called) almost every day. If it wasn't too hot, too cold or just generally miserable out, I'd walk above ground, but most of the time I stayed below, carefully retracing the steps I took each morning to return home each night.

Eventually I learned that there was more than one route to and from the train. A co-worker told me about it - told me that he went a completely different way than I did. I wondered if his route was shorter than mine, and wondered if that was the reason there was so little foot-traffic along portions of my walk.

But I kept walking the route I'd learned.

One day I happened to see a sign that said UNION STATION pointing in a different direction than the way I happened to be going. The way I walked to get to that very same place. I was tempted to try it. I was tempted almost every day thereafter. But I never did.

I walked that path for almost three years and the only time I varied my route was to venture above ground when the air was comfortable and clear.

I got thinking about my route this evening. I tried to walk it in my mind. Down the escalator, past the convenience store, through the food court, beyond the double doors and into the Scotiabank Towers. And that's where I get stuck. I can remember bits and pieces of the rest of the walk, but not how to link them all together.

I can't remember my route. I walked it a million times, never changing my course. And now it's gone.

You can be true to a route in life. You can plan it out carefully and walk it faithfully. You can memorize it and depend upon it and hide yourself away along its safe, comfortable lengths. But it doesn't mean it'll take you where you want to go, or that it's even the best way to get there.

Most importantly, it doesn't mean it'll take you where you need to go.

I think it's good that I can't remember my route. I don't want to learn another one that well ever again.

musings

Written in my fertility clinic file: "frustrated with inability to conceive." Gee, ya think?
_______________________________________________________

Why are there so many strangers in Asia and Europe who suddenly want to bequeath all their worldly goods to me? And how did they get my e-mail address?
_______________________________________________________

Why do male OBs believe that describing what they think you're feeling as you're actually feeling it helps you deal with the thing you're feeling - when they have NO idea what that thing feels like at all? Someone needs to tell them that we don't buy their mumbled, coming-from-between-the-legs apologies.
_______________________________________________________

They should give you chocolate after dildocams. I'm not kidding - they should.
_______________________________________________________

Changing a diaper for the very first time in your entire life more than two years after you gave birth to a child yourself is just plain strange. No two ways around it. It just shouldn't be.
_______________________________________________________

I flip the bird to people in Hummers. Sometimes I'm not filled with the spirit of Jesus at ALL.
_______________________________________________________

I had one of those perfect moments of bliss a few days ago. As soon as I noticed I was having it, it went away. But it was nice while it lasted.
_______________________________________________________

We did two IUIs this weekend. I could be pregnant. I'm probably not. But maybe I am. Or maybe I'm not. There's nothing more humbling than being utterly clueless about what exactly your body is doing. Or what it's capable of doing.
_______________________________________________________

I don't know if I'm more terrified at the thought of being pregnant or not being pregnant.
_______________________________________________________

I'm meeting with my priest this week and suddenly I'm scared. The Clomid fueled bravado has worn off. I hope I don't end up crying in his office. I don't want to end up crying in his office...
_______________________________________________________

I was thinking about Thomas' stroller the other day. I can't remember what it looks like.
_______________________________________________________

What's worse? I can no longer imagine what Thomas might look like. It was easy when he was a baby - when he still would have been a baby - but I can't imagine what he'd look like now at 26 months. This thought makes me profoundly, deeply, achingly sad.
_______________________________________________________

I wonder if I'm pregnant.
_______________________________________________________

I wonder if I'm not pregnant.
_______________________________________________________

Please don't ask.

Marigolds for Rosepetal

The marigolds for Rosepetal's boys are tucked away in my Angel garden on either side of the little reading boy and the orange and purple violas (which I've never seen before!) that I planted in memory of my Grandma.

I love this garden so much I could almost cry. There are so many special angels remembered there...

It's the truth

Clomid is mean.

This is why I hang up on telemarketers

ME: (Hoping it's a long distance friend but fully aware it's probably a telemarketer) Hello?

TELEMARKETER: Good afternoon, can I please speak to Mr. or Mrs. Z?

ME: (Annoyed, but resigned to making sure it's not actually something important) Speaking.

TELEMARKETER: This is a courtesy call. I'm calling from XYZ Foods. We're a wholesale grocery delivery company specializing in delivering fresh produce and groceries directly to your door. Families typically save anywhere from 20 - 30% off of their regular weekly shopping bill by using our convenient delivery service.

ME: (Having resisted the urge to simply hang up, which is my normal reaction to telemarketers, I find myself actually interested in finding out more about XYZ and have decided to ask if they'll send me information or can direct me to their website).

TELEMARKETER: Do you have three or more people in your home that you shop for on a weekly basis?

ME: (Wondering why this matters) No.

TELEMARKETER: Thank you for your time. *CLICK*

ME: (Staring blankly at the receiver, I am aghast that this woman has hung up on me because I only shop for two. As I slowly hang up the phone I want to cry. I don't, but I want to.).

So yeah, this is why I hang up on telemarketers.

I took your collective advice...

My letter...

Good morning Father,

I’m not sure where to begin, so I’ll just jump right in...

My husband and I had our first child, a baby boy we named Thomas, on March 9, 2005. He died the next day (due to an injury at birth). He was buried from St. M on March 17th and is resting with my Grandparents in S Cemetery.

It’s been a very, very long road. And there have been many, many times when I was very tempted to (and probably should have) seek the support of Father W. and, after he left, you. But I didn’t. I was too embarrassed to admit how shaken my faith was – and how horrified I was by that fact. My faith has always been something that gave me great comfort and strength in times of struggle and sorrow, but somehow it failed me. Or I failed it.

Anyway, I’m doing okay. I come to Mass every Sunday searching for something that will help me heal, even though I’m still often angry and confused. The fact that we have been unable to conceive again since the death of our son hasn’t helped in that area, but I know God has a plan and a reason for having us go through the sorrows and trials we do in this life. Knowing that doesn’t always help when I’m missing my son so much I feel like my heart might literally break in two, but at least it helps me keep some perspective.

Okay, that’s the background (and what a lot of information it was...).

Anyway, Mother’s Day is an extremely difficult day for me. I suffered two miscarriages before losing Thomas, and I’m now dealing with secondary infertility. It’s agonizing. I love that mothers are particularly remembered during the Mass on Mother’s Day, and it’s lovely to have all mothers stand up and receive a special blessing.

But I wonder if maybe next year you could make a point of also mentioning mothers like me – those who have lost their children (through miscarriage and infant loss). And maybe even those who are struggling to become mothers. There was a special intention for people who have lost mothers this past year, but no mention of those of us who might have lost our children. In my case, all of them.

Mothers in mourning are a forgotten group in so many ways. No one likes to talk about dead babies, after all. We grieve quietly in order to avoid making other people uncomfortable, but all we want is to have our sorrow acknowledged and to hear the names of our lost children spoken to us as though they did exist. Because of course, they did.

Actually, I’ve been thinking a lot about talking to you about having an annual Mass of remembrance for children lost to miscarriage and perinatal death. I know how much it would mean to me to have a special evening to remember my son and my other two lost children - a safe night surrounded by other people who truly understand. A night just for us to remember, grieve and celebrate that we gave life, no matter how tiny that life was.

I would be more than happy to help organize such an event. I thought it would be nice to ask those who planned to attend (and even those who didn’t) to submit the names of their children lost to miscarriage and infant loss so they could be included in a program of some sort. There is nothing sweeter than seeing my son’s name in print. It seems like such a small, insignificant thing, but it’s absolutely huge to me.

October 15th is officially Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day in the US, but it’s recognized as such in grieving circles here too, so perhaps a date close to that might be appropriate.

I know you must have people coming to you all the time with their special interests and I apologize if I’m just another one of those folks, but I hope you’ll give all this some consideration. When I had my first miscarriage women literally came out of the woodwork to tell me their stories of loss. I was in a choir at my old church at the time (before I officially moved to St. M) and as soon as everyone knew what happened, the floodgates opened. I was told the story of at least 10 lost children in that one choir, often over tears. I was floored. It never occurred to me that so many people experienced loss like this because women just don’t talk about it. Unless, of course, it happens to someone they know.

That’s why I think an evening of remembrance would be so wonderful and healing for so many people. It would give us a chance to remember together. And, as I said, I’ll do anything to help. I’m a writer and my husband is a designer, so between the two of us I’m sure we can work on announcements and the program – or whatever else you need.

Okay, I’ll cease and desist now. I only intended to ask about a mention for mothers in mourning on Mother’s Day...but sometimes I ramble.

Thanks so much for listening, and for everything – particularly those comforting words of wisdom that keep me coming back each Sunday and help me heal and make sense of this life and my place in it.

Regards,
Kristin

And his reply...

Hello Kristin,

Thank you very much for sending me this note. I can imagine the pain and difficulty it must be for you with that loss. Certainly, I would be glad to sit down with you and look at how our parish could respond to this in a sensitive and caring way. I will be away this week but next week when I get back I will be in contact and perhaps we can meet to discuss this.

Thanks again for coming forward with this, talk to you soon,
Fr. M

I revealed slightly more than I intended to (Clomid makes me ramble), but actually I'm glad I said everything that I did. Not only am I thrilled to know that he wants to meet with me, I'm relieved to have finally, FINALLY admitted that I'm waging an epic battle of faith. I said it out loud. To a priest - to someone who gets God a lot better than I do. To someone who maybe, just maybe, can help me understand him better too.

I somehow feel a thousand pounds lighter today.

I wish there was peace on Mother's Day

During the intentions at Mass today, they made a special point of praying for all mothers. Even though I expected they would (they always do on Mother's Day), it was nice. Immediately following that they prayed for everyone who has a lost a mother this year.

Also very nice.

But what about mothers who have lost a child this year? What about the sorrow this day brings them?? I don't just mean babies either. Your child is your child when you're 80 and he's 50.

Why are we, as a group, so easy to forget? So easy to ignore? I don't understand this. I will never understand this.

I wanted to stand up and scream for all the mothers sitting in those pews quietly mourning children they have lost over the years. And I wanted to scream for the lost children that so many people are more comfortable just forgetting about.

I hate this day.

The priest asked everyone who was a mother to stand and receive a special blessing at the end of Mass. I didn't stand up. I should have - I am a mother. But I didn't. I sat there hating that I didn't while the other mothers stood tall and proud all around me.

I hate this day.

Edited to add...

I should clarify that My Beloved has never made me feel invisible on Mother's Day. The first one, just two months after Thomas's death, he gave me a card and treated me to pancakes as well as incredible tenderness and love all day long (a routine he repeated last year too). That same year a very good friend of mine sent me a bouquet of flowers, and I just got a Mother's Day card from her in the mail yesterday, despite the fact that she is currently living through her own personal hell at the moment.

I was being overly woe-is-me yesterday. I apologize for being a drama queen.

Heather and Miraclebaby, thank you so much for your incredibly sweet offers to buy me a mom shirt. I'm awed by the kindness and compassion that exists in this small little world we have here in blogland.

Here's what I want you to do though - take the money you would have spent on a shirt and buy something for yourselves - both of you. Chocolate, a movie, a good book - whatever. Knowing you wanted to buy me a shirt is gift enough for me.

Truly, it is.

Thank you, so very, very much.

It's the thought that counts

On Tuesday, in an effort to distract myself from the swirling eddy of depressing thoughts still lingering in my weary brain after my appointment on Monday, I went out shopping. My Beloved was in need of some short sleeved shirts and since I am capable of at least giving him that (I'll pause while you roll your eyes at my nauseating self deprecation), I figured I'd head out to the mall.

I went to my favourite discount department store (I engage in retail therapy, but I'm notoriously thrifty about it) and headed down to the mens section. On the way there I passed a rack of Mother's Day t-shirts. They were cheap and cheesy - and I decided I wanted one really badly.

My first reaction was to avert my eyes and walk quickly by, but then I stopped, turned my cart around and went back.

It was suddenly very important for me to get one of the tacky little #1 Mom tank tops. I figured I could wear it around the house or under something when I'm out gardening. No one (save My Beloved who sees me in all kinds of horrendous "at home" outfits) would ever have to actually see it.

I do realize how pathetic and creepily needy it is to buy yourself a #1 Mom shirt for Mother's Day, by the way - particularly when you don't have any living children - but having that tank top was important and soul soothing at that moment. And besides, as a childless mother I'm not included in Mother's Day celebrations as a mother myself. I'm invisible.

And I get that - I do. It makes sense and all, but still, it doesn't make it any less depressing. So a hidden tank top would have been nice.

But alas, they didn't have one in my size. So I left the rack of cheesy tops meant for smaller mothers with, who are we kidding, living children and continued on.

In the end I bought myself a pair of Snoopy slipper socks instead. On sale, of course. It's May - and unseasonably hot at the moment - so I won't be using them anytime soon, but some chilly Fall day I'll be very pleased with my Mother's Day consolation prize.

For Mothers of angels...

When Mother's Day Feels Empty
By Clara Hinton, Silent Grief

There are no words to completely describe what a mother feels when her child has died. She feels lost, abandoned, afraid, lonely, forgotten, and most of all empty. The emptiness is like none other because it is an emptiness of the heart. When a child dies, part of a mother's heart also dies.

Mother's Day is a traditional holiday that has grown bigger and bigger throughout the years. We are bombarded with advertisements to take out mothers for a special dinner or buy Mother's Day flowers. For more than a month before Mother's Day, reminders are placed everywhere. It's impossible to pick up a newspaper, listen to the radio, or turn on the television without some kind of reminder of Mother's Day.

There are Mother's Day banquets, Mother's Day baby dedications at church, and special family gatherings to honor mothers. All of this is wonderful except for the mother that is grieving the loss of her child. For the grieving mother, every reminder of Mother's Day is like another wound to the heart. The hole in her heart caused by grief grows larger and larger with each reminder, and the emptiness feels darker and colder than she ever imagined possible. What is a grieving mother to do when there are so many reminders of the precious child she has lost?

Mother's Day is the only holiday that specifically uses the word mother, so there is no real way of avoiding this day. A grieving mother can, however, prepare for Mother's Day well in advance so that she knows how to avoid placing additional pain in her life.

Remember that Mother's Day is not a holiday that has to be celebrated. If a grieving mother does not want to attend a banquet, or watch baby dedications at church, or see special family gatherings at restaurants, then she has the right to choose not to participate in these events without feeling guilty. Many mothers choose to stay home and do nothing special at all on Mother's Day, and that is fine. Grief follows no rules and there is no right or wrong way to grieve.

Explain to others that this day is painful. Giving yourself permission to grieve in your own way is very healing and helpful, especially during such a difficult day as Mother's Day.

Do what feels right for you. Maybe that means taking a mini trip away where nobody knows you. Maybe it is staying at home. Perhaps a walk in the woods or a walk along the sandy beach would help you during this empty time. Journal your thoughts. Release a balloon. Or, maybe you want to avoid Mother's Day altogether. You know what feels best for your heart, and giving yourself permission to do what is right for you can be the most healing thing of all.

Lastly, remind yourself often that you will not always feel this empty. With each passing day new hope will enter your empty heart until one day you will wake up to realize that the empty hole is beginning to fill with some joy. Mother's Day is only one day. With a little bit of preparation you can make it through, and you will have walked one more step in your journey of healing!

Reason enough

Monday evening I sat on the couch and sobbed into my hands while I told My Beloved it would be okay if he left me. And I meant it. I really did. The thought of dragging him along with me any farther down this mournful, childless road was breaking my heart. All the crushing guilt I've felt since losing that first tiny soul nearly four years ago roared up in a massive tsunami of grief. I was being swallowed alive by my own shame.

It didn't help that I had a big glass of wine right before My Beloved came home. Yeah, that didn't help at all.

But let me back up...

I had my post-op appointment with my RE on Monday afternoon. He didn't tell me anything I didn't already know, except for one thing; He gave me a timeline. 6 - 12 months. That's what I've got before the cobwebs of scar tissue weave themselves back through me and take with them our hopes for another biological child.

I don't know if I'm a "scar tissue maker" or not. Dr. S. might be wrong. But the only way to tell is to do another lap in 6 months time, which he said is pointless. If I am a scarer, a second lap will only make things worse.

No, he says we should stumble along as best we can with one inexplicably blocked tube and insides that are currently as clean as they're likely ever going to be.

He drew a line in the sand. 6 - 12 months. And that's it.

For personal reasons I choose not to discuss here, IVF isn't an option for us. It's my best hope to have a child under the circumstances, but we won't be going down that road. We'll be doing IUIs when the conditions are physically right (when the dominant follicles form on the left side where my tube isn't blocked) and crossing our weary fingers.

So I came home, drank a glass of wine and sobbed. Horrible, angry, mournful, guilt-fueled, agonized sobs. I think I swore at God, I can't remember, but I know I cried like I haven't cried in a long, long time. It literally felt like my heart was breaking. You know that ache you get when you can't breathe from crying so hard and for a split second you think it's actually going to kill you? Yeah. Like that.

I'm tired of this being so hard. I'm tired of having my hopes dashed and my spirit crushed over and over and over again. I do a pretty good job at picking myself up and dusting myself off, but I keep wondering at what point I'll just decide it's much easier to lay there in the dirt instead.To stop fighting for happiness and let life drag me along behind it.

The thing is, the guy on the couch (who, with tears in his own eyes, told me there's nowhere else he'd rather be) is reason enough for me to keep plugging along. He once told me he didn't marry me for my uterus, and I don't think he has any idea how many times that has saved my soul over the past two years.

If he wants me - all guilt wracked, broken and potentially barren - then I must be worth wanting.

I'm not saying I need a man to validate my worth, or that I'm nothing without My Beloved. I'm just saying it's a very powerful thing when a person who you know so desperately longs to have another child tells you that he wants you even if you can't give him one.

To be loved that much is reason enough to keep on hoping - scar tissue, timeline and all. It's also reason enough to believe that even if our dream doesn't come true, I'll still be okay.

And so it goes...

Yesterday was one of those days. So was today.

I think I'll just pack it in and try again tomorrow.

See you then.

Thanks, I needed that.

You know what's nice? When you bump into old friends on Facebook who you haven't seen in close to two decades, and when you tell them your tale of woe (because you have to - it's a large part of "what you've been up to lately"), they say they're sorry - and then ask if you want to have coffee sometime.

Maybe I'm not so scary after all...

P.S.

May the 4th be with you.

Tee hee hee!

Lazy Friday...again

Friday Blog Roundup for anyone who might interested in taking a gander. There was also an excellent article on dealing with Mother's Day after losing a child posted there this week - definitely worth reading if you're struggling with someone else's expectations about how you should or shouldn't "celebrate" the day.

Annnnnd goodnight.

I just wanted some plants

I went to the nursery today and found a baby there.

This would be a GREAT story if the nursery was of the baby variety and the baby was mine to take home. Alas, I was shopping for plants and the baby belonged to someone else.

It was teeny tiny. Seriously, so new I'm surprised the umbilical cord wasn't still attached.

And they followed me wherever I went.

It's funny how this stuff can still take your breath away - the tiny mewling of a newborn, the unmistakable paunch of a newly emptied tummy, the fresh glow of love and happiness on the face of a mom holding her child.

And I just wanted to get away from it.

I'm still in my happy place, I swear. The magnificent shift in the universe that I felt yesterday is still a reality to me. Honest. I'm good. It's all good.

But it doesn't mean that I can't be gutted at the site of a swaddled newborn in a place I'd least expect it.

And no, they didn't really follow me wherever I went - it just felt like it for a few minutes.

To punish this intrusion into my otherwise perfectly peaceful day, I steadfastly refused to look at them (save for the few furtive glances I snuck when I thought they weren't looking). I just needed not to look at them, the mom, the dad and their little sweet one. I needed them to know that not everyone was interested in cooing over their baby. I needed to pretend that they were no more interesting than anyone else wandering through the endless rows of begonias and geraniums.

Yeah. I'm going to hell. I know all this sounds horrible. Unthinkable. But the truth is, this is the kind of horrible, unthinkable stuff that sometimes rattles around in the head of someone who has lost a child. And someone who can't seem to get pregnant again no matter what she tries. This is what it's like inside the head of someone so far out on the fringe of fertility and motherhood she might as well be in Siberia.

This is self pity, paranoia, anger and sorrow at its ugly best. I'm not proud of it (in fact I'm not even sure why I'm admitting to it) but there it is.

But really, I AM okay.

Thinking and driving and singing

We went out tonight, My Beloved and I, in search of the 2007 Hallmark Christmas Dreambook catalogue. Yeah, it's May. But you know what? You take joy where you can find it, even if it's in a tiny catalogue filled with Christmas ornaments.

We didn't end up finding it (the rumor that it's out in stores proved untrue, at least up here in our neck of the woods) but it was a fun quest just the same. And that's all that matters.

On the drive there, singing along to one of our favourite Beatles songs, I got the overwhelming feeling that the universe has somehow shifted, corrected itself. Things are right. It's like I've finally managed to climb out of a really deep hole, and while the memory of the entrapment is there - will always be there - I'm walking away from it and into the sun.

The surgery I dreaded is over. Questions were answered. What was broken was fixed. Mostly. Enough, anyway. And it's spring. And I just picked up a piece of freelance work that I couldn't be more excited about if I tried. I feel alive - alive with promise and possibility. And, by some miracle, hope.

I haven't felt like this in so long that I barely recognize the feeling. And I sure didn't think I'd ever feel like this again. But somehow I do. Just like that.

While I was busy singing and reveling, it suddenly occurred to me that it's unbearably sad that so much of the struggle and sorrow and torment of my life is directly tied to my son - the person I love more than anyone else on the planet. It's agonizing to think that the start of his life tore mine to shreds. That thought filled me with so much sorrow, and so much love all at the same time.

Sorrow and love seem to be at odds with one another, but they're not really. You can't have one without the other. It's just that sometimes the space between the two is only twenty hours long.

I can think about Thomas and smile now - readily and honestly and so very proudly. And I can see him for the incredible blessing that he was. That he is. But it's always going to be like a knife in my heart that his existence is tangled up so inextricably in my agony. Agony that will always be there. Love and agony, all at once.

And in the midst of it all, sunlight and hope.

God, what a strange, strange thing is life.