Monday, December 28, 2009

The truth

My Beloved and I were out for a very chilly walk this morning, and while navigating icy spots along the trail on which we were plodding, it dawned on me that we are very much alone. In circumstance, I mean.

Amongst our closest circle of friends and family, we are a complete oddity. Within that circle there have been probably 10 children born since Thomas died. And two more are expected in 2010. And outside that circle? Countless births. If you include Facebook friends and neighbours, the number probably rockets into the 20s or 30s, if not more. Easily.

And we're still just the two of us. Always walking along life's slippery paths alone, together.

The thought made me so sad, in a way I probably can't explain. Maybe it's the human need to be truly understood; to have someone say, "yeah, I get it", and know that they really do.

We are endlessly grateful and so incredibly fortunate to have such supportive friends and family who, despite not being in our shoes, regularly offer us limitless support, the warmest kind of comfort, and open-armed acceptance into their child-filled worlds.

But we are not of that world. And I'm always aware of that fact.

I'm aware of it when I don't know if a one-year old can have the chips a three-year old has just given her. I'm aware of it when I say "ass" in the presence of a child and have to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep something even worse from popping out. I'm aware of it when my arms tire after just a few minutes holding someone's baby. I'm aware of it when it takes a parent 15 minutes to explain all the rules to me before leaving me to care for their wee one. I'm aware of it when a crying child I'm aching to comfort reaches for its mother instead.

I'm just always aware that I'm different, floundering about in a sea of experts who do know how often babies need to eat and how much sleep they should be getting and how long nap time needs to be.

And I'm aware that this isn't normal. This is not what anyone expects of a woman, for God's sake. We are programmed to care for children. We are built for it, body and soul. It's just not considered "normal" to be without offspring in tow.

And we, the childless, know that. And so there we are; oddities sticking out like proverbial sore thumbs.

I suppose all this self-absorbed, self-pitying ruminating is part of yet another sort of grieving process.

We've lost all our babies and now we know there are no more children in our future. So the settling in process has begun.

I realize I sound markedly less Pollyanna-esque than I did in July. And I promise I was being honest then, abounding in optimism and fortitude and all that good stuff. But I suspect I was trying to convince myself that what I was saying really was true. Or maybe it even was, back then.

But now, five months later, I know a different truth.

This is hard.


I'll make it out alive. I'll figure this out like I've figured everything else out since life shat all over me and My Beloved.

But fuck me, it's hard.


Katie said...

I am glad you are writing again. I've missed you.

That being said. . . I am sure I will phuck this up, somehow, because I can't understand where you are or how you are feeling about everything. Just know that I mean no hurt by these words, that I am seeking to offer some sort of comfort, but it's hard since I know not of what I speak. I know how I felt before having my son, and I know it was hard and felt awful, but I also knew that I couldn't live a childfree life. Adoption was next on our list and, failing that, I was willing to look at surrogacy. So, I hadn't ever come to the place where you are at, and while I respect your decision and know it is the best one for you and your Beloved, I ache for you. Like your family and friends, I want for you the joy of parenthood, since you have known mostly the sorrows. I want to fix it, want to end the hurt and longing for you. Failing that, I want to rail at the unfair cruel fates that have led you to this place.

You have made a decision for yourselves that many people cannot understand but that which is right for you. Like all major life decisions, I imagine there will be times when you will be at peace with it (July), there will be times when you are not (right now). There will be times when your heart will ache with the path not taken, times when it will delight in the decisions that you have made. I wish it was different, that you could set off on a path and just KNOW that it was right. But even when a path is the right one, there will be icy patches along the way.

I can't imagine how hard this path is for you. I can only offer you my thoughts, prayers, and shoulder. If any of this came off as assvice, please accept my sincerest aplogogies and feel free to delete. Know that it was meant with a kind and gentle heart.

Mrs. Spit said...

It is, isn't it? When you stare it full in the face and you realize, and there's nothing you can do.

It's maddening and infuriating and mind boggling. And yes, hard.

Hennifer said...


I hope it is ok I call you that... Thank you so much for sharing where you are today (yesterday).

I just wanted to say we are here, bereaved and not, here because we've grown attached to you and your Thomas, your journey, your creativity in the world. We support you and hear you and respect whatever you need or want in these moments, and those to come.

It is an honor to share in your story. You have taught me so much in these last few years.

I have a pattern to my blog reading, I don't bookmark but instead use others' links to get to where I go, daily. Today as I skipped over your link I had a thought about how quiet your crochet odessey was the last time I peeked in and I wondered if this place might be an outlet once more. I was so pleasantly surprised to see I've missed multiple entries over this long holiday. Even if only fleeting, I hope you found some solace in your truth as stated here.

Blessed be,


AG said...

I missed your posts these past few months. I always looked to your blog because we are in a similar situation - having lost in 2007 and not being able to conceive again. It's an awful place to be and I really hate it! There aren't that many of us who still don't have our rainbow babies. I look to your blog for support. I don't have much to offer but I'd like to be here for you as well.


delphi said...

I admire your convictions here so much, I can't even express how much. Doing what is right for you, always cognizant of the toil it is exacting on your heart... I think that is when you know for absolute certain that it is the right choice. There may come a time when there is not such stark relief between your life and those around you, who knows? I wish there was a way for all of us who care for you to lift your burden and make it all better. Since that isn't possible, know how loved you are.

Heather said...

This was such a horribly sad post. We all walk such different paths here in baby-loss land that it is hard at times to even begin to relate with other baby loss mom's. Each one holding such a unique circumstance of pain. My heart aches for you and your beloved. I can not phathom your pain, but you and all of your little babies are always on my heart. Such tremendous sorrow.