Hormone clusterfuck 08 – the July edition seems to be over. Yesterday I am almost — stress almost –felt normal. It’s kind of like getting over the flu. After a few days of feeling like hell, the fact that you’re not throwing up, burning with a fever, or, as the case may be, having crying jags interspersed with eating ice cream for dinner is a vast and welcome improvement. You know, like at least I have my health.
My husband was happy with my lightened mood too. We debated — was it a hormonal hurricane? heavy downpour with hormonal hailstorms? The weather analogies were many. Grief (and it did take me a while to admit that is what is is) affects a marriage. Ours is strong but not unscathed. And often I know I am mad, or upset or sad but I don’t understand the root cause.
Tonight is a good example. My normally easy going husband did his version of slamming the front door (so a loud, emphatic shut) as he left to play baseball. I was pissy at home before he left and I don’t know why. He works four nights a week and this week is playing baseball two more nights on top of that. I am a 8:30 to 6 kind of person. I am torn between wanting to be with him, near him along the time and then the pendulum swings the other way and I want to be alone. After miscarriage 2 I had recurring dreams that he was hurt, killed in a car accident. Same with my dog. A part of me, that terrified, scared, frantic core was desperately afraid that I would lose someone else I love. And I would not be able to bear that.
You marry your best friend right? Well, now he is pretty much my only close friend. Others I just can not confide in the same way. The shared grief (there is that word again) and the raw emotions and experiences we’ve walked through together allow us to relate and talk in a way I can not with anyone else.
And yet, and yet, I test, I push and I cling. I wait for small or grand gestures (like he will pull up the drive, baseball uniform still on, come back into the house and tell me what’s most important tonight is for him to be with me.
On my subway ride home today I read a powerful article in O magazine called “This does not need to be a secret” about yes, my current topic of obsession. The author, Elizabeth McCracken, writes about the stillbirth of her first son and the joy in her second son, born a year later. After two pages, my eyes prickled with my tears. And while the subway is full of crazies and one woman with silent tears was not going to draw a crowd, I could not take any more in; it was too strong, too close. Almost home, I could not wait to dip back into her essay and rekindle the almost delicious connection — the sisterhood of sorrow as I think of it. Later in, there was one concept she wrote about that struck a chord and I hadn’t thought of before (great, new angles to this for me to analyze!) She talks about work, walks and wine with her husband shortly after the death of her son…”the freedom to do what we wanted was a kind of torture: look at your unencumbered selves. After most deaths, I imagine, the awfulness lies in how everything’s changed: you no longer recognize the shape of your days, there is a hole….For us what was killing was how nothing had changed. We were waiting to be transformed and now here we are, back in our old life.”
Perhaps this is a big part of what is so painful for M and I, and causing some of the misguided and misunderstood actions on my part. We also wanted kids and always thought we would be changing a diaper or two by now. We planned our early married life getting ready to have it thrown into disarray by the arrival of our baby. We budgeted. We bought a house with three bedrooms. We bought tiny baby clothing on sale at Baby Gap. We dreamed. Now it is still just the two of us (plus puppy). On the outside, nothing tangible has changed; on the inside, everything has changed. There is a lot of love there, no doubt, but we always planned to have more than enough love to give much much away.
July 29, 2008
Ah, there is something so virtuous about (figuratively) rolling up my sleeves and cleaning. It may not work off the Ben & Jerry’s or beat a healthy heart pumping run but it got me off the couch and away from the TV. It’s Saturday. Really, what possibly could I be missing.
M, the pup and me moved into a new-to-us house this year and the upgrade projects continue. We are now tackling the kitchen with a mini ie cheap makeover. First up is a clean coat of white paint for the cupboards and the dingy melamine needed a scrub.
We started the house hunting process during the first pregnancy. Three (including pup) of us in a one bedroom condo was bearable in a cozy, newlywed way. But as a friend pointed out, a new baby would need to sleep in a dresser drawer thus triggering our house hunt. We signed the papers to sell the condo fairly soon after miscarriage #1. I was feeling hopeful that it was just bad luck and we would have our extended family soon, so it seemed logical to keep going and create that maybe forever family home.
I will never underestimate the emotional tie of your own home. I bought the condo 4-5 years ago, just before M came into my life. Quickly, the condo attracted interest and a mini bidding war. We got a good price giving us greater options than we thought for buying a house. I was crying though, signing over the papers. I didn’t realize just how much it meant to me. And to M. It was there we built our relationship and fell in love. He proposed to me in front of the couch. Now we uprooting with no new place to call home yet.
Probably after more than 100 house viewings and five competitive bids, we finally got our wee house. The housing market here is brutal and just cooling off. Each time we didn’t get a house, it was another blow and another worry. If I could throw out a helpful recommendation out to the world, don’t try to sell, buy and move just after a miscarriage. Too much. Plus a stressful job on top of it. And did I mention we had to live in M’s parents’ place for a month in between residences? Yeah.
It’s worth it now. Our 70 year old house needs work (the bathroom for example is done in 80’s sauna style and there is a huge tub with jet streams in the bedroom. Yep, basically at the foot of the bed). It’s ours though. With a yard, three bedrooms, stairs, a big kitchen and a sense of well worn and loved history. All worth it and ready for nesting.
July 27, 2008
Forget about me stalking. Hormones are stalking me today, and judging by the tears and just how low I feel today, they’ve found me, tied me up and are conducting some mind freak experiments on me. My period started today, the first since the miscarriage in May. Actually given just how irregular I am, the miscarriage must have kick started them back almost to normalcy. Two months timeframe is almost record breaking. I did wonder if this was coming because the hormones have been popping up their ugly, hyperactive heads on the last few days and giving me a painful nudge. A little “hi, feeling ok are you? huh? huh? screw that, we’re back…” And two pregnancy tests said no go.
I have some experience with less sunny side of life. You could say I have dabbled in depression, gotten down with feeling down. Today I feel especially emotionally tender, like a big walking bruise. It is hard for M, I know. The dark side is fairly foreign to his nature. But he knows me now, especially after this last year. He’s good about encouraging me to keep moving and I have learned that generally does a lot more for me than curling back to bed for the afternoon. So we went to the farmer’s market, had brunch and did a few home-decor related shopping.
A nice, easy going day to gently rev me up for tonight. It’s my friend’s stagette. C is a good friend, one who also ventured on the dark side too many times, and I wanted to be there for her and join the debaucherous fun. (Plus I can drink now, right?) Just as we found a frame store to re do a watercolour painted by my late Nana, I hit some kind of do-not-pass-go wall and burst into tears. I wanted home, my couch, my bed, my dog, something. This time, it was not gonna work to keep moving, or shopping, or sniffing the frigging flowers at the farmer’s market.
Tonight, instead of learning to pole dance (boa optional), drinking cocktails and toasting my friend, I am embracing the cliche of emotionally wrought woman everywhere. It’s me, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, a couch, lame Saturday TV and maybe, if I feel like totally living the life, all while in some pjs.
A couple of Sundays ago, I helped with C’s bridal shower. It was an effort, for various reasons, but I made a lemon-rose cake, put on a dress and even a slap of perfume and make-up, and helped to create a special party for her. It felt to be there with a job. You know, I had a role. I had busy hands that hid to a certain extent, a heavy heart. I felt like an imposter, or a pseudo Stepford wife with a fake smile going through hostess motions, without really feeling the part. It was an odd, disjointed feeling. I want to feel normal again.
July 26, 2008
