Baby bumps and wedding blues

My good friend was blissfully and happily married on Saturday evening. And since this is all about me, I can share that I was reminded of an important life lesson. More wine will not lift your spirits if you are fighting the non baby blues. It just gives you a killer of a headache the next day. 

Of course the wedding was wonderful and my friend was truly beautiful in her classic white gown and veil. Early in the reception I made small talk with dear friends and new acquaintances. Unless someone asked me how I was doing — I mean really asked — I was fine. Friendly. Smiley. And looking pretty good. I sailed through a couple of potentially emotional hiccups. Like, talking to my friend about her baby of four months and sympathizing on how tough it can be. I even invited her and her daughter over next week during my day off. Like casually responding to “so do you have kids?”

Dinner came and M and I squeezed into the last seats at our assigned table and I sat beside my very good friend who is four months pregnant and her husband. Ok, feeling a little bit tougher. I drink wine because I can and talked with my glowing, happy mom-to-be friend. She is wearing an empire waist dress and it’s hard to tell if she has a baby bump or a too-many–treats bump. We talked about the house they just bought, work, health, our friends, even our pets. Not a whole lot about her pregnancy — I know she was trying to be sensitive. Her husband…not so much. There were a few times when his actions shot a little pain in my heart. Like when he rubbed her tummy. And this one:

She: Will you please get me a soda water, honey?

He: Of course, because you are having my baby.

Ow, ow, ow, ow (and a little bit of gag me). So she drank soda water and I drank more wine, convinced the alcohol would give me the happy buzz if I just had enough. I realized that the twingeworthy moments were not about my loss, but about my husband and how my miscarriages and infertility are preventing him from creating the family he longs for too. My friend’s husband is so happy. His wife, his love, is having his baby and fulfilling his dream of a family and being a dad. The fact that I have not been able to give M the same kills me.

The next day, post the greasy breakfast, rehydrating gatorade and nap, I talked about this to my husband. Well, half talked and half blubbered. I feel like I am letting him down and if I am not able to give him what he wants then he should find someone who should. He’s so damn loyal I don’t worry about this too much, but I do a bit especially after hearing a couple of horror stories. And should I not let him go if I love him so he can at least be a fulfilled family man? Round and round my brain goes. 

M said he knows I am trying, we both are. Failing him would have been if I decided after we got married that I didn’t want to have kids. Now, I am trying, we both are. And we will continue to be. 

After miscarriage 1 I was consulting with one of the fertility doctors at the clinic — one I don’t normally see. We were talking about trying for another pregnancy and I told her that the infertility issues were mine and that my husband had the boys that could swim. “This is my problem, not his” I said. She looked at me sternly. “We don’t talk that way here,” she said. 

I remember her saying it…I wish I was better at feeling and living it.

Reasons to be grateful while in a dark place

It’s official. I am depressed. I said it. Maybe admitting it is half the battle? 

I know this because the other night I asked my husband. We were walking the dog on a beautiful summer night where the air feels like a warm, scented bath. I know this because often I feel like I am going through the motions. Like trying to be just happy on a beautiful warm summer night with M and pup. 

My question to him opened the floodgates for him to tell me how he feels. That was a bit hard to hear but helpful. It’s only fair. He is frustrated and wants to help. He feels like I don’t enjoy the small things I used to and some of the other small everyday frustrations things seem to be magnified into big bad things. While I make it to work, I don’t spend as much time with my friends. I am more bitter and down, and he thinks it is getting worse not better. I make him feel bad in how I respond to him sometimes, especially about his work schedule. Too curt, too critical and too “whatever” (shoulder shrug)

Last night I did see two of my friends over dinner. Today, C and I emailed back and forth. She knows that I am struggling with the miscarriages, infertility and a stressful job that I need to keep the new roof over our heads. For different reasons, she has been untangling herself from her own vicious cycle. She said — that as cheesy as it sounds — it has helped her to keep a gratitude journal. So in honour of C and her kind, wise counsel and support. I am grateful:

- my dog always always greets me with a happy wag and jump no matter how unlovable I feel

- I live in Canada where at least some of the infertility expenses are paid (surprisingly none of the recurrent miscarriage testing is)

- hey, so I guess I need to add that my job pays well enough that I can afford the testing

- the young raccoons now apparently living part time on our shed have not discovered how delicious almost ripe tomatoes still -on- the- vine are

- That we CAN get pregnant with the help of clomid and other drugs because the more times we can get pregnant, the better our odds

- that the people who say “I know someone who had 4, 5, 10 miscarriages but still had a baby” mean well and are only trying to make us feel hopeful 

- that my legs still look great in high heel sandals and skirt (thanks for the genetics, mom! ) 

- that my husband has a great sperm count. Hey, I need the medical help to ovulate. At least I know when it’s time, his boys have the right stuff.

Marriage plus miscarriage: a review

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.