à Paris

I think, tonight, for the first time ever, I actually understood Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amelie Poulain.

At 33 I have finally begun to admit to myself that I am primarily an introvert. Not only admitting it, but accepting it has led me to a slightly better understanding of myself and the longstanding discomfort and disconnection I often feel in social settings.

Watching the thirteen year old French film this evening, for probably the thirty-third time, I discovered a deeper understanding of the film and the characters than I ever had before, even when I was Amelie’s own age of 23.

I have moved around a lot during my life, and have rarely found myself at home in my world. I’ve rarely been around people for long enough to feel I’ve done a good enough job being their friend, that we understand each other, that we can trust one another. The fact is, I don’t know how to connect to people. Perhaps even my closest friends. I want to be a good friend, but sometimes I just don’t know how. I’m afraid, or lazy, or selfish, or I just want to be alone. Yet, I crave that connection. 

Sometimes I look for it in locations as much as people.

In 1999 and 2003 I tried to experience the locational belonging I had felt through the pages of my high school text books, a connection I had sensed with the city of Paris, France. Both times I came back to the US feeling lonelier than ever. And very disappointed. Eleven years ago, when I lived, ever so briefly, in Paris, I was there with a study abroad program. I succumbed to depression and discomfort and left the program in February instead of at the end of the Spring semester. For over half the elapsing time, I felt like a failure. I think I am only now understanding that I didn’t fail. I just didn’t understand who I am.

When I lived in Paris, my apartment was just blocks from the canals where Amelie skipped rocks and that impossibly tricky continuous shot of her doing so was taken. I never took a photograph of those canals. I don’t know why. It just never occurred to me to do so. There are so many things in Europe I wish I had done, or seen, or photographed. Myself included. There are very few photographs of me from the last time I visited Paris. This is a common thread in nearly all my albums. Unless I request someone take my photo, there usually aren’t any of me. I love having my picture taken, but I’m the one who is usually behind the lens. Most of my photos are of landmarks, or classmates, or architecture, or the sky.

From my flat I could walk to street markets where everything from silk scarves to cheese to flowers were sold. People were friendly and helpful and smiled and patiently listened to my muddled French and gave me exactly what I had tried and sometimes failed to ask for. My flat was only about two train stops from Montmartre, and that is where I spent most of my time, especially after I quit the program. I’d walk a few blocks north, climb the stairs to the elevated platform, and then travel by metro up the curving track towards the hill above the city. I’d disembark, then wander the winding streets up towards the Basilica. Montmartre was a place of comfort, of familiarity.

If I could just allow myself to feel at peace with the comfort of being alone in a beautiful place, the whole world would feel like such a happier, homier, place. Through accepting who I am, I can be more comfortable being uncomfortable in social situations. I think that changes how we interact with others, knowing who we really are. Bizarre as it may be, accepting ourselves as loners may actually help us to connect with other people – other loners, other outcasts. Knowing who we are and not forcing it, but allowing that part of us to open up and connect to other singular, perhaps lonely, hearts.

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“Go and look again at the roses. You will understand now that yours is unique in all the world.” ~Antoine de Saint-Exupery, Le Petit Prince

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Unholy Days

A lot of holidays have lost most of their meaning for me in adulthood. I am not religious, but I always celebrated a mix of secular-religious days as a kid, including Christian, Jewish, and Pagan traditions. I’ve had Jewish Seder and Easter egg hunts all in the same weekend. We had a Christmas tree in the living room next to the menorah. I used to drag a fallen branch out of the forest and tie ribbons to it, making a May Pole in the meadow behind our house.

In college, however, my separation grew. We worked through every weekend in the theatre and had class on every bank holiday, so I almost never even remember what day is which and when. The ones I tend to remember (and the ones that never change) are holidays like New Year’s and Christmas.

Even so, holidays have gotten to be progressively harder for me over the past four months. 

Just three weeks after our early November wedding, my husband and I found out we were expecting. The excitement and wonder didn’t last more than a month when at our first prenatal exam we found out that I had a condition called a blighted ovum – which you can read about here. The conclusive pronouncement happened two days before Christmas, crushing any hope I’d had of celebrating my favourite holiday with joy. 

We had told our families on Thanksgiving, the loss came at Christmas, and now at every Holiday I have to muster all my strength not to hide in the bedroom with the door locked when it’s time to go celebrate.

Yesterday was Easter, and we arrived at my in-laws at about 12:00 noon, and sat there at the end of the driveway for at least ten minutes. I could not even open my car door. Nic sat with me holding my hand reminding me that everyone inside loves me and that no one is judging me for what happened – for what I cannot stop myself thinking is my greatest failure, despite my absolute knowledge that there was nothing to be done to change the outcome of that pregnancy and its inevitable loss. I still feel like I lied to them. That I should have waited. That I should have known better than to spread a secret without knowing how much of it was true.

I keep going over every moment from the time we found out until the agonizing final physical loss and on into a future of uncertainty and fear.

A future of should-be-bright holidays.

So many of those days are kid-centric. Like Easter. There were all the cousins’ little ones running around the yard picking up colored eggs filled with chocolate in the bright hot April sunshine, and there was I on the deck, laughing at the antics of these kids that I adore, trying to suppress the ache in knowing that their expected playmate won’t be coming for at least another year, assuming all goes well next time around.

What little connection I had to these myriad holidays has been replaced by sadness and shame, all excitement for these events replaced with anxiety and fear.

Everyone kept wishing me a Happy Easter, and I tried to make it one. But honestly, it was really hard, and as for mainstream holidays, I don’t think I really care anymore.

I think perhaps we’ll just have to make our own holidays from now on. Ones that only my household will celebrate. The days we triumphed personally.  

Our anniversary. The day we met. Our next vacation. Our next adventure.

Baby Pictures

I know it’s just a little thing, but I worry a lot, so I wanted to clear up any doubt I might have accidentally dribbled around.

Yes, I am sad and disappointed that I am not going to have my baby this July, as planned. I sometimes get very very sad looking at other people’s announcements and baby updates and whatnot.

But, I will never tell you to stop showing off your beautiful family.That would not at all be fair. In truth, I adore many of the photos I see and the excitement I know you are each feeling at the fortune and fabulousness that you have received and worked so hard for.

Sometimes that’s not so true. Sometimes I hide your posts. But it isn’t because of you. It isn’t that I dislike you or your pretty baby. It’s that I can’t look right now because I am thinking of the baby I won’t have and the longing overtakes my joy for you and I have to hide your pictures and posts or I will lose my calm completely.

Today I’m in a pretty good place. I still get teary and choked up at odd times and in response to certain stimuli, but overall, I am in a very good place. So today I did look at all your pretty babies and I smiled and I even laughed with glee at how gorgeous these children are in all their chubby cheeked muddy kneed goofy grimacing glory. I am so happy for each and every one of you. You have been so fortunate to bring that child into the world. And I hope someday to join you as a parent. It might not be today, but it will be someday, and I am very much looking forward to it. And I am so happy for you. So happy! Thank you so much for sharing and keep those updates coming. 

 

xoxo

Fragile

At some moments I am happy and normal and everything seems so perfectly ok. But a tiny scratch on the surface breaks apart that shell, and all I see is the grey chasm of my sadness. 

 

Today was a good day. I read. I got a massage. I grocery shopped. I baked. I . . . suddenly cracked.

After an entire day of ‘Yes, I think I am ok right now!’

It’s a dumb thing, too. I can’t remember what I wanted to watch on Netflix. And now I feel like the world is falling into darkness. Because I can’t do that one thing I meant to do. A trivial thing. But sometimes a plan is all I have.

 

This is sometimes what depression feels like. It isn’t always some great big horrible event (not a current one, anyway). Sometimes it is a simple disappointment. An imbalance. A wrong turn. An unexpected change. 

 

Depression is stupid. But it’s real. And it’s really really hard sometimes. But there is pizza and banana bread and a dog who loves me curled up on the couch and my wonderful husband who loves us both will be home soon. So I’ll get through it. It’s just . . . that I’m in it at the moment.

Hollowed

It has been a while since I posted. But I have something really important to say, so I’m going to say it here, and hope that it reaches a lot of people, because it’s something we don’t talk about, and that makes us not want to talk about it, even when what we really need is to talk about it, so that it’s not so fucking scary and we maybe don’t feel so goddamned alone.

A friend just posted the following link on FB and I have to say, I think it’s really well said.

Why Miscarriage Matters When You Are Pro-Life

The entire post made me think a lot about pregnancy and the various outcomes. And I think I’m finally able to say my part.

Perhaps I ought not have to say this, but I also feel I should, so that you understand I am not in any way preaching, but rather sharing something that I experienced, in hopes that more people understand. The other author was able to present her viewpoint with grace and without judgement, and I hope I can do the same.

I am Non-Theistic.

I am Pro-Choice.

I believe that choice is each woman’s right. But I must be clear that this belief does not stop me from being extremely envious of those of you who had the choice to make. To those unfamiliar with what being Pro-Choice actually means, the following might seem less Pro when compared to how eloquently the other author explained the Pro-Life side of things. I assure you, just because I would have kept my baby does not mean that I think anyone should be forced to carry to term when they do not wish to.

The following gets a little rambly. But that’s how my brain is these days.

I had a miscarriage and it hurt and continues to hurt like Hell, physically, spiritually, mentally, emotionally.

My baby, our baby, never even had a chance.

We had a pregnancy condition known as Blighted Ovum. I say ‘known’ but the truth is that not very many people know this is even a possibility. We didn’t, and most people we have told haven’t heard of it either.

I am still shocked, stunned, and brokenhearted.

A blighted ovum occurs when the genetic material is somehow messed up. This seems to be the problem causing a huge number of miscarriages. Everyone we talked to simply stated that ‘it’s most likely a problem with the chromosomes’ but no one has ever explained what that means. No doctor, midwife, nurse, article, or blog entry has ever explained why, when the egg and sperm were able to create a pregnancy at all that they could be so . . . . dysfunctional. And that hurts, too. Not knowing hurts. Not understanding hurts.

So what happens when the chromosomes are all effed up? When the gestational sac forms, the fetus simply doesn’t. The material simply does not come together. It does not form. And you are left looking at an ultrasound of a black empty space in your womb where your baby should be.

And then you go home and you cry harder than you have ever cried. And you shake. And you nearly hyperventilate. And you scare the shit out of your dog, and probably all your neighbors. And you figure they probably think you are being murdered, because how can anyone still be alive after wailing so loud for so long and crying until there can’t possibly be anything left to cry out.

And you are left to shakily write an email to your far-flung family members telling them the news that you cannot possibly say out loud during a phone call which you will never ever get through because you’d have to speak with words that someone might be able to understand. Words that in your mind equate to, “Sorry, I’m a big fat liar.” or perhaps, “Just Kidding! LOL.” But in truth, they are words that crush your soul. And you have your husband hit the send button because you can’t bear to do so – to make it real.

And you have to put away the toys you and your husband stealthily bought at Christmastime, and the irreplaceable and probably handmade present sent from your sister wrapped up with a little note “For ???” (the place holder ‘name’ you had given your little Zygote when you first told everyone you were expecting with an adorable family portrait of the two of you pointing to your hidden belly with your dog in the background looking jealous), and the books on pregnancy, and the prenatal workout dvds, and the prenatal vitamins, and the nausea suckers, and the positive HPT, and your hopes and your dreams.

And you have to go on. And you have to find the strength to either tell everyone what you can’t bear to say aloud or suffer in silence pretending everything is all right because you cannot explain it again, you can’t say it out loud.

And you have to wait. You have to wait for that babyless mass in your uterus to decide it knows it no longer belongs there. You have to wait, knowing you are going to miscarry.

You can choose to abort. But then, the doctor could have been wrong. And even though all your symptoms of pregnancy have stopped, you still hold on to that fragment of hope, that tiny little mustard seed of faith, that you might just might have been less far along and maybe your baby will show up soon. Maybe it’s still going to happen.

But then one day you start to bleed, just a little at a time, and for a week you bleed, and you wonder when you’ll stop. Because the midwives and nurses told you that you would probably just experience a heavier than normal period.

[Boy were they fucking wrong.]

And then a week after you started bleeding you wake up at 2:45 in the morning with cramps that feel like a knife is stuck in your SI joint. And you go to the bathroom, and get back in bed, and climb right back out again because you can’t find a position that is comfortable, and then you spend the next 8 or 9 hours basically in labor, mostly sitting on the toilet because the waves of tissue extracting themselves from your uterus just keep on coming. And you crouch, sobbing on the floor between contractions. And you have to, in the middle of all this, call your clients to cancel their appointments for that day and they want to know when they can rebook and you want to say, “I DON’T FUCKING KNOW HOW ABOUT WHEN I AM NOT VOMITING MY LOWER INTESTINES OUT OF MY VAGINA,” but you calmly try to find your pocket calendar and reschedule on a day you hope that you will be able to stand upright again.

And then your pelvis hurts so much that you can barely walk, and your thighs hurt in a bruised sort of way like they’ve been beaten because of how long you sat on the toilet, and you give up your ideas of a perfect natural birth someday, and go to the pharmacy and pick up your narcotics to try to dull the pain of what just happened to you.

And then, slowly, you start to make a list of things you can do now that you are no longer pregnant. It’s a list to try and find some happiness. Ours includes travel, and weight loss (I was 20 lbs overweight when we conceived and I plan to be way healthier before we try again, for my own sake, if for no other reason), and drinking every bottle of my favourite wine that I can get my hands on.

And there is so much fear. Will it happen again? Statistically, probably not. Will something else go wrong? Possibly. There is no way of telling. I did everything right during this pregnancy. No alcohol. Balanced diet. Exercise.

It didn’t matter. There was nothing we could have done differently to prevent it. Nothing.

That doesn’t make it easier.

I have struggled with depression and anger and guilt. I do every day. Every day.

I’m not going to get over it. I am hoping I can get through it.

I hope you never have to experience this first hand. I hope to whatever power is out there that you never have to experience this first hand. It sucks. OK? It sucks. And I am not okay and I won’t suddenly be okay. So please don’t expect me to be.

Know that I am extremely grateful to my amazing husband who has been my stability, my shoulder, my co-mourner, my heart and my light through all of this.

There are a lot of articles on things you should never say to someone in my position and I recommend you look them up real quick before you respond to this or anyone else’s story.

FYI, I don’t take sympathy well. It makes me queasy, to be honest. And advice can go jump off a bridge. Seriously. So, just don’t.

But now you all know a fraction of what I’ve been experiencing for the past two months.

And why when I say I am pro-choice, I mean it with as much of my heart as I can muster.

And yes, it still makes me choke that I did not get that choice.

But everyone deserves your respect and your sympathy, whatever your views have been on abortion and miscarriages. Please just try to spare a little love for every single being, whether they ever made it or not, for whatever reason.

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