Dear family: please stop reading. Auntie (!!!), and SIL, and brother, and mom, and dad, this means you. Really. Please. Stop. If you want me to keep blogging, ever, stop reading, right now.
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Family-avoidance interlude
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As I’ve alluded to before, there are things I haven’t been mentioning on the blog, in part because my family reads here.
When I’m not saying anything about those things, I find it hard to say much of anything at all. Which can, without exaggeration, drive me crazy.
So here they are:
I’m trying to make a book. And we’re trying to make a baby.
I have, in fact, conceived the book (the one I alluded to recently, Martyrdom Not Required: Attachment Parenting in the Real World). And I did, in fact, conceive a pregnancy.
The book might yet, if I am very, very lucky (and very, very diligent), make it to fruition.
The pregnancy did not.
It was not, you might be surprised to hear, the most recent cycle, nor the cycle that I missed blogging about. Nor was it the cycle where my back went out. No, it was the one before that, and it was so very, very short that I hardly feel justified in calling it a miscarriage. We never had a chance to fully confirm, much less celebrate, even privately, before there was nothing to celebrate, and the confirmation was a resounding “not this time”.
This was not the first miscarriage I’d ever had — not even the only I’d ever known about.
I was seventeen, The Man was nineteen, and I was known for having long, heavy, irregularly timed periods. But one was later still than my unusual-usual. I didn’t suspect anything — I had no particular reason to, and I was as bad about tracking my periods as my body was at regulating them. But when I bled, finally, it was harder than anything before. And there was… something. Something very, very small. Maybe the size of my pinky fingernail, in memory. Probably even smaller than that, if we try to factor out memory’s magnifying focus. But there was something unusual, something unexpected, something I hadn’t seen before nor since, resting atop the plastic pad, when all the rest of the blood and serum and fluid had soaked in.
I didn’t tell anyone, not for years. I still answer “one” when filling in number of pregnancies on medical forms. After all, I don’t “know”. There was no stick with multiple lines, no disturbing, distorted black and white films from an ultrasound, no diagnoses scribbled near illegibly in an official medical chart somewhere. I don’t “know”. Just as I don’t “know” this time, this so much earlier time, with even less physical evidence for support.
But I know.
Three times now, my body has been home, temporarily, to DNA that was of me but was not mine. One became a baby, now a bubbly, blond, aggravating, adorable child. Two… didn’t. Once, over a decade ago, it was a strange, spikey knowledge — something unasked for and unwanted disappearing, without my having to do anything about it. This time, it was pain I didn’t let myself feel for a month, when finally, bleeding again, I sobbed on the floor in part from pain in my back and in part because I was surrounded by fecundity, by women with proven fertility, and I should have been one, I should have been like them, I so wanted to be and almost was like them and it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, and it hurt so much. And so I cried, and sobbed, and gulped for air and breath, and keened with anger and grief and fear and envy and so many kinds of pain.
But everywhere else, with all but a very small few, I was silent.
I don’t know if I can explain my silence, because I’m not sure I understand it. About everything else, I am vested in full disclosure. I’ll write about craziness, self-injury, pelvic organ prolapse, the -isms I am infected with. I’ll write about mundanities and profanities and even, if you ask nicely, the time I talked to Jesus. But this? This desire for baby-baby-now? This trying and trying and waiting and trying and the interminable months of failure? This I have a hard time disclosing.
I think I want to present a fait accompli — I don’t want the kibitzing and second-hand second-guessing along the way. I want the congratulations — I don’t want the commiserations that it takes us so damn long. I want, in one area of my life, to not be made to feel that I am damaged, deficient, that nothing will come easily to me, or for me.
Neither do I want to publicly perform pious self-pity. I don’t want to be anyone’s maybe-baby show. I don’t want to declare woe-is-me when so many have it so much worse, require hard-to-access technological intervention in order to reproduce, or are not able to at all. What right have I do bemoan my circumstance when odds are decent that, eventually, a pregnancy will stick, virtually free, and societally approved?
I think also that I don’t want to have to explain or defend or justify my desire or my timing or any other part of this. I don’t want to try to explain to the childfree what this compulsion feels like, nor defend from the childless my grief over the loss when I’ve already had a baby, nor justify to the environmentalists or the anti-child feminists the decision to try to bring yet another person into the world.
With both the baby and the book, I think I want to be able to quit quietly. I want to be able to fail, without failing anyone. I want to be able to give up, without being seen to. I want perfection — mission accomplished, see what I made! — or to pretend I never wanted it in the first place. (I admit: as coping mechanisms go, I could perhaps find healthier.)
And I really, really don’t want my family to say one damn thing to me about it, good or bad or anything. (If you’ve ignored my previous warnings, family dearest, you’ve only yourself to blame.)
Yet… I’m tired of silence. I’m tired of Not Talking about something that matters to me. I’m tired of not being able to write because I’m not writing what’s most pressing to me. I’m tired of my desire for privacy from my sometimes-draining family blocking off the soul-sustaining support of my friends (whether I’ve been blessed to meet you in person yet or not). I don’t want this to become a baby-making or book-hocking blog, but I don’t want to have to censor every impulse I have to mention a major undertaking — which informs almost every area of my life — either.
So that’s it. Baby, book: gimme. I don’t know how I’ll manage, I don’t know whence the time and energy and space in my life will come, but I don’t care, because I’m doing it anyway. And I’m not going to keep it a secret any longer.
Except from my family.
Arwyn
In my bathroom hangs a plaque with a picture of a yin yang and the word BALANCE. I can never get it to hang straight. This probably says something deep and meaningful about my life.
I want perfection — mission accomplished, see what I made! — or to pretend I never wanted it in the first place.
I can relate to this. And I’m sure many other people can (and many women who read here).
I remember when my mom was a church-goer and Christian and my dad got cancer. Her congregation was a very small one, a group of the sweetest people ever who loved my mother and her (non churchgoing) husband and me and my family. She and the pastor and the congregation prayed many times mostly for his chemo or radiation or surgery or just for him to be able to eat or whatever… one day I asked my mom why she didn’t just pray he would get better. Miraculously cured. She hemmed and hawed and talked a bit but it finally came down to: if she didn’t admit (to herself or us) she WANTED this thing, his healing, their wonderful marriage to go on and on and on, it wouldn’t hurt so much, or she wouldn’t jinx herself (and him). I know. It makes sense.
But. I told her to go ahead and WANT it and pray for it and she started crying. It was so pent up in her not to ask for what she wanted.
She didn’t get her wish in that he died, but it did take years. And I think our desire and our Wanting was very fierce and it made every moment with him all the more crystalline and amazing and impossibly lovely and the pain we felt wasn’t lessened but it felt So. Much. Better. to be Out with it, what we wanted.
Thank you for sharing here and I hope your family does not betray you or let you down. But I know no matter what happens with them, the rest of us are honored you trust here, and you shared. I hope you have many causes to be glad you did.
That was beautiful to read. I feel like we opened together.
I’ve had that don’t “know” knowing. Hugs.
This was my reason for writing about TTC because I couldn’t not write about it when sometimes it was all that was in my head. And it’s nothing I could have ever understood until we had problems. Before then, I didn’t even think about it. I didn’t even consider that it would be difficult or emotionally eviscerating. I just didn’t think.
Both of my miscarriages were too early for a pregnancy test to have even picked them up, but I knew, without a doubt what had happened.
In many ways, I felt the same and felt guilty that I had such a hard time with my miscarriages and TTC when I already had a beautiful child and there were other people who had ‘real’ reproductive problems. But in the end pain is pain, and loss is loss regardless of the circumstances and it can be utterly devastating no matter what package it comes in.
I am sorry for your pain, and glad you were able to get it on “paper”. I wish you happiness.
“(I admit: as coping mechanisms go, I could perhaps find healthier.)”
If you find a healthier one, can you teach me how to use it too?
Seriously, I am sorry for your pain, and glad that you have this space to talk of it. And I am very pleased to hear of your plans for the book: sounds fabulous.
I can totally relate to the “I don’t want to NOT talk about this but nor do I actually want to talk ABOUT it either” issue. Sometimes I just want to disclose and walk away or let someone know something without having to rehash the same issues/topics that everyone else has already brought up over and over. Dealing with other peoples’ emotions about your life is exhausting, especially for us introverts who generally do not thrive on excessive social attention and interaction.
What I’m also hearing from you is the desire not to have either of these factors become a part of your identity. It sounds like you don’t want to become the Woman-Who-Is-Trying-To-Conceive nor The-Bloger-Who-Is-Writing-A-Book – these are parts of your life that are important to you but you don’t want your life to become them? Trying is hard and sometimes I think that I’d almost rather fail and have the tension/anxiety of the trying resolved so I can just move on but trying is important if we are to create the lives we want so, what can you do?
I wish you the best with both endeavours, whether they pan out the way you want or not, and want to commend you for your courage and commitment to being open with us.
Thank you for sharing.
*hugs*
I’m just going to say, wow, do I understand. There aren’t enough hugs in the world, but I’d give you one anyway.
Thank you for sharing this with us.
(((HUGS)))
Sorry that things haven’t gone as you’d hoped
Sending lots of love and hugs your way.
Silence about the things that matter the most. I don’t know why I sometimes choose silence, but I do. Secrets and silence eat at us. I wish I could speak without concern for the listener/reader and their thoughts and feelings.
I felt empty after my miscarriage. I felt angry that my body had failed me in such a deeply personal way. Many women understood. Many people did not understand and said stupid things. My husband asked, “When can we try again? I want a child.” I thought that was so sweet.
You’re a beautiful writer. Keep writing.
You ask: “What right have I do bemoan my circumstance when odds are decent that, eventually, a pregnancy will stick, virtually free, and societally approved?”
Well, you have that right because for the time being, things are not going as you had planned or hoped or wished or expected, and there is pain and frustration and sadness and anger in that process. At the end of the day, no matter how well we know our bodies and commune with them, they are going to act independently much of the time, and we’re just along for the ride. And sometimes the ride is shitty. And just because you know you’re probably going to be let OFF the ride, it doesn’t make the ride itself a party.
I think I spent too long in that metaphor. Bottom line: I’m so glad you are writing about this and allowing yourself to feel what you feel. It’s real, and it’s big, and it’s yours. Thank you for sharing with us.
*big hugs*
The fact that things are temporary or less awful for us than they are for others does not negate the reality and pain of our circumstances and experiences. Your suffering is real, even if its not the worst suffering the world has known. *hugs* non-sticky pregnancies, even the ones you “know,” but don’t know, are real and we all have the right to express how we feel about them.
The joy of being newly pregnant, and the pain in the loss, even early…is the same as the joy in loving anyone, and losing anyone, really. It’s all the hopes and dreams and what if’s and if only’s and I wonder’s.
I lost a baby a week before I conceived S. I received all the trite ‘it wasn’t meant to be’ type condolences (because sex outside of marriage is SUCH a big deal to my large, religious family, I told everyone I was pregnant within 48 hours of getting the BFP. I just wanted to get the scandal over with.) Nothing anyone said to me made it better, and most made it so much worse. And even though we have S, & we couldn’t have had her AND our other baby, I still feel angry that she couldn’t have just been the first baby. I felt…I feel…so betrayed by my body. I took it for granted that I’d have babies one day, and when I accidentally got pregnant that first time, I just took it for granted that I’d give birth to a healthy kid that would grow up. I’m sure parents who have lost babies and children feel the same…you never think it won’t happen the way it is supposed to. It was a beginning for me, a for sure, your life is changed forever beginning, and yet it all too quickly became an end. I felt like a fertility goddess. I was so thrilled, so ready to be everything my little fetus needed. I felt beautiful and fruitful and full of joy. I ate organic vegetables & relished in growing this tiny little thing in my uterus. And then, it was over. And not only was it horrendously painful, but I begged, someone, anyone, to make it not happen and it did any way. The loss of control….the way my dreams so quickly deflated…and most of all, the betrayal that my body didn’t do something right in growing a baby…this is what still haunts me almost 2 years later.
So I know there is nothing I can say about your miscarriage except…yes, me too.
And regarding the book… You have my favorite blog in the world! I can’t imagine how amazing your book will be.
Sending healing, at peace thoughts for your loss and pain.
Arwyn – Although you don’t ever need to feel compelled to share anything that you don’t want to, your post makes it seem as though it was very cathartic for you to write. I hope it brings the peace and healing that you need. For you and for anybody else who has suffered a loss, my virtual friend has a project that you may find useful: http://www.heavenborn.com/ I went through years of infertility before being blessed with my two kids and so I know the conflicted feelings that you are expressing. Don’t judge yourself and don’t let others judge you – just let those emotions come and go as they will. I wish you every success both in your TTC and with writing your book. Hugs to you
I understand not wanting to share these things with your family. I have a very similar impulse. During the 9 months it took us to conceive our second child, I didn’t share. I just didn’t want advice and commiseration. Just … no.
With my book idea, I feel less protective. I think because I know what to DO about that. NOT conceiving is much less easy to understand. It’s much less about figuring out a plan of action, and much more about letting nature take its course. Or not. But we’ll see how I feel in a few months from now.
I’m sorry to hear about your miscarriage. And I wish you both a book and a baby, very soon.
Ugh, now I feel horrible about being so very happy with Elessar all over spaces you see… I’ve been there, you know I have (this time last year I was about to have my second loss in a row at 3.5 weeks, and my third loss overall of four for the year).. so I also know why you haven’t even hinted at reproaching me for it. It’s that awful ambivalence of happy for but bitter about. :/
*hugs*
DM me if you want/need to.
I’m cheering for both projects!!
Love love love ((hugs))… I can’t wait to read your book, and I look very much forward to “meeting” your baby when zie makes zir appearance. You may or may not remember that we miscarried at 5&1/2 weeks in Dec. And we are now almost 20 weeks pregnant. A dear friend at work just had her 4th m/c at abt 11 weeks- almost at that mythical “safe” date. There is nothing easy about any of this, but the wife (@pissantpride) and I were just talking the other day about how the old cliche about how anything worth having is a struggle really applies here. It’s heartbreaking to suffer the loss, and heartbreaking to watch others suffer it. Take good care of yourself, and we’re sending lots of love your way.
*hugs*
*hugs*
I know how frustrating it can feel to withhold what you actually want to talk about on your blog because someone you know is reading it. It’s a struggle I deal with too. It’s irritating actually and I’m not positive how I’ll deal with it.
Sorry about the miscarriages. That’s a rough thing to go through for sure.
Thank you for this important blog post. I found you on technorati and wanted to visit! Thank you for writing down what needed to be said–what you alone can say.
I can totally relate… I blogged about the envy and I got dragged through the dirt for it… it’s a tricky thing to blog about
Couldn’t read and not post. I’m so sorry to hear about your miscarriage, but as always, your perspective is positively inspiring. I wish you the very best with BOTH creations – the idea of a real world attachment parenting book by someone in my generation is SO AWESOME. Cheering you on to make it so!
I understand, and have myself fallen prey to, this notion of “I shouldn’t complain or feel bad because I have/will have it much better than so many others.” But that’s a fallacy, because there’s ALWAYS someone else who has a worse situation than you do, and that doesn’t mean your feelings and experiences are not real or should not be acknowledged. It means perhaps we shouldn’t wallow in our sadness, and maybe try to focus on the positives after a while, but most definitely we also need to allow ourselves to feel the grief that comes from a situation that is going the opposite of how we wish it would go. To ignore those feelings, to push them aside as something we’re not “supposed” to feel is just an injustice to ourselves.
So there’s my 2 cents about that.
I’m interested in the statement you made about feeling the need to defend or justify your timing or desire to have another kid. Interested, because the thought has never even crossed my mind. Maybe it’s the circles I run in, where children are such a normal and expected part of married life… But I figure the decisions to have children (or not) are ones we each make for ourselves and that’s just that. I don’t think there should be any need on your part to have to explain, defend, or justify ANY of this to anyone.
(Lastly– you may not be wanting advice at this point, but have you tried charting BBT, etc? Might be helpful, especially with irregular cycles, to know what’s going on and helping you conceive…)
Like Katie, I’m cheering for both projects! What a great way of putting it. The book sounds wonderful. And Arwyn as a mom x 2 sounds wonderful too. I’m sorry it wasn’t to be this time. ((hug))
I’m struggling now with some things I want to write about, but can’t because my blog isn’t completely anonymous and because it isn’t just about me (writing about these things could compromise the privacy of other members of my family, which I’m not willing to do). I know there are places (like here) that I could write an anonymous guest post, yet I want the feedback from and support of my community (which does overlap with yours, but is not entirely the same). While I yearn to write about it, I also don’t want to be put in a position of having to defend or justify my feelings or my choices. So for now, I’m keeping quiet. But maybe…we’ll see.
I’m sorry. *hugs*
So much love to you, dear friend. <3
I had to leave the computer and go write in my paper journal for awhile because I was feeling some feelings about this, still am actually, especially after reading all the loving and supportive comments. :’(
thank you for sharing your experiences and your feelings and your ambivalence
hearing someone else had similar feelings as what I did (and I hear myself think stuff like, “and after only a short little pregnancy!” and I know that’s an attempt to minimize and de-importance what happened, and I know that’s Not Good, and I’m working on it).
just, thank you, it helps, and me too.