Incompetent cervix. It turns out my feelings of inadequacy were not entirely unfounded. I wrote that as a joke but the truth is I kind of secretly think that maybe the impostor complex that’s always plagued me was a misinterpreted sign. (Not that I believe in signs)

 

Tom and I went to the new doctor the week before we left for Europe. I guess that’s another reason I didn’t write before we left. The news was overwhelming. On one hand, it’s a huge relief to know that I didn’t cause the pre-term labor. The nagging feeling that Tommy Jr came early because I’m bad doesn’t have anymore fuel. Incompetent is different than bad. To be honest, our doctor called it something a little nicer- cervical inadequacy or something. That doesn’t sound much better really.

 

Incompetent, inadequate…isn’t the fear of those things what keeps girls from raising their hands in math and science class? I mean other than being told I have a fat cervix, there couldn’t be two words that would be more hilariously pathetically upsetting to hear used to describe a part of you. And reading about my incompetent cervix was like getting a punch in the face of proof that I failed as a women. A failure punch.

 

I wish I felt more hopeful having an explanation. Because I already won the shitty-lottery I don’t feel safe thinking “the chances are good that next time the doctors will know…” and blah blah bullshit. I’m f*cking scared. I know I want to get pregnant again, but I just can’t imagine when I’ll have the guts to go through it again. I can’t imagine a time where my heart has healed enough to let me take another risk. I know it’s too soon to even consider, but it’s baby season right now! The summer is butt to nut with cute babies. And I want one so badly. And the one I want is buried in the ground.

 

That was an awful thing to write. I can’t help it though. I try not to picture of him in there, in his tiny baby coffin, all alone. Somedays it hurts me too much just to think of him, because I only ever saw my little boy in the hospital with tubes and wires and machines. I wish so much that I could imagine him better as a fat little baby in the park or in Daddy’s arms. Maybe he’ll come to me like that in a dream someday.

I’m back…sorry for the radio silence last week. Tom and I went to Europe and I guess I was too anxious to write. We had a wonderful trip- it was our third anniversary, but really it was the last leg on Operation Speed Up Time To Get Past My Due Date (or whatever I called it before).

 

I’m very very sad that all the travel is over. Having three trips in a row kept me always looking forward and planning for something. It kept me excited. Now…well…it’s August 17th. I have to try and stay in the present for the next couple of weeks. I can’t dwell on the fact that I should be at the point where every time I call my mother she thinks it’s because I’m in labor. That is not the reality I’m in, no matter how much I want it.

 

My travels taught me that this pain will follow me. I can’t run, or hide, or move away and think that it won’t creep up on me sometimes. I know it sounds silly but I really thought “If ONLY I could move away…”. I have to settle for moving apartments, and accept that sitting in the pain won’t kill me. I’m getting there. Plus we found a sweet apartment.

 

But I also learned that there is now a part of my brain that mourns automatically. I don’t have to be so vigilant, because some base part of me has been so crushed. One day Tom and I woke up in Paris and I felt so heavy hearted. My energy level was so low, it was like I couldn’t lift my eyes to appreciate the beauty of Paris. We took it easy and ended up having a nice day, but then next morning I realized that it had been August 10th. Tommy Jr would have been three months old. He’d be off his respirator, he’d have creamy baby skin, his eyes would be open. I don’t want to be sad on his birthdays, I want to celebrate. But if I don’t take control of my emotions, they’ll take control of me. It’s like how your dog knows when it’s dinner time everyday…I think my hearts knows when I should be sad. Or wistful. Well someday I hope it’s more wistful than sad.

 

Once in a while I forget that I went through it all. Those are actually the worst times. Or when I think about how hard Tom’s first year of law school would be if we had a newborn. That’s when I feel the lowest, the most dangerous. That occasional and subconscious feeling of (I shudder as I type this) relief makes me want to lash out and prove my pain. Or at least go back to the days where I talked about it all the time. The catch, of course, is that it’s getting harder and harder for me to talk about. I feel so much pressure not to burden people, and to act like I’m ok. I mean I am ok…sometimes. But when I’m not, I feel more caged than ever.

 

This post is turning out to be more depressing than I intended. I wanted to write about how Tom and I had the most relaxing european vacation ever. I wanted to write about my new 30-day plan- inspired by one of my favorite authors A.J. Jacobs. I guess I’ll have to save those things for tomorrow’s post. I will leave you with a promise to get back to writing every day. Even if I think it’s stupid or too dark or too light. Like yesterday I wanted to write about how much I hate business that have puns for names. Or how strange it is that I keep seeing people with their dogs in baby carriages. I don’t know what held me back, but I’m ready now. I’m making a public commitment.

 

Thanks for sticking with me dear friends. It makes me feel less lonely knowing people are reading this, and empathizing, and rooting for me.

I think I’m getting freon poisoning from sitting in air-conditioning all day. I go from air conditioned apartment to air-conditioned office to air conditioned car. I haven’t looked it up or anything, but I think the symptoms are waking up at 5am no matter what and a lack of interest in other people’s problems. Well I know it’s either the freon or the heart crushing grief of losing my son.

 

The sleepless symptom has been ok- I’m getting better at just getting up and going to the gym. There’s really no point in lying in bed if you know you’re not going to go back to sleep. But the complete impatience for other people’s problems is proving difficult.

 

I shouldn’t say other people’s problems…that’s not accurate. It’s really other people’s mindless bitching. I don’t mean when someone is complaining in a funny way. I mean when someone is just complaining to fill the air, or because they have no perspective, or because they can’t read their audience and think that a blank stare is conversational encouragement. It can even just be a person’s tone of voice, like you know they’re really bitching even if what they’re saying is mundane. I realize that I am, in fact, complaining even as I write this.

 

I realize too that it sounds a little hypocritical, since all I do these days is talk about myself. When I’m not actually talking, I’m thinking about myself. When I’m not thinking I’m sleeping and having vivid dreams about myself. I guess I’m getting tired of my own problems as well. Maybe I’m just getting to the end the part of grieving where one is consumed with panic and effortless fretting. That would be a relief. My brain is so tired.

 

Tomorrow I see another doctor. I’m scared of what he’ll say. The future feels like a gaping, sucking hole. Even the light is pulled in and bent around the deep. I have to stop thinking and just let myself be carried through these next few weeks.

I walked back to my office clutching my salad and saw the guy who’s office is down the hall. He smiled and said “Hey! Are you a mom now?”

 

I shook my head. Smile-grimaced: “No..er..well…we lost the baby.”

 

He looked stunned. He said he was so sorry and that we’d be in his thoughts. I apologized for having to tell him, I told him we would try again someday, I thanked him for asking and for his sympathy.

 

The tears felt hot on my face as I walked away. I wanted to say that I am a mother now, that my heart has changed so much since I met my son. I wanted to tell him how sweet it was that he remembered I was pregnant, and that I hoped he wouldn’t avoid me now. I wanted to say that sometimes I feel like a leper, because some people just can’t handle the grief that surrounds me like a bad smell.

 

I have to keep telling myself that I’m a mother. This pain is so consuming, so self-absorbing that sometimes it’s impossible to take a step back and look at my life. It’s ok for me to just say “Yes, I am a mother now.” I am. And at this point I can handle the follow up questions- usually the people who ask are gentle and kind. Usually.

 

But it’s a constant struggle to stay in control. I can feel myself slipping away sometimes, and being replaced by a hollow girl. I can’t remember what I used to think was important.

 

I know it’s not like me to say this, I know I’m losing perspective…but I hate this life. I don’t want to be strong, I don’t want to heal or mourn. I just don’t want any of this. I want to reach into the grief and pull myself out. I want my baby back.

Alcohol is not a reliable numbing agent. It can be the ingredient that turns a lovely summer lunch into an afternoon of tears and panic. It’s disappointing really. I thought it’d be a nice way to occasionally speed time along. It’s not worth it for me though. I’m back to the drawing board.

 

So far I’ve tried smoking (disastrous- made me want to barf), dieting/eating healthy (pretty good- makes me feel proactive to eat well), drinking (big disappointment), traveling (mixed- it makes the time go by fast but can be sad), exercising (works perfectly but I need more time…two or three times a week isn’t enough), and spending money like a drunken sailor (bad idea, made me panic more).

 

August 25th looms. I don’t know why it should even matter- it was always just an arbitrary date. It was a place holder even when we thought everything was going to turn out normal. I guess now it’s just a reminder that Tommy Jr should still be in my belly. Still. He should be in there, growing, learning to use his hands and feet, eating what I eat, and hearing me laugh. Every time I see a little boy I wonder about Tommy. I think about him as a squirmy baby keeping me up all night. I imagine him running around and scraping his knees and catching bugs and doing all the things I’ll never get to see him do. I wonder what sports he would have played and what food he would have hated. And I miss him so much it hurts. I miss my little boy, I miss our future.

 

I can’t imagine a time where I won’t feel so close to the edge. I don’t blame myself as much anymore, and I don’t feel overwhelmed with self-hatred very often anymore. Now it’s just gentle waves of sadness, with the occasional hurricane.

I’m running out of things to write now. The days are all running together and I feel like I’m just waking up in the morning to go to bed at night. I’m so envious of people who know what they want out of life, even if they’re bullshitting it must be comforting to have a goal.

 

My goals so far: change the sheets once a week, go down a size in jeans, remember to wear my glasses. Not exactly a map to fame and fortune. And sadly, I do want a kind of fame. My middle brother said it best: the goal is to be famous to other famous people. I want AJ Jacobs and Matt Ruff to know who I am.

 

It’s sort of embarrassing to write that here- so publicly. As soon as I wrote it I wanted to back peddle: it’s just a fantasy or I know it’s not likely or something shitty like that. But it’s just the truth. And I’m supposed to be learning how to be true to myself and what I want. So maybe a good step is to admit what I want, even if it makes me shrivel a little.

 

I must be going through a phase, because I hate everything I write now. I’m going to publish this anyway, but god I hate almost every sentence. What a bunch of drivel. What the hell happened? I used to sit at the keyboard and not be able to contain myself. It felt like I was pouring words out of my fingers. Now I type three words, roll my eyes, delete them, get frustrated, and berate myself for losing the thing I needed to hang on to so badly.

 

What the hell happened?

 

I’m afraid of what I might need.

When Tommy Jr died and Tom Sr and I went to the psychic she gave us a lot of comfort. One of the things she said was that his spirit was strong, and that I’d feel him close to me. At first, I did feel him. When I couldn’t sleep, or when I cried in the shower, his presence gave me great comfort.

 

But then at some point he went away. I can’t say when it happened but suddenly I felt even more hollow and lonely. I thought I was doing something wrong- like I wasn’t making myself available to him. So I kept thinking about him and asking for his help with a couple things only a baby in heaven could affect.

 

Last week was especially hard. Maybe it was coming down after a great trip, or thinking about my due date speeding toward me, or any number of other things that piled on top of my sadness. Then on Friday, I couldn’t help but take inventory of the miracles that have happened in our lives since Tommy came and went. Some things I asked for, other things I was afraid to ask for, and a few things I never knew could happen.

 

Finally I felt my son near me again. I don’t know if he helped orchestrate some miracles to wake me up and make me realize that he never left me. But it feels that way. I feel so much safer today.

 

I never thought I’d be the kind of person who needed to believe in angels. It turns out that when you’ve got an angel looking after you, it doesn’t matter if you want to believe or not- they’re going to be there either way.

Tom and I got back from California last night. It was a great trip but it feels good to be home. Well it felt good for a couple of hours, then I went back to panic mode. I’m so sick of worrying and panicking. It makes me tired and I suspect- fat. Or hungry anyway. I’m worried about moving, I’m worried about my job, I’m worried about my weight, I’m worried about money, I’m worried about being creative, I’m worried about bothering everyone I know because all I want to do is talk about myself and my feelings. I’m worried about how I’ll ever get to the other side of this grief. I’m worried about where my baby is.

 

I don’t have anything to write because I don’t know what the hell to write anymore. I’m uninspired. The choking sadness is gone…now I’m just empty most of the time. I have to just sit here and force myself to press the keys because I don’t know how else to manage myself.

 

I’d be 35 weeks today. Still over a month away from my due date. I realized that I’m at an age where people I don’t know could ask me if I have children. Just when I thought my social anxiety was getting manageable, I’m newly haunted by this possibility.

 

I’m just tired.

I’m clogged up again. I want to cry all the time but know I can’t. The long crying jags that got me through the early days don’t comfort me anymore. Now, halfway through a cry, I start to think how pointless it is. I can cry until I dissolve, it’s not going to change anything. So I’m back to the weird grimace.

 

In fact, I’m taking the grimace to the west coast. “Trying To Fast Forward Life” Part Two continues tomorrow when Tom and I go to Santa Barbara to visit relatives and LA to celebrate my boss’ birthday. It’ll be a good trip. I got my eyebrows waxed and bought deodorant, so I should be in good shape.

 

I feel so weird. I hope it’s because I’m getting my period. Incidentally, I’m really worried I’m about to get my period. This potentially sensitive event may be occurring just after my doctor’s refusal to prescribe me tranquilizers followed by a helpful lecture on how to grieve. I don’t understand how med-heads on Intervention can score painkillers with a little eye-lash batting, and I can’t get 5 Xanax.

 

July is halfway over. I have not died my hair blond, gotten a tattoo, abused myself or others. I haven’t quit my job, crashed my car, or blew my savings account. I think I have successfully kept moving forward- I’ve definitely come to hate that phrase. If I could get 10 more pounds off, I might even consider thinking about possibly taking another improv class. Ugh my stomach lurched even as I wrote that. What the hell am I supposed to do? When will I start to feel ok about being busy again? I feel like I was forced join a religion against my will and it requires constant vigilant attention to one’s feelings, a responsibility to be sad, and there’s no way to get out. Being happy is not a sin, but it is a little unsatisfying because in the back of my mind I know it’s just a band-aid between sadness/restlessness/humiliation/panic.

 

I got in to see the doctor today. Everything was healing fine physically. It was unfortunate that they sat me in chair facing the cork-board covered in other patient’s newborns. So I sat in her office and cried to her. I hated crying to her. I wanted to be all buttoned up and articulate and intimidating. When I finally managed to eep out my dissatisfaction, her answers made me cringe. She didn’t say anything right. Really, I guess she can’t tell me what I want to hear.

 

Whether my doctor told me to come in yesterday or today or never wouldn’t change anything. I don’t have the energy to be angry, I’m concentrating on not falling apart.

 

I can’t write more about it now. Today was too much. I just wanted to write here that physically everything is fine, and emotionally I’m getting there too. I’m going to keep moving.