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January 30, 2004 ~ And Grief Comes Wailing
Friday.
I just picked myself up off the floor. I had been lying there for the past hour, wailing, moaning, sobbing, and repeating, "No, no, nooo," to myself, a whispered chant. Letting my eyes and my nose run freely into the rug. Holding myself, rocking, tearing my hands through my hair.
All for a spot of blood.
I can't do this. I can't let myself do this. So I'm going to write it out. The tears have dried, my lips are chapped, and my eyes ache and sting. I will feel better tomorrow. Today, I have to let myself mourn for something that did not die, for it was never alive. I had only hoped it was.
I had hoped that I was pregnant. This is the second time in the last three months that I have felt this disappointment.
Something happened in that rhododendron grove back in November. Morgan and I decided quite spontaneously, but willfully, to let go our control. Not to interfere, not over-plan. We gave the map to destiny, let destiny plot our course. Perhaps new life would come of it. Perhaps a little part of each of us would blend together through our love and start to grow.
It was an intoxicating feeling, that first month. At the time, I wrote:
How does one concentrate on anything else? How do I keep myself from bursting out to everyone whom I know, "Morgan and I are trying to create a child!" I sense something much bigger than ourselves moving about.
I am constantly turning within. "Something amazing may be happening within my body right now." At that, a rush of warmth, love, excitement, passion, fierce protection, and something that goes beyond words. It feels incredible, incredible, and just this feeling alone, even if nothing comes of this, will be a most valuable and cherished experience for me.
Morgan, putting his hand over my womb and hugging me from behind, "I like feeling that you could be pregnant at any given time," his eyes holding hope and a tinge of fear, but full of love.
This time, waking from the ovulation cramps two weeks ago, having made love a few hours before, I woke him to let him know. Our timing could not have been more perfect, though it had been spontaneous and completely unintentional. So he held me, and we thought of what could be happening at that moment, falling back to sleep in each other's arms.
I didn't let myself get too hopeful. But then, last week, I slowly started to realize that the strange feeling that I was having felt more hormonal than anything else. It wasn't the right time of month for hormonal, though, and it was exceptionally more intense than normal anyway.
I let a little hope seep in, despite myself. Maybe I was feeling "off" for a reason. Maybe pregnancy hormones were starting to set in. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
And when nothing happened yesterday, when I was supposed to start bleeding, I let in a little more hope. Looked at my cycle calendar counting the days again and again, to be sure. Smiling a quiet smile. And again, this morning, still no blood. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Late morning, however, and there it was. I calmly took care of what I needed to, though my hands shook a bit. Called Morgan to let him know, and held back the tears. Sent off two emails giving the news. And then...
Well, then I glanced at my cycle calendar--that little piece of paper that had given me so much hope just two hours before--and I lost it. Slid to the floor, hugging myself and sobbing. Thinking of the hope and warmth I had felt in Morgan's arms as the ovulation cramps came. Grieving for that dream. That beautiful dream.
Thinking, cruel to come a day late and spark my hope. Thinking, if it wasn't hormones, then what the hell was wrong with me? Thinking, I really honestly believed it, this time. Thinking, It felt so real, so close, so tangible. So beautifully possible. Thinking, I shouldn't let myself hope so much. Answering, But if it weren't for hope, we wouldn't even try. Thinking, Please, please, please let this not be a sign that I am indeed infertile already. I cried and cried and cried and cried, letting the grief wail out of me.
An hour slipped by, and my throat became sore. I felt tired and empty and utterly spent.
I've been quiet about this. I'm not sure why. Both the hope and the hurt are very raw. It's very personal, this striving to create. I didn't want everyone else to hope with me or hurt for me. I still don't. But I'm tired of letting these hopes and disappointments pass without record. To let something significant to me be lost without memorial felt horrid.
Later:
This month wasn't the best of times for us to succeed anyway. There's a lot of uncertainty coming up in the next few months with job and insurance situations. Financially, this is a relief, for now. But my heart isn't swayed by dollar signs.
I am still full of hope, of faith, however. We have the next few years to keep trying. Someday, when the time is right, the blood won't come. I will go buy a test, and there will be two pink lines, the sight of which will send a surge of joy through me. I will not only hope. I will know.
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