Trying (Part 3: Begin Again)

I don't remember much about my toddler years. Most of my recollections are fuzzy snap shots placed far back in the album of my mind. I know that I was a willful child (but not unruly), slightly bossy and extremely sensitive.There are a few humorous stories of me clinging to grocery carts crying out for a Barbie that had to be pried from my tiny hands.

Apart from the typical "terrible twos" tantrum, I learned fairly early on how to push down my frustrations and repress my disappointments in favor of  keeping the peace. It was a natural occurrence. Typical middle child psychology (see: a deep seeded desire to be liked and accepted.) Confrontation was the enemy. (Minus a few knock down drag outs with my little sister of course.)


But every so often, no matter how docile the host, the happenings of  life will awaken a fury of emotions....



I wasn't more than 8 years old. I can still see the plush shag carpeting as I huffed and puffed my way up the stairs and slammed the door behind me. The reason for the banishment has long since faded from my memory, but the physical and emotional  reactions to my punishment are still within reach.

A tightness in my chest.

A lump in my throat.

My fists clenched tight.

Wiping the white-hot tears from my face.


I remember an overwhelming feeling that I hadn't been heard. I swallowed hard. Suddenly, the remedy to my plight became crystal clear.

I would make them hear me.


I needed to scream.


The lump in my throat seemed more like a boulder as I carefully unlocked the second story windows in my bedroom. The wet, sticky air filled my lungs and fueled my "noble" mission. With every ounce of courage I could muster, I opened my mouth and began to shout.

At first my rant consisted of the wrongdoings I had suffered during the "battle" with my parents earlier that night. That is until I noticed,


I could almost breathe again.


The mild scolding from my parents (which I'm certain I deserved) over some minor disobedience was no longer important. It had become something much more pressing. I dug deep into my diaphragm and loudly began to purge all of the problems that could possibly plague an 8-or-so year old girl. (You'd be surprised. It can be rough out there.)  Screams of frustration mixed with tears of liberation.

I had a voice.


It didn't take long before I heard a frantic knock at the door followed by an aggravated, "Christine Elizabeth! You stop that right now! The whole neighborhood can hear you!"


That was the point.


Of course I knew, as soon as the next day, that my flare-up was not the way to express myself. I wasn't brought up that way and I would never again involve the neighborhood in one of my "performances".

As wrong as it was, I haven't forgotten the freedom I felt in being able to lose myself and my hurt in a desperate, passionate, no holds barred, borderline-hysterical, temper tantrum.

In fact, there have been days, some very recent, where I have felt it-

The tightness in my chest.

The lump in my throat.


White-hot tears pouring down my face.


The desperation to be heard.



And  the once hidden urge begs to be released......

*******

I've walked the same path so many times (both literally and figuratively) to those mirrored double doors, behind which house dozens of women in every stage of fertility, that I'm certain you could blindfold me and spin me 'til I'm dizzy and I would still find my way in record time.



Here we go again.



I fully expected a Cheers greeting ("Hi Norm!") as I walked up to counter of my OB's office and fudged my arrival time, shaving off 10 minutes (as if that would get me seen any sooner.) The familiar faces merely nodded and smiled a generic welcome, waving me over to the row of empty waiting room seats. I chose one near the back, a perfect post for people watching.


The room was a buzz with new mothers quietly consoling their newborns, heavily pregnant mothers not-so-quietly consoling their rowdy toddlers and clusters of couples huddled together pouring over their freshly taken ultra sound pictures. I protectively rested my hand on my belly and smiled thinking that those moments might not be too far off.


The minutes ticked away until it was finally my turn to venture behind the swinging door. An ultrasound first, then Dr.F- the reason for my 2 little success stories. It seemed surreal to be starting this process all over again.

The ultrasound showed we were right on target for our newly discovered pregnancy- just over 4 weeks. The size of a sesame seed.


It's quite amazing that you can fall in love so deeply with something the size of a sesame seed.


And yet, mothers do it everyday.


When the mighty Dr.F entered the room he gave me even more reassurance that "The Seed" and I would have a successful journey together.


"I know you're scared given your history, but we've done this twice now," he said excitedly bobbing his head up and down, "there's no reason this won't work a third time."


No reason.


I carried his words with me and held tightly to them, convincing myself that we had found the answers. That this time would be different.


And when things began to fall apart- when I began to feel my body painfully ridding itself of my little seed of a dream, all I could think about was stomping up the stairs to my childhood bedroom. I wanted to throw open the window and let the world know that I have had more than my fair share of this horrible little game of "give and take."



I wanted to scream.


I wanted to be heard.


I wanted this to stop.




The heavy, dark gray clouds that lined the sky reflected my mood as I returned to the office to "officially" hear what I had spent days trying to deny. I laughed bitterly to myself thinking of the black bag overflowing with "new pregnancy" goodies- prenatal vitamins, formula samples, diaper coupons, all of which sat unopened on my dining room table. The generous gift that made me giddy with excitement just one week earlier was now a painful reminder of what wouldn't be.



Was this really happening again?


And not just the miscarriage- but me.


Was I really right back where I started? Scared, angry, my faith shaken and my world turned upside down?


Have I learned nothing?


How could I have gone from a place of such gratitude and contentment- so thankful for the miracle of my two daughters- to this place of  darkness and grief?


When my loss was confirmed and the necessary follow-up appointments were made, I wandered back through the lobby. Though a few tears had begun their escape down my pale cheeks, for some reason I resisted the urge to hurry to the door and instead took my time, scanning the faces of the waiting women. I'm sure now that it was a divine intervention, because just before I reached the exit, my eyes locked with a pair of equally moist, dark brown eyes belonging to a young women sitting in a wheel chair.


I recognized the look of despair and heartache that furrowed her brow and twisted her mouth.


It was only seconds of a stolen glance before she buried her face into a pile of tissues and I ran for the elevators, but the image has stayed with me.


She was a complete stranger and I knew nothing about the trial she was experiencing, but in that moment she helped me remember that I'm not alone. That this anguish isn't reserved solely for me.


Loss touches us all.



And over the next week, without so much as a stomp or howl or declaration from the second story window,


I was heard.


Because 'loss' has an unspoken language all it's own.


And with our individual losses we become better equipped with compassion and charity to comfort those who are suffering from the fresh wounds of an earthly battle lost.


This past week, I have been tenderly cared for by the hands of friends who know the power of a silent hug, a good meal and a "thinking of you" phone call.


I have been  blessed by the thoughtfulness of my beautiful family who continue to give selflessly of themselves to ease my burden.


I have been humbled by the sight of a woman and her teenage daughter standing on my doorstep with an armful of flowers meant for me.  It was only months before that this same woman was laying similar flowers on the grave of her stillborn baby girl, and yet, here she was, concerned for my grief.



We will never escape loss. So many people are struggling to reconcile the anger, confusion, and seemingly endless heartache that accompanies bereavement- and yet they make the decision to carry on, to use the searing pain for good...


....to show up on the doorstep of another in need and offer what's left of their broken heart.


I hope to continually carry these memories and moments with me through this unpredictable journey. I pray for the strength of those who courageously face each day and fight the understandable urge to scream and shout and curse their misfortune.


I long for the bravery of those who choose instead to seek out others who are mourning and help them,


to begin again.
 

Pitch Hitter: Thoughts From the Little Sis

I've had an unexpected week.  A week that I'm still processesing. Luckily my team of superheroes (because that's what my friends/family are- SUPER HEROES!) swooped in to save the day. One of whom is my little sister, Anne, who dropped everything to come stay with me and color my world happy. On top of that she's taking over my blog for this week's Bandit post!

So, without further ado, here is my lil' sister's musings about the things in life that she loves....

"Whence came and whither bound are we?

Holds something still of mystery;

But one grave thought is clear and plain,

We shall not pass this way again.”

~Eliza M. Hickok

I live my life in snapshots.


I love dress shirts on men, and the way their hands look at the end of crisp, white sleeves. I love singing so hard and so loud in the car that the old guy in the blue truck next to me can’t stop laughing at how seriously I’m taking my stop-light rocker-ballad. I love the smell of Mentholateum and the memories it stirs of my mother putting me to bed and rubbing my back---me sick with stuffy nose and achy joints. I love watching my older brother talk, act, sing, tell a story, gesture—a man born with the gift to command a room and deliver anything from a stand-up act to a sermon. I love staring at a full moon and feeling so completely small and like a child.


I love to observe in fine detail so as to greedily indulge myself with it later on. I love memories. I love capturing, extracting, emblazoning, branding, immortalizing the mundane, the sorrowful, the romantic, the entertaining, the bizarre, the uplifting. I do this both literally and figuratively. I write it, scrapbook it, take 38 pictures of it from six different angles. I bundle moments into bright bouquets of experience and hang them upside down in my memory to dry. I must preserve their zest, their color, for what are we, with out our memories? Who are we but a result of all things past?


Who are we, then, if we forget?

This passion to remember “days gone by” undoubtedly contributes to me constantly feeling like an anachronism. Translation: I wish I was born 100 years ago…even 80. I wish I grew up at a time when Hollywood was golden and women wore chiffon. I wish I lived on a farm and had milk delivered to me on my doorstep each morning in clinking, glass bottles. I wish I was that WWII nurse, panty hoes twisted, knees akimbo, caught in a “half-Nelson” half love lock with a celebrating sailor in the middle of Time Square.

(Anne in her past life.)

I wish I could go back.

I’ve never felt truly a part of the “here and now,” in this time that was designated for me. I don’t belong to the world of iphones, itunes, ieverything. I don’t like it. I don’t “get” it. Why is that?

Answer: I like to think it’s because I’m terribly nostalgic and a hopeless Romantic.

Real Answer: I don’t want to get it. I’m scared to death of what lies ahead.

I love the past because it’s sturdy and real. It's comfortable and worn, like my grandpa’s old flannel shirts. I love what the past made of my grandparents—what it made of most people who survived so much poverty and war: grateful, honorable, heroic. I love the past because the hapless chaos of the Sixties and Seventies made my parents ever so determined to give their children an ordered life complete with chore charts, timeouts, and time together. They gave us loyal love and purpose.

I love the past because it’s already been done. It’s already been battled out, prayed about, lost to, won back, gasped at, grieved about, sung through, laughed over. Lived. And they did it with grace.

I love it because I know how it ends.

For a girl who loves surprises, I’m strangely future-phobic. I don’t like the lack of control that comes from living so quickly, each day smearing into a week, then two months, then a year. All this made possible by anything and everything digital. We go so fast now! And I don’t love where we’re headed. I don’t love having 712 “friends” on Facebook and not knowing what’s going on in the lives of 682 because I never see them. I don’t love how dating and relationships have been reduced to 11pm texts that say, “S’up?” I don’t love the option of downloading a book and reading it on a glowing screen as opposed to holding the musty, dog-eared thing in my hands. I don’t love what robots we’re becoming.

If that’s what Future means, no wonder I dig my heels in and pull back against the tug of “progress.” Maybe I don’t want it. Maybe I don’t know how to handle it. Maybe I’m small-minded and afraid. I admit it. But is that really so terrible? Yes, I run to the Past and my pantry of waiting memories as often as needed. But I promise I don’t live there perpetually.

I promise I’ve managed to move forward and become a healthy, full-functioning adult in the 21st century. But I will always relish those moments when the power goes out and I’m suddenly thrust into the 19th century, candles lit (or flashlights…whatever) and faces of friends or strangers huddled together in the soft glow. I will always drink from the hose any chance I get because that gushing, metallic taste is my childhood, and my childhood was warm, and bright, sweaty, and breathless. I will always stare hard at the photograph of my grandpa Gordon as a young serviceman, trace his Kurt Douglas chin with my finger, and ache to know what it was like to be in his physical presence.

I will never stop loving those silver moments of history, whether my own or the world’s, that make me less afraid of my own future. So I might pick my kids up from school in a hover-craft someday. But if I do, I’ll be sure to tell them about my first car, a red, stick-shift Festiva the size of a can of yams. I’ll tell them how it feels to ride a bike without holding on to the handle bars, about running with my friends to the park. I’ll tell them about slowly walking to school and stooping to collect writhing worms from the previous night’s thunderstorm. I’ll tell them how it feels to stand still and absorb an Arizona sunset—how I always felt compelled to do it in silence out of total awe and respect. And then I might have to explain what silence means. So that evening, I’ll take them outside, tell them to watch, and remember...

************

"The Nanners" and Me

I know. I'm holding on tight to her coattails 'cuz I just know they'll get me into heaven!

PS. I haven't picked a topic for Miss Natalie next week.....any ideas?