Tough days: they come, and they go

I wrote this almost sixteen years ago, and published it on A Separate Life. It was about those tough days six years earlier, when I was in the midst of figuring out what life was going to be like now. I thought it was worth repeating here, all these years later, just to show that a) I understand what you might be going through, and b) that I don’t feel this way anymore. In fact, it has been a long time since I felt like this. Read the posts around it on A Separate Life, when I was already loving my life. We all get past those tough days. And we find joy again in that strong summer morning sunlight that is returning to the southern hemisphere right now.

“The strong summer morning sunlight was insistent, piercing her closed eyelids, willing her to wake. She struggled to hold on to sleep, because even asleep, her mind knew that she was protected, safe. But the sun won, consciousness was stronger. Her eyes opened. For a moment, serene, comfortable, rested. Then ... loss! She squeezed her eyes shut, but it was too late. The pain followed very quickly.

She spent her days alone. Wandering the silent house, listlessly. Talking to the cat, checking her voice still worked. But he never spoke back. And when, in fits of sadness, she would hold him tight, rocking back and forward in her grief, sobbing, wailing, desperate to feel another living thing close to her, he would struggle against the unfamiliar grip, and break free. Leaving her scratched, scarred, and feeling even more alone.

Mostly, she lived with the ever present sadness, hovering so close to the surface. She kept it in check by a thin veneer of calm, covering the cracks as they appeared as quickly as possible, usually before the tears leaked out, but not always, usually before others noticed, but not always. She found herself weeping easily, at the simplest of things. TV ads seemed to be a weak spot. Unaccustomed to tears, it was as if the tap had been turned on, and she feared that now it could never be shut off completely.

She dreaded the phone ringing, having to make conversation with someone, anyone. Home was a haven. But of course, there were unavoidable chores to do.

“How is your day going?” asked the cheerful, spotty youthful checkout operator at the supermarket. She hated this question. “Fine,” she mumbled, struggling to look normal, incapable of raising a smile. Supermarket shopping was daunting. She was reluctant to go when there might be crowds. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing someone she knew. Having to make conversation, appear cheerful to those who didn’t know, or sense the pity in their eyes, their judgement of her situation. So she went in mid-morning, quickly, furtively. With the retired folks and the new mothers. A double-edged sword. She looked only at the floor or the shelves, avoiding all others.

After the supermarket ordeal she escaped to the nearby cafe for a latte and the opportunity to sit for a while, incognito, for just a while being normal, doing normal things. She would take that when she could get it. The other customers largely ignored her. The teenage girls from the school down the road were appropriately happy and boisterous, beginning the new school term. She was invisible to them, and that was fine by her. The business people unnerved her a little. Usually she was one of them, in another café, discussing the latest office gossip over a coffee. But now she wasn’t part of that club. And felt lost. Because then there were the mothers and babies. Usually one or two were pregnant, a few loud toddlers, and a crying newborn. They would settle next to the play area, spreading out, taking over, leaving their buggies in the way and their toddlers to play. One of them ran along the banquette seating towards her, and stopped. He stood, turning his head on the side, looking at her as if she were a strange alien being.

And she felt she was – a woman without a place in the world, in society. She wasn’t at work, and she didn’t belong to their club.

She drove home. “SORRY” said the neon sign on the big yellow bus as it wound its way down the gorge. In an odd way, she felt comforted. Not too many people had said they were sorry. Or meant it.”

The rusty sword of spring

Thirteen years ago, I wrote my first ever post on No Kidding in NZ. It was about November, and titled “Double-edged Sword of Spring.” It’s worth repeating here:

“In New Zealand, November means spring. Officially, September or October are spring, but they are unreliable months, when winter still has us in its grip, teasing and taunting us with the occasional fine day, with the bloom of flowers, with pink blossoms and buds turning into delicate, pale green leaves on the willow trees that edge the Hutt River. September and October still have the power to force us back into our winter coats, to wear scarves and gloves. This year was particularly cruel, as we watched a late snowstorm in the south of the country arrive in September, bringing the sheep farming industry to its knees, its icy ferocity killing thousands of newborn lambs.

But by November hope has returned. Even though there might still be a chilly bite in the wind, the sun warms, and we begin to believe that warm temperatures will return, that long holidays, barbecues, trips to the beach, swimming, and the end of a rough year are almost within reach.

November sees hope for the future for most New Zealanders. November celebrates new life. But for me, November signals a different time. It signals a season of memories. Memories of loss, of disappointment, of the loss of innocence, of fear for the future, and of coming to terms with my own mortality. And each year, although sharp pain has faded, although acceptance and enjoyment in life has returned, each year we remember the pain.

In my house in New Zealand, even seven years later, November is a double-edged sword.”

It’s not now seven years later, however. Now, it is 20 years later. And November is no longer a double-edged sword. The sword edges are dulled, and it is rusting away. I don’t get the same dread thinking about the season of memories of loss, of hospitalisations, of pain. In fact, I only remembered that it was November in that way by happening on my first ever post in my word document of drafts and posts. Time heals. It really does. Time eases memories, and takes the sting out of them.

(That’s not to say that there is never any sting. I felt tears prick my eyes after reading something else, earlier, about “the one who was missing” and the simple, “ah, mate” comment I got from a blogger. It was unexpected indeed.)

But these days, when I think of November, I'm not thinking about pain. (Well, apart from cursing the spring winds that plague me!) In fact, now I’m thinking about scheduling in dentist and doctor appointments, dinners with friends, spring cleaning, and Christmas shopping. Sure, I will think about what was lost as anniversaries come up. But with remembrance, and love, and even gratitude. And right now, I’m thinking about happy events (well, mostly), warmer weather, activity, and hoping for some accomplishments. I’m enjoying and anticipating life. That’s the joy I probably didn’t expect when I wrote that first post.

Note: After that first post, I discovered that Loribeth also has a series of November posts.

 

The different life lived: 20 years on

Infertility and pregnancy loss and childlessness bring a lot of anniversaries. I have the positive test anniversaries, the loss anniversaries - when the losses began, and ended, when I was hospitalised, and had different procedures - the date I knew I'd never have children, and many more. It's a lot. I've heard people say pick a point and grieve. That doesn't work for me. As the year moves on, as the weather and trees change, flowers bloom, there are so many reminders. That's loss. Anyone who has experienced it in any way will recognise the way it can stay with you. Of course, the last year I've had a lot of 20th anniversaries, and there are a few more to come. The ones with the zero seem more obvious, and they hurt a little more.

This last week it was the 20^th anniversary of my second ectopic expected due date, 31 August. I knew by January that the pregnancy was being lost. Later, I also knew that a good friend from the Ectopic Pregnancy online group was due to have her baby, and we shared the same due date. She had her child, and I never resented it, even though I had expected I might. I am grateful for that. The truth was that I mourned the loss of MY baby, and her baby was not mine. In fact, I felt a connection to that baby (and met her a few years later). Some years the date creeps up on me, and I barely notice it. Most years I’m fine with it, acknowledging what never was, and time passing.

This year though, I have known it was coming. I've felt it more. Perhaps it is the significance of the 20^th anniversary. The acknowledgement of that baby's 20th birthday. Perhaps it is the knowledge that I’m the only person in the world who thinks about it. (My husband doesn’t remember the date, and I don’t like to bring him down by reminding him. It's bad enough that tomorrow is Father's Day here, and he's acutely aware of that.) Perhaps it’s the thought of the childhood completely lost as they would have left their teens this year. It's always the loss of the adult life never even started. Perhaps of course it is also the life never lived by his/her parents – the life we never got to live. It's all made it a little harder this year.

We lived a different life. It has been a good life. Filled with adventures and experiences and friendships I would never have had otherwise. With many more years yet, and many more good things to come, I hope! But every so often, I need to acknowledge what has been lost, and the passing of time. And so today, I do that.