Thursday, September 30, 2010

Quiet thoughts in the morning

I count it as a blessing that we're able to be as busy as we want to be now that we live in Whitehorse. Every morning, Abby and I hop in the car and go on errands, to the park, swimming, coffee dates: the world is our oyster and we explore it, with snack-trap and sippy cup in hand. Abby's taking Saturday-morning dance class, Rich is enrolled in beer-league hockey and I take a weekly yoga class. I finish my days with enough time to have some cuddle pillow talk with Rich, read a chapter from my book and turn out the light.
I get a few moments of solitude in the morning, as my wonderfully considerate toddler has been sleeping in the last couple of weeks. This grants me a quiet house, no interruption. I am not busy in this time. I am slow, quiet and deliberate. I stretch my sleepy ligaments and muscles, I sip some water to rehydrate post-slumber and I also have some silent air, granting me the chance to hear the thoughts in my head loud and clear.
Sometimes the quiet scares me. I am forced to confront what I might bury away in the busy times. I can't ignore the dialogue between my mind and my emotions when there's no cooking clatter or toddler dancing to give my eyes and ears something else to focus on.
I am worried about miscarriage. It's been such a big part of this last year, and I've put so much soul-searching, healing effort and work into navigating that mountain. Each major passage of time makes me confront a new stage of healing. The last had to do with being busy, not stressing, not focusing on what happened months ago and not worrying about what could happen months into the future.
The next seems like a floodgate has opened. I am torn between a place of square one and the fear of faith being cut short: I have a reservoir of love ready to burst, ready to be poured into another child. I feel ready to expand our family and let the craziness of a new addition shake and rattle our house until we collectively exhale and it all fits again.
But I am scared to put myself, my body, my faith out there again. If once, bitten and twice shy, then to what does twice bitten equate? I am fearful of letting myself be pregnant, be hopeful, imagine little fingers and toes attached to a new name, and then like bath water running down the drain, have all that hope and happiness and anticipation run right out, down to somewhere dark.
I have never been one to see the glass half empty, and I never thought I would be. To be honest, I don't think I could be less than elated and thrilled if we were to get pregnant again. I don't think I have cautious fear in me once two pink lines appear. But, who knows, right? I accept each challenge as a journey that could start one way and end another.
For the record, I am not pregnant. But maybe for some degree of sanity I'll ask that you don't ask me one day if you suspect I am. I'll tell you when I'm ready. I just don't like having to retract happy news in place of sad, should it happen again. Deal?

6 comments:

  1. Hey Sarah. As a brand-new reader, I'm learning something new about you.

    We all deal with grief in our own way. I don't know the story behind your pregnancy with Abby (easy? hard?) but at first glance it sounds like I've been where you've been. Between Jade and Halia, there was another pregnancy. It lasted only 7 weeks (after trying for several seemingly-long months) but it was enough time to have a whole lot of dreams and expectations built up.

    Personally, I don't regret having blogged through the early pregnancy and subsequent loss. Although it did mean having to tell everyone when I lost the baby, the outpouring of support was a huge source of comfort for me. And there were others who were grateful that I shared my experience, because miscarriage happens to so many women but it's somewhat taboo to talk about. I found that although the pain and grief were still there, it seemed more bearable knowing others had walked the same path and come through the other side.

    Having said that, I promise I won't ask.

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  2. I don't share a lot of very personal information on my blog, because I know that a lot of my family read it...and, as funny as it sounds, often times I don't want my family to know about what is going on, but I don't mind sharing with strangers....odd, I know.

    Anyways, I have had two miscarriages that very few people know about - it was very hard for me to deal with afterwards...the feeling of betrayal from my body, the worrying that it may happen again if we continue to try. But then I remember back to when my girls were first born, and everything that they have brought to my life since then...and I know I won't stop trying to continue to have those experiences. So I wish you luck with everything - as you well know, being a mom is not without it's heartaches, but man, is it worth it!

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  3. Thanks Mamas. I found after my two losses that on the one hand it was a club I didn't want to be in and on the other it united me with people who shared their stories and- you're right- made it a little more bearable to know I wasn't alone! I have a really hard time keeping exciting things quiet and I didn't for the first loss, did for the second. I don't know what we'll feel is right next time, but I think in the meantime, I'll just keep writing what's true and hoping for the best. :)

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  4. brutally honest and raw Sarah. I admire your strength in being able to write something so personal about yourself to the public world.

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  5. I love reading your blog Sarah. You are able to really pour your emotions into words in a way I am never able to. I never experienced a miscarriage so I have no idea as to what you have been through, but my heart still goes out to you.

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  6. Only you know what you can handle in life...but as your friend, I know that you are unbelievably strong.
    Miscarriage is one of the most painful losses to have to experience and I am so sorry that you had to go through it, twice.
    Like you said, it is not a club that anyone wants to be a part of but sadly many women are members (myself included as you know).
    My heart aches for you and the losses that you have had. You are so strong Sarah.

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