Optimism. It comes...and goes. Boy does it ever GO.
I was looking back over my posts, noting the ups..and downs...and downs....and dooooowns.
Those downs make the ups seem like wishful thinking. A bleep of gold in the big picture of gray. Like a struggling heartbeat pulse that tries to keep you alive in spite of the flat line in between.
I know people are reading here...lots of people. 325 people read this blog in the past two weeks. 2 comments appeared. Not that I write FOR comments...but, if 325 people are going to read my thoughts, I wonder why only 2 felt to comment. It makes me feel....flat....and curious. However, I know that I don't always comment on the blogs I love to read. Like so many others, I am busy...too busy to do more than read poignant understandings and wipe empathetic tears away in response.
Speaking of tears...
We went on vacation last week...a beautiful, refreshing, healing vacation. It was so wonderful to be with my family without any other agenda. We got addicted to it. The pain of having vacation end was acute for all of us. The idea that we wouldn't be spending every day, all day long together....hurt.
We bought a tiny pair of baby shoes at the zoo. Made of hand felted purple wool sewn together with yellow thread. When we went to the check out, my husband squeezed my hand hopefully. Perhaps we would have a happy ending after all. Of course...we still don't know anything about that aspect of life. Too soon to know. Too soon to even hope really.
And yet...we do. Hope.
He asked me this morning if I should take another test. He wants to KNOW something...wants to know if spirit was on our side this month...or if we get to keep trying....wants to know if I was vomiting because of illness or pregnancy...wants to know if I'm tired because of depression or pregnancy....
He just wants to KNOW. Something.
I shook my head.
We will know soon enough.
My gut says that hoping is for silly folk that want to get hurt again.
My heart wants to hope and trust that if it's not to be NOW...it will be soon.
But...I've seen it happen again and again.
The hope. The joy. The loss. Repeated loss.
I've also seen rainbows appear. Beautiful vibrant rainbows with baby laughter and tiny toes perfect for the little shoes that are sitting up on our memory shelf.
I suddenly realized that even when...even if.......
I will never be the woman that is blissfully anticipating it all to work out exactly as it should. Because I know that it doesn't always happen like that.
I am thinking about the woman who shrugged off worry, who believed that pregnancy was inevitable, and that a baby in arms is expected if you take care of yourself. Oh how I always took care....so much care.
I realize that I'm afraid of taking another pregnancy test.
I'm afraid of only seeing a single line.
I'm afraid that I might never see two lines again in my lifetime.
What if I'm broken?
I'm afraid of seeing two lines.
I'm afraid of nine months of worry...
and then...a lifetime more of worry.
Because, they are never really safe. Not really.
I wonder if my nervous system can take it. Either senerio might be too much. Again.
I never used to wonder about my nervous system. I never used to panic if I thought I couldn't squeeze hot yoga in. I never used to panic about pregnancy. Or child rearing. Or money. Or space. Or...anything.
Yesterday, my 9 year old cut himself with a knife when he reached into the sink to grab something. There was a lot of blood. As I applied pressure and got out the first aid kit, I found myself trying to breathe...my heart was pounding. I wanted to scream. So much blood. I couldn't believe that I was so panicked. Did I ever think I wanted to be a doctor? How much blood had I dealt with in my lifetime? Why was this bothering me SO much??? I looked at my little boys face and tried to remember how old he was before I said "Wow sweetie...you are being so brave for an eight year old." He looked at me strangely..."Mom...I'm nine...remember?"
No...I didn't remember. I was in a dense fog when he turned eight last year...and just coming out of it when he apparently turned nine. I felt the lump in my throat rise and I worked hard to swallow it. I keep thinking he is eight...or seven. I looked up at the other boys, who were staring at the blood....they were all older than I wanted to realize. 14?? 11?? 9?? 6...only to turn seven in two weeks??? What the HELL!!!! I lost a year of my children's lives. They lost a year of having a "real" mom. Do I really want to risk any more lost time? Is it only selfish to hope for a happy ending? What if it ISN'T happy? What if I bring more pain and loss into my home? Is that really fair for any of us?
It's amazing how much blood can emerge from a tiny slice. It's gruesome really. It was everywhere. One would have thought an artery had burst open from the scene I cleaned up. But, really...it was simply that a tiny little slice can produce a huge amount of evidence. Imagine what a big slice would do.
It was then that I understood that my heart has not only been sliced a bit...it has been turned into chopped liver. It's gushing and bleeding is profuse...and it's hard to apply enough pressure to ease the bleeding. There is a massacre inside of my being...hot yoga soothes the pulse...but I'm still bleeding.
I still stand by what I said before...I am open to "YES"...but, I'm afraid too. That open door sure does hurt when it gets slammed on your fingers. Especially if they have been broken before. I'm standing in that open door looking at the memories of blood and tears that have stained the walls around me. It's hard to be optimistic. It's a silly lie to say I'm ready for it to slam on me again. It's also a silly lie to say I trust that all will be well. And yet another lie to say I don't believe in miracles.
I suppose all I can do is stand...breathe....hope...and know that 325+ people are witnessing my struggle while silently watching...waiting....wondering.......