the quiet place

On the weekends, I am up before the sun. Most people my age think I'm nuts, but I look forward to the quiet solace Saturdays and Sundays bring. I get some of my best thinking done on the weekends while the house is still sleeping. I am totally content inside the confines of those early hours, just me and puppy breath and the smell of coffee brewing.

I have started trying to cultivate some version of this peace on my drive to work. I'm 20 days smoke-free, which means my focus is freed up a bit on that 45-minute commute. This morning I turned the off my podcast and drove to work-- in complete silence. I rolled down the windows and noticed the sunrise before me-- rays slicing through the clouds like the gunfire at the beginning of a horse race. Smoke billowed from box trucks, and has anyone ever noticed that people who drive Dodge Chargers don't feel the need to use turn signals when merging? Annoying, but I digress.

My mind began to wander, and before, I would have shut it up the second I saw it lacing up its boots... but these days, I usually give it permission to go wherever it wants without judgment.

I enjoy the quiet.
I enjoy mornings.
I enjoy the time to myself.
It is not selfish to admit that.

I wonder, though, if I treasure these quiet times so much as my sort of trade-off for not having children in my home to fight me when I try to put shoes on their feet. That's my grief process talking still, even after all these years. I've accepted my lot. I've accepted that my body cannot nurture tiny humans in the way that other bodies can. I've forgiven it for disappointing me, and embraced the things it CAN do instead, and still...

...still, here I am thinking about it.

I dreamed last night that I had a baby-- a son who we named Andrew. I remember my delight at being the person RECEIVING the congratulations from my aunts and cousins instead of being the person GIVING them for once. And he was beautiful. For a few hours last night I got to really FEEL that joy and my established place inside my family instead of just an accessory.

Everyone rushed in to see this human, swaddled in my arms. It was a gift, but it's left me feeling kind of lost in my feelings this morning.

It's fine.

Tomorrow brings another quiet morning with new mountains to climb.

Normal, but not the good kind.

The normalness has settled like pollen all over our suburban 1960s mill house. It's a brick home, with pink azalea bushes out front and a flower pot on the front stoop that we use for an ash tray.

I spend a significant amount of time chasing dog hair tumbleweeds all over the hardwoods while he burns cardboard beer boxes and junk mail newspapers out back in the fire pit. The dogs have free roam of the half an acre of backyard that we mow semi-weekly. They nap in the sun next to the poison ivy we can't seem to kill. I paint in the living room while watching true crime documentaries. He smokes cigarettes under the car port. Life is, by all accounts, pretty normal.

The times do not come without struggle. In fact, I'd say struggle is the standard by which we operate. I feel more shut-up than I have in a long time, having just had yet another miscarriage-- my first one, though, with him. He was there through it, rubbing my lower back as I doubled over in pain on the bed. I sat on one of those puppy potty-training pad things to keep the copious amount of blood I was losing from staining our newish green sheets. It made him uncomfortable to talk about it, though, at a time where all I wanted to do was scream: I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS IS HAPPENING AGAIN.

And then it was done. I ran out of pain pills and eventually out of blood, and it was over for everyone but me. For me, it's this ever-present, really huge thing that I can't shake, like when you're in traffic and there's a tractor-trailer in front of you and you can't see around it to know if you need to change lanes or not.

So I stay quiet.

I can't blame him, though. This was his first miscarriage rodeo and there is no playbook (though I could have written one by now.) I remember finding it strange that he didn't know about my miscarriage rituals that I had formed over the years, but how could he? He wasn't there for the first three, and how was he to know that sushi is what I have for dinner every time a doctor can't seem to find a heartbeat? He had no way of preparing himself for the distracted brick wall I became when my body felt like a walking coffin and the cobwebs were really thick up there. I don't think he was prepared for the passive-aggressive, morbid jokes that ensued or the sudden burst of manic creativity followed by days and days on the couch.

I was trying to stay afloat, and he was trying to have a leisurely day at the beach. It takes its toll.

To him, it wasn't really a baby. I get that. To me, it was a real baby, because I was gagging every time I smelled sandwich meat, and I was exhausted. My boobs hurt. I had to stop drinking coffee. I had to inject myself with blood thinners to protect my placenta from clots, you know, just in case. I knew that the probability of losing this child was high and that I needed to enjoy my time with that creature living inside me for as long as I was able. Spoiler alert: it wasn't very long.

I think I'm mourning mostly because I know that will be my last pregnancy. Ever. My body has let me know that it can't sustain life, and now it's my turn to listen. My uterus is an inhospitable wasteland where nothing can grow-- a graveyard-- and I'm tired.

So yeah, basically what I'm saying is that everything here is normal.... so very, very normal.

For me.

Currently

Wearing:  Leggings as pants and my new jort overalls.

Watching:  ...April Kepner ruin yet another season of Grey's Anatomy with her oh-so-predictable pregnancy story line and whiny attitude.

Reading:  How To Win Friends and Influence People - I haven't learned anything yet so don't get your hopes up that I'll suddenly be more friendly.

Wanting:  A boyfriend that isn't self-absorbed and/or abusive in any way. Are they out there?

Listening: So much Brandi Carlile.

Creating:  I've been drawing plus sized naked women in my sketchbook lately. I'm not sure why. 

Battling:  My weight (at a plateau.) And my concept of what my life should look like right now. Mother's Day was this weekend, and it was the worst one yet, which surprised me out of nowhere.

Eating:  Not meat. Best decision I've ever made. Lots of radishes and black bean burgers lately.

Drinking:  Water and coffee and the occasional alcoholic root beer.

Loving:  Fresh spring produce. Elephants. Cows (they have such pretty eyelashes!) Tinted lip balm. Yoga. Living by my own rules.

Looking forward to:  Going back to Savannah for the first time in a couple years. My soul is so happy there.

Freedom is an indestructible monument.

I can't read anything else about the attacks on Paris. The sorrow overwhelms me. I have been mostly speechless since it happened last Friday, trying to wrap my brain around something so senseless and cruel. It took me days to even draw in my sketchbook. I scoured the internet for quotes that would make me feel better. I avoided social media because it was too much to face. I am still mostly numb.

This morning in Paris, a man dragged his baby grand piano into the Place de la Republique and sat down on that bench in front of all those flowers and all those mourning people. And he played. The whole crowd fell silent to listen to the haunting chord progression of "Imagine" by John Lennon.

There is an innate need to do something in the wake of such tragedy. This man pulled his piano through the streets. The look on his face was almost out of obligation, as if the music he was going to make was the only shelter from the aching inside of him. He played for the flowers, and for the posters, and for the mourners. He did not say a word.

When his job was done, he pulled the cover over the keys, took his piano and went home.

It's loud in here.

I don't remember a time when I wasn't questioning things (I imagine my mother would agree.) I was a talkative child, always processing things I didn't understand out loud. We had long conversations in the car about complicated subjects like race and sexuality and faith on the way to elementary school. 

Something about hearing the words was affirming to me, as if I were making progress simply by asking the questions. Solid answers were never necessary.

This has followed me into my writing. It's a tragic flaw-- a gift, because there's always more to understand, but a curse, because I'm exhausting company. 

All that to say I'm finally doing the work. Not in a "yeah girl, do work!" kind of way, but in the way that involves a lot of heart and a lot of tears and a lot of standing up to big things and screaming at them until they back down.

Now, more than ever, I'm craving answers. WHY did these things happen to me? WHERE does this all fit in my story? WHO will I ever love as much as I loved my ex-husband? HOW will I even bring myself to date again? WHEN will I get to the other side of this? WHO will be left when I do?

Four.

You would have turned four today and I feel not even the tiniest bit stronger than I was the day you died.

What fear looks like

I don't have nightmares. It's been a while since I've woken up in a cold sweat, reaching for Tater or the nightlight of my phone screen to soothe me. But tomorrow I start counseling. God only knows the demons that will awaken. I imagine this is going to get much, much worse before it gets any better.

I left my ex-husband and proved I was strong enough to stay gone. I started skating to prove to myself I wasn't fragile. Maybe this is what courage looks like for me these days. At twenty-seven years old, I will sit in front of a stranger twice a month and talk about the hard shit that I only write about in my journals.

Lucky her.

To say I'm dreading it would be an understatement.

The Circle Game

Click, click, click, click...

It seemed like every step I took in my chocolate brown heels echoed louder than the one that came before it off of those dull linoleum floors. One of my grandmothers was in the South wing of that nursing home with the people who needed occasional care. My stepfather's mother was in another wing, dying.

I wasn't even sure what I was doing there. Alzheimer's Disease set up camp in her brain shortly after my mom re-married, mining away diligently at her memories since.

Yet there I was, saying goodbye without actually saying it. I was saying goodbye because my stepsister couldn't make it into town in time to do it. I was saying goodbye, because I remembered her even if she couldn't remember me.

I'll be honest, though. I couldn't get out of that particular wing fast enough.

Click click click click click click...

I made my way through the sterile halls back to my grandmother's wing, where they were serving her lunch. She has good days where she talks and smiles and even laughs once or twice. And then she has bad ones, where she is confused and frustrated and agitated. This particular day was pretty bad, but it was still a breath of fresh air from where I just was. We didn't tell her what was happening in the other wing. I unwrapped her plastic utensils and sat with her while she ate a plate of food that was all the same color.

One grandmother was actively dying in one room, another grandmother simply surviving down the hall. My mother was busying herself with hanging up nightgowns and gathering laundry. I was six weeks pregnant and too scared to be hopeful. Four generations in one room.

The life-and-death irony was not lost on me.

I was visiting my grandmother the other day. A year had flown by since my step-grandmother died, but not much had changed for Granny. She was having a great day, smiling and laughing at my lame jokes. I am the only grandchild that visits her regularly these days. This is partially because she lives in my town, but mostly because the other grandchildren have children of their own and thus more pressing things to do it seems. I guess they make it into town as often as they can.

"Audrey! Let me tell you something real quick before I forget!" She was so excited to have news to share. "Pam just called, said there was another baby boy in the family!"

It was true. My phone was loaded with pictures of the newest addition to show her.

The time I've spent with Granny has made me feel closer to her, and to my entire family in general. In cultures around the world, it is an honor to be the daughter or granddaughter that takes care of the family's matriarch. I am grateful for my time with her, even though she's a pain to deal with sometimes (aren't we all?) She won't be around forever, and I am honored.

I want to memorize her-- all of her, even on the bad days-- because I want to tell my children about her one day. I want to tell them about her wrinkled hands and the delicious meals she used to cook. I want to sing the songs she sang to me when I was young.

If I ever have children that live long enough to be sung to.
I wonder if I'll ever be lucky enough to have grandchildren one day to take care of me.

Right now, though, I constantly find myself fighting through this underlying resentment toward my cousins who have babies over and over and over like it's the easiest thing in the world. I'm bitter toward my mother's sisters who get to become grandparents over and over and over while my mother doesn't. I have a drink or two before family baby showers as not to feel the worst of all of the emotions-- left out. I wonder if mama feels the same way sometimes, too, but I'm too scared to ask.

Being able to talk about my most recent visit with Granny is the only way I relate to my cousins these days. They thank me for going to see her in their absence. I tell them about her nurses, the awful meal I fed her because her hands were too shaky, the verses I read to her after I tucked her into bed. It's the only way I know how to relate to them anymore.

"Our lives aren't so different," I'll say. "The baby I'm taking care of these days just happens to be 85."

Vegan cookies are the best medicine, and other thoughts on grief and gratitude

To this day I have only received one shipment of homemade vegan cookies.

Then that box of yummy, banana-y, chocolate-y love arrived on my doorstep. I had just experienced my third miscarriage. I was delirious. I laughed constantly, which was weird to most people. A coping mechanism, I was told. My sarcasm was at an all-time high. And I was at an all-time high, too, taking more pain pills than I needed. I had lost all motivation to exist, except for to watch the box set of Harry Potter that Brittany had lent me while eating batch after batch of the most delicious cookies Carey had sent-- with love from California.

After my first miscarriage, my small group leader, Jacki (who coincidentally was also vegan), brought over this sausage and lentil stew with freshly baked bread. "My friend recommended it, and I wanted to make sure I brought you something that would make you feel a little warmer." It was February. I wasn't a seasoned miscarriage veteran at this point. I broke down sobbing in the kitchen, my bare feet on the cold tiles.

Today is the Remembrance Day / Wave of Light-- a day to remember the babies we've lost to miscarriage or stillbirth. I have three that I will remember today, along with many other babies that my friends have lost over the years.

But I will also remember those friendships that came from these losses. I will remember after my second loss my college professor and mentor, Anabel, brought me spaghetti and a heart-shaped dish and sat on the floor next to my bed for hours. It was the first time I had smiled-- really smiled-- since losing Micah. We talked about travel and family and languages, and it reminded me that outside of this overwhelming, life-altering event, I was a whole person with interests and joys and dreams, and for a moment I didn't feel minimized by my loss.

I will remember when Stephanie brought me Chick-fil-a and her favorite book of comics that she thought would make me smile. And she didn't judge me, even though I was clearly drinking too much and sleeping too little.

I remember Meghan, who baked peanut butter blossoms and sat in bed with me and just listened-- really listened-- to my sorrows and my fears and didn't turn her face away from my messy, ugly grief. 

I'll remember Julie, who saved all her baby stuff for me instead of selling it in a yard sale, because she really believed that I would need it eventually. In lieu of the divorce, I gave her my blessing to sell it to someone else who needed it, but the fact that she held onto hope for me for so long meant everything, especially on the days when I had no hope at all.

I remember my yoga-teacher-turned-friend, Sarah, who let me cry and cry and cry on my mat in her yoga class as she taught me to reconnect with the body that betrayed my children.

I remember my parents taking turns coming over, helping with chores, cooking meals, and making me shower, even if it was just to get back in bed. The depression was so heavy at times.

I could go on and on and on and on. It wasn't about what these people so graciously gave to me or did for me, but I really learned who would be there in the hard places. I really learned who my friends are and I saw God in those moments when I felt really alone.

My babies gave me that.

So today, I remember.

I light my candle.

And I give thanks.

An open letter to those who mourn

It may have been only a few hours since you first got the news that someone you love is gone, permanently, from this earth. Your knees may still be weak and your hands still numb. You may have already cried the ugly cry, or you may still be waiting for it to hit you.

It may have been days by now, or weeks even. You've gone to the funeral or sent flowers from across the country in your stead. You've read the obituary online more than ten times, and you've left a comment on the online guestbook, and you've lit a virtual candle.

It may have been years now. You've navigated holidays and anniversaries somewhat successfully, trying to stay in the moment without getting caught in the tangled webs of "should bes" and "what ifs." But it's there, this gaping hole in your tradition, where that person once was but no longer is.

My advice to you is this: Cry those buffalo tears.

Mourning is the ultimate compliment you can give to someone who has affected your life so beautifully. It's the goal, if you think about it, to mean so much to someone in this life that they grieve your absence once you're gone. Allow yourself to give them that.

Then search your memories of them for what it is that they gave you in their time here-- courage? a love of classic cars/comic books/astronomy? an extremely long list of great advice that got you through some really dark times in your life? They inevitably instilled something in you that was meaningful. Find some way to continue on this legacy of theirs in your own way. Continue to go to car shows. Watch a meteor shower in the middle of the night with your favorite tiny human from a blanket in your driveway. Take the time to really listen to that friend who feels like this life is meaningless.

The truth is, most of us won't make it into the history books. Future generations likely won't know my name, or yours, or theirs. This is the best advice I can give for mourning: continue living, and don't allow their death to be the end of their mission.

Poison and Wine and What I Remember

I still remember. There were days when we didn't get out of bed, because we didn't have to. We'd order a pizza and eat it in the bedroom while we watched specials on the History channel. We would walk to the sushi place across the street after work and talk about the news and about how tired we were while "Patrick" made us a Mt. Fuji roll. 

There were days when we didn't get out of bed, because there was literally no point. It was just too much to leave the apartment, so we didn't. We didn't talk about it. We didn't encourage each other. We just hid.

I remember planning our wedding. I changed our colors at the last minute because his mom couldn't seem to wrap her brain around the color yellow (gold? neon? NO, YELLOW.) I remember how he shaved his beard the way I liked it as a surprise. I remember seeing him the second I walked into the chapel and the way his mouth hung open and how I totally forgot that there were two hundred other people in the room with us.

I remember feeling hideous in everything I wore, and being told that I was being "too provocative" when I put on a black sweater-dress. I remember losing weight and how he hated it, because I finally was starting to feel like I was worthy of being seen.

I remember making plans. We were young, but we thought we knew what we were doing. We held hands and dreamed of rocking chairs on porches and kids in the yard and a little piece of land that we could call ours. We split up future chores. I'll garden if you'll mow the grass. We had a plan.

But we never had rocking chairs, not a single one. We never had a front porch or a little piece of land. We had kids-- dead ones-- over and over, and we were in too much debt to ever own anything. Our dreams didn't come true, and we turned on each other because there was nothing left to do. There was nothing left at all. I counted my losses and I ran.

I remember the day we finally saw those two pink lines for the first time and I prayed that this baby would make us feel more complete, or at least distract us enough so that we didn't realize how broken we really were. We had our names picked out, one for a girl and one for a boy. We were decorating the nursery in our heads.

I remember how we felt like we'd never get pregnant. Between the doctors' visits and lab results, we felt like obedient robots, not lovers, and the magic between us quickly evaporated. I remember the intense fear that came when I started to bleed eight weeks later, and the excruciating pain that came with each contraction, and the relief of the morphine when I didn't have to feel anything for a few hours. I remember I forced him to pray for me before surgery and how he protested despite my tears, and how he walked next to me all the way to the double doors as they wheeled me into the operating room where they'd cut our dead firstborn out of me. This was the first of the three dead children I'd come to know. We named him Evan. I have a memory chest in my room that holds the shoes he never grew into and the blanket my mother knitted that we never got to wrap him in. 

It's so easy to remember the good, and even easier to convince you that the hardest moments were trivial, like bickering over who got to watch their favorite show first. It wasn't that. It was quiet. It was oppressive. It was at times terrifying to love him. It was easier to compromise who I was and fold into him. It was excruciating to fake a smile at social gatherings, until I finally started telling the truth when friends asked about married life.

"It's terrible," I'd say. "I wouldn't wish this on anyone."

An open letter to the friends that I have made in the last year or so:

I'm glad you didn't know me then.

I'm relieved that you don't remember that glazed-over look in my eyes when I was high on Percocet after my D&E and totally speechless, except for a few angry tweets. You never heard the disappointment in my voice and the hopelessness that came with each brand new day filled to the brim with surviving instead of thriving. I'm glad you never heard my sobs as I folded knitted blankets and tucked away tiny shoes into memory boxes that are still hidden somewhere in the back of my guest room closet. Those were dark days.

I eventually started venturing back out into the world out of obligation. Life went on. And then I met you, and with you came a sense of relief. You knew me as something other than the girl that had three miscarriages. I got to be another person entirely.

But I'm glad you know me now. I'm glad you are witnessing my laughter and my corny jokes and my more-than-occasional optimism. The other day when you referred to me as "perky" I couldn't believe you were talking about me of all people. I'm thrilled to share my pipe dreams with you. I love going out for a beer with you. I'm excited to skate next to you twice a week.

You should know that the babies I lost are a huge part of that, though. And you should know that I am who I am because of them. I don't talk about it often, but I will if you ask me. There is a stigma, a deafening silence surrounding miscarriage. I felt so alone, so embarrassed, when my doctor couldn't find my babies' heartbeats with his doppler. When I started talking about it, friends and strangers alike reached out to me and told me their stories of loss-- of hope. I realized then that there are so, so many of you.

Today is the day to talk openly about your losses, if you're ready.

Never again should a woman feel alone if she ever has to hear that deafening silence where a heartbeat should have been.

Derby and trust

I was exhausted. We were in the middle of an endurance relay. It was my third roller derby practice and my legs felt like noodles. I had my hands up on my helmet, opening my lungs as much as possible in hopes of catching my breath. 

"You're doing great," a teammate said as she high-fived me. Our wrist guards smacked together like firecrackers.

I didn't feel like I was doing great. I felt a strange mix of misery and pride. I was pushing through, but it didn't feel natural at all. 

"I'm trying really hard," I said between breaths as I bent over and put my hands on my knees.

"Yeah, but I still see that doubt in your eyes." So much for the tough facade I was trying to fake. I wobbled on my skates and cussed under my breath. Perfect timing, I thought. 

"I feel like I'm doing something for me, but it doesn't feel natural. I don't trust my body." And there it was. The truth came spilling from my lips.

I don't trust my body.

Those five words triggered so many emotions in me that I would have burst into tears if I had the energy at the time. 

I thought about it all night long. The same body that housed and then failed my babies also mastered plow pose in yoga last week.

Derby is stretching me in ways I didn't expect. I'm losing inhibitions and ridiculous amounts of pride (I have an ice pack sitting up against my bruised tailbone as I type.) I'm learning that mistakes aren't always negative and I'm learning that I'm stronger and more durable than I thought I was that day when I declared there would be no more war within my walls. I'm talking to myself differently, praising myself for even the tiniest bits of progress instead of constantly criticizing my shortcomings. I'm challenging myself to learn from my teammates instead of comparing myself to them.

It's a flat-track uphill climb for damn sure.

This is why I won't just get over it.

Last week, I was working a Sunday shift when one of the doctors opened up to me about the death of his infant son.
Just like that we were no longer divided by eight years of schooling, multiple degrees, scrub colors, or salary ranges. In that moment, he wasn't a doctor and I wasn't a scribe. We were both parents who lost children.
It's a bond I've made with many people over the years, like joining this quiet club that no one wants to join. And once you've joined it, your name is written in that book and you can't revoke your membership no matter how hard you try to resign.
People often ask me why I blog, or why I'm on Twitter, or why I'm so open about my miscarriages, and my answer is always the same-- I know what it was like to feel alone in all this. I know what it's like to tell people I have no children in passing, because it's easier than telling them about the worst days of my life. Sometimes it's embarrassing to tell them that I'm still mourning.
Truth be told, that's what I told that doctor yesterday when he asked if I had kids.
"Nope." I answered. "None." Emergency doctors aren't exactly known for being the touchy-feely type.
"You?" I asked him, as he typed up a diagnosis for the lady in room seven. 
"I have two." Then he told me about his young daughter, and about the son he lost, and about how he visited his grave recently. He told me about how it was the hardest thing he ever endured, about how terrifying the idea of having another child seems, about how he never knows quite how to answer that question. I just nodded my head, ashamed of my cowardice. I was ashamed that I didn't answer truthfully. Ashamed that transparency and authenticity would take everything out of me and that I opted for the easy way out.
But I get it.
That's why I talk about it. That's why I blog about it. That's why I won't just get over it.
I have "met" many men and women over the years-- virtually and in person-- who also have this shared experience. Each one is different but they're always the same. I remember their babies, sometimes by name. Now I will remember his, too, and I don't think I'll ever be able to look at him the same way again.

Speak for me

by Paula Knight (here) 

by Paula Knight (here)

It is National Infertility Awareness Week, and though I've "celebrated" this week since my diagnosis, this week I just have nothing to say. I'm as numb as numb can be.

So I'll let one of my favorite illustrators and infertility/loss advocates, Paula Knight, speak for me. Check out her blog and some of her infertility-related art here.

Reclaiming my Story

Hours spent in exam room 7.

Bruises on my stomach from injections.

Vials and vials and vials of blood.

Ginger ale in post-op.

Medical bills in a pile on the counter.
Test results. Explaining them to friends.

Babies in urns.

Time spent at yoga retreats feeling frustrated that I wasn't "over it" yet.

Paperwork and arguments.
Spending time together and feeling totally alone.

Packing and unpacking my belongings.

Bill collectors and angry phone calls.
Having my life threatened multiple times.

Talking to lawyers.
Escaping my marriage.

This has been my story.

Yesterday I stepped into that elevator and I took this picture:

Redemption.

I happily went to see my doctor all alone. I told him about the day I left my husband, the last nine months that I spent starting over. Nine months-- enough time to create a new life. I told him how free I felt now that I wasn't trying to conceive or carry or grieve. I told him I haven't been this happy in years.

And it was all true.

It is all over and it is all beginning.

Doc encouraged my med school dreams like he always has. "Now you can do it on your own terms! Now you're unstoppable. If anyone can do this, you can." He smiled from across his desk. "Don't change your mind. Just do it."

And just like that, a new chapter is beginning.

It's not our story anymore, It's mine.

It's destined to be a good one.

This post was inspired by my friend and yoga teacher's recent post on Story.