3 Down 2 To Go

2-12-2009

Recently 2 of my Facebook friends gave birth to their much status-updated about babies. To be accurate, Old High School friend revolved her status updates around the twins jousting in her belly. The other friend, who was aware of my miscarriages and the sender of several compassionate emails, was not ruled by the lovely baby girl rolling around inside of her. Every time I read an update not related to her pregnancy, I silently thanked her even as I felt compelled to respond to all the baby-related ones with joy. Do I sound like a jerk? Because I sure feel like one. In order to participate in happy baby-related chatter I separate myself, I wipe away the entirety of 2008 and become that hopeful-someday-maybe-mom-to-be.

Two nights ago I meet with my new writing group for the first time. My friend Trista has gathered 3 of the brightest writing minds of our generation—including moi--and I bring Naomi, a poet-playwright friend from my team.

The talk turns to the recent birth of a colleague of Trista and her friends.

“Oh, have you seen my grandson?” Adrian*, one of the women, asks. She whips out her cell phone and shows us the adorable 6-month-old smiling in a tiny car toy.

“Wow! He’s holding his head up.” Karen, another of Trista’s colleagues, says.

I feel the split. My smile dries as if molded from plaster. I wonder if Naomi and Trista are wondering if I am feeling sad at all the baby chatter, if I can only be reminded of what I have lost. At this moment, I am not. I trade tales of my niece Lyla and how much fun 6-month-old babies can be with all the changes and new smiles. I send mental phrases to Trista and Naomi: Don’t worry about me. I’m cool. It’s fine. I’m a pro.

I have acquired a certain amnesia about the whole thing. Since getting my period a few days ago the should-we-shouldn’t-we see-saw goes up and down.

Yes: Let’s give it another shot. What the hell? Only thing to fear but fear itself, right? You aren’t getting any younger you know.

No: But I’m just getting my body back to its game weight. I love sushi! I don’t want to be pregnant and first trimester-ing during our next trip to Florida. No, no, no. What of martinis? I should be mainlining martinis stat until peeing-on-stick time.

Later in the writing group night, after we have worked out the grand plan for our new group, we talk about what we are working on writing-wise, and who we are outside of the dynamite-stick word “writer.”

“Well, I wrote a novel that I’m trying to get published. Well, trying in the lazy sense of the word. And I do a blog, Crudbucket, and another blog about miscarriage.” I pause. I let my little time-bomb dangle. Who would write about miscarriage if it hadn’t happened to them? Maybe I’m some weirdo on a mission. I wonder what the 2 women who aren’t in on my membership in the miscarriage sisterhood are thinking. Maybe nothing. Maybe it just slides off their shoulders like I said my focus was knitting or oddly shaped dog crap.

I mentally sputter. Should I? No! You’ve just met them. Don’t bum everyone out. Come on, move on, talk about Crudbucket. Crudbucket will save you! Oh come now, be honest, it’ll come out eventually. You’re not ashamed. You’re the Miscarriage Avenger, remember?

I pipe up. “Well, I might as well say it. I had 2 miscarriages last year. I write about them on the blog and might be bringing stuff related to miscarriage. That’s what I’ve mainly been writing about.”

I pause and let it sink in. I wish I had some sort of miscarriage one-liner to pull out and ease the momentary tension. I cannot think of any one, two, or three liners where embryonic death is concerned. Maybe I could commission something from Margaret Cho.

“You really should check out the Peabody Project,” Trista says. Talk turns to web addresses and I frantically start to wonder if everyone thinks I’m a miscarriage-obsessed weirdo. If they’re making a mental note to not bring up childbirth or grandchildren or cute anecdotes about baby poop. (But I love poop talk!)

Trista says nice things about my blog—this here one that you’re treating your eyes to at this very moment—and I relax.

Nobody responds with any facile “It wasn’t meant to be. You can try again” answers. I relax even more.

I get home and tell Mr. Crud of the night’s writing group adventures. “I copped to the miscarriages. I hope it wasn’t weird for everyone.”

“I’m sure it was fine,” he says. He pauses and tilts his head. “I don’t even remember what it was like before. We were different people.”

“Yeah, who were we?”

“It all seems so happy and naïve,” he says.

I run through all the ways the miscarriages have changed me. I’m more sympathetic to health problems. I’m more skilled at responding to tales of sadness and tragedy. I realize that if things are meant to be, then it’s a fucked up world indeed. I let myself think of the reality of being pregnant again. What it would be like to see those two lines appear on the pee stick. I wonder at my reaction, a status update that hasn’t been sanitized for your protection. Or maybe I will become somebody’s Facebook glitch, a status update dripping with pregnant connotations that always reminds her of her alienation from the rest of the tribe. I sort of hope so.

* Names have been changed randomly and inconsistently. If any of you folks named here want a pseudonym, let me know.