Riding a Bummer

3-17-09

Last night as we hunker down for a (hopefully) good night’s sleep, Mr. Crud says, “I’m feeling overwhelmed.”

“Is it like every anxiety you have is coming at you at once?” I ask.

“Yeah, like that.”

This morning I awake with a chip on my shoulder. I don’t want to go to work and deal with whining students. I don’t want to ride my bike through the rain. I don’t want to go to yoga and listen to myself criticize myself for not being thin/strong/skilled enough to get into mayurasana or bakasana B for that matter. I don’t want to make dinner. Whatever malaise infected Mr. Crud spread to me somewhere in our tossing and turning last night.

Get on my bike I do. Ride through rain I will. Talking like Yoda I will stop. I make it to yoga, lock my bike, and head inside to (hopefully) find my way back to feeling fine. Or at least make peace with my discomfort. I stand at the top of my mat in tadasana, hands together in prayer. “Surrender. Ease. Peace. Contentment,” I think. One of my yoga teachers says that we can become our mantras over time. Probably not in the white knuckle state of mind that I’m in right now, but you never know when grace steps in to give you a moment of joy.

I open my eyes and begin. Before I’m even done with my first sun salutation, the thought hits: The one-year anniversary of Primo’s miscarriage is on the horizon. April 1. Oh joy. I think back to my previous spring break trip to Florida. The innocence of packing up hand-me-down maternity clothes and a breast pump, baby clothes and the Pack-and-Play which we’ve since tucked into a corner of our basement. I think of the cards my niece Emma made congratulating me and Mr. Crud (although she wasn’t sure what role he had played in the baby-making enterprise). I remember how sick I was during our last spring break and how I didn’t take any medication lest I harm the unborn baby that was, at that point, already dead. Hmmm…maybe this spring break that I’ve been anticipating and counting down won’t be quite as simple as Cuban food and playing auntie. I worry that my niece, who forgot about my pregnancy, will somehow remember it upon seeing me.

“What happened to your baby, Aunt Kt?” she’ll ask.

“Uh, well, some babies aren’t ready to be born yet so they, uh, decide not to come out.”

I don’t know how honest I’m supposed to be, how much disillusionment a 6-year-old can handle.

In yoga class, I keep breathing and twisting myself into asanas as the miscarriage mist envelops me. I want to go home, bury my head in Mr. Crud’s chest, and cry.

One of my best friends from college sent news of the recent birth of her daughter yesterday. Quickly I replied with congratulations. I am happy for her. And I am sad for me.

How all of this fits into my current lack of desire to attempt pregnancy is unclear. I wanted at least one pregnancy-free vacation this year and my will shall be done in 5 days. At least there is that.