The Only Drawback to San Francisco Is That Its Hard To Leave


Me @ the Point Arena Lighthouse.

We just got back from spending close to two weeks in San Francisco--staying with our friends Mark and Kathleen, and my sister Gabi and Amanda, visiting with my friend Liz and generally enjoying life.

I feel so relaxed that even the 85 degree humid Brooklyn air doesn't phaze me.

Its going to take me a while to unpack, fix photos, and process all I experienced and learned while we were on the Left Coast but in the meantime I wanted to air some truths I stumbled across.

I've been telling everyone--and blogging--since the week after the miscarriage that I was okay. That everything was fine and I wasn't going to dwell on the negative. I was just going to pick myself up and move on.

Tra-la-la-la-la.

God. What a fucking lie.

I've been a mess for three months straight. I fell into an unrelenting negative thought pattern--a rut. A state of such deep depression even I couldn't really see it or what it was doing to my family--by which I mean Rod.

I stopped calling or emailing my friends. I stopped blogging. I stopped going out. And the whole while I kept repeating to myself, to Rod, to anyone who happened to ask, "Oh no. I'm happy! So happy! I mean, I'm alive and nothing all that bad happened to me and at least I know can GET pregnant, I mean that's good, right?" (And this despite Rod's wide-eyed exclamation: Huh? You are so NOT fine.") And the crying? A fluke! Something in my eye!

I don't know what it was. Certainly the hormonal fallout--plummeting hcg levels then rushes of estrogen, progesterone, lutenizing hormone.

But there was also the sense of failure. My body had failed: hadn't managed to hold onto something that was so precious to me. I was angry at it: and in the weeks following the miscarriage I punished it by dieting and exercising as much as I could. You are worthless, I told it.

These two weeks in SF, though, I took it easy. I slept. I ate. I walked slowly. (I hiked too, but I didn't drive myself the way I normally do...)

Sometimes all it takes is the slightest nudge to shift everything back into perspective.

It wasn't my body's fault that pregnancy ended. In fact, the entire concept of fault missed the point. You plant ten seeds in the garden and only a fraction of them will make it to seedlings; even fewer to full fledged plants. There's no meaning; no fault. It just is.

So I return to Brooklyn more at ease. Less haunted.

Not that I'm completely back to my normal self. But at least now I can see how much work I need to do and how far I'd sunk. The cure? Healthy eating. Appropriate exercise. Constant social contact. A lot of forgiveness. And the joy of summer blossoming before me.

About Grieving

The funny thing about grief is the way, for days at a time, it seems to have disappeared. You feel happy and contented and think to yourself--"Well, you know this isn't so bad. I'll get over this, I know it..." And then, in a moment when you least expect it there it is, pressing in on you like a fat cat perched on you chest. Which is how I discovered myself crying during yoga last night. I tried to hide it--brushed away the tears and closed my eyes to concentrate on my breath--but there it was. And then a few seconds later, it was gone again. Just like that.

The worst part about all of this, though, is figuring out how to deal with other people. The people who want and seem to need to help me. Good, kind people whom I love and respect... In the process of all of this I think I've discovered that the world is divided into two basic groups of people: those who are comfortable with grief and those who feel nervous and unsettled in its presence.

Those who are comfortable with grief feel no need to offer me empty platitudes. They just acknowledge that something terrible has happened, let me know they're there for me and then step back. Let me come to them when and if I want.

Those who feel unsettled by grief--and until January 1, 2004 I was one of them; but that's another story altogether--seem to feel the need to fill the empty space with empty assurances. They want to do or say something that will make me feel better...

They say its so common, this miscarriage thing.

But just because its common doesn't mean it hurts any less.

They say there's only like a 25% chance that I'll have another one.

But there was only a 5% chance that I'd miscarry after seeing the heartbeat and look where that statistic brought me.

They say everything happens for a reason.

But just because there's a reason doesn't mean it hurts any less.

The best thing you can do with grief is acknowledge its presence and then let it pace the room like the angry beast it is. Eventually it will lie down. Eventually it will get tired of you and slink off to its own corner to lick its paws. Let it wear itself out because if you take the opposite approach and try to silence it and cover it up and tame it with logic you'll only make it angrier. More aggressive.

Grief requires a terrible sort of patience.

Darkness

I had a miscarriage late Monday night.

I was 12 weeks pregnant.

I don't really have any words for the pain I'm feeling right now. Except that its overwhelming.