I haven't been very productive, every little thing seems exhausting. There is much to do as well-work continues to hop and we have guests staying with us this weekend and next week so there is much to do along the lines of "good lord, we have to finally get rid of that spider web at the top of the stairs and hide all of our empty wine bottles and where the hell do I stash all the IVF drugs?" in order to get ready. Luckily, on the advice of my couch man, I told two of my closest project managers and friends, and they are helping cover for me until I get my feet back under me, which is ever so slowly beginning to happen now.

My usual sense of awareness has gone as well-I don't notice the details of anything, there hasn't been any texture to anything I think or feel or come across. Everything feels the same, a matte lining draped over every surface. I do remember a few small things-a drop of blood on the skirting board in the gynae ER. The feel of my hand on my stomach as I fell asleep each night, the last night with false hope and lost dreams. Gorby's nose on the side of my neck as he tries to figure out why, day after day, I'm on the couch.

And then there was blankness. I think I drifted in and out of each day, living in a bubble where no one could get in, nothing reached me. I watched a lot of Wedding TV, as Wedding TV was the one area that I was sure to not be confronted with babies and pregnant women. Even my favorite shows were to be avoided-"Grey's Anatomy" has picked up again here (we're behind the States with it) and last week's episode had two heavily pregnant women go into labor. I had to fast forward through those scenes, I just couldn't stick it out. "Lost" has a pregnant Sun. "Scrubs" has Jordan knocked up. I even tried "The 40 Year Old Virgin" as mindless TV until I came across the scene of a sonogram of a giggling baby broadcast throughout a TV shop, which necessitated a hasty switch-off of the TV. It's all too complicated to face, any show can be a minefield, so I'll stick to the Wedding Channel for a while.

I always thought that 5 stages of grief business was a bunch of bullshit, I thought grief is something less tangible, something that couldn't possibly be held within the confines of a simple diagnostic explanation. What is grief? Loss? Pain? Mourning? Recovery? All I know is grief is bad, a specter that stands against the wall and thumps you in the stomach again and again and again.

But lo and behold, for the first time in my life, this 5 stages nonsense has applied. I had the denial, the anger, the bargaining, and the deep depression. I whirled through those stages like a hurricane, dredging and churning and losing every single fucking round to Grief. I fought and I screamed and I ached more than I ever knew I could do, and then I realized my tornado didn't make a dent and I acceded that Grief was the better man. I made him a cup of coffee and he sat next to me, watching endless episodes of Wedding TV, and when one of us adjusted ourselves on the couch the other one made sure that the division of blanket sharing was still equal.

And then yesterday something happened. While watching "Extreme Makeover-Home Edition", Grief and I had a conversation over Ty Fucking Pennington.

Grief: Budge up, your legs are taking up too much space.
Me: I'm feeling cramped. I don't know if there's room enough on the couch for us both.
Grief: I'm only here because you won't let me go.
Me: If I let you go, it'll mean I've moved on. I can't do that.
Grief: Helen, babe-moving on isn't the same thing as forgetting.
Me: I KNOW THAT. I can't forget, I'll never forget. Forgetting is not an option.
Grief: Then what is the issue?
Me: I don't know, ok? I don't know. I don't think it's about how long I've had you here-I don't think grieving is a time-related activity, that in order to show I've really meant it I have to feel this way for x amount of days. Sometimes I feel up only to feel down ten seconds later. I just...I don't know. I just don't know how to move on.
Grief: It's not about choosing how to move on. It's just life, and you find ways to keep living.

I don't know how to respond to this. And then I do.

Me: I think of grieving as a cello case. I've got this cello case, and I'm carrying it around. When the cello case first turns up, I don't know how to carry it, I can't keep it from hitting those around me. But after time, I get the hang of it. I carry the case with ease and people don't even realize it, it's a smooth transition.
Grief: And where are you with the cello case now?
Me: It's in the corner, I'm not walking anywhere with it, I'm avoiding the fucking thing.
Grief: Do you really think that's the case? Aren't you already moving on, planning holidays, next treatment cycles? Aren't you thinking about what to do next?

This makes me pause.

Me: Yes, I am.
Grief: Then what, Helen? What?
Me: I hate telling you this, I really do. I feel so selfish and I strive so hard to never be selfish-my mother used to scream at me that I was selfish when I was a little girl, and to this day I can't bear the term. But I feel so selfish when I tell you that part of my greatest fear is that this was it-this brief pregnancy, what if it's all I ever know? What if it never happens again, and this was my one chance? How can I bear it, how can I let it go, this short time that I knew what it was like to be a mother? If I let it go and I never know it again, the time, it would've been too short. It wasn't enough.

Grief reaches out across the blanket and holds my hand. We sit there quietly.

Grief: I am not the future, I can't tell you if it will ever work.
Me: Gee, thanks.
Grief: I know. I'm unpopular. But I can tell you this-you'll never forget this time. Never. Someday, you will even treasure it. But you can only do that once you move on.
Me: If I'm ready to move on, how will the baby know that I miss it? That I wish the pregnancy worked? That I will never let go in my heart?
Grief: It just knows, Helen. It just knows. You don't have to feel guilty for moving on-it doesn't mean you've forgotten, it doesn't mean you don't care. It's just life. Life has to happen.

I look up at Ty Fucking Pennington and start to cry as I realize: It is ok. I am clear on what happened now. I miscarried and it's all over now. The bleeding has, after 11 days, finally gone. My body is nearly back to normal now, my body has recovered. And my heart? I look around the vast hallways of my file cabinets of emotions and realize that it's beginning to recover too. It's true I lost what I wanted most in life. It doesn't feel like it will ever be ok that this has happened, but I accept that it has happened, and I accept that what happened wasn't my fault and can't be changed.

It's ok.

I keep crying but somehow feel lighter. I stretch out on the couch, which now holds only me. Grief has left and he thoughtfully turned off the TV on his way out. I tell Angus that I have accepted what's happened, that while it's still not ok, will never be ok, it's time to go on. He joins me on the couch and we fall into each other, something we haven't done for weeks as the miscarriage threatened and then as the aftershocks and depression and bleeding came. We are so intense our lips are bruised afterwards but that too was what we needed.

I still prefer Wedding TV, but over time I am hopeful it will get better.

I am still quiet and still don't want to talk to most people (my friend, I missed you terribly and I'm getting there and thank you so much for understanding), but at least I am beginning to see colors and depths again.

I await my bracelet in the mail any day now, and when I get it I will never take it off.

We will keep trying on our IVF journey, for as long as we are willing.

And I will always, always remember the brief little life I held, the one I called Dr. Seuss Baby, and I will love it forever and treasure the short time we had.

But for now life beckons and I have to try to do it, mostly because what other choice is there, but also because Grief takes up too much space on the couch.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 03:41 PM | Comments (19) | Add Comment
Post contains 1582 words, total size 8 kb.

1 Helen, My heart aches for you, for more reasons than I'll share. I've been thinking happy thoughts in your general direction, since I'm not the praying sort. Thank you for sharing with your readers what you're going through. You're helping others who have their own aches.

Posted by: wRitErsbLock at September 06, 2006 05:04 PM (QP6Jm)

2 I needed this entry today. Thank you.

Posted by: Ms. Pants at September 06, 2006 05:07 PM (GefuU)

3 Oh Helen...I'm on the verge of tears. Of course you will never forget, and Dr. Seuss baby will undoubtedly watch over any other little one you may have. Many hugs to you and Angus.

Posted by: Amanda at September 06, 2006 05:17 PM (ay+rD)

4 Hey there Helen, I've been a lurker for a while and this brings me to tears All my thoughts are with you! Z.

Posted by: zya at September 06, 2006 05:41 PM (GOFVL)

5 I will never be able to say anything or do anything to help you in this sad time -- I wanted you to know that I love you and I weep when reading here and there -- but I'm also so very hopeful, too. I know my mere presence may hurt (and I don't want that at all), but I just want you to know I love you so very much. . . All my love, M

Posted by: Margi at September 06, 2006 06:16 PM (gtpvj)

6 Hang in there, lovely Helen. I am thinking of you often.

Posted by: Kim at September 06, 2006 06:37 PM (GDkIH)

7 And you know I'm good for a laugh about things sticking to the wall, Pony Boy.

Posted by: statia at September 06, 2006 06:47 PM (NsnoE)

8 You have helped someone else today. I know you didn't intend that, but it's the way it works sometimes. Thank you.

Posted by: sue at September 06, 2006 07:31 PM (WbfZD)

9 I figured that given some time you'd find the strength to move on. As often as you tell us you feel weak and helpless, your blogging suggests totally otherwise. That you don't give yourself enough credit for being a lot stronger than you think, stronger than many of us out here, to deal with the harsh realities of life. Welcome back, Helen.

Posted by: diamond dave at September 06, 2006 08:51 PM (0pP6D)

10 I've been holding you close to my heart, praying for you every day, thinking of you time and time again. I will continue to do so, simply because I love you and care for you. You are amazingly strong, Helen. I have always admired you so deeply. Although I have never told you, the life you lead...the life we see, helps me to become a better person. I can't really explain that any more, but know that everyday, you make a difference.

Posted by: Dana at September 06, 2006 09:24 PM (WXRT4)

11 Helen, this post has me speechless (which has only happened maybe 1-2 times in all my years). I am crying; your wisdom and your ability to voice so clearly what you are feeling are inspiring. How can I feel love for someone I've never met, never spoken with, barely seen photos of? But I do feel it, Helen, and I hope you don't think me odd to say it.

Posted by: kenju at September 06, 2006 10:29 PM (2+7OT)

12 Thanks for sharing, Helen. You are in my thoughts.

Posted by: sarajane at September 07, 2006 12:28 PM (t5Xsa)

13 Helen, this was beautiful. It is sometimes so hard for me to remember that you are indeed a real person. I know you have joked about that before, but sitting here half a world away, it would be simple to forget about what I read when I shut the computer down. That is not what happens with you though. I have been away the past few days, and you (understandably) have not been posting, and I need to remind myself that your life is still continuing. Just because the monitor on my desk stays off or the page on your blog doesn't refresh does not mean that your life, and all that goes with it, isn't going along one day at a time. It would be the easy way out for me to just read what you write, and then file it away and not think of what you must be feeling or dealing with just because you have not been posting it. That is not the case here. You have been on my mind constantly. Like kenju wrote, I too feel a bond with you even though I don't even know your real name. It doesn't matter-the feelings are real and genuine. When you write like you did today, I can almost taste your hurt, your sadness, and your grief. I understand the fear of moving on-how you want so badly to go forward but at the same time feel like you are betraying the one you have lost. We all deal in different ways, and it makes my heart happy that you have Angus by your side, and people you can talk to you if you feel like sharing. The bracelet is such a wonderful idea. A beautiful reminder of a very important, precious little soul. Of course you will never forget-and I don't think I will either. Thank you.

Posted by: Teresa at September 07, 2006 02:07 PM (PZNTf)

14 Your ability to go through everything you've gone through and still manage to put everything into perspective completely amazes me. I want to be you when I grow up, Helen. xoxo

Posted by: girl at September 07, 2006 09:45 PM (ZIi+3)

15 IÂ’ve only cried three times in my life (not counting kid falling off bike stuff). Once when I was twelve and my best friend died. Once when my uncle died. And once when we lost our unborn daughter.

Posted by: nobody you know at September 08, 2006 03:30 PM (umRxj)

16 Helen, This is beautifully written. You must submit this piece to a magazine for publication. It is powerful. May your journey be filled with love and joy. Best wishes to you and Angus.

Posted by: Evelyn at September 09, 2006 01:39 AM (GIL7z)

17 Grief is a sneaky bastard. Just when you think he's left the couch he will hop back on and surprise you. But once you've got him to leave once, you can do it again. It's the way the world works. Thinking of you.

Posted by: Donna at September 09, 2006 02:39 AM (Aanzg)

18 Have you received your bracelet yet? If you don't think it's too personal, would you mind sharing a picture of it? Good luck...

Posted by: Hannah at September 11, 2006 07:58 AM (5w+E2)

19 You are pretty damn special Helen. Your ability to express such raw emotion in your writing continues to astound me. Sending love.

Posted by: Alice at September 13, 2006 10:33 PM (7KYqS)

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