Just until April, that’s what I tell myself every year around this time. Swimming should be all nubile beauty, sleek water and natural light. During the winter months, though, it’s filled with dirty water, hideous florescent lights and things the eye shouldn’t behold. It’s when my patience with ugly nudity and rude people starts to wear thin on my mermaid mentality, because at this point I’ve been swimming at the gym for about 3.5 months.
Seriously, I don’t change outside of my shower or bathroom stall and I certainly don’t bend over in all my glorious nudity when the only thing protecting me from the outside world is a bend in the wall. I don’t hang my shower bag over other people’s items. And I most certainly don’t stick my feminine hygiene products on the wall of the shower. It’s disgusting. When swimming my laps, if I’m sharing a lane, I make sure that I stay on my side, even though it takes a little extra attention and I can’t relax like I usually do… I expect the same courtesy in return.
Our local gym’s pool has been closed off and on during this period, making it difficult to be reliable. They claim they renovated it, but it looks the same to me. Scuzzy dirty sidewalls, band aids in the bottom and random dirt in the corners. Yuck. Tony says a sign was up saying it had been shut down by the health department. That makes more sense to me since I was well on my way to chlorine burns again. This week they have it shut down to replace the lights in the pool. I didn’t even know the thing had lights in it and I’ve been swimming there for over 4 years.
My backup plan when this happens is to swim at another gym, but it’s further away, and when my schedule is as limited as it is these days, it makes it really hard to be motivated about it when every traffic light is in a conspiracy to take my precious minutes of sleep away from me. But I go anyway. Because even though I hate getting home after 10pm, and then I have to shower and lotion up, I love the feeling of accomplishment I feel.
Our community renovated all of its pools this past winter and, yes, it’s a renovation you can actually see. I can’t wait for them to start heating them for the season… in April. I will be posting pictures of the newly fancified pools and in the meantime, I keep telling myself, “Just until April, just until April.”
I arrived at the gym last night for my swim, and as I opened the door to enter, the gal behind the desk looked up from her conversation with her co-worker and exclaimed, “I love how you always come in and have such a big smile. It’s SO nice.”
I didn’t say anything, but answered by smiling again and laughed a little.
She said, “No, really. I mean, so many people come in and they’re all grumpy and mad, but you always come in with a smile. It’s nice.”
What I didn’t tell her is, first and foremost I’m there to do something I love — swim — but more than that, I wear a ratty old Jeezus-blue bathrobe to and from the gym. They say if you wear a bathrobe in public, you’re either incredibly rich or you’ve escaped from an insane asylum. I know I’m not rich, so I simply hope that my smile distracts from my ridiculousness.
I used to be addicted to reading women’s magazines. I remember subscribing to Glamour and all manner of magazines in my early 20’s. I don’t remember what insight they gave me for life, but I remember being entertained by them. Of course, The Enquirer was always good for a laugh, and Star (I think it was?) if I wanted to read celebrity gossip with no basis on fact.
I used to have an older lady, a mom of a friend, who would give me bags and bags of magazines, everything from the slicks to the cheap paper magazines. I would devour them.
Now, and even a few years back… I just don’t read magazines anymore. Last year Tony had a credit from something or other and we had to redeem them for magazines, and I remember being annoyed that we had to do so because “those magazines just sit around being unread.” I don’t even read the headlines that sit on the rack in the grocery store. They hold no interest for me. Shocking, I know.
I can’t remember what held my interest in those things anymore. I guess it’s safe to say that is yet another area where the Internet has taken over for me… free reading and the ability to easily research or verify things.
How DO magazine businesses stay in business these days? Kind of like the phone book for me… they still drop those things on my front doorstep and I sigh in exasperation and put them in the recycle bin without even cracking it open.
Newspapers are still fun to me, there’s something so perfect about sitting down on Sunday with Tony and going through the paper together, getting the coupons out, reading the travel section and comics, and seeing what sales are going on.
Minutes ago, our black and white kitty sat perched on my lap, purring loudly in response to a brushing that two nights ago I had promised him I would give him “sometime this weekend.” I have no confidence that he knew what I said, but I do know that he looks forward to brushing sessions like a boat riding seasick person does to seeing land. Head turning, eyes searching for what he desires when someone walks past the drawer where the brush is held.
As our cat looks forward to his brushings, I look forward to my hour long swims on the weekend under the early morning sun. Yesterday morning and this morning, I arose early and made my way to our community pool in the hopes that I would beat the crowds of neighbors seeking cheap “Marco Polo” type holiday weekend entertainment. I win some, I lose some. Yesterday, I lost. Today, I won.
In the afternoon yesterday, when the heat became overbearing, we headed to our local mall and walked hand-in-hand with each other through a few of the stores (air conditioning!). We headed to the frozen yogurt place and joined the throngs of people waiting in line for our chance at the cold treat, eating hurriedly to minimize the melting and dripping. The perfect excuse to eat fast!
Satisfied with ourselves, we headed home via the Duck Park route. We noted a group of fowls gathered near the sidewalk. As we drew near, we noted that someone had spread a great amount of seeded bird food there. Although the location of the food was less than ideal given its proximity to the road, we were thankful for it because we had no bread or food for them, since it was a spontaneous drive by.
Other small events lent the weekend a sense of ease and leisure, although it’s not — not really. We’ve been doing chores and normal weekend stuff, but the pervasive feeling of the holiday is here. Of just having an extra day that’s our own to enjoy with each other. Of freedom.
I feel like our kitty getting brushed — happy, content, long-awaited desire met for extra time at home. It’s good.
I’ve written and re-written this post… because the message I want to convey isn’t an easy one to summarize. The flow of it, it’s like a kaleidoscope, so many ways to look at it, and it all depends on perspective and where I am in the time line.
There were the days when I wrote it, and all I seemed to be able to express was bitterness and anger over the fact that God seemingly didn’t deem us worthy of being parents to our Miracle.
There were the months that I tweaked it while I struggled to understand why something that seems to come so easily and naturally to everybody else is such an unattainable dream for us.
I deleted portions and re-wrote them during those weeks, months, when we were going to the birthday parties of children who had successfully turned a year older — and I was joyful for them, life is to be celebrated, after all — but sometimes it felt like a gut punch because our baby didn’t live to see his or her first birthday.
And then, a week ago, I deleted and re-wrote it in its entirety from where I am now.
I’ve intentionally chosen not to keep our loss a secret, but by doing so, I’ve opened myself up to the hurt inflicted by well-meaning, but misguided people who think that by sharing their stories of being “fertile Myrtle” and “I had 4 kids in 5 years” or “my friend didn’t mean to get pregnant so she had an abortion” is somehow appropriate. Or, even those who tell me “I struggled with infertility but after two years ended up pregnant and it must have all been stress related,” or “Having kids is stressful, you should feel blessed you have none,” or “There are too many souls in this world as it is.” I am not making these up — I couldn’t possibly.
By remaining open about my experience, I find that yes, it’s hurtful at times, but then there are times when I’m able to educate those who don’t know or understand. I’m breaking the silence! And even more remarkable, I’ve come across people — both men and women — who have suffered a miscarriage or baby born still. People who have remained a silent member of a club they never wanted to be in. These people, they tell me in near whispers, of their losses — birth stories without a happy ending — as if they are ashamed it happened to them. As if it were something they could even control.
So, please, if you’re stumbling across this post because you’re trying to figure out how to console someone who has had a miscarriage or a baby loss — just tell them simply, “I’m so sorry…” and then stop. That’s enough. Truly, it is. Don’t go on to share birth stories, abortion stories, successfully pregnant after managing stress stories, someone you know is pregnant, kid’s birthday party stories, suggestions of trying again or adopting, or whatever… just don’t. When people have done that to me, it makes me feel as if they’re belittling the death of my baby, as if it were nothing… a “nothing” that was life-altering to me.
The baby I lost may not seem real to anyone else, but I can assure you, as someone who spent the first three months of this year peeing on a pregnancy test every day and then watching in amazement as it turned positive, hoping and praying that we would finally have a healthy baby, and then spent 10 days miscarrying our baby, with hours and hours of cramps and contractions, sitting on the toilet passing enormous blood clots the size and thickness of my hand? And then, finally, when I held the very beginnings of human life in my hands? Even though it wasn’t alive, that baby became very, very real to me.
Yet through it all — through the worry, fear of the unknown, and emotional torment, the nights and mornings when I sobbed my heart out because the baby wasn’t viable, and physical pain, those times when I was on my knees trying to remember to breathe through the pain — I couldn’t help but be awed by it all. All those blood clots I passed? Those were intended to act as insulation to protect my baby from any harm that may come to it from outside of me. Those contractions, if they had come 6 months later, would have brought a live baby into the world. Even the fact that we had even miraculously managed to get pregnant, when all the odds were against us, made my brain whirl. My body did what it was supposed to do, even though it wasn’t the result we so desperately wanted.
For a short time, that seemed such a long time, we were parents. And for that I can’t help but feel grateful for the experience. Our baby was too small to warrant its own marked grave, but I believe that God wove our baby together and I believe that God is taking care of Miracle today. I have to believe that.
This day is so painful to me, and I don’t plan to memorialize it every year, but today I will. Because I will never forget. Anyone who has had a miscarriage or a stillborn baby never forgets. No matter how many children someone has, if they’ve ever lost one, there will always be one more who is silently counted in their parents’ minds.
Every day, a thousand times a day, I think about our Miracle… today especially, because today was Miracle’s due date.
On my way home from work on Friday night, I was in stop-and-go traffic behind a guy in a silver Miata with a black top. It was the earlier version of the Miata, the version with the plastic window, which he had unzipped. It made me smile, because I remembered that I used to do that, too, sometimes when I had mine. Yes, before the 2002 Miata I own now, I owned a 1992 Miata. What can I say, I love those little cars.
The thing I noticed about him beyond his car, was that he had a tick. I don’t know if he had Turret’s syndrome or what, but every 30 seconds or so, his body forced him to turn his head to his right, bobble it a couple times, while he mouthed a few words, and then he faced forward again. Over and over it went.
At first I thought it was kind of funny, then as time passed and we all slowly crept forward together, stuck on the freeway in a proximity closer than any of us wanted, I couldn’t help but think how exhausting that must be for him. Time after time I watched his head turn quickly, bobble, his car would mildly swerve in sync, and then he regained control, faced forward and acted as if everything was normal. It was normal for him. His normal.
Isn’t that what we all try to do? Move forward with each of our versions of “normal?” Whatever that may be?
Yesterday was the annual Green Dinner event at Tony’s church. It’s an event that we start talking about when we put our Valentine’s decorations away and bring out our St. Patrick’s Day decorations. It’s an event I always enjoy, where they serve delicious corned beef, potatoes, carrots, cabbage and cake (CAKE!!). This year, while the venue was a bit smaller and there were no Irish dancers, I still immensely enjoyed everything that was offered. Plus, visiting with the Seniors (Tony’s parents), and the Steve/Marigold/Huck/Milo Show made for a perfect evening, as far as I was concerned.
Today I got back in the pool for the first time in a month and a half. I felt like I needed to for my own sanity, but I was scared to do so, because I thought for sure I’d miscarry right then and there. The doctor tells you not to do something and suddenly it becomes Bad. Yet in a “normal” pregnancy, swimming would be Good. The mind is a funny thing sometimes.
The act of swimming felt weird to me after so long of a break. Although they knew what they were supposed to be doing, my arms felt like uncoordinated noodles. I was also ultra-aware of what muscles I was using to accomplish what came so easily to me not that long ago. The most surprising thing to me, though, was that I didn’t get winded at all… my stamina and endurance hadn’t changed much. Which is to say that I didn’t find myself huffing and puffing at all, and I was pleased with that. I guess I was in better shape than I had thought.
It was such a beautiful day here today. Tony refilled the bird feeders in our back yard and the sun was so warm and bright, I went outside and thought, “Wow, I bet it would feel wonderful just to lie down and look up at the sky…” And so I did. Then I fell asleep and ended up taking a 45 minute nap, lying on the warmed concrete in our back yard, with the sun shining warmly on my skin and a slight breeze stirring the leaves of the Eucalyptus tree behind me. I had a nap in the oasis, such as it is, of my own back yard.
I sat down here tonight to type my weekly Love & Loathe post and am finding that I just can’t do it. It feels superficial and forced, too perky for where we are tonight emotionally. Physically, too, now that I ponder it.
Tony is driving out to Las Vegas this evening to meet his dad and brother. His sister has been missing since February 25th, and they are attempting to find her. She has a mental illness and is supposed to be taking medications to help her, but she has missed important doctor appointments and, as a result, is likely off her meds. Tony has put together a simple website to get the word out on Facebook and Twitter.
**03/13/10 Update: After spending Friday in Vegas following leads, on Friday night, Tony’s sister surfaced. We don’t have all the details, maybe never will of what happened, but the important thing is that she’s OK.**
In addition, Tony’s grandfather’s health has been declining since January. There is a lot going on with him, and out of respect for his privacy, I will just share that he has been in and out of the hospital for treatment and testing. We are hoping that he will be OK once they get him stabilized, but will likely need to be in an assisted living facility. This has been especially hard on Tony’s elders as they try to figure out the best way to provide him the needed care, but also ensure that he feels loved, safe, comfortable and reassured.
**03/13/10 Update: On Friday Tony’s grandpa stabilized enough that he could eat solid foods and be placed in a living facility. I hope he’ll be around for many, many more years.**
And finally, Tony and I have been dealing with something incredibly personal as well. You may recall that we’ve been trying to start a family for three years and we were diagnosed with male factor infertility in December of 2007. We were told that the likelihood of me becoming pregnant by “normal methods” were less than 3%, or even less, when my age is factored in.
Miraculously, I am 2 1/2 months pregnant, and have been on pelvic rest for 1 1/2 of those months (no exercise, no sexercise, nothing that moves the pelvis beyond a sedentary life).
However, I was diagnosed last Friday with early pregnancy failure. By ultrasound, they can find the gestational sac and the yolk sac, but no baby. From what I’ve read on Dr. Google, there is a tiny, tiny, tiny chance that, because I have a tilted uterus, the baby may be hidden, but I… well, I don’t know. The doctor didn’t give me any hope at all and said I will miscarry within the next 2-3 weeks.
I spent most of Friday night and Saturday sobbing my heart out, grieving, for this baby we want so very badly, but the doctor says isn’t there. We are working on getting a second opinion, but ultimately, a second opinion won’t change what’s going to happen. Whatever that may be.
In the meantime, I’m trying to hold it together emotionally and physically at a new job, where I will finish my first week tomorrow.
There are times in life when I’ve come to realize that, no matter what I do, there is actually very little I can do to change the outcome of certain situations. When, through it all, I hold onto the fact that I know a God who can work miracles, whether it be peace of mind or putting a baby in my womb. Or giving loved ones wisdom when it comes to searching for a missing loved one or holding a family together when a loved one needs their help.
You guys are my extended family and now, more than ever, we need your love, prayers and emotional support.
The Holidays are officially here. It’s December. Finally. Tony has been so excited. Every little new decorating thing I do, like putting our Christmas comforter on the bed and he notices and yells, “IT’S CHRISTMAS! YOU CAN’T HIDE IT FROM ME ANYMORE!!” Ahh, how I love that man.
When I was doing my fish tank changes on Friday, I got the wild hair to move the big tank. Problem was, I’d just refilled the tank when the idea arrived in my head, so I had to wait. And then realized that I’d have to put the Christmas tree up AFTER I did the tank move, because the tree needs to go in the corner that tank is vacating.
So I had to wait until today to do the tank move, for a couple of reasons… one being water cycling and the other being I was too busy yesterday.
We visited a local historical park yesterday, the same park we visited last year, if you remember. They have a one room schoolhouse, a tiny church, an adobe house, another house that’s like a farmhouse, a little library… it’s like a little bitty town and is really quaint. Every year they set up crafts for the kiddies, carolers come out and sing and Santa hangs out. It’s really cool.
Last night, we attended a Christmas party for my car club. We had a great time eating and visiting with everyone. The one thing I don’t think I’ll do again, and I forget every year, so I’m documenting it here for posterity’s sake: I don’t like participating in gift exchange/stealing games. I’m too much of a control freak and there’s too much of a chance that someone will want what I picked (if it’s cool) or won’t want what I picked (if it’s lame) and I spend all the time being stressed out about it. Last night I picked a $25 gas card and breathed in terror everytime someone got close to me! There were two other gas cards that were gifted, and those cards got stolen twice… somehow, I managed to leave without mine being stolen once. I don’t know how, but talk about being stressed out! GAH!
Anyway, I should be writing out Christmas cards or putting up the tree (now that the tank is moved), so off I go…
To commemorate my 1,100th post and 5 1/2 years of blogging, I present to you 100 Things About Me. I’m thinking you’re lucky I didn’t go all the way to 1,100.
I’ve worked hard on this, although I fully expect that there are only three people who will read it in its entirety. HA! If you’re not my mom, my husband or Grace, and you read it all the way through, I’ll be surprised!
Without further ado:
1. I dislike stepping on a wet bathroom rug from someone who’s showered before me.
2. I never use the label “miscellaneous” for files. There is so much about life that’s miscellaneous, I don’t want my entire life stuck in one folder. Kind of like the “eggs in one basket” saying, I suppose.
3. I find it amusing that men watch TV so loudly because they “can’t hear the dialogue” and yet they can hear the word “sex” whispered from upstairs, in the shower, with two doors closed between.
4. Lipsticks that profess to be “12 hour color” never stay on my lips more than an hour. I guess I’m a nervous lip gnawer? When I die and they do an autopsy, they’ll probably find a rainbow in my a**, courtesy of L’oreal.
5. People who do not pre-write their checks while standing in line at the grocery store really annoy me. Come on… just write the date and store name, at least!
6. People who brake when approaching a green light also really annoy me. IT’S GREEN!
7. I believe that acne and bloating/water retention are defects in God’s creation.
8. I love elephants and red finger nail polish. Not necessarily ON the elephant, mind you.
9. I learned to swallow pills when I was 8 years old by swallowing M&M’s.
10. I also learned how to properly paint my fingernails when I was 8 years old. A lady by the name of Lynn taught me how. She was a beautician with a strange story. I’ve since learned that strange stories are fairly normal.
11. When I get sick, I REALLY get sick. My body likes to make a big show of things.
12. I called in sick once to work when I wasn’t sick. I ended up getting sick that day with a cold and was miserable. I haven’t faked sick since then.
13. I love onions and eat them raw, like an apple, every chance I get. I especially love onion hearts.
14. I also love eating raw potatoes. What a yummy, starchy treat!
15. I love beets and radishes, too.
16. I think I generally just love root vegetables, although I’ve never had turnips.
17. I despise mixed vegetables and, if you fix them for me, will totally insult you by not eating them. But I don’t mind vegetable soup.
18. I don’t eat seafood. Although, oddly, I get a craving on *very* rare occasions for smoked salmon or oyster stew.
19. I’ve never tasted alcohol, but I will sniff it and I like how it smells.
20. My father lost his family and, eventually, his life as a result of alcoholism. Continue reading →
Jammie J's Quest 