"S" is for September; "S" is for Success

STATUS: (cause I know your waiting with baited breath) - I got my period yesterday - that's damn early. I have fast turnover, it seems, because that was only a 23 day cycle.

SISTER: When I told my Mom several weeks ago that all of my investigative tests came back "normal" (HSP, thrombophilia panel, Karyotpye, etc.) she said, "Well tell me something I don't know!"

I asked her to explain herself at which point she reiterated my maternal grandmother's fertility story (she gave birth to the first of 7 healthy children at the age of 33 and the last at the age of 47!). I take great solace in the excessive and implausible fertlity of my grandmother, hoping that genetics are actually working in my favor and that I have just been enduring the "worst streak of bad luck ever."

And then she told me a story I did not know - that my sister was conceived as a result of a malfunctioning IUD. That's right. My little sister slipped past the sentry; how determined of her. I don't even know if she's ever been told the beginning of her beginning; what great cocktail party fodder! It's pretty cool to imagine that you were so bad ass, even at the cellular level, that you the beat the odds. I need a little bad ass egg of my own! I knew in a very vague way that my sister was unexpected, but I never pursued the details, assuming that my parents suffered a moment of drunken debauchery. Best to just leave that subject alone under those circumstances. But now that I know the truth, I don't know how I could have convinced myself that my mother was involved in any sort of drunken escapade, let alone debauchery. My father maybe. Mom - not a chance. I think she's been "tippsy" like 2x in her life and felt loose and immoral after the fact.

SOUTH:
I am someone who needs a lot of order in her life. Though I don’t like to think of myself as such an old lady, I have always liked things predictable, stable, and stress free, so it follows that I am absolutely horrible at change of any kind – good or bad. Change affects my perception of my physical and emotional safety – it even affects my sense of self. I just don’t have a knack for adaptability. Instead, I dig my heels in deep, open my mouth as wide as it’ll go, and emit a psychic scream meant to make the gods’ ears bleed.*

I suspect the extreme expression of this characteristic may have its roots in a traumatic cross-continent move. At the age of thirteen, my parents moved me and my 2 siblings 1,800 miles, five climate zones, and one entire country south. I was in for some heavy duty suffering. I was taken out of an environment to which I was reasonably adapted and dropped into a murky alien planet where 13 year-old girls shaved their legs and “went-out” with boys (which actually just meant holding hands at recess, but I didn’t know that then. I thought they were DATING – like going to the movies and kissing and OMG!) and where the boys snapped your bra and made inappropriate sexual innuendos. Now I am sure that this was all going on in my old environs – I just didn’t notice or didn’t care to notice because I had my safe little niche carved out and was prepared to live in that niche with my same best friends and my same school mates all the way through college.

But that was never to be. Instead, I ended up in Stepfordland; and I was NO be-ribboned, smooth-legged, lip-glossed Southern Belle, but a very awkward, very shy, very different and very new piece of junior high meat. With the heightened senses of a cornered rabbit, I experienced what were probably normal adolescent torture through a lens of intense displacement and disassociation. I don’t know if that experience is the genesis of my change-averse personality, or a stressor that exacerbated a latent characteristic (and precipitated my depression), but whatever the case, that is the first time I remember feeling unmercilessly, unrelentingly victimized by those laughing gods. I felt totally powerless and inept, despite eventually making friends and finding my identity as a nerd.

My sense of the Universe as a dangerous and pernicious prankster remains strong to this day. So you can imagine, then, that I work really hard at controlling my environment so that I don’t have to suffer anymore unpredictable and unwelcome bouts of change. I have never considered myself a traditionalist, having always identified myself as “different” and “outsider.” But after each expectation in my life has been dashed, I am surprised to learn via my grief and disappointment that what I did actually hope for was the safety I assumed was built into a traditional life trajectory - be a good girl and get good grades, establish myself as a respected practitioner in some fascinating field, land an accomplished and handsome husband, have a few children, live in a comfortable/not-ostentatious home, and generally garner respect and admiration from my community and live happily ever after.

I want to be part of the herd after all, and it turns out I can’t. Even worse … I’m not cut out for trailblazing. Not enough confidence, wonder if people will still like me, wonder if I’m doing everything right, etc. etc. Sometimes I just want someone to tell me what to do and I’ll do it. Just like in school - someone tells me what to do then I study real hard and then you’ll give me an A+ and I win! Yay! I’ve always been really good at school.

Well, I am 36 ½ years old and I am keenly aware how many times and ways life can just be absolutely confounding. Not that the unexpected turns have all been unwelcome. My job is really fulfilling and I am thankful that I have found something I can do for 8 hours a day without pulling my eyelashes out. I also have an endlessly kind, loving, and patient husband who truly takes me for all that I am and all that I’m not. I have not one, but THREE homes (2 of which are rented) that leaves us in a stable, comfortable financial position. The rub is that I simply can’t get over how little my intentions and actions have to do with the actual outcomes in my life. The knock-the-wind-out-of-me-leave-me-gasping final blow was this miscarriage thing for 2 reasons:

1) Wanting a life with children was one of the reasons my first husband and I divorced. There were so many complicated issues bubbling around our divorce, but being on different timelines about children was a big factor. To be completely frank, I left with some sense of urgency that my reproductive years were rushing by and I didn’t trust him anymore. I didn’t trust that he loved me, that he wanted to be with me, that we wanted the same things. And so I came out of that marriage with a clear goal – children.

2) Having children was the last remaining component of my “dream life” that would give me a sense of a life-well-led. The perfect marriage was no longer on the table, the accomplished career woman was impossible with no direction (this was before I discovered graphic design). It seemed that as much as I fought for the things I wanted, either I didn’t have it in me to push past failure or there were just too many factors out of my control.

Cut to me on this couch typing away on a miscarriage blog as a recurrent spontaneous aborter. Life is not only changing, it is changed. And I am grappling with some larger issues related to the meaning of life and identity. What am I to DO with myself if I don’t have a family? And why would I want to DO anything anyway considering I have absolutely no control over it.

I am feeling completely powerless and utterly out of control. And my head is full of anger and hate – at myself, at my husband, at my parents, at my friends, at this gloomy, broken world. And it seeps out of me despite my best efforts.

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*Of course the gods sit on their mountaintops eating their ambrosia and drinking their nectar and just laugh at me. The Greeks had it right; the gods are cruel, prank-playing asswads that use human suffering for their amusement … or so it seems to me. It’s a sad state of affairs when that version of the Universe resonates with me.