Wednesday, March 10, 2010
B and I had our first "real" talk since the miscarriage this past Sunday. As we think about possibly moving, the place we are now seems more appealing. The tree-lined streets, the great neighbors, the park behind the house, the coffee shop, the walking path. We went around the corner to the local greasy spoon we've never been to, and talked about our fear of moving to, and becoming invisible in, suburbia. "You don't seem that excited," he says. "We should be more excited." Maybe. Maybe not. The feeling underfoot is slippery and dangerous, like quicksand. I'm too scared this new thing, this house, will also be taken away. I'm just holding tight, and these days dreaming big is elusive. I see in my mind's eye just the forearm and hand of a young one simultaneously reaching for me and slipping away. The miscarriage, the drama with the house loan, my mom's health insurance being taken away out of the blue... I am untethered, and in a storm, and in a place I rarely am: untrusting of the world.
"I want to give this to you", he says. I forget how it is for a man, to want to give to his wife. He wants to give me a home, our home. I was already moved, when he said, "But I can't give you babies. I wish I could give you babies." Just then, the 2-year old girl at the booth next to us with her Elmo shirt on wants to say hello. She comes around the side of the leatherette booth, and she flirts, she giggles. I cry. We cry.
This infertility journey asks SO much of you. We ask so much of ourselves, and our bodies. And it's all because we want to give --we want to give SO much, to a person we have not met. To a person who may not even become alive in this world. These almost babies are loved before they even exist. They are named before they exist. Space is created for them -- in minds, in hearts, in 2nd bedrooms across this country and the world.