Yesterday was the 8 month anniversary of Pedro and Archer's arrival and departure. It has been hitting me really hard. In the quiet moments, memories are starting to surface. Lying on the acupuncture table, I remembered sitting up in the hospital bed for the first time in weeks, Bruno holding pressure points on my hips, keeping me still while the contractions came and the anesthesiologist put in the epidural. I remember the doomed feeling of it all: focusing on the jobs at hand, but knowing death was barreling toward us and we couldn't do a thing to hold it back.
I remember moments with each boy in my arms, and I wonder why I didn't kiss them more.
I remember when they first put Archer in my arms, and I couldn't see him properly. I was stuck in the bed, unable to sit up, my son alive in my arms, and I couldn't get a good look at him. I remember feeling embarrassed to ask for help. What kind of mother was I if I couldn't even figure out how to get a look at my child. I remember, too, being desperate for a drink of apple juice; I hadn't been able to eat or drink for 24 hours and I couldn't concentrate on anything except how much I wanted some juice. I remember feeling embarrassed by that thought too.
I lay there in the bed, in the weird, middle of the night hospital brightness, holding the son I couldn't see, thinking not about him but about juice. And the wise woman in me took over for the one who was in shock. I asked for juice and I asked for help to sit up, and once those two incredibly small, incredibly important things were accomplished, I finally saw my children.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Fast
Life is going by really fast.
I can't believe it has been nearly 8 months since I gave birth to and said goodbye to my sons. On the one hand, it feels like we are worlds away from where we were right after the loss, and positively light years away from the breezy happy pregnancy we once had. On the other hand, when I see a twin stroller roll by, or when a certain song plays, or a certain mood hits, I feel the loss as acutely as when it first happened.
Lately, hormones are kicking my ass. It has been a whole two months since miscarriage number 2, but I am deep in hormone hell. Something unexpected comes my way through the mail, or on the phone, or on the e-mail: an unexpected medical bill, or a bit of insensitivity from the outside world, and I start crying and I don't stop for hours. I feel raw, unprotected, vulnerable.
I walk through our neighborhood to try to regain my equilibrium: a moving meditation. I count my steps and try to breath in for 8, hold for 8, breath out for 8. It works for a moment: it is just the pavement slipping by and the rhythm of my step and the feeling of my breath, held in my chest, bursting, against my will, to come out.
But then the thoughts come in again, rhythmic like my steps; "I hate myself. I hate my life. I hate myself. I hate my life." I almost don't notice them come in, so insidious and subtle is the chant of my misery, my loss, my empty womb, my empty house.
"1, 2, 3, 4, I hate my, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, I hate, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, I ha.., 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 1, 2 ..."
I fight for control over my mind as I push past the children shrieking and running on the playground. Tears drip off my face as I focus on my marching feet, the pavement moving, so fast it all blurs together. The boys, the miscarriages, our current struggles, all blurred together. And moving so fast, while I feel stuck in slow motion with it all rushing through me, knocking me down as it races on.
I can't believe it has been nearly 8 months since I gave birth to and said goodbye to my sons. On the one hand, it feels like we are worlds away from where we were right after the loss, and positively light years away from the breezy happy pregnancy we once had. On the other hand, when I see a twin stroller roll by, or when a certain song plays, or a certain mood hits, I feel the loss as acutely as when it first happened.
Lately, hormones are kicking my ass. It has been a whole two months since miscarriage number 2, but I am deep in hormone hell. Something unexpected comes my way through the mail, or on the phone, or on the e-mail: an unexpected medical bill, or a bit of insensitivity from the outside world, and I start crying and I don't stop for hours. I feel raw, unprotected, vulnerable.
I walk through our neighborhood to try to regain my equilibrium: a moving meditation. I count my steps and try to breath in for 8, hold for 8, breath out for 8. It works for a moment: it is just the pavement slipping by and the rhythm of my step and the feeling of my breath, held in my chest, bursting, against my will, to come out.
But then the thoughts come in again, rhythmic like my steps; "I hate myself. I hate my life. I hate myself. I hate my life." I almost don't notice them come in, so insidious and subtle is the chant of my misery, my loss, my empty womb, my empty house.
"1, 2, 3, 4, I hate my, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, I hate, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, I ha.., 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 1, 2 ..."
I fight for control over my mind as I push past the children shrieking and running on the playground. Tears drip off my face as I focus on my marching feet, the pavement moving, so fast it all blurs together. The boys, the miscarriages, our current struggles, all blurred together. And moving so fast, while I feel stuck in slow motion with it all rushing through me, knocking me down as it races on.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Mars and Venus
A little moment of just life.
Bruno and I both keep REI water bottles by our bedsides. These bottles were originally the responsibility of whomever got into bed last. In NYC, the unlucky slowpoke who was late brushing teeth could count on hearing the rumble of water bottles being bowled down the hall in their direction, along with a tacit demand for cleaning and filling.
In the move to CA, lots of things have shifted and found new places, and the responsibility for the water bottles seems to have shifted firmly onto Bruno's shoulders. My guess is that this is some combination of Bruno's approval of my new "100 situps before bed" habit, paired with his disapproval of my bottle cleaning technique, which basically consisted of dumping out the previous night's water before refilling the bottle.
Bruno takes bottle cleaning very seriously. He even has tools specially purchased for this purpose. Yesterday, he bought a new, even better bottle cleaning brush, and last night brought his new tool into the master bathroom. As I brushed my teeth, I watched him look intently around the room. His eyes settled on the rather elaborate and scrolly light sconces the previous tenant had installed on either side of the mirror. He reached out, discovered that the hole at the end of his new bottle brush fit perfectly onto the edge of one of the sconce scrolls, hung the brush from the light fixture and then stood back looking immensely pleased with himself.
I spat out my toothpaste, looked at him looking at his new discovery and said simply, "You do realize that can't stay there?"
The spell of his efficiency broken, he looked at me, utterly bewildered. "Why not? It fits perfectly"
I started to laugh, and laughed so hard I wound up in a puddle of convulsions on the bathmats (which need to be washed again; maybe that too should be Bruno's job). I haven't laughed like that in a long time. Bruno joined in the laughter, although I'm guessing we were laughing about different things. I was laughing at his sweet innocent satisfaction in finding a completely accessible perfect fit for his new toy and his complete oblivion to the idea that some people might feel that under no circumstances is it OK to hang a bottle cleaning brush off a lighting sconce.
He, I think, was laughing at seeing me so positively hysterical.
The bottle brush still hangs from the light fixture, a reminder to take our laughs where we find them, and to embrace the little moments of gentle absurdity in our world.
Bruno and I both keep REI water bottles by our bedsides. These bottles were originally the responsibility of whomever got into bed last. In NYC, the unlucky slowpoke who was late brushing teeth could count on hearing the rumble of water bottles being bowled down the hall in their direction, along with a tacit demand for cleaning and filling.
In the move to CA, lots of things have shifted and found new places, and the responsibility for the water bottles seems to have shifted firmly onto Bruno's shoulders. My guess is that this is some combination of Bruno's approval of my new "100 situps before bed" habit, paired with his disapproval of my bottle cleaning technique, which basically consisted of dumping out the previous night's water before refilling the bottle.
Bruno takes bottle cleaning very seriously. He even has tools specially purchased for this purpose. Yesterday, he bought a new, even better bottle cleaning brush, and last night brought his new tool into the master bathroom. As I brushed my teeth, I watched him look intently around the room. His eyes settled on the rather elaborate and scrolly light sconces the previous tenant had installed on either side of the mirror. He reached out, discovered that the hole at the end of his new bottle brush fit perfectly onto the edge of one of the sconce scrolls, hung the brush from the light fixture and then stood back looking immensely pleased with himself.
I spat out my toothpaste, looked at him looking at his new discovery and said simply, "You do realize that can't stay there?"
The spell of his efficiency broken, he looked at me, utterly bewildered. "Why not? It fits perfectly"
I started to laugh, and laughed so hard I wound up in a puddle of convulsions on the bathmats (which need to be washed again; maybe that too should be Bruno's job). I haven't laughed like that in a long time. Bruno joined in the laughter, although I'm guessing we were laughing about different things. I was laughing at his sweet innocent satisfaction in finding a completely accessible perfect fit for his new toy and his complete oblivion to the idea that some people might feel that under no circumstances is it OK to hang a bottle cleaning brush off a lighting sconce.
He, I think, was laughing at seeing me so positively hysterical.
The bottle brush still hangs from the light fixture, a reminder to take our laughs where we find them, and to embrace the little moments of gentle absurdity in our world.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
A Moment of Happy
Right in the middle of my Pilates class this morning I burst into tears. Not sniffles, not whimpers: out and out sobbing. The instructor, a pre-natal nurse student who has become somewhat of a cross between a friend and Yoda to me, calmly told the class, "We hold emotions in the different muscles in our bodies; sometimes doing these exercises brings those emotions out. Just let them out, let them pour out. Find a spot on the floor in front of you and create your own circle of privacy."
G-d bless this woman.
I followed her instructions: I let it out. And then I pulled it together and rejoined the flow of exercise. What were the tears about? I'm not sure. I know they started as I was failing to do a stomach exercise I used to do with ease and thought, "Once I was thin. Once I could do this exercise. Once I fit into the clothes in my closet. Once I didn' t have to start every day reminded of all that we've lost". And I think it just went on from there.
But whatever flow of negative thinking that exercise triggered just passed right through me today and got left on the Pilates room floor in my circle of privacy. I walked out of the studio feeling lighter. I drove to the Costco without using the GPS: a first! I meandered through the aisles without my usual sense a train approaching behind me, texting with my sister-in-law about which numbers of plastic were acceptable in a Tupperware set (she convinced me to step away from the plastic and buy glass). I saw a cook-it-yourself corned brisket of beef, and bought it on a whim to simmer away on the stove this afternoon while I tutor, a happy beefy surprise for Bruno. I felt something I haven't felt in a while: relaxed.
On the way home, I stopped at our local market, an "international" market, with a Brazilian bent. I had planned to try to make one of my favorite Mexican dishes from our Gabriella's days in NYC: Pollo Pibil. I needed something called "Achiote Paste". I asked the woman behind the counter, and she led me right to the tiny white box I would never have found. Then she asked what I was making. "Pollo Pibil". "Ah", she says, "That dish is from the Yucatan. I am from the Yucatan. You need banana leaves too!" And she walked me over to the freezer, where she leafed through the giant green packages, picking me out a good one.
As I unloaded my groceries from the car, and felt the warm sun on my face after all these weeks of rain, I felt something else I haven't felt in a long time: lucky. Lucky to enjoy the sensation of the sun. Lucky to have the time and money to cook tasty, complicated things to make the days less hard. Lucky to have a woman from the Yucatan hand pick my banana leaves. Lucky to be able to feel lucky again, even if for just a moment in the sun.
G-d bless this woman.
I followed her instructions: I let it out. And then I pulled it together and rejoined the flow of exercise. What were the tears about? I'm not sure. I know they started as I was failing to do a stomach exercise I used to do with ease and thought, "Once I was thin. Once I could do this exercise. Once I fit into the clothes in my closet. Once I didn' t have to start every day reminded of all that we've lost". And I think it just went on from there.
But whatever flow of negative thinking that exercise triggered just passed right through me today and got left on the Pilates room floor in my circle of privacy. I walked out of the studio feeling lighter. I drove to the Costco without using the GPS: a first! I meandered through the aisles without my usual sense a train approaching behind me, texting with my sister-in-law about which numbers of plastic were acceptable in a Tupperware set (she convinced me to step away from the plastic and buy glass). I saw a cook-it-yourself corned brisket of beef, and bought it on a whim to simmer away on the stove this afternoon while I tutor, a happy beefy surprise for Bruno. I felt something I haven't felt in a while: relaxed.
On the way home, I stopped at our local market, an "international" market, with a Brazilian bent. I had planned to try to make one of my favorite Mexican dishes from our Gabriella's days in NYC: Pollo Pibil. I needed something called "Achiote Paste". I asked the woman behind the counter, and she led me right to the tiny white box I would never have found. Then she asked what I was making. "Pollo Pibil". "Ah", she says, "That dish is from the Yucatan. I am from the Yucatan. You need banana leaves too!" And she walked me over to the freezer, where she leafed through the giant green packages, picking me out a good one.
As I unloaded my groceries from the car, and felt the warm sun on my face after all these weeks of rain, I felt something else I haven't felt in a long time: lucky. Lucky to enjoy the sensation of the sun. Lucky to have the time and money to cook tasty, complicated things to make the days less hard. Lucky to have a woman from the Yucatan hand pick my banana leaves. Lucky to be able to feel lucky again, even if for just a moment in the sun.
As Promised....A Table Read
The phone rings, "Lisa, we're doing a table reading. Are you free? Can you join us?" And my heart starts to sing.
I love table readings. I love staged readings too, but I especially love table readings because they are so pure. Nobody does them for any other reason than for a pure love of the art of making art. Nobody's getting rich and nobody's getting famous or advancing their careers. Everybody is just gathering together for the joy of reading a new play, and assisting, in some small way, in its advancement.
A playwright is working on a new play. She contacts a director and casting director and says she needs to hear the play as it currently stands so she can discover what works and what doesn't, and so she can get some feedback and input from other professionals as she continues her writing.
The casting director calls actors who suit the roles, and who will be able to give good feedback. Everybody gathers, usually on a Monday evening or a Saturday morning, times that don't interfere with a show or rehearsal schedule: Monday is the day off in the theatre, and Saturday matinees don't start until 2pm. There is food: bagels and coffee in the morning, pizza and sodas in the evening. We break bread with each other, introduce ourselves to new faces, catch up with old friends. There are lots and lots of jokes; it is a room full of actors, after all.
This latest reading I did was my third since I poked my head out of the theatrical ground in January. I walked in the room, and, to my great excitement and relief, saw some familiar faces; my first two readings I was utterly the new kid on the block, introducing myself to everyone and being too overwhelmed to remember a single name. This time, I am greeted as I enter the room with cries of Hello and How Are You and Lisa!, and as I sit down the woman next to me compliments my work in the last reading. An actor passing my seat on his way to a slice of pizza presses his hand into my shoulder by way of saying hello: he was in the first reading I did. And for the first time since moving here, I feel at home, part of something.
I even crack a few jokes. Some bomb, but one lands just right and the room explodes into laughter. I blush, if you can believe it. I'm having fun.
The reading starts, and I'm blown away by the talent in the room. We're all just sitting at a table with scripts and pizza scraps in front of us, but I feel like we could open the show tomorrow. I'm in love with everyone in the room for being so generous with their talent, for connecting with each other so easily, for giving of themselves so fully. As my character enters the story, I feel like I'm stepping onto a moving sidewalk, or boarding a train already travelling at full speed. I feel off-balance, out of practice. But I fight for it; I try to relax and find my rhythm, to look up and make eye-contact with the other actors, to find my connection to these strangers who are becoming my friends. Sometimes it doesn't work, and I am just chiming in with words on the page at the prescribed intervals. But sometimes I do relax, I do find my rhythm, I do connect, and then I am part of the magic being made in the room. I generate laughter, I provoke thought, I create energy and story.
G-d, I love theatre.
After we finish reading the play and break to grab coffee and cookies (as with all ritual, food plays an important role), the playwright and director begin to ask questions, sometimes of the group as a whole, sometimes of specific actors: what parts of the play intrigued you most; where did you lose interest; did your character do or say anything that you had trouble believing? We give our opinions, bat ideas around, talk about the bits we loved and the places we felt confusion.
And then it is done. We are thanked, and we hug and exchange cards, help clean up the food, and disperse back out in to the cool of the night or the bright sun of mid-morning, taking a little bit of the magic we just made with us into our seperate worlds.
I love table readings. I love staged readings too, but I especially love table readings because they are so pure. Nobody does them for any other reason than for a pure love of the art of making art. Nobody's getting rich and nobody's getting famous or advancing their careers. Everybody is just gathering together for the joy of reading a new play, and assisting, in some small way, in its advancement.
A playwright is working on a new play. She contacts a director and casting director and says she needs to hear the play as it currently stands so she can discover what works and what doesn't, and so she can get some feedback and input from other professionals as she continues her writing.
The casting director calls actors who suit the roles, and who will be able to give good feedback. Everybody gathers, usually on a Monday evening or a Saturday morning, times that don't interfere with a show or rehearsal schedule: Monday is the day off in the theatre, and Saturday matinees don't start until 2pm. There is food: bagels and coffee in the morning, pizza and sodas in the evening. We break bread with each other, introduce ourselves to new faces, catch up with old friends. There are lots and lots of jokes; it is a room full of actors, after all.
This latest reading I did was my third since I poked my head out of the theatrical ground in January. I walked in the room, and, to my great excitement and relief, saw some familiar faces; my first two readings I was utterly the new kid on the block, introducing myself to everyone and being too overwhelmed to remember a single name. This time, I am greeted as I enter the room with cries of Hello and How Are You and Lisa!, and as I sit down the woman next to me compliments my work in the last reading. An actor passing my seat on his way to a slice of pizza presses his hand into my shoulder by way of saying hello: he was in the first reading I did. And for the first time since moving here, I feel at home, part of something.
I even crack a few jokes. Some bomb, but one lands just right and the room explodes into laughter. I blush, if you can believe it. I'm having fun.
The reading starts, and I'm blown away by the talent in the room. We're all just sitting at a table with scripts and pizza scraps in front of us, but I feel like we could open the show tomorrow. I'm in love with everyone in the room for being so generous with their talent, for connecting with each other so easily, for giving of themselves so fully. As my character enters the story, I feel like I'm stepping onto a moving sidewalk, or boarding a train already travelling at full speed. I feel off-balance, out of practice. But I fight for it; I try to relax and find my rhythm, to look up and make eye-contact with the other actors, to find my connection to these strangers who are becoming my friends. Sometimes it doesn't work, and I am just chiming in with words on the page at the prescribed intervals. But sometimes I do relax, I do find my rhythm, I do connect, and then I am part of the magic being made in the room. I generate laughter, I provoke thought, I create energy and story.
G-d, I love theatre.
After we finish reading the play and break to grab coffee and cookies (as with all ritual, food plays an important role), the playwright and director begin to ask questions, sometimes of the group as a whole, sometimes of specific actors: what parts of the play intrigued you most; where did you lose interest; did your character do or say anything that you had trouble believing? We give our opinions, bat ideas around, talk about the bits we loved and the places we felt confusion.
And then it is done. We are thanked, and we hug and exchange cards, help clean up the food, and disperse back out in to the cool of the night or the bright sun of mid-morning, taking a little bit of the magic we just made with us into our seperate worlds.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
You Know Its Been Too Long When....
..you can't remember the password to your own blog. Yikes.
OK, how to get back into this. Well, when last you heard from me, I was disappearing down the Rabbit Hole of imaginary mold. Not sure I can truly say I'm out of the hole, but I have located a ladder or two. I've started acupuncture, with a practitioner who specializes in reproductive issues, including loss, so that feels like a good match and a great addition to the "help Lisa and Bruno start a family" team. And, I found a therapist who specializes in reproductive issues and loss (like a sex therapist, but significantly less fun?), and I've started work with her. I don't know why I waited so long, actually: it seems ridiculous now that I thought I could get through all this without a little professional help.
In the meantime, and perhaps not surprisingly during this incredibly rainy season in California, things have started to grow. Purple crocuses popped their regal heads out in the very center of my lawn for no apparent reason. Fat gorgeous Calla Lillies have appeared among my recycling bins. Stone fruit trees, with their delicate pink and white blossoms, are coming into bloom along every roadway. And my phone is starting to ring again, with students and acting opportunities alike.
First came the students. A call from a friend of a friend of a friend whose daughter I had tutored in NYC had gotten my name and wanted SAT tutoring for her wayward, underachieving son. A co-worker of my brother's past nanny's husband heard that I was a wiz at the GMAT and wanted some last minute cramming action. And asked if he could then pass my name along to the admissions officer at Berkeley. And so on.
And then came the acting. That Casting Director I so egregiously interrupted that night I went to the theatre (see: With a Little Help from my Friends, Part I), invited me to perform in the next show, and now in the show after that. And has invited me to play parts in two table readings (I'm going to devote an entire blog post to the pure glory that is a Table Reading, so stay tuned). My new agents have been sending me on about an audition a week, everything from commercial to film to industrial. And I've been running all around town auditioning for student films, just trying to get my chops back.
The truth is, I feel like I'm running on one cylinder. Not with tutoring. Thank G-d for tutoring: I do it well, and it always grounds me and brings me back to myself no matter what. But with acting, I feel very hit or miss. Some moments I feel like I'm better than I've ever been: unconcerned with what others think, and therefore more able to completely commit to the task at hand and have fun with it. But other times, I feel like I'm going to have a nervous breakdown trying to park before an audition in the city or driving to new destinations in Berkeley, that my head is going to explode sitting in the waiting room, listening to everyone know everyone else and pass around baby photos. And my performances suffer for it. I am not relaxed, not on my game, unable to connect: my impulses are not flowing and I feel like a stuffed olive. It is a rotten, exposed feeling.
Hopefully, the acupuncture and therapy will help: I know it is all connected. This whole recovery process has felt like a rebirthing of myself, learning how to everything all over again. I guess acting, that art which has always lived so close to my heart, is the last thing to come back into being. The final frontier on which to forgive myself for life going on without Archer and Pedro. Well, perhaps not the very last arena. Perhaps, if we're very very lucky, there'll be one more epic battle to fight, one more old new path to tread.
OK, how to get back into this. Well, when last you heard from me, I was disappearing down the Rabbit Hole of imaginary mold. Not sure I can truly say I'm out of the hole, but I have located a ladder or two. I've started acupuncture, with a practitioner who specializes in reproductive issues, including loss, so that feels like a good match and a great addition to the "help Lisa and Bruno start a family" team. And, I found a therapist who specializes in reproductive issues and loss (like a sex therapist, but significantly less fun?), and I've started work with her. I don't know why I waited so long, actually: it seems ridiculous now that I thought I could get through all this without a little professional help.
In the meantime, and perhaps not surprisingly during this incredibly rainy season in California, things have started to grow. Purple crocuses popped their regal heads out in the very center of my lawn for no apparent reason. Fat gorgeous Calla Lillies have appeared among my recycling bins. Stone fruit trees, with their delicate pink and white blossoms, are coming into bloom along every roadway. And my phone is starting to ring again, with students and acting opportunities alike.
First came the students. A call from a friend of a friend of a friend whose daughter I had tutored in NYC had gotten my name and wanted SAT tutoring for her wayward, underachieving son. A co-worker of my brother's past nanny's husband heard that I was a wiz at the GMAT and wanted some last minute cramming action. And asked if he could then pass my name along to the admissions officer at Berkeley. And so on.
And then came the acting. That Casting Director I so egregiously interrupted that night I went to the theatre (see: With a Little Help from my Friends, Part I), invited me to perform in the next show, and now in the show after that. And has invited me to play parts in two table readings (I'm going to devote an entire blog post to the pure glory that is a Table Reading, so stay tuned). My new agents have been sending me on about an audition a week, everything from commercial to film to industrial. And I've been running all around town auditioning for student films, just trying to get my chops back.
The truth is, I feel like I'm running on one cylinder. Not with tutoring. Thank G-d for tutoring: I do it well, and it always grounds me and brings me back to myself no matter what. But with acting, I feel very hit or miss. Some moments I feel like I'm better than I've ever been: unconcerned with what others think, and therefore more able to completely commit to the task at hand and have fun with it. But other times, I feel like I'm going to have a nervous breakdown trying to park before an audition in the city or driving to new destinations in Berkeley, that my head is going to explode sitting in the waiting room, listening to everyone know everyone else and pass around baby photos. And my performances suffer for it. I am not relaxed, not on my game, unable to connect: my impulses are not flowing and I feel like a stuffed olive. It is a rotten, exposed feeling.
Hopefully, the acupuncture and therapy will help: I know it is all connected. This whole recovery process has felt like a rebirthing of myself, learning how to everything all over again. I guess acting, that art which has always lived so close to my heart, is the last thing to come back into being. The final frontier on which to forgive myself for life going on without Archer and Pedro. Well, perhaps not the very last arena. Perhaps, if we're very very lucky, there'll be one more epic battle to fight, one more old new path to tread.
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