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.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
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.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
New Respect
I have a new respect for people who suffer from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. This is debilitating. My obsession with mold continues, and if anything, is getting worse. I wake up in the middle of the night and imagine mold hiding behind the bedroom walls, pumping through the heating system, stealthily creating spore after spore in our beloved Tiki Room. I try to get a hold of my mind, to remind myself that lots of women live in moldier conditions than I and manage to have healthy pregnancies and healthy babies.
And then I start thinking about lead and chlorine in the water.
I fight my mind in the darkness, watching the sky finally, finally start to lighten as the middle of the night chemicals loosen their hold on my system and the alarm clock finally, finally rings.
Bruno rolls over, opens his reluctant eyes into my staunchly wide-awake ones and mutters, "Why are you up?"
He doesn't know what to do with me. Neither of us do. I've never fought something like this. It is so much bigger than me, and I can feel it has the power to swallow me up. I get up and make breakfast, make it through breakfast, and then Bruno leaves for work and then it starts again.
"Is moss toxic"? And my hand reaches for the mouse, the gateway to the devil's playground, and I'm googling and reading horror stories. Well, not about moss. Moss, it seems, is safe, even desirable if you are building a Japanese Garden. But from moss, I go back to mold, and I start to suspect my windowsills, and the corners of the closets, and now I am looking up air purifiers, but there is a question about those that use ozone, and are the HEPA ones really just pushing the spores and dust mites around or are they actually effective?
The strongest part of me manages to close the google window, and send an e-shout out for help. I write my cousin, who's been through similar challenges. She writes back, quite clearly, "It's not the mold".
Somehow this one simple sentence actually soothes. Right: it's not the mold. This is me looking to control something, sublimating all my feelings onto this one topic. I remember, from my Psych 101 class, that houses frequently represent bodies, at least on the dream-scape. I am obesessing that my house is toxic, and what I really fear is that my body is toxic. That it won't support these little souls who are trying to make their way through me and into this world. I am trying desperately to control my house because I don't seem to be able to control my body.
I still spent the better part of the afternoon fighting against thoughts of mold. But I feel just slightly better armed for the fight.
And then I start thinking about lead and chlorine in the water.
I fight my mind in the darkness, watching the sky finally, finally start to lighten as the middle of the night chemicals loosen their hold on my system and the alarm clock finally, finally rings.
Bruno rolls over, opens his reluctant eyes into my staunchly wide-awake ones and mutters, "Why are you up?"
He doesn't know what to do with me. Neither of us do. I've never fought something like this. It is so much bigger than me, and I can feel it has the power to swallow me up. I get up and make breakfast, make it through breakfast, and then Bruno leaves for work and then it starts again.
"Is moss toxic"? And my hand reaches for the mouse, the gateway to the devil's playground, and I'm googling and reading horror stories. Well, not about moss. Moss, it seems, is safe, even desirable if you are building a Japanese Garden. But from moss, I go back to mold, and I start to suspect my windowsills, and the corners of the closets, and now I am looking up air purifiers, but there is a question about those that use ozone, and are the HEPA ones really just pushing the spores and dust mites around or are they actually effective?
The strongest part of me manages to close the google window, and send an e-shout out for help. I write my cousin, who's been through similar challenges. She writes back, quite clearly, "It's not the mold".
Somehow this one simple sentence actually soothes. Right: it's not the mold. This is me looking to control something, sublimating all my feelings onto this one topic. I remember, from my Psych 101 class, that houses frequently represent bodies, at least on the dream-scape. I am obesessing that my house is toxic, and what I really fear is that my body is toxic. That it won't support these little souls who are trying to make their way through me and into this world. I am trying desperately to control my house because I don't seem to be able to control my body.
I still spent the better part of the afternoon fighting against thoughts of mold. But I feel just slightly better armed for the fight.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
Sheesh.
I can't get out from under the grip of this one. I know we've been warned that holidays are hard, but Valentine's Day couldn't possibly count, could it?
All week, I've been racing around: auditions, students, classes, dates with new friends and with family. Today, Fri, I finally had a daytime with no appointments. Just a little time to luxuriate in some stillness.
The stillness, it seems, is where the pitfalls hide.
I haven't been able to stop crying all day. I'm still fighting that racing train feeling and I feel like my head is going to pop off. I can't find comfort in anything: not in reading, or resting, or eating, or writing. I know I should have left the house, but it is pouring outside and I just couldn't muster it.
On Wed, I received an e-mail from a local casting director/friend, asking if I were available to participate in a performance on Monday night. It is a hip organization, and I was really excited to be thought of and included.
I invited a few friends and family, and over the next few hours starting to feel a deep sense of panic: had the casting director actually offered me a part, or was she just checking my availability? I was pretty sure she was inviting me to do the show, but I couldn't drop my sense of panic. I felt this bizarre sense of depression and guilt, as if I'd jumped the gun and counted on something I shouldn't have, or like I was so eager to have something good in my life I had imagined it into being and it was all a facade.
I realized this was the same thing we went through when Bruno got his new job: we didn't tell anyone about the job until he'd completed the first day of work. We no longer trust that good things that are promised will actually come to pass. I was experiencing the same thing now.
I decided to put myself out of my misery and just call the casting director. She was lovely and told me all about the part she had picked out for me.
Ahhh.
And you'd think that would be the end of it, but all day I haven't been able to unfunk. I'm sure it the weather isn't helping, and do you know what: I think that stupid Hallmark holiday coming up tomorrow is affecting me.
Sheesh.
I can't get out from under the grip of this one. I know we've been warned that holidays are hard, but Valentine's Day couldn't possibly count, could it?
All week, I've been racing around: auditions, students, classes, dates with new friends and with family. Today, Fri, I finally had a daytime with no appointments. Just a little time to luxuriate in some stillness.
The stillness, it seems, is where the pitfalls hide.
I haven't been able to stop crying all day. I'm still fighting that racing train feeling and I feel like my head is going to pop off. I can't find comfort in anything: not in reading, or resting, or eating, or writing. I know I should have left the house, but it is pouring outside and I just couldn't muster it.
On Wed, I received an e-mail from a local casting director/friend, asking if I were available to participate in a performance on Monday night. It is a hip organization, and I was really excited to be thought of and included.
I invited a few friends and family, and over the next few hours starting to feel a deep sense of panic: had the casting director actually offered me a part, or was she just checking my availability? I was pretty sure she was inviting me to do the show, but I couldn't drop my sense of panic. I felt this bizarre sense of depression and guilt, as if I'd jumped the gun and counted on something I shouldn't have, or like I was so eager to have something good in my life I had imagined it into being and it was all a facade.
I realized this was the same thing we went through when Bruno got his new job: we didn't tell anyone about the job until he'd completed the first day of work. We no longer trust that good things that are promised will actually come to pass. I was experiencing the same thing now.
I decided to put myself out of my misery and just call the casting director. She was lovely and told me all about the part she had picked out for me.
Ahhh.
And you'd think that would be the end of it, but all day I haven't been able to unfunk. I'm sure it the weather isn't helping, and do you know what: I think that stupid Hallmark holiday coming up tomorrow is affecting me.
Sheesh.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
CPR
This is proving to be a really tough time. They warned us in the grief group that grieving is not linear: you don't start feeling better and just continue in a straight line until you feel like yourself again. And those stages of grief they tell you about: they don't come in any order, and you never really finish any one of them, except the last one. They just keep circling about and drop in on you randomly.
This week has been all about anxiety. It's just awful. From the moment I open my eyes (often at 4am or earlier), I feel like there is a train running inside my head. I feel slightly breathless, and like if I am not in constant motion doing several things at once, everything is going to go to hell. Even when I am right in the thick of it, getting the things done that I have deemed important, I still feel like I am running in front of a train and I just have to keep moving, keep moving. I try to take deep breaths, to tell myself I'm doing great, to remind myself that nothing is wrong (well, nothing new is wrong). Doesn't stop the train feeling.
I've also been plagued by overwhelming sadness. I'll be in the car, driving to the gym, and I'll just start sobbing, out of the blue. I have started thinking more often about my pregnancy with the boys, about my pride and excitement knowing they were thriving inside me. Even in the hospital, when the writing was on the wall, I couldn't see it at all: I only had eyes for my sons. For their squirming fish movements, for their ultrasound escapades, for their nightly game of Marco Polo when the nurses would try to do their heart monitoring. My little Mer-men.
And I am still in complete disbelief that this wonderful idyllic story ends in complete crash and burn tragedy. That my sweethearts are no more. It is just about the loneliest thing in the world, even amidst all the love and support that I am lucky enough to have. I am deeply, profoundly lonely without my innocent, fabulous boys. And I'm beginning to suspect that part of me always will be.
Whenever I get too lost in this loneliness, I drive on over to my brother and sister-in-law's house, and dive into their children. Today I shocked the Nanny by showing up completely unannounced: she is new and has never met me. Sophia answered the door and shouted: It's Auntie Lisa! Clattering, clamoring, and now Max and Spencer join her at the door, along with the perplexed Nanny. "Hi, I'm Eric's sister Lisa. Sophia, am I your Auntie Lisa?" "YES!" "Max, am I your Auntie Lisa from this side" (as I turn to the side) "YES!" "Spencer, (as I turn completely around) am I your Auntie Lisa from the butt-side?" Huge laughter and screaming: yup, I said butt.
And so on and so forth. Today we played lots of make believe. Max decided to be Mr. Obama (I kept saying President Obama, but he didn't catch on), and dictated that I was Michelle, and Sophia and Spencer were the girls. I was impressed. Next they switched over to being dogs: I fed them imaginary treats and taught them tricks. Spencer did an impressive impression of a dog begging for treats. I gave him imaginary hotdogs and he was thrilled.
Lots of hugging and tackling and I regret to say licking (remember the dog game) later, and the sadness was beaten back a bit. Someday, years from now, I'm going to have to thank these gorgeous children for the CPR they do weekly on my soul.
This week has been all about anxiety. It's just awful. From the moment I open my eyes (often at 4am or earlier), I feel like there is a train running inside my head. I feel slightly breathless, and like if I am not in constant motion doing several things at once, everything is going to go to hell. Even when I am right in the thick of it, getting the things done that I have deemed important, I still feel like I am running in front of a train and I just have to keep moving, keep moving. I try to take deep breaths, to tell myself I'm doing great, to remind myself that nothing is wrong (well, nothing new is wrong). Doesn't stop the train feeling.
I've also been plagued by overwhelming sadness. I'll be in the car, driving to the gym, and I'll just start sobbing, out of the blue. I have started thinking more often about my pregnancy with the boys, about my pride and excitement knowing they were thriving inside me. Even in the hospital, when the writing was on the wall, I couldn't see it at all: I only had eyes for my sons. For their squirming fish movements, for their ultrasound escapades, for their nightly game of Marco Polo when the nurses would try to do their heart monitoring. My little Mer-men.
And I am still in complete disbelief that this wonderful idyllic story ends in complete crash and burn tragedy. That my sweethearts are no more. It is just about the loneliest thing in the world, even amidst all the love and support that I am lucky enough to have. I am deeply, profoundly lonely without my innocent, fabulous boys. And I'm beginning to suspect that part of me always will be.
Whenever I get too lost in this loneliness, I drive on over to my brother and sister-in-law's house, and dive into their children. Today I shocked the Nanny by showing up completely unannounced: she is new and has never met me. Sophia answered the door and shouted: It's Auntie Lisa! Clattering, clamoring, and now Max and Spencer join her at the door, along with the perplexed Nanny. "Hi, I'm Eric's sister Lisa. Sophia, am I your Auntie Lisa?" "YES!" "Max, am I your Auntie Lisa from this side" (as I turn to the side) "YES!" "Spencer, (as I turn completely around) am I your Auntie Lisa from the butt-side?" Huge laughter and screaming: yup, I said butt.
And so on and so forth. Today we played lots of make believe. Max decided to be Mr. Obama (I kept saying President Obama, but he didn't catch on), and dictated that I was Michelle, and Sophia and Spencer were the girls. I was impressed. Next they switched over to being dogs: I fed them imaginary treats and taught them tricks. Spencer did an impressive impression of a dog begging for treats. I gave him imaginary hotdogs and he was thrilled.
Lots of hugging and tackling and I regret to say licking (remember the dog game) later, and the sadness was beaten back a bit. Someday, years from now, I'm going to have to thank these gorgeous children for the CPR they do weekly on my soul.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Coming Clean
A bunch of you wonderful, caring readers contacted me after my most recent post and told me how sorry you were that I was still suffering so. And I thought: this isn't quite fair, I haven't let them know the whole story.
So I talked it over with Bruno, and we decided it was OK to come clean. There is a little bit of fear that people will start to feel that we are pathetic, or jinxed (we frequently have to fight those feelings in ourselves). Or that they will simply feel we are too much, and back slowly away.
I'm just going to trust that those are our own private manias, and keep telling our story.
So, here is Chapter Two: The Miscarriages.
Yup, that is plural, folks. If you can believe it, we have had the beautiful good fortune to have been pregnant twice in the short six months since losing the boys, and I have miscarried both pregnancies.
It's funny how those pronouns go, isn't it? We've been pregnant. I've miscarried. My internal voice is quite clear who's to blame here.
And there's a ton of blame flying around. Mostly Bruno and I blaming ourselves. It is nearly impossible not to, and the creativity involved is quite extraordinary. Bruno thinks he must have done something awful at some point and is now being punished (wouldn't we all love to know what acts sweet, dependable Bruno considers the finalists in the "punishment inducers" competition). Me, I'm going for my own jugular: during this latest pregnancy, I had an audition/callback for a show in Berkeley and I'm convinced I lost the baby because the Universe sensed that I would like to do the show, and decided that since I still haven't settled into wanting motherhood to the exclusion of all other wants, I don't deserve it.
Lately, I've set my sites on external causes. Yesterday, I fired off an e-mail to my landlords entitled: "Two miscarriages/MOLD!!!" Oh yes I did. I quoted them all sorts of internet sources citing mold as a cause of miscarriage, and I insisted they get someone out here to test our house. I also googled "California drinking water, miscarriage" and found all sorts of horrible things about chlorine and its by-products, things the Britta filter doesn't remove. And I found out that you absorb even more of this stuff through your morning shower than through the five or six glasses of water you drink each day.
At that point I had to stop reading. Folks, I am in the Rabbit Hole. I see the sky above me, and I see the long drop with no bottom below me. And I don't understand how we are supposed to live with this world where taking a shower can hurt our unborn children. How much do you do and where do you draw the line and say I can only control what I can control? (Or in the case of organic, hormone-free, free-range, grass-fed beef: what I can afford?)
On the reality plane, we have talked to our doctors and they say: no, it is not anything we did, thought, ate, drank or breathed, and no, we did not try too soon: my body is perfectly ready to accept another pregnancy. Their best guess is that, given my age, I just had bad luck and had two genetically bum eggs in a row and my body took care of itself and shed what would have been an unhealthy pregnancy. They are perfectly optimistic that we will have the family we seek, and they have lots of ideas for how to proceed next to optimize our chances.
Doesn't really help with the 4am voices, but it is good to hold in the back pocket and trot out in the saner daylight hours.
Meanwhile, you will find a whole slew of new posts scattered through this blog: while all this was unfolding, I wrote posts but kept them in draft form. I am now publishing them to keep the blog journey complete. They are:
WAHHHHHH!! 11/28/08
How Quickly They Forget 12/2/08
Over Before It's Begun 12/14/08
The Beat Goes On 12/15/08
Bye 12/17/08
Miserable 12/18/08
That Said, 1/26/09
This Will Not Be Pretty 1/28/09
As always, thanks for the loads of support, and thanks for continuing to believe for us as we keep muscling through this journey. -LJKM
So I talked it over with Bruno, and we decided it was OK to come clean. There is a little bit of fear that people will start to feel that we are pathetic, or jinxed (we frequently have to fight those feelings in ourselves). Or that they will simply feel we are too much, and back slowly away.
I'm just going to trust that those are our own private manias, and keep telling our story.
So, here is Chapter Two: The Miscarriages.
Yup, that is plural, folks. If you can believe it, we have had the beautiful good fortune to have been pregnant twice in the short six months since losing the boys, and I have miscarried both pregnancies.
It's funny how those pronouns go, isn't it? We've been pregnant. I've miscarried. My internal voice is quite clear who's to blame here.
And there's a ton of blame flying around. Mostly Bruno and I blaming ourselves. It is nearly impossible not to, and the creativity involved is quite extraordinary. Bruno thinks he must have done something awful at some point and is now being punished (wouldn't we all love to know what acts sweet, dependable Bruno considers the finalists in the "punishment inducers" competition). Me, I'm going for my own jugular: during this latest pregnancy, I had an audition/callback for a show in Berkeley and I'm convinced I lost the baby because the Universe sensed that I would like to do the show, and decided that since I still haven't settled into wanting motherhood to the exclusion of all other wants, I don't deserve it.
Lately, I've set my sites on external causes. Yesterday, I fired off an e-mail to my landlords entitled: "Two miscarriages/MOLD!!!" Oh yes I did. I quoted them all sorts of internet sources citing mold as a cause of miscarriage, and I insisted they get someone out here to test our house. I also googled "California drinking water, miscarriage" and found all sorts of horrible things about chlorine and its by-products, things the Britta filter doesn't remove. And I found out that you absorb even more of this stuff through your morning shower than through the five or six glasses of water you drink each day.
At that point I had to stop reading. Folks, I am in the Rabbit Hole. I see the sky above me, and I see the long drop with no bottom below me. And I don't understand how we are supposed to live with this world where taking a shower can hurt our unborn children. How much do you do and where do you draw the line and say I can only control what I can control? (Or in the case of organic, hormone-free, free-range, grass-fed beef: what I can afford?)
On the reality plane, we have talked to our doctors and they say: no, it is not anything we did, thought, ate, drank or breathed, and no, we did not try too soon: my body is perfectly ready to accept another pregnancy. Their best guess is that, given my age, I just had bad luck and had two genetically bum eggs in a row and my body took care of itself and shed what would have been an unhealthy pregnancy. They are perfectly optimistic that we will have the family we seek, and they have lots of ideas for how to proceed next to optimize our chances.
Doesn't really help with the 4am voices, but it is good to hold in the back pocket and trot out in the saner daylight hours.
Meanwhile, you will find a whole slew of new posts scattered through this blog: while all this was unfolding, I wrote posts but kept them in draft form. I am now publishing them to keep the blog journey complete. They are:
WAHHHHHH!! 11/28/08
How Quickly They Forget 12/2/08
Over Before It's Begun 12/14/08
The Beat Goes On 12/15/08
Bye 12/17/08
Miserable 12/18/08
That Said, 1/26/09
This Will Not Be Pretty 1/28/09
As always, thanks for the loads of support, and thanks for continuing to believe for us as we keep muscling through this journey. -LJKM
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Is it really only Tuesday?
I feel like I've lived enough life already this week that surely it must be Friday.
Sorry for the long delay in publishing: I'm getting my ass kicked emotionally, and haven't been making it to the blog. I suppose that is exactly the time to write, so I'll try to be better.
Here's where I'm at right now: I find it so hard to tolerate that there is some sort of grand design or scheme at work here. First, I feel like raging against a G-d that is so narrow that he can find no better way than the loss of children to teach some lesson. Second, it makes me feel cursed or jinxed or plagued.
I'm trying to make my way toward the idea that bad stuff is relatively random: pain and grief and disease and war and loss aren't visited upon us to punish us, they are just out there and everyone gets smacked by something before they get off this ride.
Now, the choice is what we do with the experience. Do we let it turn us permanently bitter, do we let it isolate us from those we love, including G-d, or do we instead wrestle with the angel to find something to pull from the experience, some way we can be better in honor of what was lost. So that nothing gets wasted. A sort of emotional recycling? It's not easy, being green. ;)
That's all I got right now.
Meanwhile, I find myself slammed back to the beginning of my grieving process. I am short with everyone, including those I am really relying on right now like my sister-in-law and my Dad (who is pursuing the whole Ben Hur Moving Co. claim for us). I am also dragging my body through workout after workout, trying to strip the remaining reminder of the sons who aren't here. I like working out, but this is something different, some mania.
People keep telling me to nurture myself right now. I'm not sure how. When I slow down I get all weepy, and I've been all weepy for like 6 months now. I'm a little spent with all weepy.
Can you believe it has only been six months since the boys were born? It feels like another life time ago. So so strange.
More soon. -LJMK
Sorry for the long delay in publishing: I'm getting my ass kicked emotionally, and haven't been making it to the blog. I suppose that is exactly the time to write, so I'll try to be better.
Here's where I'm at right now: I find it so hard to tolerate that there is some sort of grand design or scheme at work here. First, I feel like raging against a G-d that is so narrow that he can find no better way than the loss of children to teach some lesson. Second, it makes me feel cursed or jinxed or plagued.
I'm trying to make my way toward the idea that bad stuff is relatively random: pain and grief and disease and war and loss aren't visited upon us to punish us, they are just out there and everyone gets smacked by something before they get off this ride.
Now, the choice is what we do with the experience. Do we let it turn us permanently bitter, do we let it isolate us from those we love, including G-d, or do we instead wrestle with the angel to find something to pull from the experience, some way we can be better in honor of what was lost. So that nothing gets wasted. A sort of emotional recycling? It's not easy, being green. ;)
That's all I got right now.
Meanwhile, I find myself slammed back to the beginning of my grieving process. I am short with everyone, including those I am really relying on right now like my sister-in-law and my Dad (who is pursuing the whole Ben Hur Moving Co. claim for us). I am also dragging my body through workout after workout, trying to strip the remaining reminder of the sons who aren't here. I like working out, but this is something different, some mania.
People keep telling me to nurture myself right now. I'm not sure how. When I slow down I get all weepy, and I've been all weepy for like 6 months now. I'm a little spent with all weepy.
Can you believe it has only been six months since the boys were born? It feels like another life time ago. So so strange.
More soon. -LJMK
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
