WAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Wow! So we are pregnant again. The four month anniversary of our boys' birth and death is this Sunday, and here I am harboring new life. I am excited, and feeling blessed, and at the same time feeling guilty and feeling very very suspicious. I feel guilty because I am afraid it is disrespectful to Pedro and Archer to be excited about this new life. I had a dream about being in a hotel room after I'd checked out, and the new inhabitant of the room was there and trying to unpack her bags, and I wouldn't leave and kept telling her that all the bags in the room were my bags not hers. I'm assuming the room is a metaphor for my womb, and I am refusing to let go of what already "checked out" in order to let the new inhabitant in. It's also possible that the room is the hospital room in Portland. I've often thought about someone new being in that room, our doctors and nurses working on new cases, and I hated the idea, mostly because I wanted to still be there, still be going strong, protecting Pedro and Archer and making everyone laugh. Gotta love pregnancy dreams.

I feel guilty because I worry it is too soon to be having another child. Guilty because I am afraid people will want to forgot Pedro and Archer, will want to stop saying their names, stop mourning their loss, will want to hurry us past all that as if they were a bad dream instead of our first children. That they will find it distasteful for us to continue to talk about them, to continue to count them as members of our family. That they will see it as morbid or obsessed. I know I need to not worry about anyone else, but it never quite works out that way, does it. Life doesn't compartmentalize like that.

I feel suspicious because I no longer believe that I can count on anything. When Bruno got his job offer, we didn't tell anyone until he stepped into the office for the first day of work; we were so afraid the opportunity might get taken away at the last second. And now, I am afraid to get excited, afraid to let myself talk about the future. I can't believe the waves of fear I've felt in only this first week of knowing. From the very beginning, I have been afraid I will miscarry. I have viewed every single thing as proof that this gift will be taken away from us. I read into every communication I have with the doctor, I spend way too much time on the internet googling symptoms. I am shocked at how my normally optimistic outlook has been taken over by this obsessive fear monger.

I will fight this OFM. I will not let it ruin this experience. If I have learned nothing else from losing my sons, it is that knowing it might happen, preparing for it to happen did nothing to mitigate the pain of their loss. So why waste time anticipating the worst. I will fight for the freedom of hope.

Thanksgiving

And again, the holiday itself was not nearly as worrisome as the anticipation of it. And even the anticipation wasn't too bad this time. More, it sort of felt surprising that Thanksgiving was here at all. Being in California, the weather isn't exactly giving us clues as to the season. And my internal clock stopped in July, so while the calender keeps marching on, I continue to remain bewildered as each new landmark arrives. High Holidays, birthdays, our due date and now Thanksgiving: none of them make sense internally. I wonder when I'll catch up.

So when Mom started querying about purchasing pre-brined turkeys and designing menus, I just nodded and let myself get pulled along. I offered to host, but I guess that is about all the preparation I did, because Mom and Dad showed up at our place yesterday with bags and bags of groceries, including the pre-brined turkey. It was pretty funny: they are real troupers.

And then, one step at a time, we created Thanksgiving. Mom and I pulled out the Cuisinart and made my grandmother's stuffing, while Bruno and Dad geeked out in the living room looking at potential new cars. We cleaned and trussed and stuffed the bird, and soon my olfactory senses were telling me it was Thanksgiving. We made two cranberry sauces: one plain for Dad and one with jalapeño for the rest of us. We left the aromas and the warmth of the kitchen to walk through the neighborhood, saying hello to the new friends and strangers along the way. We came back and played cards, stopping every half-hour to baste the bird. Then everyone got in on the action, as we simultaneously set the table, made the brussel sprouts and the sweet potatoes, took the bird out of the oven, made the gravy, carved the bird, discovered (as we do EVERY SINGLE YEAR) that we pulled it out too early and the meat, while juicy, was still pink, energetically debated the best way to handle the situation, and decided (as we do EVERY SINGLE YEAR) to carve it and then put the pieces back in the oven for ten minutes (under a tinfoil hood, to protect the moisture).

Eventually, everything made it to the table and was eaten. And surprisingly, I did find my way to being thankful.

The Burbs

I wonder why it is that I'm not more pissed off about living in The Burbs. When I mention to people, strangers at the gym, checkout folk at the Trader Joe's, that I've just moved here from NYC, they gasp, and exclaim, "Wow, that's culture shock." And with their mouths practically salivating, they ask, "How do you like...San Mateo??!?" And then they seem to lean back and wait for me to go on some diatribe about how dull this all is, or how much I miss Manhattan. I just can't get it up to satisfy them. I usually respond, "I'm not sure I know where I am yet". If they know my situation, they nod, knowingly and empathetically. If not, they look eager to hear the back-story. Sorry, friend, not today.

So why aren't I more pissed off? Could it be I am actually a closet burbie girl? That's Bruno's theory. As a gal who grew up living in the suburbs while attending high school in a big city, I'm familiar with all the jokes: What's the difference between a burbie girl and the trash? The trash gets taken out once a week. What's the difference between a burbie girl and a calendar? A calendar has dates. Could it be that I've finally come full circle and reached a moment in my life when I don't mind having a few fewer options, a little less calling to me. That right now I appreciate a place that doesn't demand that I have six careers and be part of two bookclubs at a minimum.

Let me tell you my big activity for the day: trying to fool my GPS. I am perpetually lost (metaphorically and physically, but right now let's stick to the physical), and so my Mom and Dad chipped in to get me a GPS. So I figure now I've got to leave the house a little. Today, I decide to take the thing out for a spin to the Walgreens and the bank (free-lancer: I have to deposit checks!). I've successfully made it to the Walgreens and now I'm asking it to take me to the nearest bank. And I decide, while I'm still safely within the realm of streets I kinda know, to see how lost this thing will let me get. It tells me to get in the right lane and prepare to turn right (how does one really prepare to turn right? Get one's moral compass in order?) And I, in a fit of brazenness, decide to turn left instead. It repeats it's previous command, and mid-sentence interrupts itself to condescend: recalculating. It sounds like it's annoyed with me, but I don't care. I take another wrong turn and then another. My mechanical friend looks down her computerized nose at me and sniffs: recalculating, recalculating, please proceed to highlighted route. I will not. I have been rudely thrust from my highlighted route, and I won't let some dashboard hussy pressure me into getting back on it now. Not until I'm good and ready, you hear me.

In the meanwhile, I'm driving up and down hills, past trees heavy with persimmons, through falling leaves, on streets with S L O W written across them in large letters. It's a nice difference, a nice reminder.

And after a bit, I decide I am in fact ready to rejoin the highlighted route. I still, after all, want to get to my destination. I let my mechanized friend guide me back onto the path (she sounds much more relaxed now that I'm following her lead), and moments later, I arrive.

A Normal Evening

Sitting around the bridge table I inherited from Nana, playing cards: Mom, Dad, me and Bruno. We're cracking jokes and being silly, high on the adrenaline of competition, not to mention sugar from the ice-cream. Mom and I dip our spoons directly into the chocolate sauce. Mom has it all over her teeth and we all poke fun at her sloppy mouth.

I have a whisper of guilt, but just a whisper: we haven't mentioned the boys tonight. And I decide it's alright. Looking at my father's smiling face (he's losing, and he's not even being grouchy about it), looking at my husband's relaxed brow, my Mom's chocolatey smile, I decide it's alright to be normal for once. To have an evening where our grief isn't center stage, the main event. Where eggshells are abandoned, crunched on, even. My father tells a story and I start to laugh, really laugh, and I could almost cry with how nice it feels to catch a glimpse of our New Normal.

Free Floating Anxiety

Walking around this afternoon with the sensation of waiting for the other shoe to drop. A shakiness inside, as if I'm cold. Deep sighs that don't end in relief. My stomach is full with not much in it, but my mouth, my tongue want something they can't identify. Chocolate milk, usually a fail-safe, doesn't do the trick.

Waiting for the mail to arrive, the in-box to fill, the cell to buzz with messages. Dreading the phone to ring: direct contact, yikes! Picking up the phone to call: no answers anywhere. I don't leave messages.

Nervous like I've forgotten something. Nervous like there is something I was supposed to have done, supposed to be doing right now. Another sigh.

I'm supposed to be raising my boys. That's what I'm supposed to be doing right now.

Bawling all over the Neighbor

Yesterday, I was pulling out of the driveway to head to a yoga class, in a pretty foul mood. It seems that from around 4-6 each day, if I am not actively involved in something, my mood takes a pretty nasty dive. I was attempting to pull myself out by going to yoga, but as I am backing the car out of the driveway, my neighbor and her two kids on their Razor scooters appear and flag me down. Oy. I'm in such a bad mood, and she seems so nice. This isn't going to end well, I'm thinking. I roll down the window, and then decide that is downright rude, so I turn off the car and hop out. She tells me she has been meaning to stop by, she's sorry she's been so remiss. I mumble something about how we've been busy setting up the place. She comes closer and tells me if there is anything I need I should definitely come by, she'd be happy to help with whatever. Oft. Here it comes. I can feel it. She's being too nice to me. You can't be this nice to me when I only have a fingernail grip on propriety. And...I'm bawling. Bawling all over the neighbor. Bawling in front of her two kids. I manage to squeak out that we just lost our twin sons at six months into the pregnancy, and that I'm sorry for being such a public mess. And G-d bless her, without missing a beat, she steps toward me, gives me a hug and starts crying too. Wow. She says I must be so strong, and she's sorry this happened, and simultaneous to the move too. She invites me to come on a walk with her and her kids in the park. I tell her that apparently I really need this yoga class, but I'd love to take a raincheck. Then she invites me to come over later that evening: she and another neighbor always drink wine and watch Dancing with the Stars on Mondays. And I hear myself saying yes.

And I do go over. I leave Bruno enjoying the house to himself. I walk out our front door clutching a Trader Joe's Really Cool Wine Find, and, one door down, I approach a new front door. I meet the other neighbor. I ask questions about the show. I drink wine. I make jokes. I tell stories, and some of them make us laugh, and some of them make us somber. I ask questions and listen to their stories. I hear neighborhood gossip. Juicy gossip. I am relaxed. I am having fun. I am invited back for next week. I am walking through a new door.

-L

Mondays

Arrggh. Monday's are hard. My buddy goes back to work, and I'm left with all my feelings and only mundane "we've moved" tasks to occupy myself, like setting up new health insurance, new doctors, figuring out where the grocery stores are and how to DRIVE to them (I'm having a serious battle with this whole car culture thing. I am incredibly challenged in the "sense of direction" department. Like brain damaged challenged.) Bleah.

OK, feeling sorry for myself. Today I successfully set up Bruno's direct deposit, our new health insurance and FSA and all that jazz, arranged for old Dr's offices to fax things to new Dr's offices, got in a tax estimate to our accountant (we dropped out of the whole estimated taxes thing for a bit there: this could hurt now), planned meals for the week, went to Costco and TJ's (and only got lost once and didn't even cry and rant and rave in the car; instead I sent Bruno a whithering text about our AWOL GPS while stopped at a red light). It is all domestic garbage, but someone's got to do it, and atleast I'm getting some stuff done instead of sitting with my face in a tub of ice-cream like I'd like to (OK, I did take an ice-cream pig-out break, but I ate it with a spoon, and someone said full-fat milk products are good for fertility.)

Ok, this is better. I've made myself smile, and hopefully made anyone else reading this smile too. I'm off to a yoga class.

Peace,
Lisa