The Only Way Out is Through

Numbness

The day of the PGS news, my mother asked what I was going to do that night. I answered, "Take my car to the shop. The 'Check Engine' light is on." (Oh, the glamorous child-free life!)

"You're taking this well," she said, skeptically.

Since then, I've heard several times, "I'm worried about you." How's a person supposed to respond? Don't worry, I'm fine? That's not true. I'll get by? That's true but not effective. Blunt though I'm afraid it was, I finally just told the truth: "I'm sorry that you're worrying, but those are your feelings, and I don't have control over them."

Someone else said, "How sad that this happened after you'd gotten your hopes up so high." It made me realize that, no, my hopes had not been high at all. This result was always a real possibility, not a surprise. But it was still a shock. No amount of mental preparation can ward off something that feels like a physical blow. The shock is physical too, like the temporary deafness that follows an explosion.


Anger

The anger wasn't about anything specific. It was certainly not about blame, just a wounded desire to be left alone, plus rage at any perceived trespass.

And there were plenty. Like last year, after my miscarriage, the whole world had to burst into full fucking bloom right after my awful news. Oh sure, go ahead and rub it in. Even better, let's add Easter—a holiday focused on new life, symbolized by EGGS—followed by Mother's Day.

Pretty, happy flowers!

I hate you.
(source)

Is it weird that I'm developing a special aversion to tulips? They're just so obnoxiously big and waxy, so uniformly perfect, like something assembled at the Happiness Factory.

Anyway, moving on. The anger comes and goes. The worst was this Saturday, when I was calmly driving to the grocery store and another driver did something pointlessly, casually rude. These days—being acutely aware that there's plenty of random pain to go around—I cannot stand people who purposely inflict more, however small the offense. I wanted to KILL. I suddenly, vividly wanted to ram this driver's car into a wall, reach in, wrap my hands around his neck, and squeeze until his eyeballs…

Of course, instead of ramming the car, I pulled over and called a friend who reminded me of some things that work for her when she's at wit's end. There were no real surprises, no magic. I knew all these strategies already (work it off with exercise, get outside, be around people even if you don't talk to them, watch a silly movie…). In fact, the comfort was in the familiarity.

It felt like waking up after a nightmare as a child, going to my parents' room, and hearing the litany: "Do you need to use the bathroom? Do you want a glass of water?" It was grounding. By the time we hung up, I felt fully awake.


Sadness

One night I went to an AA meeting. The speaker told a long story about how she'd abused her son while she was drinking and using. He was born addicted to methadone, and things went downhill from there (though she remembers little of it) until she got clean when he was 12. After her, other people spoke about their own parenting regrets and, in some cases, how close they and their children have become since those days.

Sitting there and listening was hard. I came close to walking out. You know: They can have kids they don't even want?! I can't deal with this right now! But yes, dealing with my own resentments—the one part of all this that I could control—was exactly what needed to happen. So I stayed put. Slowly, surrounded by these people who were facing their own difficult truths, my focus drifted inward toward something I'd been avoiding.

Underneath the armor of numbness and rage came an image of a box inside my chest. It was sturdy, with thick sides, sharp defensive corners that literally made my chest hurt sometimes, and a lid that was clenched firmly in place. But tentacles of my darkest, slimiest feelings were starting to curl out experimentally.

The time has come, I thought. OK, right here and now. Release the Kraken! Mentally and very deliberately, I removed the lid.

Whatever is here, let me feel it fully. The only way out is through.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It took me two full days to cry any tears at all, and then I cried over someone else's story in a book. It was written by the woman whose husband killed five Amish girls and wounded five more, then killed himself, in a Pennsylvania schoolhouse in 2006.

She wrote about how a group of Amish people came to the funeral she and her children held for her husband—the shooter! For religious reasons, the Amish are opposed to having their photographs taken. Yet they not only came to console her for HER loss, but they quietly put themselves between her family and the hordes of reporters, giving her the gift of privacy by sacrificing their own. And they weren't just impartial neighbors. That line of people standing shoulder to shoulder included the parents of EVERY ONE of the girls her husband had killed.

It took my breath away. It still does. Although our situations have nothing in common, I know we share at least this one essential thing: like them, I still want love, not bitterness, to win.

My Virtual Talismans

Have you ever bought baby items before being pregnant? Or set up a nursery before the third trimester? Does the idea of it feel more encouraging or terrifying, or both in equal parts? For the record, I don't believe there's any right or wrong answer; I'm just struck by all the layers of meaning behind these small decisions, which—for those who are effortlessly fertile—are barely conscious choices at all.

As Sadie from Invincible Spring says so beautifully in the first post linked above:

"For the longest time though, I never really allowed myself to imagine a a future where we would parent a living child, at least not actively or in too much detail. Items that so blatantly speak of babies used to hold a magical, dangerous allure for me, like mystical talismans the presence of which could somehow deter the very thing for which we longed. Like fire, I was almost afraid to touch."

And yet, fire brings light and heat, clarity and passion. I feel that allure, too. I feel the power in tangible symbols of "reckless, defiant hope," of determination and promise. Then I wonder, Isn't daring to believe that I'll use this object someday, somehow so presumptuous that I'm bound to be punished by fate?

No, it's not logical. We're waaaaay beyond that point. But I do have a logical compromise to this illogical dilemma: I collect virtual talismans.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I collect photos on my phone of child-related things I come across during the course of my days. And when I was briefly pregnant, I was even brave enough to go actively looking for child-related things to pin on a secret Pinterest board. I know. Living dangerously!

Of the snapshots on my phone, my favorite "happy snap" actually came from a friend, who sent it to me for good luck just before my first IUI. It stayed on my phone's background for a year:

This onesie, spotted in a store window on a walk after dinner, made me laugh:

You may recognize this picture from diaper-changing tables in a thousand public restrooms, but this one has special mojo because it came from the restroom near my RE's office:

This one requires a little background. A friend and I went on a one-day silent retreat held at a church that was connected to a school. We brought bag lunches and were told to find any corner on the grounds where we could take half an hour to eat. When it started raining, we ducked inside and stumbled into this cheerful classroom, where we silently, smilingly ate our lunch at the kid-sized table while flipping through picture books.

Here's one last example. It's a pop-up Mother's Day card from last year, showing Mama Fox and her family (right after I saw them in real life):

May the magical powers of my talismans bring us all good, fertile luck!

Always Somewhere Left to Go

I just heard this lovely song for the first time a few days ago, and it's been in my head since I got the good news yesterday:

Don't let the shadows bend you low

because somebody tells you so.

Believe in what you know you know:

there's always somewhere left to go...

"Always Somewhere"
by Krista Detor with Joe Crookston

More Motherhood Dreams

I'm going to do it. I'm going to dare to picture more things that I'd love to do someday with my someday-child.

The list below comes from a journal that I kept for the baby during my short pregnancy last year (which is why it's all addressed to "you"). That journal has been sitting unopened since last March, until this week.

Things I want to do with you:

• Welcome you and your family back home to Thanksgiving dinner when you're all grown. Yes, this is the first thing that comes to mind—you as an adult. I wonder who you will become.
• Enjoy you as a baby, too. Feel your fingers close around mine, and watch your legs kick when you laugh. Rock and feed you in the stillness of the night.
• Share the people I love with you, and you with them. Watch your grandpa sit you on his lap and tell you stories. Make Christmas cookies with your grandma. Take you to play with my best friend's daughter. She's already in school now (see, it took me a while to have you!), but I know she will be patient and kind.
• Savor the ordinary things that I wondered if we'd ever do together, like going to the petting farm nearby. For years, I've driven by it several times a week, watched happy families going in and out, and never stopped.
• See your face light up when you touch the softness of an animal's fur, and teach you to care for small things that are dependent on you.
• See your confidence grow as you learn to walk, tie your shoes, and ride a bike. Bite my tongue and smile when you tell me, "Mom, I can do it myself!"
• Give you my favorite books. Happily read you that one special book 500 times.
• Take you to my favorite places, from the city park two blocks away to the national parks I've loved. We'll go on walks, and you can sit on my shoulders when you get tired.
• Do seasonal things: sniff the spring flowers, turn cartwheels in the summer grass, chase fireflies, go swinging at the playground and swimming in the pool, jump in piles of autumn leaves, carve pumpkins at the park, go ice skating and sledding, and catch snowflakes on our tongues.
• Do creative things: color on the sidewalk with chalk, put your art up on the fridge, build forts inside the house on a rainy day, and sing silly songs in the car. I'll clap at school plays and when you master playing "Three Blind Mice" on the recorder.
• Talk casually about the most important things while we do household chores or ride in the car side by side.
• Listen while you chatter about a new interest that excites you—something I'd know absolutely nothing about, if it weren't for you.

(source)

The Daughter of My Dreams

This week I've been reading Hyperbole and a Half: Unfortunate Situations, Flawed Coping Mechanisms, Mayhem, and Other Things that Happened.

Isn't that an awesome title? The part about "flawed coping mechanisms" can't help reminding me, though, of my last post about habits of avoidance.

I've been taking it for granted that my desire to be a parent was obvious. Otherwise, why be here at all, right? But I'm feeling the need to clarify: the avoidance that I battle sometimes is NOT a sign of losing interest in motherhood, or of feeling that the path there won't be worthwhile. It's just my own type of "flawed coping mechanism." After all, it gets hard to stay focused on things that hurt.

Years ago, I did do all the "right" TTC things: kept up a positive attitude, did fertility yoga, exercised... but not too much. I ate a low-sugar, low-dairy diet … but not dairy-free, because that one study suggested that some whole-fat dairy might be a good thing. I took all the CCRM-recommended supplements (still do). And I carefully visualized things I hoped were happening each cycle: healthy eggs growing, embryos implanting.

I always struggled, though, when it came to picturing a baby. Was that allowed? I wanted to daydream about it, of course, but hesitated to get attached to any one image of gender, age, or race. I knew from the start that odds were bad, so I needed to stay open to fostering and adoption. Who knew what my child would really look like? It wasn't as simple as picturing my eyes and my husband's chin combined.

So I stopped picturing anything. Eventually, I stopped bothering with the myriad of diet and lifestyle rules, too, and just did the best I could, which is pretty good on most days. But sometimes I need the motivation that comes from actually picturing my dreams.

The image came when I was talking with a counselor two years ago. She was saying something about welcoming the child who was meant to be when the time was right ... and although I don't believe in "meant to be," the part about welcoming that child opened something in my heart.

In an instant, there it was: an image of me standing on the sidelines of a soccer game with a little girl right in front of me. Maybe ten years old, mousy brown hair, lean body tense with concentration. My hands resting on her shoulders.

Maybe it wasn't a soccer game but field hockey or some other sport instead. It doesn't matter; I know nothing about sports. And that's kind of the point. I was there for my daughter.

Even today, two years later, I can't picture this scene without crying. (There's not much that makes me cry anymore.) It's not the image of the girl that touches me, because it's not really about this particular dream-child. It's the way my hands rest lightly on her shoulders.

Is she tense because something happened and she ran back to the sidelines for comfort and support? Is she tense because her whole focus is on getting back into the game? Either way, I'm there right behind her, hands ready both to welcome and, when needed, to let go.

I don't know why I haven't let myself picture even this one vision lately. (OK, yes, I do: fear of more disappointment.) But I need to let it back in, to allow myself—in the midst of worrying about the what, when, and where of treatments—this one lovely reminder of why.

Breaks

Spring is coming, which means that my commute to the far-away clinic will soon be safe again. In fact, it may be safe now. The worst of the snowy weather should be over, so I thought about going back this month. But there were some financial ... uh, to put it mildly, issues. Anyway, between the snow, finances, and family crisis, I will have missed three months by the time I get started again.

This winter hibernation is one of several breaks I've had since starting TTC. They've been both required (after the miscarriage) and semi-optional (after the breakup with my ex). I've missed a few months for abnormal cycles. There were also months that passed by when I was moving, researching protocols and clinics, doing the paperwork and tests required to change docs…

I know that lots of women find it refreshing and healing to take breaks. For me, what they've mainly been is distracting. And distraction can be either good or bad. It's a short-term relief when I'm feeling overwhelmed, and there's nothing wrong with that. But distraction is no substitute for doing something meaningful, even if—like TTC—it becomes very hard.

When things aren't working out, I have to guard against letting discouragement turn into doubt (Do I even want to be a parent, if thinking about it just fills me with pain now?), apathy (Why bother, when this will just fail, too?), and short-sighted indulgences (So why not take another month off from the clinic?). I've even had to stage an intervention or two to make myself face reality, to get out of that comfy but unproductive habit of distraction and denial.

Being stuck in limbo isn't really comfortable, not deep down. There's the sense of unease, vague but always present. There's the hesitation to make any plans, and the frustration of waiting. There's tension and guilt when short-term pleasures (eating junk food today while promising to make the tough decisions tomorrow, or maybe the day after that...) threaten deeply held long-term goals.

What I'm avoiding, even more than the daily work of TTC, is the ending. The ending is what scares me.

In an online forum this week, another woman put my thoughts about it into words. She wrote that leaving IVF in her arsenal, unused, gave her emotional protection. I feel the same way about my upcoming final cycle(s) and PGS. It's comforting to have these final options, but now that the time has come to USE them, use them NOW when every month counts ... there's a part of me that still hesitates. And there's another part that has to (lovingly) stand behind her and push.

What's your attitude toward breaks from TTC? How have you managed to make them refreshing, or at least not too disruptive?

Resolution

New Year's Eve was always one of my favorite holidays. As a child, I thought it was awesome to stay up late, of course. But it wasn't just party time. As I sat on the couch watching the Times Square events on TV, I'd earnestly write out all my goals for the coming year. What serious business was on my 12-year-old mind? It's long forgotten now.

That routine didn't change much in the next decades. As a teenager and young adult, I still saw New Year's Eve more as a chance to reflect than as a chance to party. (Fourth of July was the time for partying, duh.)

Then there were years, the last few years, when I didn't make any resolutions at all. My goal was to endure. However I managed to do that, pretty much, would be OK.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This year I'm aiming for the middle ground: no perfectionistic lists, and also no giving up. My single resolution is to have resolution. As in:

Resolution (n.): tenacity, firmness, determination, steadfastness, perseverance, purpose, resolve.

So I got a book from the library called This Year I Will…, which has been helpful. Author M.J. Ryan says:

"Because it takes work, often a lot of work and sacrifice, you have to really want to bring something into being. Deeply, truly, honestly ... Joan Borysenko, Ph.D., encourages us to go beneath the surface to find what she calls our soul resolutions, which are 'based on saying yes to your deepest longings ... Goals rooted in what really matters are far easier to keep.'"

Ryan also recommends making the goals "SMART"—specific, measurable, achievable, relevant, and time-bound—then gives many tips for sustaining motivation.

My specific goal is to get up an hour earlier each morning and walk on my elliptical machine, at least through January (and then I can recommit). Officially, I'll do it for a minimum of just 10 minutes a day. But getting out of bed is the worst part.

Once I get up, get prepared, and get on the machine, the hardest part is over and 10 minutes easily turn into 20, 30, or more. Sometimes I plod along at a steady pace with my nose in a book. Sometimes I bust out the silly dance moves. Often I turn up the music and run flat-out, like something awful is right on my heels.

Even 30 minutes a day is not a big goal. It feels big to me, though, and sometimes a grand (even foolishly so) gesture is just what I need to shake things up.

I know that I need—on the soul level that Ryan talks about—the power that will come from doing this one thing every day, not just in spite of but because of the fact that my energy has been so catastrophically low.

Yes, I really want this goal. I really need the life energy and the will.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I've felt increasingly beaten down by the TTC waiting and now—worst of all—the relentless bad news about people I dearly love and can't seem to help. It feels awful. Clinging to anything I can control and "fix," I've wondered which parts of the awfulness might be within my control, a product of clouded perceptions or mental story lines...

So much to analyze. Really, though, how much does it matter? In her book, Ryan says this:

"Over the past forty years, I have gathered dozens of theories of why I am the way I am ... But to change something in myself, to bring something new into being, I need to engage a different part of my brain—my right brain, where innovative thinking happens. The right brain is future oriented. It's where our aspirations, our dreams, our longings reside...

In preparing for the change you're about to make, allow your right brain to help you. All it takes is switching from 'why' thinking to 'what could be possible' thinking. Ask 'what' questions rather than 'why' questions: 'What can I do to have more balance in my life today?' rather than 'Why am I a workaholic?' ... Do you notice the difference in the two choices? One leads to rumination and stuckness; the other to creative possibilities and forward momentum."

Frankly, talk about innovation, aspiration, and longing makes me tired. I'm concerned most with today. But even in that small context, I do get what Ryan is saying about staying stuck in analysis vs. building some kind of forward momentum. My exercise resolution is all about the latter. I'll try to articulate why:

• Over time, it may lift my mood and energy.
• It trains me to face whatever is here (circumstances and my reactions to them) with mindfulness.
• It renews my commitment to live consciously in this world, despite its messiness and my own deep reluctance some days.
• It transforms my default state of defended numbness into anger and sorrow, which at least feel alive.
• It makes me breathe, sweat, and let energy flow in and out. When I let things happen, resistance melts away.
• It reminds me that weak muscles (literally and metaphorically) are strengthened by practice, not by rest.
• It builds my courage to do other difficult things.
• Doing it first thing in the morning puts priority on my mental and physical health. First responders like EMTs are taught that, before they can be most useful to others at an accident site, they need to ensure their own safety. I owe the same thing to myself and those I love.
• Doing it every single day builds consistency and discipline. If I make exceptions for a poor night's sleep or a busy day ahead, etc., every single day will end up as an exception. Instead:

It Hurts Because It Matters

As mentioned before: after some pretty spectacular trial and error, I'm no longer a fan of the "hurry-and-get-over-it" approach to difficult emotions. However well-intentioned it may be, denial simply doesn't work.

Here's what I've come to believe instead:

To put it even more simply:

It mattered.

----------

There comes a time to honor what matters in the only way I can: by offering all that's left of myself, by bowing to all that's here.

Going All-In

As the gamblers say, I'm all-in now.

A couple of weeks ago, I made the biggest purchase of my life: a package that includes up to two fresh IVF cycles and two FETs. I went for the whole package because my odds are grim, and it's discounted almost 50% this way.

That's me: weighing the odds and trying to be careful. I am SO not a gambler. In fact, the most money I've ever gambled before was $2 on the nickel slots in Las Vegas. Yeah, seriously. It was a family trip years ago, and my 80-year-old grandmother spent more than I did. Throw in a few raffle tickets over the years, and there you have my whole financial risk-taking profile.

So lately I've been waking up with a start at 3 AM, panicked over the numbers in my head. No, I'm not on the verge of moving into a cardboard box. I just have such minimalist habits that, first of all, numbers this big scare me on a gut level.

Source: Baby Dust Boutique

Some background: in my last apartment, where my partner and I lived for years, my half of the rent was $200/month. (The place was basic and we did major work on it.) I've lived without electricity or plumbing. Never had cable. Kept my last car for 15 years. I've even been cutting my own hair since the unplanned DIY hack job haircut in February has gotten so many compliments (which cracks me up, by the way).

To a point, of course, living simply is great. It's enabled me to have the options I do. But I don't want to cross the line into a stinginess that spreads beyond my wallet into my whole personality. I want it to be about honoring my priorities, not about pride or self-denial. You know? As cold as it is to go around bragging, "Look how much I have," it can be equally cold to go around bragging, "Look how little I need from the world."

Pride and self-denial are tempting when I'm feeling especially bitter. Didn't get something I really wanted? "Well, I've lived without it this long already, so I'll get by. Who cares? There's not much point in caring anyway." What a joyless way to live.

-----

A few months ago, I had lunch with a relative I don't see often but have always especially loved. I finally told her about TTC, being pregnant, the whole story. It's not like I had meant to keep it a secret. It's just that TTC is usually a private process ... and who knew it was going to take YEARS? But now that it has indeed taken years, it's starting to feel more and more like a wedge between me and the people who don't know. They ask what I've been doing lately, and what can I say? Nothing much that feels authentic.

Maybe I also waited to tell this aunt because she's childless by choice. I knew she'd be supportive in the end, but didn't know if she'd really "get it." Oh, was I wrong. I started explaining about in-vitro fertilization and how it all works, and she interrupted to ask, "Oh, you mean IVF?" She knew all about it. And when I talked about wishing I could go to a certain clinic with very high success rates (and very high prices), she basically said, "You only live once, and this is important to you. Go for it!"

I stuck with my old clinic in the end, but I loved her attitude. This is a woman who lives in a small cabin in the woods and knows all about simplicity. Yet she was the one whose warm heart made me rethink what I really want to put first: frugality for its own sake, or generosity in service of my values (as Carolyn Hax describes so well), even when it scares me a bit. Talking with my aunt reminded me that I can never truly be self-contained, even if I try. And why try? There are things I can give to and things that I need from this world―not lots of material things, true, but sincere relationships, expansiveness, hope.

-----

So I'm taking a leap of faith. Meanwhile, I'm realizing that what keeps me up at night is not so much worries about the future―although they're certainly there, too―but brooding about the past and how my IVF money "should" have been spent. It should have helped me buy a home. I should be in that home right now with my partner and our child. Then I wake up all the way and look around. And here I am.

I heard someone say once that acceptance means giving up all hope of a better past. Clearly, there's no other choice, is there? So count me in. Whatever the outcome, count me in all the way.

The Law of Attraction (Part 2)

Last year, after a dismal RE meeting and five hours in traffic, I came home to find that my whole garden was dying. It was a big patio garden, and everything (all but two or three plants in the corners) had caught some kind of awful, fast-spreading disease. I still don't know quite what it was. I just call it The Plague.

Hearing this story, a woman I knew suggested I might be putting out negative vibes that were attracting these problems into my life, a la The Secret. Maybe my identity was getting wrapped around this idea that "bad things happen to me."

Let's back up a little. This garden was really special to me. I didn't know much about plants, since I'd always lived in apartments where gardens weren't allowed, or where (if they were possible) it seemed silly to make that investment when my time there would be short. But last year I'd had enough of waiting. Tending the garden was tending the part of myself that needed to keep believing in the possibility of growth. And the garden wasn't modest; it was BIG, lush, beautiful. The woman's suggestion that I killed it with my low expectations, negative thoughts, bad-luck cooties, or whatever, really shocked and pissed me off.

But she was right about one thing: my identity WAS getting wrapped around the idea that bad things happen to me. And it was making me more depressed. What if I hadn't been quite so depressed? If my powers of observation had been better, if I'd had more energy, might I have been more concerned about the one plant that looked sick before the others? Then maybe followed an instinct to research what was wrong, and taken action before the infection suddenly took off and spread? I think so. I think what killed my garden was 90% disease, combined with 10% ignorance and inaction.

God grant me the
Serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

Courage to change the things I can,

And wisdom to know the difference.

When I think about what I can and can't control, the garden comes to mind, along with a story from a few years earlier. I was trying mountain biking for the first time. "Focus on where you want to go," my boyfriend at the time suggested. "Don’t focus on the rocks and ruts in the trail, or you'll think Oh no, a rock, and you'll freeze up and stare at that rock, and sure enough you'll hit it." He was exactly right. Not that I never wiped out when focusing on the route I wanted to take, but focusing on the obstacles usually made my fear, and therefore my clumsiness, worse.

To sum it up, I don't think special "Laws" are required to explain what's going on. I just function best when focusing outward on the situation itself, when my mind isn't clouded by fear, despair, or other internal reactions. OK, so how do we get to that state? I'll let you know when I figure it all out. (Don't hold your breath.) What I've learned so far is the importance of trying to find balance—not grasping after overly specific outcomes (I'd like that BMW in blue, please.), while still allowing enough healthy desire and will to keep moving ahead.

Breathless

On the verge of taking what may be the biggest risk of my life so far, while catching up on blog news, I came across a quote that All My Pretty Ones posted weeks ago. It took my breath away, literally. As in, after reading the last lines, I just sat there not breathing, tears streaming down my face.

Please allow me to reprint the whole thing here:

"Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could."
― Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum LP

Facing the Wave

On a summer evening in 1958, three fishing boats anchored in southeastern Alaska's remote Lituya Bay. All was quiet ... except for a cloud of birds that suddenly left around 9 PM, in such a hurry that some of them crashed into one trawler's rigging and fell to its deck dead. The couple on board watched nervously. An hour later, as they and the other families were settling in for the night on their boats, the earthquake hit.

It was a huge quake, with a magnitude over 8.0. It caused mayhem for a hundred miles up and down the coast. To the north, an island dropped 25 feet into the water. Nearby, a mountain rose 50 feet into the air. Geysers erupted. But the strangest scene took place in Lituya Bay, where landslides poured down from the steep glacial peaks that surrounded the water. In the twilight, the families on their boats could see the mountains "twisting" at the head of the bay. And they could see what came next: the largest wave ever recorded on earth.

It was basically a giant splash, which sucked trees and dirt—everything down to bare bedrock—off the closest hillsides to a height above 1,720 feet. A wall of water hundreds of feet high filled the bay from side to side. By the time it reached the mouth, seven miles later, the wave was still almost 100 feet high.

Wave Damage
(source)

The truly amazing part is that two of the three families in the bay that night survived. They were the ones who turned their boats into the wave and faced it head on, as did another fisherman who rode out a similar ("only" 490-foot) wave there in 1936. Not a trace was ever found of the other couple, who had turned toward the mouth of the bay. Not one splinter from their boat remained.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Why tell this story here? It's haunted my nightmares since I first heard it several years ago. But in the last few weeks, when I've been feeling especially overwhelmed, it's been stuck in my waking mind a lot too, and it's left behind this bit of guidance that seems strangely relevant: whatever happens, face into the wave.

Don't try to escape; the only thing worse than having something dreadful in front of you is having it gaining on you from behind, in your blind spot. Don't sit there in denial; pull up your anchor chain and deal with it head on.

Melodramatic? Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. I wish I could list all the concrete, practical things I've been doing instead to achieve my motherhood goals (and there have been some things), but the fact is that what feels like the hardest work lately has been mostly psychological. I know that this next try will most likely be my last. On one hand, I just need it to be over, one way or another. On the other hand, the finality is what makes me want to keep delaying and turning away.

Because I'm leaning toward the full "throw the book at it" approach with this next cycle, it will take a full commitment. So I'm trying to swing the boat around and brace myself: working twice as many hours to help slow the financial leaks, keeping up some exercise (as much for courage and energy as to get "in shape"), etc. So I haven't been around here as much. But please know that I'm still reading your comments and blogs and cheering you on, and appreciating your company.

Keep Going

OK, Sir Winston, I'm still going ... through other people's blogs at 3:20 in the morning. Will I ever sleep normally again?

What Doesn't Kill You

Speaking of facing grief with dignity and NOT the standard decorum...

I just listened again to comedian Tig Notaro's mostly ad-libbed show from last summer—just days after her cancer diagnosis. It took my breath away. Here's how this article describes it:

"A frightfully nervous Tig Notaro stood just offstage at the Los Angeles club Largo while Ed Helms introduced her. The audience of 300 and Miss Notaro's fellow performers that August night had no idea what she was about to do. They had no idea she was going to address the trauma and pain that had been the past few months of her life, or relay the bad news she had received just days earlier. They had no idea she was about to perform the bravest set they had ever seen..."

The whole recording is available on iTunes. A free excerpt of it is here.