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.

Kindness

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and
purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you every where
like a shadow or a friend.

(Naomi Shihab Nye, "Kindness")

One Month Out

It's been a month since that awful, silent ultrasound.

No, I'm not "over it" yet. In fact, you don't want to know how many times I snooze the alarm before dragging myself out of bed each day.

AND—I'm learning to say "and" instead of "but," which brushes off the truth of everything that came before—tonight I took a shower (the one I had no time for in the morning) and made a big glass of green juice. It has kale, broccoli, cucumber, celery, and apple in it, and it really is THAT green. It actually tastes pretty good (light and refreshing) for something that looks like it came out of a swamp. I made juice all the time when I was TTC and pregnant. Since then, I haven't done that or really any other healthy stuff.

The thing is, making these commitments to health again feels like I'm also committing to TTC again … which, of course, is true. The clock is still ticking and there's absolutely no time to waste. The idea of trying again, so soon, is what really feels overwhelming right now.

AND … all the same … here are the commitments I've made tonight:

• Cut out the physically unhealthy habits. That means all junk food of any kind, including the tasteless chips with only five ingredients.
• Add back as many healthy habits as I can without feeling too resentful. I'll get back on the prenatal vitamins, and I'm still looking forward to that kickboxing class. But no, the hippie deodorant can wait until CD1.
• Put together a list of follow-up questions about maternal testing for my OB. Our appointment today got rescheduled due to the snowstorm of the year half an inch of slush outside.
• Put together a list of TTC options and questions for my RE. 
• Take a close look at my finances, which will determine which of the TTC options are even possible now.

Oh, that last one is a killer. I've been avoiding it because (especially on top of the pregnancy loss) it's so depressing and scary. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go throw up that glass of juice now…

Dignity

"As you face loss, hurt, and conflict, invite a sense of your own dignity. Sit up, stand up tall. Have respect for yourself, and patience and compassion." (Jack Kornfield, A Lamp in the Darkness)

I like this quote, so I've been thinking about what it means to have dignity … and I'm honestly not sure. At what point does "invite a sense of your own dignity" become "pretend that you are fine when you are not"?

I'm pretty sure that dignity does not just equal decorum, which means conforming to all the rules of polite society. Dignity has more to do with honoring a person's worth, which is something inherent, I guess. But what does that mean in real life? After two pain pills and a sleepless night, these distinctions seem pretty obscure. They still seem important, though. I need some kind of guidelines to follow.

Staying in pajamas all day does not conform to the rules of decorum, but when is it actually undignified or unhealthy? Does it matter whether I've consciously chosen to be gentle with myself, or whether I've just given up? And wouldn't scolding myself for feeling defeated be undignified in its own right, if dignity requires patience and compassion like the quote above contends?

See? It's confusing. When I get caught up in these questions, my mind eventually drifts back to the days right after getting the bad news. I found myself responding to everything with an attitude of "So what, who cares?" I'd look at my unmade bed and think, "It doesn't matter." I’d look at work piling up and think, "I don’t care."

Then it felt very important to stop, even physically put a hand over my heart, and acknowledge, "I DO CARE."

No, these things can never mean as much as my baby's life. I may act on them (the work) or not (the bed). In any case, I cared enough to notice them.

The point is that the part of me that cares (to whatever small degree) about other things is still alive, and it wants (to whatever small degree) to stay that way. Maybe that is dignity.