Contraction / Expansion

Today I came across this post, which (like so much of Dr. Cacciatore's writing) was thought-provoking and, well, validating. She sees grief not as a state to be escaped or fixed, but as a natural—even "evolutionary"—process. I'm not at that stage of acceptance. Still, her words give me hope:

"Contraction only will leave us unmovable – paralyzed with pain for the duration of our lives, fearful of love and life and terrified of more pain. This is a kind of Death for us. Expansion only is a futile endeavor as well, mostly because it is a ruse. It is often a state of self-delusion and inauthenticity that will leave us unsatisfied with our identity, soul-less, and worn out from persistent pretense. The natural course of grief, as in nature, is contraction-expansion-contraction-expansion-contraction-expansion..."

Almost like birth.

"This is the wisdom of the Universe, the wisdom of your body, the wisdom of your heart.

Trust it, and it will save you."

Letting Go of What I Can

A few weeks ago, I spent a weekend camping at a quiet spot along the river. Nature is my favorite anesthetic. This trip would be like a mini-retreat—unbroken time to make peace with some painful things, while sedated by sunlight, woodsmoke, and the sound of chirping birds.

It was lovely. BUT … how does a person make peace with letting go of such a deep desire?? Not in one weekend.

Anyway, it had to start with looking closely at the situation, meaning my finances and options for parenthood (which are closely related, of course).  Lots of hours and anxiety spent there. Then I sat by the river, just listening for any guidance that would come.

I didn't reach a decision about whether to keep trying or not. What I DID do is let go of acting now on two options, using donor eggs or pursuing private adoption. Those options aren't as time-sensitive as TTC with my own eggs, but I know that choosing not to act on them now makes it less likely that I'll have the resources to do so later. And it feels relatively OK.

Why? Long story short, when I think about those options, I feel myself contract. I sense my focus shift inward from the child to my own anxiety about making this happen.

There are two points I want to make here. One is that others' experiences may be different; those options may feel like the most natural ones for them, and of course I wish them well.

Also, no, I'm not signing on to the belief that "If things are meant to be, then they will be." My beliefs are more along the lines of "It is what it is." Can't argue with that, right?

Sometimes a fight is required. When it has to stop is when I feel momentum tempt me into drifting past limits I set years ago, or when I feel myself shutting down, diverting all energy into struggling even harder to swim upstream.

(source)

Waiting

I love this time of year.

Many people find it hard to love, with its mud and mess, with their impatience to be done with winter already, and what's taking so long?? But other than June, with its maximum daylight and near-maximum heat, I like late winter / very early spring the best.

A friend and I just talked about spring. How, as lovely as it is, it can be a bit overwhelming. We're both introverts who like to take transitions slowly when we can. In the springtime, there's this sudden explosion of flowers and people outside swarming the parks. "Sometimes I want to tell springtime to just calm down a little," she laughed, and I laughed back, surprised and delighted that someone else feels this same way.

For me, a big part of the issue is that the fertility of spring sometimes makes me feel more barren in contrast. There are babies in strollers. Lambs with their mothers out in the fields. Ducklings on ponds. There's no escape from it all.

But February and March ... that's where I fit right now, in that resting space between seasons.

Even though we've had two more snowstorms during this cycle, they didn't interfere with my drives to the clinic, luckily. I can feel the sun gaining strength, this long and grinding winter releasing its hold so that something new can take its place.

Resting and waiting. Holding my breath. That's where I am now, and all of nature seems to be waiting with me.

What's ahead?

In TTC news, the egg did fertilize. A nurse from the clinic called the morning after retrieval, and from this point through Day 5, no news is good news. Each day the phone doesn't ring by 5 PM, I sigh with relief. Today, Day 3, I'm hoping that the embryo is 6 or 8 cells and growing, healthy and strong.

Wordless Wednesday

My New Job

Apparently I now have a new job: robin wrangler / baby (bird) sitter.

It started yesterday, when I was working from home and kept hearing loud chirps from the patio. The babies are noisy today, I thought. They're growing up, getting more active. A few hours later, I finally got a moment free to peek outside. A little "bird break" would be nice. Smiling, I pulled the curtain back.

Oh … NO! Was that a chick on the GROUND? Had it been the one making those loud chirps for HOURS now?

It wasn't chirping anymore. It was exhausted—breathing hard and lying prone, its chin on the ground. It might be injured, too. It had only some early feathers on its wings, with down underneath, and it was nowhere near ready to take off on its own.

I worried that my presence would be terrifying, adding fear on top of pain. But the chick didn't move as I came near. It didn't even look up as I pulled a potted plant closer to help block the sun. The temperature was in the 90s and climbing. It was predicted to be the hottest day of the year so far. My God, I thought, horrified, I'm too late!

No, not yet. Can't give up yet. I ran to the computer for help. The websites said to put nestlings back in the nest if possible. They said that the old warning about mother birds rejecting chicks that had been touched by humans was a myth. The problem was that I couldn't reach the nest. Also, at that point, I didn't think the chick would survive without some extra help.

But who could give us extra help? Who would even want to bother? It was just a robin, after all, not an eagle or something. Robins are everywhere. Less than 25% make it through their first year. Who would care about this ONE?

But I called a bird rehab place, and the woman there was wonderful, kind and calm. Birds twittered softly in the background as she talked me through some steps: "First, you'll want to get him off the ground. See if you can put him in some kind of basket and hang it up near the nest. That way he'll be safe from predators, and the parents will be more likely to feed him. He's dehydrated by now. Do you have any fruit, like blueberries or strawberries? Cut it into little pieces and mix in a few drops of water..."

I ran around, found a basket, and nestled him into it. Oh how fragile he was … and yes, I was thinking of this chick as "him" by now. I tied the basket to a nail that was six feet up the post. That was as close as I could get him to the nest without hanging him right in the sunlight. Then I hurried to a nearby store for berries.

By the time I got back, he was barely breathing. He did not want to eat. As I touched his beak with the spoon, he just closed his eyes and cringed. His body language pleaded Let me die in peace. And maybe that would be the kindest thing to do.

It was a logical idea. I was able to have logical ideas ... but let me tell you, my cheeks were hot with tears of outrage and grief, for the chick whose life was now in my unsteady hands, for my own baby's life that ended even before birth, for all the pain we share. If this bird dies like this, I thought, I quit. I resign. I am DONE. (Whatever that means.)

But not yet. I called the lovely bird lady again, afraid that she would say it was hopeless now—we tried, but not all babies survive, and it's time to move on. She didn't say that. Calmly, kindly, she said, "You may still be able to pull him out of it. Squeeze the bottom of his beak…"

I did what she suggested, opening his beak with my hands. At first I tried to keep him in his basket, not wanting to hold him, trying not to disturb him any more than necessary or (I admit) get any more attached than I already was. But he tumbled into my lap. His weight and warmth were a shock. Cradling him in my palms, I took in every detail of this little life—the squishy feel of his belly where there were no feathers yet, the skin almost translucent. His tiny feet, tucked close. The beating of his heart. His dark eyes staring into mine.

I held him in shaking hands. I was shaking everywhere, my legs jittering up and down like they've done only one other time in my life, right after a car accident. I prayed, Please, let me help, not hurt. Finally, his beak opened enough for me to get some blueberries down. I managed just a few drops, then nestled him back into his basket.

Then I sat, in shock, in a chair. He sat, in shock, in his basket. We rested. Five minutes passed.

Somewhere a bird was chirping. I looked up, and a huge smile spread across my face. He was chirping! Softly first, then louder, more insistent. He was alive. Not only that, but he WANTED to live!

I know, I know. It was just a bird. And I just gave him some food. But it felt like I'd given someone CPR and watched him come back to life. It felt miraculous.

I wish I could say that the story ended there, happily ever after. In fact, it took three more spoon feedings, a stepladder rental, and a whole afternoon off from work before that poor chick was returned home to his nest. It was quite a day.

Even that was not the end. I woke up this morning to more chirping and another chick (or maybe the same one) on the ground again. This time I knew better what to do. I looked at him—a forlorn little lump of fluff in my ivy—and said, "Sweetie, we've got to stop meeting this way!"

Then I took everything off my desk. (Why not? It's not like I'm getting any work done.) I dragged that heavy desk outside, put a step stool on top of it, and built the chicks a safety net out of fabric scraps and thumbtacks. I had to adjust it until it was acceptable to Mom and Dad. And I put an old egg-crate mattress down on the desk and the ground, just in case. My entire patio is now a giant robin's nest.

The last time I peeked out, there were still three chicks up there, begging and jostling each other for food. It looks like my work is done … for today. I hope everyone stays safe tomorrow.

Blooms

Apparently my garden karma isn't totally hopeless after all. There was a nice surprise waiting for me in the yard yesterday: the forget-me-nots are starting to bloom.

Not only that, but a new generation of robins is using the old nest. Mama's been sitting on it for weeks—much longer, it seemed, than last time around. I was starting to wonder if the eggs were OK (projecting my own issues onto wildlife, no doubt) ... and then yes, I saw and heard two chicks for the first time tonight. :)

Empty Nest

After a week of watching The Bird Channel, I'm an "empty nester" now.

I did get to witness the first flight of one of the chicks, while its sibling (who had left the nest just minutes earlier) flapped around on the ground below, trying to figure out how to get airborne again.

Originally, there was a third chick. Their sizes varied a lot, probably due to hatching order. I couldn't even see the smallest one until the day after I spotted the first two. A few days later, it disappeared. I don't know what happened, but it clearly didn't survive.

That knowledge made me panicky at first (Can't I DO something?), then sad and shocked, then surprised at my own shock. Did I really think that wild animals would be exempt from losing their babies, too? Of course not. I've just never seen it right on my own patio before.

Rest in peace, little Number Three. Have a good life, Numbers One and Two. Thanks for sharing your childhood with me!

Do I dare?

Backyard Babies

Although I didn't look forward to spring this year, it's been winning me over anyway. Seeing animal families with their little ones doesn't sadden me the way that seeing human babies can.

First came the lambs and ducklings. Then, driving through the forest one night, I rounded a bend a quarter-mile from home and saw two pairs of glowing eyes. One was much lower than the other. A red fox and her kit! The kit was very small, around the size of my cat. While Mom finished crossing the road and disappeared into the brush, the little one wandered toward my headlights in confusion. It was less than ten feet away and coming even closer! For a moment, I think we were both hypnotized. I wanted to sit there and watch, even to get out and touch … but, knowing better, I drove off before the fox could get too close to my wheels or another car could come.

The latest babies to show up are three robins in a nest on my patio.

the nest

They're chirping as I write this! I first saw them this week, and it's amazing how much they've grown in just a few days. Or maybe it's not so amazing when you consider all the feedings (about 5 an hour) they get. Their parents are constantly busy, hopping through the grass and plucking out worms.

Dad

Mom

At first, the adults were very suspicious of me. Getting the first photos took some patient, sweaty, mosquito-bitten waiting. Now the adults don't hesitate to come feed the chicks when I'm sitting right there outside. They're learning to read my body language, and I'm learning their language, too: the "peek-tut" call that signifies a possible low-grade threat ("That lady with the camera is out here AGAIN!"), versus the alarm call that means they will bunker down somewhere safe for a while.

Watching these little dramas close-up has really been a treat. Since they won't be here long (two weeks from hatching to fledging), I've rearranged my living room to get a better view. It reminds me of how, when I was working long hours in a cubicle a few years ago, I got briefly obsessed with birdcams. They were a glimpse of nature in an otherwise nature-less world.

Now there's a real-life nest literally ten feet from my back door. I can catch all the details that make up a good story: Mom scolding Dad for displacing her before she's done with a feeding, the little ones snapping their beaks at a bee that comes too close, the little ones testing their wings. If I'm very lucky, maybe I'll be here to witness their first flight. It won’t be long.

little ones

not-so-little ones

That Did Not Just Happen

The forget-me-not seeds that I planted last month in memory of my baby took a while to come up, but since then they've grown well.  Doting on them has become a nice part of my routine. Every day, I go outside to check their soil for moisture, pluck and fuss over them, and spend a few moments thinking of Baby P.

The other day, I noticed that they were looking a little waterlogged after a rain. They're in a small pot that's wedged tightly inside another (ornamental) pot. When I picked up the outer pot to pour out the water that had settled in the bottom, most of the dirt and plants suddenly spilled out too, dumping the whole mess onto the ground and flinging muddy splatters everywhere—onto my fence, my jeans, and into the cup of tea I'd brought outside to enjoy. It was a spectacular mess. I just stood there staring at it. Then I said, out loud, two times, "That did not just happen. THAT did NOT just happen!"

Because these plants had special meaning to me, it was hard not to attach way too much meaning to the accident, too. Of all the pots on my patio, I had to mess up this one? Was it a reflection of my mothering skills (or lack thereof)?? This wasn't a little wilting on a hot day, because I'd watered them late; this was SPLAT, good-bye, the whole lot dumped unceremoniously upside-down. What could I do? I scooped the seedlings back into their pot, tried to sew their tiny roots back into the soil, then gave them a blessing and a well-deserved apology.

The outcome? So far, I've been relieved to see that they seem to be recovering just fine. "It's OK," I can almost hear them saying when I come outside to dote and fuss over them now. "We're growing up. Maybe you can, you know, back off a little and just let us do our own thing!"

Wordless Wednesday

April is the Cruellest Month

Since a friend quoted that line recently, I've had it on my mind … and had to roll my eyes at my own melodrama.

Seriously, though, this April has been hard. I would have been more than halfway to full-term now, and everywhere there are reminders of what should have been. This crazy profusion of sunlight and flowers and babies outside in strollers—lovely as it is—is also jarring. It makes me feel out of step with the world.

No, it's no longer winter in my heart. Now I see my state of mind and heart reflected best in the thawing mess of very early spring—the conditions of about a month ago. Remember? The first buds were venturing out, and some didn't survive the frosty nights. The ground was still littered with last year's leaves, plus the mud that might someday allow something new to grow.

Last weekend I drove my mother to a nursery to pick out some new flowers for her yard. I didn't expect to buy anything there for myself, not quite yet. But there was one thing that caught my eye and ended up coming home with me:

No, I can't keep living in the past. I need to move on and make the next TTC decisions very soon. (More on that to come.)

But moving forward doesn't mean that I'll forget.

Winter in My Heart