I Grieve

I ate a bag of miniature Reese’s peanut butter cups today. All by myself. Because I’m done. Done being careful. Done being hopeful. Done denying myself the things that make me, me. Bubble baths. Chocolate. Coffee. Chai tea lattes. Curling up with my heating pad. Taking Advil for headaches. Dancing. I am done, because it’s futile. I’ve sworn off me for seven cycles now, and I’m not pregnant. I’m done with Vitex and flax and evening primrose oil, with swilling Robitussin when I most definitely do not have a cold. I was careful; it was useless. I was an amateur; I got Caitrin.

I don’t even recognize this girl, this me. Six months ago, she was so hopeful. Loving life with her baby girl. Captivated by Sarah Palin. Studying God’s word every day. Today, she is harder. Kicking and screaming to hold onto the few fleeting baby days that remain in Caitrin’s life. Ticked at God beyond belief. Reduced to tears on each of the rare occasions that she ventures out in public, because everyone else in the world is pregnant. Her Facebook friends. All the girls she met while she was pregnant with Caitrin. Every young female patron of Target, Wal-Mart, Chick-fil-A. She cries like she hasn’t done since she was a hormonal teenager. Rages at her husband. Questions her judgment, her reasons for being, her faith.

I have often found that if I look back at my life, particular periods can be brilliantly illustrated by whatever music was my soundtrack at the time. When I was dancing in college, Art of Noise and Janet Jackson featured prominently on my mix CDs. When Uncle Chris died, I could not breathe without John Prine and U2, his favorites. When Sean and I got married, Canon was our wedding march and made it to every CD I burned, along with Bonnie Raitt’s “Not the Only One,” The Beatles’ “I Will,” and “Songbird” by Fleetwood Mac. When Mom left Dad, I played Jackson Browne’s “Sky Blue and Black,” Def Leppard’s “Long, Long Way to Go” & Stevie Nicks’ “Miss You” ad nauseam.

The playlist I just burned to CD last week is no less illustrative. “Fast Car” by Tracy Chapman. Rufus Wainwright’s heartbreaking “Hallelujah.” Fleetwood Mac’s “Goodbye Baby” (ah yes, rather a propos?). And my anthem, “I Grieve,” by Peter Gabriel. Emotive. Morose, even. Welcome to a day in the life.

I button up, polish, put on the mask. Smile at the couple in McDonald’s with a baby Caitrin’s age and one just born. Read the status updates of the aforementioned pregnant Facebook friends and post encouraging comments. And then I pack away my nursing bras, the last vestiges of the relationship that ended too soon and for naught, and collapse in tears on the floor of my closet. Storm out of the house in a mad fury after yet another argument about where to turn, drive until I’m numb and pound the steering wheel till my knuckles are swollen. I hurt. I ache. My heart is shattered. And I’m done pretending it’s not. That this will be “our month.” That it will “happen when it’s supposed to happen,” as countless “concerned” parties have quipped.
By the by, there is an unwritten etiquette manual reserved for dealing with women who are having difficulty conceiving or have suffered a miscarriage. It includes an extensive chapter on what not to say to said women. Here are several highlights:

• The old standby, “I’ll happen when it’s supposed to happen.” Invalidation 101.
• “Just relax, and it’ll happen.” Who died and made you the expert?
• “You’re trying too hard.” Proven: infertility causes stress. Stress does not cause infertility.
• “At least you’re having fun trying.” If only you knew the truth.
• “I know how you feel.” No, you don’t. Unless you have personally walked this road, you could never presume to know. Nor would you want to.
• “You should be thankful for what you already have.” So, because I want more children, I’m not?!

Should you find yourself in a situation in which you are trying to comfort a woman grieving infertility, think hard about the words you choose and their impact. The lesson we learned from watching Bambi still holds true today. Often, it is better to say nothing at all than to use words as weapons. If Disney’s a little juvenile for you, consider Gandhi. If you can’t be helpful, be harmless.