Well, it’s CD8 and we’re back home…or at least, the place we call “home” but that doesn’t yet actually feel like Home, two years after moving here.
It was a good trip, but not easy. Between the conversation with my sis, Trisha’s sad news, the Clomid I was taking, and my daughter being the Tantrum Queen, I was a bit of an emotional wreck. There were plenty of meltdowns and I’m not proud to say that they weren’t all from Cupcake. Really, I was ready to come home nearly as soon as we got there and, by the time we finally did return last night, I was spent. Physically and emotionally spent in every possible way.
Still, it was nice to spend time with my mama and let our little girl see so many people whom she hadn’t in a year or more. And we went to the wedding of a family friend. A boy whom I have known all his life (him being five years younger than me) finally married his sweetheart of ten years. Weddings always make me cry, not only because it is always so beautiful to see love at its truest, purest, and most innocent (for who knows what all the tough years ahead will bring?), but also because I am reminded of my own wedding, how lucky I am to have married my best friend, and how much harder I want to try to do and be even better for him. I think I love going to weddings exactly for that reason: it breathes new life into our relationship and devotion to each other.
There was one moment at the wedding, though, that really made me ache. As I watched the groom dance with his mother for the Mother/Son dance, and they laughed and looked so at ease, I thought to myself, I will never have that with my Teddy Graham. I have always believed that our TG was a boy and, while I will never really know, I feel a constant loss over losing all possible boyness in my life — even the possibility of ever having a[nother] boy. I will never get to dance with Teddy and I may never get a Mother/Son dance at all. This thought was enough to make the tears fall while I watched the Mother of the Groom dance with her son, and enough to make them continue to fall into the night.
Then yesterday, before hitting the road, we met a friend for lunch. She’s a rather new friend whom I’ve known less than two years and she is expecting her second child. In fact, she is due one week and one day before my own lost due date…an “accident baby” they hadn’t planned on so soon. Ugh. The only thing that gives me any solace is that I know she, too, understands the pain of miscarriage. She had one six months before conceiving her first living child. And when I went through my own loss, she was there through e-mail and text, encouraging, comforting and praying for me. When she asked if we could meet for lunch, I had mixed feelings. I purposely hadn‘t contacted her since arriving in Idaho so that I could avoid having lunch with a pregnant belly at the table. But I’m not good at saying no, and mercifully, it was easier than anticipated. I still knew, as I looked at her swollen tummy, that mine would probably have been around the same size. I still wish it was me, of course. But it didn’t cut me to my core. I didn’t have to escape to the bathroom for a good cry. It was okay. Which gives me hope that maybe, some day, I will be able to handle seeing my sister with such grace and calm as well. Or maybe it will always burn my heart. Maybe the unfairness of it all will never escape me. Maybe.
So that was our short trip. Which felt so long. It was a mix of bitter and sweet. I shed a lot of tears. But the first week of this cycle was gone in a flash and for that, I am grateful. Up next: my birthday. Tomorrow! And then wait-wait-waiting — all ending with a heavy dose of disappointment or a mix of unimaginable joy and fear. And then more waiting beyond that.
My whole life is a series of waits, I’m afraid.