The Scariest Thing I Have to Do

I mentioned before that I moved a lot growing up.  By first grade, I had lived in three states.  Mid-way through third grade saw state four.  By sixth grade, I returned to state #1, but was on city #5, and house #6.  At the end of eighth grade, we had lived in Indianapolis for three years, and I was miserable.  I approached my parents to inquire about when we would be leaving, given our pattern of moving every 2 1/2 to 3 years.  I was horrified to discover that they intended to stay put.  I was going to have to face my demons and figure out how to deal.  Realizing I was going to have to figure out how to deal with all the crap from middle school in high school was rough.  I hoped that the influx of new people from two other middle schools would improve my chances of meeting people without preconceived notions of who I was, but ultimately, I ended up with a small circle of close friends I could trust while dealing with lots of rumors and bullying and crap.  I bided my time until I could leave for college.

That was the first time I realized that, because we always moved so much, I had never had to really deal with any of my issues.  When there were people who didn't like me, or who made my life miserable, I never really had to do anything about it because we would leave. It was never a conscious thing.  I didn't try to make problems and get out of them by moving,  And I always carried with me feelings that I didn't belong and that no one liked me.  But, ultimately, I got to start fresh in a new place, where no one knew me, and I would find a few close friends and brave the world as best I could until it was time to do it all over again.  

Recently, as I began to feel a nagging feeling to move, to leave, I began to excavate my feelings associated with all this moving and discovered that I wasn't so much starting fresh as running away. I was surprised.  How could it be running away?  After all, in the beginning, my family dictated the moves.  I never wanted to move--at least until eighth grade--so none of those moves constituted running away.  And then we didn't move when I had wanted to, so that wasn't running.  And then everyone left for college--it's what you did--so that wasn't running, etc. etc. etc.  There was always a reason I had moved, and it never had anything to do with conflict, so I always saw it as a moving bug--not as running away.  Until now.

See, I've been struggling.  Struggling to belong.  To my village.  My amazing village.  The one that has done so much for me, and supported me, and helped me so fully and freely.  The problem is me. In addition to having trouble asking for help, I tend to prefer to keep to myself.  I usually have three or four really close friends--the people I turn to first and foremost for anything and everything.  As I have moved, who those people are has had to change due to distance, but they are always limited in number.  There are lots of reasons for this.  Part of it is my being a pastor's wife and not being able to talk freely about the church and my relationships with many people.  Part of it is because I am an introvert and have social anxiety.  Regardless of the reasons, though, the fact remains that I play things fairly close to the vest with all but a small few of very close people.

Unfortunately, as my grief for Patrick continued, life moved forward on the outside, and, as sometimes happens with friendships, some of them fell away.  Of the four people I knew without a doubt I could call on for anything, I lost three.  Whether from grief, or busyness, or external obligations, I suddenly found myself alone.  The majority of my village remained intact, but was spread out across the country where they couldn't help with day-to-day needs; and those who were close in proximity were not those I felt I could call at a moment's notice for anything because I had not cultivated those friendships in that way.  Worse, I was incapable of attempting to convert any of those friendships into the type that I needed due to the anxiety and grief I was experiencing.

But as I dug myself out of my hole over the last few months, and my energy returned, my "move" bug began to bite.  Then I began to have this nagging feeling that I want to leave; to run away; to start over.  The mind talk went something like: "If I have to find new people anyway, I might as well do it somewhere else--somewhere I don't have all these memories; or somewhere I already have people I have let in."  But that's not an option.  

Our lives are here.  My job.  Phil's job.  Mira's physicians and health history.  For good or ill, all memories of Patrick.  So I have to find my answers here, where I am.  And that's hard.  Much like starting a new school half way through the year, the relationships are set.  People have already given of themselves to others.  They already have "their people"--those whom they have elected to let in and be close and will allow to call on them at a moment's notice.  It's intimidating and difficult to navigate, even for the most gregarious and sociable people.  As a socially anxious introvert, there are few things I find scarier.  

And so I have to trust.  Trust that I am a likable person.  Trust that others will see what previous friends have seen and that I will find those willing to let me in.  Trust that I will find a new circle of three or four from which my village will extend.  Confession time:  I hate this plan.  I despise that this is what I have to do.  But my feelings don't change the answers.  So, please be gentle with me.  If I seem grumpy, or withdrawn, or standoffish, or awkward, it's likely not you.  It's me.  I'm trying to figure out how to, in the words of the old hymn, "Trust and obey.  For there's no other way."

Yes, No, Maybe So

When we last left our story, I was getting ready for a rough five days.  Dear readers, nothing prepared me for just how rough these days have been.  So, Thursday morning, 2 a.m., I wake up to a crying toddler.  Decide I might as well use the hpt.  I get a very faint positive!  Suddenly, I had all the energy in the world to deal with my baby girl.  I went into her room and slept on her floor, snuggled up with her, until she finally went to sleep.  I was riding high!  Friday and Saturday morning revealed gradually darkening lines--a very good sign:  darker lines = more hCG = growing baby!  We told a few people, but given the loss of Oliver, we were keeping it pretty quiet.  We hadn't planned to announce anything until after the Wednesday beta when we would know if the numbers were doubling appropriately.  In my mind, all I kept praying was, "Please let me make it to the March 14 ultrasound."  Everything seemed to be fine.

Saturday was also the anniversary of my miscarriage with Oliver.  I was feeling melancholy, but my positive result was keeping my spirits lifted.  I was tired, so I took a nap early in the afternoon.  I woke up just after 2 feeling queasy.  I figured it was a good sign and went downstairs for water and crackers.  Just before 2:30, I discovered I was bleeding.  Phil was upstairs napping and I couldn't decide whether I should wake him up to bother him with this news or just cry to myself downstairs.  Around 3 I finally decided to go share.  Telling him made it too real and I broke down.  I was literally having trouble breathing I was crying so hard.  I remember saying, "Not today.  Not again."  Honestly, I am quite ready to erase February 23 off the calendars (no offense to those whose birthday it is).  The bleeding was light, but was still going went I went to bed last night.  It seems to have stopped now, which is a relief.  But, what did it mean?

Was it little babies burrowing in deeper?  Did we lose one?  If we did, are there others still growing in there? Any of these are possible.  And, quite honestly, the beta tomorrow won't tell us much.  Given that I already have positive hpts, we're almost certain the beta will come out positive.  The number might hint at whether there are multiples, but really, we'll likely be just as in the dark as we are today.  Now there's nothing to do but wait until Wednesday and pray the numbers are still increasing.  In the meantime, I am stuck in a body that is still cramping and terrified to go to the bathroom.  I know worrying won't change anything, but it's all too fresh, too convoluted, too unfair.

So, am I pregnant?  Yes, no, maybe so.  What I do know is that I am sad and scared.  So please, pray for me.  For us.  Not for any specific outcome, but for the strength to get through all of this, however it turns out.  Because I am feeling weak and frail and broken.  But, hopefully, as the Beatles said, I'll get by with a little help from my friends.

Sweating to the Movies

Today I went out to lunch with two of my good friends.  We used to all work together, but now that we all work different places, although we're all still downtown, we have a standing date for lunch together once a month.  Today's lunch was different for me, however, because in between our last lunch and this one, I had both gotten pregnant and then lost Oliver.  I had emailed them when I got the good news, and Facebook provided them with my grief, but I never got to share my brief joy with them personally.  We talked about many things and I managed not to cry when I answered their questions and told them what had happened.  And I had pie, which almost always makes me feel better.  As we were heading our separate ways, we talked about wanting to go on runs together and making plans to try and do a 5k together sometime.

Many moons ago when I lived in Texas, I would run/walk a 5k every weekend.  I did a few after I moved to Michigan and even managed to complete three half-marathons while I've been here.  But I haven't done anything like that recently.  Today I was reminded that running makes me feel better--this was even easier to remember given how beautiful the weather was.  Anyway, I was also aware that I had put on a fair amount of weight eating things like pie, biscuits, jellybeans, m&ms, and various other comfort foods to make myself feel better.  So, tonight I bit the bullet and got back on the treadmill.  I only walked 1.25 miles, but I also walked to and from lunch today which was about 1.5 miles round trip, so I totaled 2.75.  Go me!

Walking on the treadmill is not terribly interesting, however, so I use my portable DVD player to either watch movies or hook up my iPod for some tunes.  Because I had just swapped out my VHS copy for a DVD (I hear you snickering), I decided to watch Prince of Egypt.  I LOVE that movie; especially the music.  I haven't finished it yet (because I didn't walk long enough for that), but I did learn a few things during the parts I watched.

1)  The music is still amazing.
2)  Watching that movie as a parent is an entirely different experience.
3)  I cannot imagine having the strength or courage or living with the angst of placing my child in the river and leaving its existence to God.
4)  I totally get why a woman pulling a baby out of a basket in the water would want to keep it and raise it because I understand how you can love a baby from the moment you pick it up and never want to let it go.
5)  I cannot fathom the mental disconnect it takes for anyone, pharaoh or otherwise, to decide that killing children is okay because the children are slaves, or a different race, or the wrong gender.

I knew that being a parent would change my life, but I find myself discovering almost daily that there are so many more ways in which being a parent has reshaped or altered experiences that I thought would remain fixed.  What new lessons or experiences will I get from other pieces of the movie?  Only the shadow knows...  Well, okay, maybe not.  But, it does create an interesting incentive to keep on working that treadmill.  And, hey, there's the added bonus of getting back into shape in case we decide we want to try again.  Funny how that works.