Good morning Munchkin,
It’s been a long week. Not an altogether bad one, really, but I’ve been dealing with more than my fair share of highs and lows. I thought I got off of this emotional roller coaster when we had to give up trying to find you naturally. No more two weeks on, two weeks off; two weeks of happiness and hope and possibility followed by two weeks of loss, and misery and despair.
More and more I’m realizing that I’m still on this ride. The only difference now is that I can’t set a watch to it. It’s day to day, really. Hour to hour. One minute I’m hopeful and happy, the next minute I’m overcome with pessimism and doubt. I still feel awful every time another month goes by and I’m not miraculously pregnant with you, but it’s getting better. I have to believe it’s getting better. I’m slowly coming to terms with knowing we won’t find you this way, so the utter depression and hopelessness I’ve felt every month like clockwork for the last several years has been replaced with a kind of resolute melancholia. This is my new normal, and I know there’s nothing we can do to change this outcome.
When my doctor told me I’d never get pregnant with you naturally, it was like a part of me died. My therapist says she and her colleagues equate this kind of loss with the death of a loved one. The grief is the same. I was – and am – grieving the loss of you.
Someone once described grief to me as being in the middle of lake. You’re out there treading water; something comes along and drops a boulder into the middle of your world, and the waves created span out all around. First they’re huge; powerful enough to bury you beneath the surface, stealing your breath and knocking you down every time they pass. But over time, the waves get smaller and calmer; they’re still rippling past but they don’t swallow you any more.
And then, eventually, the water is calm again. The boulder is still there right under the surface, and you know it’s there; you can think about it and remember it. But you can control how and when it affects you.
That’s grief. You’ll carry it around with you for the rest of your life, but it will eventually stop hurting.
I’m getting better. I’m still just treading water; the waves are still coming but they aren’t knocking me down. They’re less powerful than before. Only lately, I’m beginning to think that my lake is sitting below a cliff, and boulders keep breaking off and crashing into me. I’ll think I’m getting better and then something comes along and I’m rocked and drowning again.
Last week when I learned of my friend’s loss, another boulder came smashing down. Not only did it create its own waves of grief, but it disturbed all the other rocks lying just beneath my surface. All the other rocks that have fallen on me over the years and have knocked me down – they all shifted just a bit, and the last week I’ve been treading in pretty rough water. Waves of all different amplitudes have been rocking and rolling over me.
I used to use baking as a coping mechanism, and it kept my mind occupied for a bit. Baking was something tangible that I could control; I could focus on something other than my grief. I could create something beautiful while I felt ugly and broken inside. I still bake, but as I do – as I measure ingredients and pour batter into pans – my mind always drifts to you. You’re right there with me, grabbing at beaters and getting flour everywhere. Or you’re older, and baking with me while we’re in the middle of some deep discussion I’d love to share with you some day.
Even as I bake, even as I’m trying to steady myself and clear my head, you creep into my mind. I’m no better off than I was before I trashed the kitchen and left a mess to clean up. Baking has become my drug; I feel great while using – you are always there with me in the kitchen, and as long as my mixer is running and there’s something in the oven, you are alive and real, and I’m not alone.
But once it’s over, and the kitchen is cleaned and the dishwasher running, you fade away. Walking back through my empty house hurts so much more than before and my heart aches, longing still for the ghost I had with me. It’s no longer a useful way to control my grief, and I don’t need a therapist to tell me it’s not healthy.
I needed to find something to not only busy my hands, but to also occupy my mind. Baking has gotten so natural for me that I no longer need to think about what I’m doing, so I find myself drawn closer to the grief I’m trying to escape. As much as it hurts me to admit it, I need time away from you to heal, and to allow these waves to calm.
I’ve started making jewelry. It’s only earrings for now, but I’ve been doing it for a week and it’s working well for me so far. My hands are busy; I’m creating something beautiful and something I can share with others. But more than that, I’ve discovered that between the sorting of beads and twisting of wires my mind is full, and there’s no room for you lingering in there. When I’m crafting, I can totally focus on my task. For the first time in as long as I can recall, I can go for hours and my thoughts won’t drift to you. When I’m making the jewelry, your ghost can’t haunt me, and when I’m finished, I’m happy and less stressed. I’m not aching for something I’ve left behind.
This has an added bonus, too. I always give away my cakes and desserts to friends and coworkers. I bake, but I can’t eat everything by myself, and I haven’t worked out getting the permits needed to sell anything. It’s a costly hobby, with dwindling rewards.
But I can sell my jewelry. I’ve already sold 5 pair, and I have an order for many more. I’m going to start an online shop, and in so doing, I can chip away at the expense it’s going to cost your dad and me to find you. Little by little, one pair at a time, this new hobby may actually bring us closer together, and I’ll be a little more at peace while we’re waiting for you.
It’s been a rough week, that’s for sure. But I feel like I’m in a better place, and this week that has passed is one more week closer to you. So I’ll take it.
Love, Mom
My Stork Got Lost 