I read 676 wpm. Test yourself!

Source: Staples eReader Department

From the “Red Riding Hood” shoot. Partially stripped, beaten, about to have my head shaved with a straight razor in the snowy woods. (March 2012)

From the “Red Riding Hood” shoot. (March 2012)

From the “Red Riding Hood” photo shoot. Most fun I’ve ever had getting my hair cut. (March 2012)

Been slapped around. Finally. (May 2012)

I’m good at it. Usually it serves me well. I can keep all of my favorite things in discreet little boxes and not worry about them bleeding onto each other, unless I give someone access to multiple boxes, and then sometimes they’ll put things back where they don’t belong. But, then after a few apologies and clarifications, I’m able to get things resorted, dust my hands, and go back to my well organized emotional life.

Despite the pure and down-to-the-core passion I can indulge in when I’ve opened up one of my boxes, the ability to be so completely in the moment without other concerns intruding, sometimes I’m not sure my life is that emotional. My husband and I are affectionate and considerate, but are so very low key. I don’t understand all the conflict and concerns that seem to come with intimacy with other people. I feel stupid and clumsy when I’m confronted with the those concerns. I’ve missed something, somewhere.

But while the compartmentalization usually helps me feel safer and in more control of my feelings, there are times like this where something sweeps through my life that’s so searing that all my boxes get welded shut. There’s a quiet, heavy inertia that I’m left with as I futilely finger this latch or that on some box that if I could get it open might make me feel something. I’m left not feeling bad, so much as empty, and without purpose. It’s a numbness that makes me think something must be seriously wrong, knowing there’s a wound and not being able to feel it comes with a resignation of its own, darker than the panic brought by pain, without the instinctual struggle. The inability to crack open my boxes, reach out to anyone with anything resembling authenticity, use words that don’t feel treacherous to my intent… it all feels like I’ve surrendered in some critical way that I can’t quite recall. 

I haven’t had a dream in almost two weeks. I’ve barely had a conversation in that time that wasn’t forced, with the exception of one really welcome telephone call. I stopped leaving the house. I barely move. I’m even breathing slowly. My husband is trying to give me space. My son is practically living with his babysitter (he has so much fun there with all her kids, I can tell he’s disappointed to come home). I’m hoping that when my hormones return to normal, when I’m no longer nauseated, fatigued, and dizzy, that I’ll be back. I just can’t get my own box open right now, and am rapidly forgetting who I am and what I ever saw in myself. 

Nothing is certain, but death and taxes. Guess that makes yesterday the day of certainty. Although the embryo likely died the Monday before IMsL, based on measurements, my body has gone along with the pregnancy full steam. Sunday, though, I started bleeding. I called my midwife and she said we’d mark that as the official date of miscarriage. I had an appointment this morning, and it seemed my body was trying to change its mind about letting go of the pregnancy. My HCG levels were appropriate to date, my uterus measured properly at 8 weeks during the check-up, and my cervix was tightly closed.

She did another ultrasound, just in case. The little gray ball of fuzz, light and shadows on the screen, reminded me of a skull, but I’m sure it’s just a rorschach thing. Weeks shy of the size it should be, and no heartbeat. I just wanted her to take the wand out of me and talk about what we do now to convince my body the pregnancy was over and get back to a clean slate. 

Instead, she wanted to talk about the plans she HAD had for the pregnancy. At first, I wasn’t sure why she was doing this, as it was all moot, but then I realized it was grooming for the next pregnancy, to secure my compliance in decisions she’d make fir it. For one, she changed my due date from 11/24 to 11/19… she said she’d induce me on the 19th, the Monday before my actual due date, to make things safer. I’m not thrilled at the idea of induction, but I figure by that point, I’ll be willing to sacrifice my autonomy and interest in having a pitocin-free labor (and a chance to experience this oxytocin rush natural birth moms rave about) for a bit of peace of mind in having the pregnancy over with. Also, starting at 30 weeks, I’d be going for twice weekly hospital non-stress tests. And, she wasn’t willing to work with the birth center anymore, given my loss, and thought it would be better for me to deliver in the hospital now. She pulled some fear based tactics on me that made me bristle a bit… but more than her subtle bullying, it was the fact she’d lied to me after the stillbirth last year and as we were preparing for this pregnancy that I could still have my original birth plan in place. Still, she’s the most natural of my options, and despite the dishonesty and pressure, still has shown me more respect than any other OB or midwife I’ve had. Ugh. Still. But after a stillbirth and a miscarriage, I’ll be easily swayed by fear. I do not “trust my body” anymore.

She gave me a prescription for Cytotec, Vicodin, and ibuprofen. Then I got a Rhogam shot, since I’m rh-negative. If my blood mixes with the baby’s without this, then my body would have an allergic reaction against any future babies I have who would likely have Aleks’ dominant rh-positive blood, and would attack them. I don’t want a murderous womb. One that’s the site of multiple fatal accidents is bad enough.

She tried to chitchat with us afterward a bit, but kept reassuringly squeezing the arm she just gave me the burning shot in. I really didn’t notice, until she apologized each time. Guess I’m just used to people poking bruises and other marks… I never even flinched. I doubt she would have registered her slip if she hadn’t felt the bulky gauze she’d taped over the injection site.

I got some ice cream on the way home. I took some pills and am resting on the couch, waiting for the contractions and cramping to begin. I still feel nauseated and fatigued… my breasts are still so swollen and tender… I still feel so… pregnant. If I don’t pass the baby in three days, I have to come in for a D&C. Hopefully that will all be over within the week, but it’ll still be a long week.

Who’s cryin’?
Who’s cryin’?
Who’s cryin’?
Shut yer whiny mouth.

Your girl’s been spending lots of time at my place
I been helpin’ her remove the makeup from her fine face
Telling her to go “Au Naturel”
And she trusts me ‘cause I’m your pal
That’s my style

(Vroom)
I drive the Dirty Mac Truck
Convincing her to drink that whole 30 rack up
(Mmm)
I sit until I think your girly’s mad drunk
Then I turn the Dirty Mac up.
(Vroom)

What? You ain’t heard? We shacked up.
Well, that sucks. We been getting close lately
Special time adds up, so don’t hate me.
It’s all about bologna draperies, beef sticks, and meat curtains,
Monthly afternoons of bloody hatchet wounds and grease purses.

I’m the salt in her pepper, the hop in her steppa
The broccoli in her midouth, but she don’t want no chedda’
She don’t want no chedda’?
Naw, she wants somethin’ betta’.
I’d like to thank you homes; you the reason why I met her.

Who’s cryin?
Your baby looks like me.
Who’s cryin?

I’m hanging with your moms.
Who’s cryin?

Dirty Macaroni and Cheese for dinner.
Who’s cryin?

Shut your whiny mouth, or I’ll give you something to cry about.

You just won a beauty pageant?
Who’s cryin?

Cutting up a whole bunch of onions?
Who’s cryin’?

This ain’t Dancer in the Dark!
Who’s cryin’?

Shut your whiny mouth! Shut your whiny mouth! Huh!