Woo, fucking hoo.
Actually, it's belated, because I actually started this blog on January 25th 2008. That was the year I was supposed to have a baby. That was the year I paid those nice people all that money to monkey around in my lady business and get me knocked up. That was the year I had one little glimmer of life on the other side--my Sparky. And now it is all fucking gone.
Last night my husband and I had a productive but painful conversation about expending the DHEA experiment for one more month--that would make it 4 months total, which seems to be the amount of time that the internets think you need to do this for to have the best result. The doctors don't know because they just started doing experiments with it in 2007, and the results aren't published yet. Argh. We do know that a study that only had people taking it for 2 months showed no significant results, so if we were to go ahead and do the cycle in March, I'd be 1.5 months ahead of that. However, it makes me want to rip off all my skin and go into a coma to think about waiting one more fucking month. And yet, if I don't, and the result isn't good, I'll always wonder if I had waited that extra 4 weeks, would it have helped? Is impatience, distress and a wish to just do it already a stupid reason to not give myself the chance? Ugh. Logic tells me to delay one more month. I want to rip off logics head and s#*t down it's neck. Classy ain't I?
I woke up this morning all discombobulated. My combobulation has been such a nice break from the upset of the last few months. My first thought when I woke up was "This could have been the day my Sparky was born." I composed this whole letter to him in my head, and then had a bit of a cry.
Here's what the letter said:
"Little Sparky, this could have been your birthday. You could have been born, all red and slick, crying and wondering what you'd just gotten yourself into in this cold, bright new world. Your father and I would have looked at every inch of you, marveling at your 10 tiny toes and fingers, your squishy little face, and your beautiful little mouth. We would have looked at each other in awe, at what we had created, and the fierce conviction to give you something better than either of us ever had, would have been on lips, in our hands, on our minds. I would have put you to my breast, and maybe even cried out at the shock of the pull of your tiny mouth. I would have cried at the thought that after all these years, you were finally mine, and you weren't a dream."
But instead, it is an ordinary Wednesday. No bells, no whistles, just this aching heart and empty arms.
I came across this poem by Charlie O'Hay's on his blog. He Cecily's husband's, and a very talented poet. I think you'll agree that is both beautiful and fitting.
Strange that the arrival
of tragic news
leaves so many things
untouched:
The houseplants do not wilt
the salt shakers do not collapse in grief
the book, left splayed on the chair,
does not burn.
The unpaid bills
do not fling themselves from their perch
nor the phone hang itself
in sympathy.
That list of errands,
once so urgent, continues
to shout from its magnet
upon the fridge.
But all you can hear
is the disbelieving thrum
of blood
in your ears.
I would give anything to have him in my arms today.
Maybe one more month isn't as long as I think.
Rest in Peace my dear baby.
