Today is not a good day.  I don’t even like Miles Davis.  It’s the longest work-day for my husband, and I’m still into him enough that I miss having him around when I’m home all day.  The weather is crap.  Not that I have been outside at all.  The highlight of my day was two different women who I like a lot, a lot, a lot but who aren’t super close friends.  They are, however, Beta Seeyalatahs; each has string of miscarriage and tragedy following behind like the tail of a kite that only some of us can see.  Their kites are banged-up, but flying, and they have good things to say to me.  In other words, they get it, and they got in touch to tell me that they get it.  This is not to say that all the other friends don’t count; I just love that these two women reached across the gap because they knew that we’re-not-best-friends isn’t a good enough reason and they reached out anyway. 

I am dreadfully isolated. I know no flesh-and-blood person who is doing DE IVF.  I have a lot of online friends but having a lot of online friends generally means you’re weird and that there’s a reason why you don’t have real friends.  I’ve got good reasons not to have a lot of real friends; I’m not in the mood for a lot of people and a lot of conversations, just in general, because we just miscarried and it’s not something I could bust out at the Easter brunch when people said "How are YOU?"  I’m also starting to worry that the clock is running on my weepiness and my grief with the friends I do have, as in how long? will they tolerate my grieving? how long? before I have to pretend to some arc of feeling better that I may not be on.  Those who don’t mind my grief may have to hit the dirt because of the anger, which is another unpretty part of me that sometimes runs the show.

My grief is expanding to include the general suckiness of infertility, particularly the uncertainty and loss of time.  Time enjoying life, time spent in the moment instead of wishing it were time to cycle again.  Also time with my kids when they do come.  Today I added up what we spent because I thought it would be good for me to admit it, and for you to know, but I can’t reveal it.  I’m too sad and can only imagine you judging how desperate and foolish we must be, and saying to each other "why don’t they just adopt?" 

You would never do that, would you?

Infertility grief, for me, is corrosive to my self-respect.  I feel less of a person, more a failure, perhaps, than I did before.  I tumbled to some low caste when I miscarried, partly because everyone knows how much I wanted (want) (need) a pregnancy and a baby.  (I used to be careful about using words like "need" and "desperation", by the way, but now I just don’t care.)  I feel so less-than in the company of "successful" mothers, birth-givers, those who did "just adopt" when I cannot.  Being caught out in the middle of nowhere, so far from where I want to be, so unable to travel, sometimes unable even to move, makes me feel exposed and degraded.   It’s just an intimate loss that I can’t separate myself from right now. 

I watched "Castaway" twice this weekend.  Poor old Chuck Noland stuck on a desert island for five years, stays motived to survive to get back to his girlfriend who of course has married someone else.  The agony that five years of your life can just get gobbled up and it’s nobody’s fault and everybody will never be the same.  I get it.

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Today is not a good day.  I don’t even like Miles Davis.  It’s the longest work-day for my husband, and I’m still into him enough that I miss having him around when I’m home all day.  The weather is crap.  Not that I have been outside at all.  The highlight of my day was two different women who I like a lot, a lot, a lot but who aren’t super close friends.  They are, however, Beta Seeyalatahs; each has string of miscarriage and tragedy following behind like the tail of a kite that only some of us can see.  Their kites are banged-up, but flying, and they have good things to say to me.  In other words, they get it, and they got in touch to tell me that they get it.  This is not to say that all the other friends don’t count; I just love that these two women reached across the gap because they knew that we’re-not-best-friends isn’t a good enough reason and they reached out anyway. 

I am dreadfully isolated. I know no flesh-and-blood person who is doing DE IVF.  I have a lot of online friends but having a lot of online friends generally means you’re weird and that there’s a reason why you don’t have real friends.  I’ve got good reasons not to have a lot of real friends; I’m not in the mood for a lot of people and a lot of conversations, just in general, because we just miscarried and it’s not something I could bust out at the Easter brunch when people said "How are YOU?"  I’m also starting to worry that the clock is running on my weepiness and my grief with the friends I do have, as in how long? will they tolerate my grieving? how long? before I have to pretend to some arc of feeling better that I may not be on.  Those who don’t mind my grief may have to hit the dirt because of the anger, which is another unpretty part of me that sometimes runs the show.

My grief is expanding to include the general suckiness of infertility, particularly the uncertainty and loss of time.  Time enjoying life, time spent in the moment instead of wishing it were time to cycle again.  Also time with my kids when they do come.  Today I added up what we spent because I thought it would be good for me to admit it, and for you to know, but I can’t reveal it.  I’m too sad and can only imagine you judging how desperate and foolish we must be, and saying to each other "why don’t they just adopt?" 

You would never do that, would you?

Infertility grief, for me, is corrosive to my self-respect.  I feel less of a person, more a failure, perhaps, than I did before.  I tumbled to some low caste when I miscarried, partly because everyone knows how much I wanted (want) (need) a pregnancy and a baby.  (I used to be careful about using words like "need" and "desperation", by the way, but now I just don’t care.)  I feel so less-than in the company of "successful" mothers, birth-givers, those who did "just adopt" when I cannot.  Being caught out in the middle of nowhere, so far from where I want to be, so unable to travel, sometimes unable even to move, makes me feel exposed and degraded.   It’s just an intimate loss that I can’t separate myself from right now. 

I watched "Castaway" twice this weekend.  Poor old Chuck Noland stuck on a desert island for five years, stays motived to survive to get back to his girlfriend who of course has married someone else.  The agony that five years of your life can just get gobbled up and it’s nobody’s fault and everybody will never be the same.  I get it.

One Response to “Kind of Blue”


  1. I am so sorry that things seem so bleak right now. I can completely relate to everything that you are saying, from the isolation, to not being able to be around family and friends, to the feelings of failure. Please know that you are not alone. I am right there with you.

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