After #10, Before #11

Between Chemo #10 and #11. More of my videos here.

Getting Through Hell, Revisited

Surviving Chemo #4. More of my videos here.

I was just looking over an old blog post written during the crisis of an impending divorce, titled How to Get Through Hell. In it, I wrote a list of five tips for weathering a crisis. Rereading, I would venture that these five things do indeed apply to more than one kind of crisis. It boils down to the one skill I keep harping on here: asking for help.

People keep telling me how I strong I am but I'm afraid I'm not showing the whole picture. I am not doing this, not any of it, alone. Much of my illusion of endurance comes from daily meltdowns along the way.

There's more than one kind of strength. There's the strength to swim through a lonely and stormy ocean. And there's the strength to flail your arms and shamelessly shout for help at the top of your lungs. The point is to get out of the water and survive. There's no wrong way to do that.

Let's face it, there are very few crises that we must endure alone. It makes little sense to quietly drown out of reticence to bother the lifeguard, or to slog on in solitude through any rough patch when help is within earshot.

Of course it's nice to be a strong swimmer. But asking for help is strength too. Both forms of strength are good to have. So flail your arms and shout. Throw yourself onto your bed and cry. Whatever it takes. And then, when you're done, take the next step along the path out of hell.

Be Here Now

I had a dream last night that after some whirlwind travel, I arrived home to find home was not my love-filled house with J~, but a 3rd-floor walk-up apartment with A~, my first husband. He was washing dishes when I arrived, and didn't look at me, as distant and unhappy as ever. I tried to pry under his shell, to reason with him, to convince him that it was better to move on than to remain in limbo, afraid of change, investing in a relationship he felt more as a trap than a treasure. For the first time I saw how useless this was, trying to convince him to leave me. If I wanted out, it was up to me to get out.

So ladies and gentlemen, I broke up with him. I didn't sweat over his every trivial complaint (the wrinkle in the bath mat, the smell of my lunch). I didn't put his few loving gestures on a pedestal and blame myself for their scarcity. I didn't worry that I had done something to upset him then struggle to make it up to him. And most of all, I didn't wait until he fell for someone else, cheated and lied. I just said, "Listen, it's been clear to me for a long time that you aren't really sure you want to be with me. I want to be with someone who is sure. And if I can't find that, I'd rather be alone. We need to go our separate ways."

And then I woke up to incessant beeping: my stepson's hyper-loud alarm clock. He couldn't hear it, he was already in the shower. And J~was already downstairs doing his morning yoga. I tried throwing a pillow over my head but then my puppy sat up from her little bed beside mine, soon to start jumping up, biting my hair, whining for me to take her outside. I was still very tired, with the same headache and sore throat that had been plaguing me for days, and a daunting "To Do" list crowding out all other thoughts.

Save this one: Maybe I didn't have the foresight to make such a bold move at the time when it would have spared me pain. Maybe I didn't have the courage then, or the self-esteem. But I have it now. And now is all that counts.

Inventory

In honor of our anniversary, J~ and I spent a long weekend on Cape Cod, biking, window shopping, hiking the sand dunes, eating big decadent meals, and reminiscing about our early days as a couple. What a strange time that was for us, both reeling from our suddenly broken marriages, thrilled and nervous about the bond quickly forming between us.

The three years since we married are marked with so many milestones, not the least of which was made plain to me this weekend: somewhere along the line, this crazy new romance became a solid partnership. There have been down times of course, our failed pregnancies not the least of them. But the hardships we've faced together are framed by a shared tenderness, which turns them, to a certain degree, into treasured memories.

As I settle into the likelihood that I will not have children of my own, I accept that there will always be a certain amount of sadness in the picture for me. But I also see how that sadness has mellowed over the years. Until menopause – as long as there's hope – there will be vulnerability, but perhaps one day I'll carry only tiny scars where once there was an open wound.

Scanning my inner horizons, I see another emotional trauma yet unhealed, that of my first marriage's end. Time has helped, but I have not managed to close that wound. Perhaps this also has to do with hope, though I'm not sure what I'm hoping for. I certainly wouldn't trade what I have now for a return to that relationship, though it was not without its own beauty, and I appreciate the role it played in my life.

One thing is becoming more and more certain to me with every passing year: Life is short. Too short. It's a tragedy for all of us. The more I accept this, the more apparent it becomes that I can only do my best, assume everyone else is doing their best, grieve the disappointments as they arise but get back to appreciation of the fleeting present moment as quickly as possible. Because life is also pretty darn great.

Midlife Crisis

When people ask me lately how I'm doing, I tell them, in a light and joking tone – but in all seriousness – that I'm having a midlife crisis.

I'm told a midlife crisis should entail flashy distraction: an extramarital affair, a shiny new sports car. In my case, there are long bicycle rides, the most recent of which was undertaken alone on the Fourth of July, 100+ miles of winding Connecticut roads from my home to my mother's where I met up with family and friends and celebrated the holiday, old school. (Literally - we went to see fireworks at my old high school.) The whole day was a pleasure.

That's the thing about midlife crises, they aren't straight-out despair and depression. There is something vigorous in them, a reclaiming of life's joy, a new-found intolerance of years-long low-level misery.

As long as I'm exercising, or with loved ones, I'm fine.

The down part comes only after several hours alone, during my solitary work days. That's when I start to sink. For the past two months, I've felt downright miserable a good deal of the time.

On the bright side (I know this will sound strange) I'm doing a lot of crying.

What's bright about this? The stuff I'm crying about is stuff I have needed to cry about for years: childhood loneliness and disappointments, dashed hopes, all the miscarriages, the divorce, the fact that I felt so poorly about myself that a marriage to someone who I knew wasn't deep-down sure he wanted to be with me felt like the best I could expect out of life, that such a thing, not so long ago, actually felt like good luck.

It's hard work, all this crying. I often feel feverish beforehand, heachachy, and afraid. The tears come in heavy, sweaty, snotty, guttural sobs.

I'm not doing this alone. I have counseling partners (we trade time in counselor and client roles, sometimes on the phone, sometimes in-person, taking turns caring and listening and handing each other tissues, trusting that this emotional expression is the path to healing). Sometimes I cry with J~. After each round, I feel lighter, better.

I love this midlife crisis, actually. I love that I can no longer tolerate a dull, low-level misery, that I can no longer mask it with a trumped up enthusiasm for a long list of chores. I love the sense that old limitations are lifting away, that slowly, subtly, I'm moving my life to higher ground. I feel brave.

I also have new thoughts about pregnancy, and the not-yet resolved Babies or Not question. More on that soon...

All Five

In the previous post, I talked about five things on my mind more than I'd like. Here's an update:

1. My Health
Saw my doctor Tuesday, told her the story of my "attack". She thinks it was an ovarian cyst rupturing - nothing to worry about. Not a kidney stone. Not an infected appendix. Not... who knows what else. It makes sense, since the pain hit around ovulation time.

So, around the same time next cycle I'm going for an ultrasound, see what's going on in there. Oh, and she also thinks I have endometriosis. And she tells me, looking over my blood results, that I'm borderline anemic. Even closer than the border than I was two years ago, when my previous doc said the same thing and put me on iron supplements.

In the meantime, more dietary adjustments, and a bit more optimism, a bit more trust in my gut intuition about my health. Suddenly I understand why I keep saying I crave foods that are "grounding." What do I mean by that? I had no idea until I realized that the foods that come to mind (red meat, spinach, nuts, raisins) are all iron-rich. Iron is heavy. Grounding. My body, I get it now, needs that iron.

2. Babies or Not?
I'm still hopeful, especially at this point in the cycle. But I still don't want it badly enough to turn my life over to drugs and procedures and a parade of doctors. If it doesn't ever happen, I'll be sad, of course, very sad, but I will also feel like I've dodged a bullet. I am under no illusions. Even in the best of circumstances, children are a major project. There will be a lot more leisure in my life without them. A child would be wonderful, but I can't deny it. Leisure is pretty nice.

3. My work
I think I might be finding my rhythm. Feels good. More on this on my other blog, LifeCraft.

4. My stepson
Out of sight, Out of mind. B~'s home situation has been in agonizing flux for months while his mother sorted out some personal demons. It's been a challenging time. B~ likes living with us, but he loves the school he attends when he's with her. He's back with her now and I am enjoying a break from thinking about it. Personally, I just want the ground to stay put under his feet. Hopefully the earthquakes are over, though I brace myself out of habit.

5. My ex-husband
Yes, the tide churns up thoughts of him on occasion, and yes, there is a melancholy feeling when that happens. He probably still reads this blog. Can't say that doesn't effect me. I feel his voyeuristic attention, and I wonder what he feels toward me, wonder what he tells himself as the story of our breakup. Funny how the mind can twist these things. Did you ever see the movie, High Fidelity? It nicely illustrates the point. Plus, it's funny. Rent it sometime.

On My Mind More Than I'd Like

1. My health.
A vague abdominal ache became full-on pain midway through class yesterday, debilitating enough to force me to hand over the reins to my TA and run to the nearest urgent care clinic. I felt 80% better a few hours and several bottles of water later, and 90% better today, but abnormal lab results will require follow up. Probably nothing to worry about, but still... worry.

2. Babies or Not?
Closing in on thirty-nine years old, the writing on the wall says: Not.

To be fair, I'm more focused on improving my overall health these days than on procreation, but the underlying fantasy is that I will become vibrantly healthy, have a child, and live happily ever after in mommy-land. Toward that end, I confess, I do occasionally find myself combing the internet for encouraging stories of recurrent miscarriers who eventually have babies, especially those that credit yoga, wheat grass, and positive thinking (as opposed to drugs and doctors.)

3. My work.
I'm a juggler these days, publishing a little writing, preparing for an art exhibition, planning for a commissioned painting, freelancing as a designer, teaching a college design course and pitching classes for future semesters. There are more projects in the wings, and some serious thinking to do about how I truly want to allocate my energy. It is so easy to gravitate toward the work that satisfies the ego, making me feel important and impressive and powerful (the things that look good on paper), rather than make time for the work that really feeds the soul. There is no ball in this juggling act that I don't value. But there are a few favorites that I keep dropping.

4. My stepson.
The situation, and my feelings about it, are so snarled and twisted I don't think I can tease out all the threads. But here are some of the contributing factors: Your typical teenage boyhood exacerbated by perhaps more than your typical social and physical awkwardness. An unstable mother/ex-wife who keeps backing out of commitments and then insisting she should be trusted with even greater commitments. A father/husband who works long hours away from home, and bends over backwards at times to keep the aforementioned parties happy. And me, the sometimes reluctant stepmother, trying increasingly to stay out of it, while working from home. Not that I don't care about the boy, not that I don't want the best for him, but it's hard watching what he gets put through, and there a times when, I'll admit it, immature as it sounds, I'd like to have my husband to myself.

5. My ex-husband.
I'd like to think that I'm over the whole cheated-lied-and-dumped caboodle , but in spite of three years and a happy remarriage, I'm not. Not quite. Not yet. Once again, the impending holidays bring up my nightmare worse-case scenario: that he is dramatically happier, feeling glad to be free of me and without remorse for how he got that way. Perhaps my underlying fear is that the problem is me, that I am destined to drive away everyone who attempts to love me.

Longtime readers may recall A~'s brief reappearance in my life (via email) around this time last year. Everything he told me then should have dispelled my fear, but apparently the wounds were still too fresh.

Just now I reread that old email exchange, which felt much more difficult and convoluted at that time than it appears to me now. Strange. And yet the fear remains.

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

I've been having recurring dreams of my ex-husband. None are exactly the same, but the theme repeats: A~ is either living in my home or otherwise occupying a space in my life. Meanwhile, he is either completely oblivious to my hospitality, lying to me, avoiding contact with me, beginning a secret relationship, otherwise disrepecting me, or all of the above. In last night's dream we were still a couple, living in adjacent dorm rooms, although we had not spoken to each other in almost two months.

In every dream, I go through a painful awakening as I begin to understand the nature of the situation. In one dream, I confront him in his lies and broken promises, which he attempts to deny or spin as misunderstanding. Feeling sick, I don't care to argue. I just yearn to be done with him. In other dreams, I evict him from my house, but he seems not to hear me, or claims not to understand.

In last night's installment, he has left his dorm room door open. I catch a glimpse of him lying on his bed, staring into space. Does he want me to come confront him? Is he hoping I'll make some move? Is he pretending he doesn't see me passing in the hall? Am I equally at fault for not seeking him out? In the dream, I realize the answers to these questions don't matter. This is not a relationship. It's over. I don't even have to dump him. I can just move on.

It seems like such a freeing thought. So why then, as I write these words, do I feel so sad?

The Ex- Factor

There it was, in my inbox Tuesday afternoon: An email. From my ex-husband.

Imagine that.

Now imagine the "gung-GUNG!" sound from Law and Order, or any other deep, dramatic, percussive musical effect meant to evoke the heart skipping a beat or leaping into sudden overdrive. Because when I saw his name on my screen, I think my heart did both.

It's been more than a year of no contact between myself and this man with whom I once felt certain I would spend the rest of my days, the person whose sudden amputation from my life caused the deepest emotional trauma I've ever experienced. I've said it before and I'll say it again: a miscarriage is bad, but I'm telling you, it doesn't even come CLOSE to what that divorce felt like.

Understandably, A~ suspected I wouldn't want to hear from him. But to the contrary: as uncomfortable as it was to feel my heart buck and stall, it was easier than stomaching the loss of a deeply trusted best friend. And it's nothing compared to imagining him out in the world, thriving, happy, relieved to be done with me, telling his friends and family, "Phew! Am I glad THAT's over!" I am deeply reassured to learn that I have not morphed, in his mind, into the first daughter of Satan.

Or maybe not until now.

Because — also understandably — he'd prefer that I didn't write about him on the blog. And here I am, spilling the beans all over the place.

Then again, I haven't revealed his identity (or my own, for that matter). I haven't pasted the contents of his email into this post (and I won't). I haven't revealed any juicy personal gossip, like is he still with the girl he left me for? Are they happy? Truth is, I don't know the answer to these questions. But as curious as I am, I know it has no bearing on ME, my character, worthiness or happiness. Whatever feelings I might have about the details of his post-divorce existence can be processed in a less public arena. Yes, in other words, I am capable of respecting his privacy.

At first I thought it might be difficult not to gloat if I were to learn that he is unhappy, but actually, I find myself hoping that he IS happy. In fact, I've cried every night since that email came, feeling sad at the possibility that he is sad, remembering how closely I used to carry him in my heart, feeling strangely disembodied by my reticence to reach out. (Is this the emotional equivalent to the amputee's phantom limb syndrome, phantom love syndrome?)

(To be fair, I've been pretty darn busy this week, and the memories that A~'s resurfacing bring up aren't all sunshine and rainbows and unicorns. Not that we didn't have some very memorable good times. But moving toward each other these days means picking through some pretty treacherous, tedious karmic rubble.)

In her EXCELLENT memoir (oh how I love this book!) Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India and IndonesiaElizabeth Gilbert suggests that, "When the Karma of a relationship is done, only love remains."

Wouldn't that be nice?

Where to Begin?

There are several things I could write about, at length. I can't choose. I refuse to choose! I will give them all to you, in smaller portions, a three-dish buffet.

1. My old friend, L~, who is forty-one years old and a yoga teacher and massage therapist in Colorado, is pregnant. "It's the first time we tried, I mean really tried." She told me on the phone last night. She is over the moon happy, and I am thrilled for her. In my heart, it feels like a train engine roaring to life. As the big iron hulk eases into motion, gaining momentum, picking up speed, my friend is inside, waving, setting off on a grand adventure. I stand on the platform, excited by all the noise, touched that it is me she is waving and smiling at, but all the same, watching her disappear. What I mean to say is that it was exciting at first, and then it was sad.

2. I have an appointment with my most trusted doc for next Wednesday, to confront the question I have been afraid to ask myself, afraid to admit is even in the cards. Do I need to have a colonoscopy? This is reason number three from my last entry, which is really a subset of reason number two, if you want to be technical. The point is, I'm doing something about it now, so I feel a little less ashamed. But I'm still scared.

3. B~'s mother is a terrible flake. (B~ is my stepson, if you didn't know.) I prefer to be more sympathetic than this, but right now, I'm angry, and I'm hurting for B~, who has is heart set on the private school she's been talking up. She wants him to live with her. This "wonderful school" has been her angle for a year and a half. And the truth is, the angle worked. If it wasn't for the school, which, as it turns out, is indeed wonderful, J~ would never have gone along with the plan. B~ has visited twice, started to get to know the kids. Application forms have been painstakingly filled out. J~ missed work to see the place, has poured over the web site, cried multiple times about his son moving away (on our honeymoon, no less), and taken B~ for the requisite physical exam. B~ said to me the other day, "I'd start there tomorrow, if I could." (However, on the subject of living with his mother, he is not as gung-ho. When asked if he could really picture living with her, he said, "Not without both of us going to therapy.")

Oh, why didn't we see this coming? Last night when Ex-wife called to talk to J~ about the instability and dysfunction in her marriage, J~ asked her, point blank, "Are you rethinking having B~ come live with you?" She answered, "Yes. I guess I am."

This is one big fat nasty red flag, drawing our attention to all the others we've been trying to dismiss. When J~ told me about the call, it was clear to us both: If she doesn't pull the plug, we will.

Boy is this one going to hurt.

Lemons and Sugar

You know that expression, When life hands you lemons, make lemonade? I think that's a lovely idea. I think I'm tremendously good at it. Most of us are. We've had plenty of disappointments from which we must wring positives.

The harder thing is to recognize whose hand life is employing to bring this sour fruit into our days. I mean, come on! How long should a person stand under the lemon tree, making the best of it, before setting out in search of something a little sweeter?

I wish I understood this when I was with A~. I would've walked away a long time ago, sparing us both (or at least sparing me) a lot of pain. Thank goodness I found such a peach of a man to take his place.

This is not to say I don't have disappointments. Loyal readers, I think you know what I'm referring to here.

Every month I get the message, loud and clear, that a baby is not in the cards. It might be, at some point, but right now, at least so far, it is not.

The upshot is that I've become overly focused on my more-than-half-grown stepson, B~, and how his parents let him down in ways I imagine I never would've, given the chance to start from scratch with my own. It's tough on J~ to live with my hyper-criticism. It's tough on me to recognize just how little control I have of the situation. It's tough on B~, I'm sure, in ways I can't fathom at all.

It's time to refocus my energy, to consider all the other possible adventures life might hold. In short: I'm standing under a lemon tree again, and it's time to move on.

And so, I'm filling out applications for art shows. I'm working my way through the lessons in Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher CreativityI'm writing, I'm painting, I'm taking photographs. I'm looking into grad schools, embracing new clients, considering teaching again, and reading through a stack of good books. If things keep going this way, I might even pick up my guitar.

I'm also planting this season's garden. And picking up where I left off last fall, digging the footing for a backyard patio. I've enlisted a friend and neighbor and landscaping expert to help with the trickier parts.

Also, we're talking about moving. Though our home is lovely, living closer to J~'s work would open up professional possibilities for me, and drastically shorten his commute. If B~ ends up staying with us, there would be new opportunities for him, as well. Therefore, we have other home-improvement projects in the works, for our own pleasure and also to make the house more market-ready. Just in case.

"We need a bigger life than this," I said to J~ as we lay in bed this morning, processing our busy weekend, the challenges that the work week inevitably presents.

The dim blue light of dawn had given way to bright day. Through the bedroom windows, it is undeniable: the maples and hemlocks are leafing out, the apple tree is afroth with blossoms. Spring has sprung. Life is moving on. With fifteen minutes before J~ had to be up, rousing B~ for school, beginning the week-long grind, we did what any red-blooded, potentially still-fertile couple in our situation would do: We had sex.

It's that crucial time in my cycle and we aren't giving up our subscription to the Fruit of the Month Club just yet. Who knows. Maybe this time it won't be a lemon after all.

Life, Death, and Nightsweats

Lately I wake up in the middle of the night with a collumn of heat radiating up my spine, sweat puddling on my chest, at the small of my back, lathering my forehead and the nape of my neck. The sheets are soaked, my pillow is damp, and I must toss blankets aside, find a dry towel to spread underneath me. It doesn't happen every night, and, so far, it's never happened during the day (thank goodness). But the night sweats strike often enough that I can't ignore it.

I'm thirty-seven. Aren't I too young for this?

Apparently not.

While driving the other day, I searched the radio dial for anything that wasn't a commercial, and found only one thing: a country song that repeats the line, "Live like you were dying." Chalk it up to peri-menopausal mood swings (or pre-menstrual mood swings - yes, once again, honeymoon not withstanding, I'm not pregnant), but this is where my mind went: I am dying. We all are. Even if I ignore all the physical, body-change evidence, it's hard to discount the fact that, sooner or later, everyone else dies. Why should I be any different?

What would I do if death were imminent?

Two people come to mind: my ex-husband, who keeps his distance, as do I, and my ex-best friend, who dropped out of my life after fifteen years, claiming disinterest in the direction my life was going (re-marriage, parenthood), and one-sided-relationship burnout. Granted, I was not the best ever friend or partner to either of these people. Obviously. But... (oh, there are a million buts!) The point is, I thought of them because I feel unresolved about them both, and I realized, if death were imminent, I would do something about it.

It seems like I should follow this with something brave and inspiring, a plan of action, a firm resolution.

Here's my cop-out thought: Good thing death isn't imminent.

Of course, one never knows.

Another thing I might decide to do, if I were to die soon, would be to let myself off the hook of all the shoulds crowding my brain. No plans of action, no firm resolutions. Instead: pleasure and appreciation of the incomplete, inconvenient, imperfect present.

In fact, maybe I'll do that anyway.

Honeymoon Blues?

Usually when B~'s mother comes to pick B~ up for the weekend, J~ is still at work. Meanwhile, I busy myself upstairs so as to avoid awkward unpleasantries with the woman who jilted my man. Today was only a little bit different. This time she was picking B~ up for an entire week. And while I gathered suddenly urgent laundry from the bedroom floor, J~, home early from work, was downstairs with his heart in his socks, waving out the kitchen window as his ex-wife and ex-wife's husband drove off in his ex-car with his ex-son.

Okay, so it isn't his ex-son, but that's how it felt to him. Especially since recent talk of B~ moving in with his mother for the next school year has progressed to actual wheels-in-motion pre-plan planning. It isn't a done deal: there's a private school to check out yet, and a seemingly more stable mother to scrutinize as well. Even so, it's a painful subject for J~, and no surprise that our honeymoon begins with tears.

Actually, it wasn't until the second time he talked about his feelings that he cried. In between, it was me bawling my eyes out for what may seem like the lamest reason ever. I'll admit it to you because I must, because that's what a blog is for, right? I tell you everything. I consider myself duty-bound. So please don't hate me.

I cried because, in packing for the big trip, it hit home that I've been gaining weight, and I really and truly hate that. I've been eating too much and I've been doing it because there are things I don't want to feel, such as, for instance, these three:

1. My very not politically correct feelings about B~'s potential big move: Relief!

2. My reaction to yet another month of not (yet) pregnant: Sick disappointment. Maybe even anger!

3. The sinking knowledge that I need to make a change with what I do with my time, day in, day out: Fear!

The bottom line truth of it is, I've hit a rough patch. Compound that with the fact that I spend too much time alone, too much time trying not to notice everything I'm struggling with, and too much energy trying to mask it all from a thirteen-year-old boy with enough struggles of his own.

Being with J~ for a week straight, I know-- it's all going to come out. I warned him last night that I might have to cry a little each day of our honeymoon. He assured me he doesn't mind.

ME: Even if I cry the whole time?

HIM: In that case, I may have to rent you out to funerals in need of mourners.

ME: Alright, then, I'll pack something black.

And then later, when his tears had dried:

ME: Looks like we'll both be packing our funeral outfits.

Ah, who knows what this week will bring! We've booked the flights, a rental car, and a room for the first night. What we do after that is any one's guess.

It's not a conventional marriage, why should it be a conventional honeymoon?

It certainly isn't coming a moment too soon.

Google Maps

I couldn't remember my bank account user name the other day, so I guessed, and was prompted to choose a new name, then a new password, and a new safety question as well. It seemed strange, since I went through the same routine already recently, but I played along. Finally, I was into my account.

Only it wasn't my account at all.

It was A~ and K~'s.

If you're a long-time reader of this blog, then you might recall that A~ is my ex-husband, and K~ is the woman he had an affair with, the woman he left me for over a year ago.

I clicked a few links, and soon I found myself staring at the image of a cancelled check with both of their names on it, and an unfamiliar address.

Stunned, I called the bank.

Apparently, this was the same account A~ and I once shared, and since he has his own password, it never occurred to him (nor the bank, apparently) to erase mine.

Though it crossed my mind to mess around with their account, I didn't entertain the idea, nor did I consider keeping the password. I even resisted the urge to poke around in their financial records. I'm a very good girl. But I did jot down their address on a yellow post-it, which I stuck, quite prominently, to my desk.

I don't know why I did it. I like to think A~ is completely out of my life, that I could care less if I ever hear from him again. It feels safer this way. But I keep writing him letters. I never intend to mail them, but I don't throw them away, either.

I can't say it didn't hurt to see those two names lined up so intimately on a single check. I don't like the thought of them sharing a bank account, let alone a life, not to mention a more promising child-bearing future. She is ten years my junior and, my imagination cruelly suggests, probably ten times more fertile. And he is ten years too immature to become a father. He needs the lead time her youth affords.

Let's face it, I pushed for years to get him to think seriously about buying a house. He resisted; he evaded; only to admit, in the midst of our divorce, that he did so consciously. As much as he wanted his own home and land, as much as he enjoyed fantasizing about our dream place, he didn't really want it with me.

Then why did you marry me? I might've screamed. Why did you try to have a child with me?

Which brings us back to all my unmailed letters, and the rest of my unanswered questions. Such as: Does he have any clue how deeply he hurt me? Were our full twelve years based entirely on denial and fear? Was his commitment to me, all along, a big fat lie? Or did we have a basically good thing, torn apart by the miscarriages, the trials of our final year?

The toughest and most compelling questions are the what-ifs. Especially: What if he'd communicated honestly with me? Where would we be now?

Perhaps because I'm a masochist, or perhaps because I'm desperate for clues to a possible future that never came to pass, I found myself typing the address from the yellow post-it into Google Maps, clicking over to satellite view, and zooming in as close as possible.

Not what I was hoping to see.

Again with my cruel imagination: I'm assuming he bought a house, a nice house in a quiet neighborhood. I'm assuming he's happy and prosperous and living the dreams that were once our shared dreams. I even imagine that she is pregnant, that they are engaged or already married. I hope, instead, (okay, maybe I'm not such a very good girl) that he's lost his job and is living with his girlfriend's parents, that his relationship is passionless and dull, or that she is having second thoughts about him, while he still works too much and buries his feelings and secretly wonders if he made a big mistake.

As much as my gut tells me I'm better off without him, and in spite of my deep gratitude for J~, I'm still pained by that niggling possibility: All that happily-ever-after stuff I hate to imagine A~ having with K~ -- it could've been us.

The bottom line is, I want to be done with this. I've tried blocking him out, I've tried focusing solely on my new found happiness, I've tried reminding myself what a loser A~ is and always was. But it's not doing the trick.

Perhaps the solution lies in letting go of any attempt to control the situation, or control myself. Maybe I need to insert a certain stack of unmailed letters into a big manila envelope. Maybe I need to write a few more, for good measure. Maybe I need to put to use a certain address written on a certain yellow post-it. Maybe this computer glitch was not so much curse as it was blessing.

Maybe this part of my story isn't as over as I once thought.

ps. to those of you who had your hopes up for me this cycle (I certainly had mine up): once again, no dice. Next time ovulation comes around, J~ and I will be belated-honeymooning in Costa Rica. Maybe the tropical air will do the trick.

You'll be the first to know.

My Grand Adventure

On Monday of last week I drove to Providence, RI and parked downtown. My first order of business was to tuck some cash and my cell phone in my coat pocket, grab my tote bag, and head for WRNI. The tote held three things: the essay I'd written for NPR two years ago, the latest Orion magazine (in case I was kept waiting), and my ice skates.

The essay was written shortly after my first wedding, planned pregnancy, and miscarriage, from the perspective I had at that time on life and the direction of mine thus far. If you'd told me then that I would soon experience another pregnancy, miscarriage, and an impromptu wedding, not to mention divorce, of course I wouldn't have believed you. Even if I did believe you, and you explained, in graphic detail, how painful it was all going to be, I would have had no clue. Maybe I've lived a sheltered life, but I had no idea emotional trauma could hurt like that.

I'm not talking about the miscarriages here, I'm talking about the break-up of my marriage to A~. If you haven't felt the sensation of such intimate betrayal, let me tell you, it's like having your guts ripped out in slow-motion. It hurts. It literally, physically hurts. I still break down sobbing every now and then. Life is, in so many ways, wonderful now, don't get me wrong. But I'm by no means "over it."

So perhaps you can appreciate how strange it felt to read aloud, for public consumption, that "to this date, my unplanned teen pregnancy remains the most painful episode of my life." I wrote that with such confidence, clueless that anything could ever happen to rival the shame and guilt and gory dead-baby nightmares. It was definitely a dark time. But, people, I'm telling you, I didn't know from pain.

The two men who recorded me were very friendly and appreciative. They were also determined to have me read with gravitas and emotion; urging me to re-recite certain lines again and again, slowing down here, adding more drama there. It didn't take long -- I was in and out in less than an hour (I never needed the magazine) -- but even so, I left that radio station lathered in nervous sweat.

As soon as I hit the sidewalk, my spirits soared. It was a sunny, gorgeous early spring day, and the ice rink across the street was all but deserted. I paid my three dollars and spent the next two hours pretending, as I had on the pond in the backyard of my childhood winters, that I had all the grace and skill of an Olympic ice dancer: frontwards, backwards, one-legged, even managing a few drunken-looking and techniqueless spins. For those two hours, it didn't matter that I am actually thirty-seven-years-old, fertility challenged, and wearing a sweat-soaked bra, nor did it matter that I was unaccompanied in my adventure (as we all are, always, to some extent), not to mention confused about my direction in life. I was having fun. And sometimes, that's all that matters.

Following Up

Looking back to the end of last week's entry, I see a grocery list of things I've been meaning to write about. So here goes:

My Appointments with the Therapist:

I've been twice to see this woman, and probably will not go back. Not that she wasn't knowledgeable and wise, not that she didn't have a perfect voice for late-night soft-rock radio (think: earthy, new-age Delilah), but because I could barely squeeze in a word edgewise between all the smooth-voiced wisdom and knowledge. And frankly, I had a hard time taking her seriously. The truth is, I really did get something out of seeing her, and she did have some very useful things to say, which is why I went back for a second dose. I may go again at some point, after exploring other venues for my psychological development, but it won't be anytime soon.

More on step-mothering, and How I Felt on Parent-Teacher Conference Night:

There is a trick to being a happy and effective step-parent, when what you really want is to be a full-fledged parent, starting from scratch. Well, actually, there are many tricks, many challenges, but the one at the top of the list for me is this: making room for the full spectrum of feelings that such a situation evokes. For instance, when J~ came home from parent-teacher conferences, his heart brimming with how much his son's teachers liked his son, it hit me. "You've been a parent for almost thirteen years," I said, struck by all the commitment, the work, the thoughtfulness that such a role requires. I felt glad for him, proud of him, for being such a solid father, and told him as much. And then I burst into tears. It took me a minute to figure out that my sadness was due to the possibility that I will never have a child of my own, let alone the affirming experience of having my child loved and respected in the world.

It never ceases to amaze me how effective a few tears can be for clearing the mind. The more I allow myself to express whatever feeling comes up about what I don't have, the more present I can be to enjoy what I do.

My night out with the girls.

I won't go too much into this one except to say: we didn't do much beyond talking and nursing drinks and eating garlic fries, but I had fun. I stayed up way too late - I'm still recovering. But it feels good to be finding a circle of friends in and around my new home.

Abortion and the Not-So-Simple Choice Between Surgical and Medical (meaning with pills) Procedures:

I won't go too far into this one either. It never felt like the right time to write about this subject, and it certainly doesn't feel right now either, but in case this is of use to a woman planning to have an abortion but agonizing over what method to choose, I want to get this down: It really is a matter of personal preference.

Also, let me be clear: a medical abortion and "the morning after pill" are different things. "The morning after pill" is really a high-dose birth control pill whichprevents a pregnancy from starting after unprotected sex. Medical abortion is basically an induced miscarriage.

In my brief time as an abortion counselor, I spoke to many women (other abortion counselors, that is) who were very clear about which method they would choose, and let me tell you, there is no consensus. Some are more comfortable with the surgery, which is quicker, not necessarily more painful, and involves having a doctor present. Some were more comfortable with aborting medically. In fact, one woman who'd actually experienced both methods, and found medical abortion to be more physically difficult, still insisted she would choose it over surgery if ever she had to choose again, for the privacy it affords, and because it is less invasive.

As far as safety goes, both are reputedly safe, though of course, nothing is foolproof. Actually, I don't know what the state of affairs is these days about medical abortion. A year ago, as I was moving away from that line of work, there was a scare after several deaths due to infections following medical abortions. This had happened once before in California, but this time it was happening elsewhere. It was unclear what was to blame for these deaths, though an obscure soil bacteria seemed to be involved. Here's some more information, if you're interested.

Mind Sweeping

I have become a devotee of David Allen, organization guru to the stars. Okay, not the stars, more like shiny sparkly high-power CEOs. I heard an interview with him on New Dimensions maybe two years ago, where he talked about what it's like to constantly feel like there's something important you should be doing but you're not sure what, or which of too many whats. He talked about focus, about how you either feel terrible about all the things you're not doing, or perfect about the one thing you are doing, and that in order to engage in the present, you must be clear and resolved about everything else. He says that a crisis is actually, in a way, less stressful than when there isn't a crisis, because, for instance, when you blow a tire on the highway, all the appointments and projects and decisions that need making go away. Suddenly, you can focus because there is clearly only one thing to focus on.

This was exactly what I needed to understand. At the time, I was still married to A~, between miscarriages, and torn between looking for full-time work (which I didn't want but felt guilty for not having, since A~ was working non-stop), writing (which I desperately DID want, but felt too depressed and too guilty to really apply my full attention), cleaning the kitchen (to please A~, since this was the one actual complaint about me that he could articulate), researching infertility (because supposedly this was the ultimate goal: to have a baby), and attending to my own mental and physical health. Strangely, this last one was also more for A~ than for myself. He seemed so put off by my unhappiness, and I was hyper-aware that he was not all that into me. No wonder I was miserable and unable to focus.

In his book, Getting Things Done: The Art of Stress-Free Productivity, Allen advocates what he calls "mind sweeping," or getting all the "open loops" or incompletions in your life out of your head and onto paper, a separate sheet for each thought, without any attempt to group things or prioritize until you've swept out every cobweb and corner. I tried it at the time, but got overwhelmed by the growing tower of paper. I ended up throwing out the whole stack.

I'm trying it again now. Though the tower is twice as high, it feels good this time.

I've been going through the pages one at a time, entering items in my calendar, filing others for future reference. Every reminder for a phone call, for instance, goes into a file I keep directly underneath my phone, so that when I sit down at my desk I can browse through and make the appropriate calls. Random errands go in the "errands" file, grouped with paperclips according to where I have to go. Now, when I leave the house, I peruse that file to see if I can complete any of those tasks along the way. There is another file for chores to do online, others for books I want to read, things I want to do someday/maybe, and another for topics I've been meaning to discuss with J~.

We cuddled up on the couch the other night with that file, and it was actually fun. We made small but important progress, some of which was mundane (like, When is your appointment with the urologist?) some not so simple (Would we rather see a Reproductive Endocrinologist?) and some light-hearted (Let's try on the ice skates I bought you! and What do we want to do next weekend, when B~ is away with his Mom?) All in all, it feels great to be getting all this underbrush cleared away.

In the file of possible upcoming blog topics: A report about my appointment with the therapist (I've been twice now). More on step-mothering, and how I felt on parent-teacher conference night. My night out with the girls. And, this may seem off topic for the direction the blog has taken, but I've been meaning to write about abortion again, and the not-so-simple choice between surgical and medical (meaning with a pill) procedures. Oh, yes, and sending out a thank you to all of you who've left supportive comments over the past weeks. I don't always make time to say so, but I do truly appreciate it. And so does J~.

New Year, New Life

Before I talk about anything else, there's something I need to get off my chest.

An Open Letter to Last Year's Husband:

In the days leading up to Christmas, it occurred to me that last year at this time, you were having an affair. Whether or not anything "happened" while you shared a bed with her on that business trip is not the point. The fact that you had done it and kept it a secret from me is enough. The fact that you patted me on the back making pity noises when I admitted, repeatedly, that I couldn't shake my paranoia, is disgusting. The fact that you denied it to my face is incredibly disgusting. You were looking forward to seeing her again. You were excited about a potential relationship with her. Even the sexual energy that you brought to bed with me at the time, I now understand, was full of the tension building between you and her, and that makes me downright sick. The fact that I'm in a much better place now does not absolve you. The words "I'm sorry" do not absolve you. Even my forgiveness, which I realize now I offered artificially (wishfully) and prematurely, does not absolve you. I'm still pissed. I'm still hurt. And as much as I'd like to be above this kind of emotion, I sort of hate you.

Also, make no mistake about it, I divorced you because of your adultery. This was not a benevolent decision made together based on mutual drifting apart. This was a decision forced upon me by your unwillingness to choose between me and your mistress. Never once did you say you wanted to do the work to repair our marriage. Never once did you say you would choose me over her. If my choice was to either except that or kick you out, as far as I'm concerned, I had no choice. In fact, when it came right down to it, you chose her over me. I was not part of the decision at all. You left me for another woman, simple as that. Let me be very clear: I only agreed to call it "irreconcilable differences" so that I could get divorced from you as quickly and cheaply as possible. If I could do it over, I would, because I realize now that forcing you to face facts would have been worth every minute and every penny. You got off easy and you still make me sick.

Okay, dear readers, now that I have that out of my system, I can tell you about the part of my holidays that did not involve nauseating flashbacks to last year:

To make a long story short, we spent Christmas with my family and it was lovely, hanging out at my brother's house twenty minutes up the road, and at our smaller place with various configurations of family members before and after the big day.

With B~ tucked away at his mother's, J~ and I went to New York for New Year's weekend, making good time from our place in rural CT to my dad's in the city Friday evening, sleeping comfortably on an air mattress on the living room floor. We walked all day for two days in lower Manhattan, back and forth over the Brooklyn Bridge, from Battery Park City through Chinatown and Little Italy, the East Village, the Garment District, galleries in Chelsea, all the way up to Columbus Circle. On Saturday, we ate a late lunch at Spice Market, and on Sunday, brunch at Prune. We hit the MoMA close enough to closing to get in for free but not too close to miss the Brice Marden retrospective. As for New Year's Eve, we skipped Time Square hoopla in favor of the pleasantly crowded dance floor at Irving Plaza and our new favorite band, Brazilian Girls. Balloons and confetti fell on our heads at midnight, and we kissed and danced and proclaimed this, such a difficult year, the best of our lives.

We didn't get our wish for a positive pregnancy test on Christmas day, but we're both working on improving our general and reproductive health, and, as always, continuing to enjoy the effort. Who knows what 2007 will bring. I have no doubt, at least, that the reflection on the previous year's holiday season will be much more favorable.

Dirty Laundry

I can't stay away.

Not that I'm trying to -- There's been plenty to keep me busy what with the holidays, a steady stream of guests, and dramas with the ex (his this time).

I could rant for hours on this one, but long story short: when J~ refused to keep a line of credit open to his ex-wife, a line he was supposed to close as part of their divorce agreement, she started calling in the middle of the night to harass us, and now she's refusing to hold up her end of the court-ordered bargain. I'll spare you the gory details, (and spare B~, my step-son, in case he ever stumbles upon this blog) but suffice it to say, it's ludicrous, and she doesn't have a leg to stand on, legally. The whole thing has left me composing spluttering diatribes in my mind, which distill down to a single question.

Please, woman, I ask you in all seriousness: Are you insane?

It is strangely energizing to be angry, to feel righteous. I know it's only adrenaline, conjured by the sense that the well-being of my loved ones and myself is threatened. I know it is an energy of limited use in my life. But it's better than weeping over my own ex, who I'm still shocked was able to drop the ball of our relationship so entirely, never looking back to see if I was okay, if maybe I might benefit from just one more apology, even going so far as to ask ME to "keep in touch."

Please, man, while I'm at it, I'll ask you, too: Are you insane???

J~ feels anger, too, but he's also grieving, so his voice cracks with pain when he expresses it. There is lead weight in his stride, in his voice, as he contends with the full implications of his ex's behavior. This was the woman he had a child with, after all, the woman he was devoted to for fifteen years, the woman to whom he must remain tied, through their son, for the rest of his/her/B~'s life.

Bottom line? Back to court, apparently.

My ex is a loser, but at least not spiteful. I suppose I can be thankful for that.

Meanwhile, J~ and I admire each other's matching wedding rings, which we wear with a sense of thrill and wonder. After all the hell we've been through, (and are still going through, peripherally), we feel like the luckiest couple on earth.

Plus, we're still trying to make a baby. What could be more fun than that?

Looking Forward, Looking Back

At this moment, my stepson is in the next room, being the typical twelve-year-old: doing homework (i.e. cruising iTunes). My man is at his men's group, getting and giving that good ole manly support. I am just home from the gym, curled up on the couch with my laptop propped on a pillow, feeling content.

The only clouds on my horizon are my ex, who has basically dropped off the face of the earth, and J~'s ex, who errs in the opposite direction, sometimes calling J~ three times in a day, imagining she and I are friends or will become so, while going wet-noodle limp in terms of holding up her end of the parenting bargain. But she lets J~ know how much she appreciates all he's done for her, and how sorry she is for her part in the downfall of their marriage. I'm glad he's receiving that healing salve, but I can't help but compare, and it makes me sad. Could twelve years of relationship truly go down the drain with just a "Thanks for everything. Keep in touch"? I guess so.

Tonight I will prepare myself a peaceful, solitary meal (my boys have already eaten). I'll compose my Thanksgiving shopping list. I'll file a few papers, and, come nine o'clock, herd B~ upstairs to brush his teeth and get ready for bed. J~ will return and we will have, as he puts it, "functional sex" (as opposed to the passion-driven sex we've been having all weekend, our first alone since marrying two weeks ago). Tonight is prime pre-ovulation time for my menstrual cycle.

I looked at my fertility chart a few minutes ago, and noted that my next period will be due November 27th or 28th. If it doesn't come, I'll be doing a pregnancy test by the 29th. The timing couldn't be more perfect. Exactly a year ago on that date, I sat down and began this blog, still reeling from my recent miscarriage, unclear as to whether there would ever be another pregnancy attempt in my life.

I could have never predicted the changes this year would bring, not the least of which is that I'm happy, and that the question (Babies, or not?), as well as the mantra, (Doing well... Babies or not.) are still very much alive.