Now that we are able to actively try again, wisps of the past two years periodically roll back across my active consciousness, making me revisit all that we've been through. Breakfast yesterday brought two opposite ends of the spectrum--things I once couldn't deal with that now seem like no big deal, and things that just unexpectedly sadden me, with no warning. Keep in mind that I don't talk to ANYONE IRL about TTC, because even now, I'm just not in a place where I'm ready to deal with anyone else's expectations.
Over eggs in our favorite breakfast joint yesterday morning, T. was casually relating a story that he found hilarious--a relative of mine had helpfully suggested to him that there are test kits that can help you figure out when you're ovulating. (Did YOU know that? Golly!) From there, the conversation unfolded like this:
"And I told her, look at who we're talking about," he chortled. "Of COURSE you have everthing like that covered!"
"Um," I replied, puzzled, "but she doesn't know we're trying." (Clearly, she did. . .I was just trying to wrap my mind around this.)
"Yes she does, from before, from when we had the miscarriage. You talked to her then." He continued nonchalantly eating his eggs, not realizing the problem.
"No I didn't." I continued with my eggs, too. (Incidentally, the hollandaise was wicked; I could've eaten a dozen.)
He looked up from his eggs, the problem starting to dawn on him.
"Yes you did." Um, but I didn't. And then, realization hit. He set his fork down, and started looking forlorn.
"Nope, never. I don't ever talk to anyone about it**. [**Well, I talk to all of you, but T. doesn't know about my blog (because he'd read it, and then I'd edit myself knowing he reads it, and that would kind of be beside the point), and anyway, that's different, because you aren't going to accost me and foist all of your expectations on me. Probably.] YOU do, though." I kept eating. A year ago, I would've been furious that anyone knew (IRL). I didn't want to tell anyone (and didn't). But we are polar opposites about just about everything, and in contrast to my withdrawal deep into myself when something bad happens, he needs to talk to his friends and family about things that bother him. He was completely devastated by the miscarriage, and told loads of people about it. However, the people he told were generally HIS family and friends; he respected my wishes when it came to MY family and friends.
"I am really, really sorry. Please don't be mad." He looked at me with puppy dog eyes. I laughed. I wasn't mad at all, and I really didn't want him to feel bad for "outing" us. I know that the relative in question suspected we were trying, because she hints around about it all the time. I, of course, ignore her hints. Everyone knows poor T. is a talker, and therefore an easy target if you are looking for information about the two of us. It was a little unfair for her to play him like that. The whole situation made me laugh at this point (the skulking! the intrigue!), but he felt terrible.
But it had been my turn to feel terrible on the way to breakfast. I'd asked him an intriguing question I'd thought of in the shower yesterday morning: irrespective of finances or location, what was his idea of our perfect future? His answer brought me to tears for us: he said that in the months we were initially trying to get pregnant, and then during those that we were pregnant, those precious months before the miscarriage, I seemed so blissfully happy all of the time, so joyous, that it made his life perfect, because we talked and connected and had so much hope and joy for the future. That is the perfect life he aspires to.
The thing that absolutely brings me to my knees is that I don't know if I can ever get back to that place again. I've lost my innocence. I do want that for him, and for us, and I feel terrible that I'm not sure I will ever get back to that place. I wonder, if we had not had the miscarriage, would our lives have be full of nothing but sunshine and light now? Has our journey cast a pall that will never quite be gone? Has it deprived me of something very fundamental, which can never be quite achieved again? I was so naive in my bliss those many months ago. I long to go back there, not even for myself, but for T. I want him to know that happiness again. After everything, he deserves that. But it is the "everything" that has happened in between now and then that makes that joy, that bliss, that utter happiness that much more elusive.