Autism

I wrote this in May...following an IEP meeting for Squeakers...

Every once in a while, in the life a mother, you have a moment when you realize you’re a mother. You are no longer just yourself – you are completely bound to another spirit that then changes you – and it’s in those “mother moments” that you recognize that change in yourself…the better you. I had such a moment this week. On Tuesday, I went to the boys’ school to go over their IEP – or “educational plan” for the next year. I don’t come to these meetings naïvely, and I expected to ask a lot of questions and to have input on their goals for the next year. We reviewed the IEP for Blurbles and Lil' N, and I wasn’t too surprised over anything we discussed. I felt comfortable that I would know what to expect with Squeakers. I have spent a lot of time with Squeakersthis year – with him personally, and many hours in private – praying and studying to know what he needed. I have spent hours talking about him with my Aunt (who specializes in autism spectrum disorders), TPM, my mom, our former speech therapist, his current teacher,his primary leaders, and many others. I had already set up appointments with the appropriate people. I felt like I had a handle on my little boy. We began the IEP by talking about the Physical Therapist’s evaluation with Squeakers. She began to talk about Squeakers' running (with his hands out), his occasional walking on his toes, and his difficulty with jumping. She explained that she was surprised that he was able to ride a tricycle so well – and that it wasn’t consistent with her findings. I thought back to three months ago, when TPM brought home a used tricycle, and Squeakers got on it that day and worked and worked and worked to ride that tricycle. He’s been practicing every day since – sometimes for more than 30 minutes to ride the tricycle well. We talked about the difficulty he has with sitting still, and I was confused as to why we would be talking about that as a PT issue. Wasn’t that just Squeakers being squirrelly? Apparently, it’s not. It’s a sensory processing issue – the reason why he has to land to hard on his feet when he’s running, and why he needs to ruin each crayon he uses to color with – he can’t feel where he’s at – and can’t judge what he’s doing – unless it’s done with pressure. Sitting is devoid of the pressure he needs to know where he is. I began to feel myself entering that “mother moment” – I no longer knew whom I was, because I realized I no longer knew my son. The physical therapist suggested that we use a “weighted blanket” or a “bear hug” when he walks anywhere with his class – to give him the added pressure he needed to feel where he was at – it would help him from veering off. I then asked the teacher, “And you use this with children that…?” And, she answered, “that have autism.” I can tell you that this came as no surprise. Most people know that I have suspected this for a very long time. But, in that moment – hearing the words out of someone’s mouth other than my own – from someone who would know – my world changed. My role as a mother changed. It’s like walking into your neighbor’s house with your same floor plan – and seeing a different house, with different furniture, different paint – and noticing all the details of your own house that you’ve missed all this time. I thought I knew Squeakers' struggles, and I thought I knew how to help him we’ve had such a successful year with him this year. I’ve implemented every suggestion given to me, and I have felt abundantly blessed by the Spirit in knowing how to help him. But, in that moment, I knew I must do better. There were details I missed. I determined to know more, to understand better, to know my little boy completely. I realized that in all our little successes, he still didn’t have the weight or security around him to help him know where he was. His amazing little mind was still unsure about the direction he was going and where he was ending up. In that “mother moment” – I realized that Heavenly Father gives us these little spirits to challenge ourselves to know them – completely, and thereby knowing ourselves more completely. I was unsettled on Tuesday – shed a few tears – and then woke up on Wednesday determined to know what he needed, because 4 years ago – I stopped being myself and became the weighted blanket for Squeakers through this world, and more specifically, through his mind. He would do just fine, as long as I was listening to the Spirit, to know where to take him. Eventually, he would know his mind so well, he will take himself – and feel safety in the journey.

Ghostbusters

A few years ago, after a rousing story telling at my brother Larry's house which included this little episode of my phantasmagorical adolescence, I decided to put this event into words for posterity. Becca convinced me that there might be other readers out there who could find a glimmer of entertainment from its contents.

Ghostbusters

Movies were always a constant in my family’s life. Rarely were we to be seen gracing the cushioned oasis of the local theater; but, fortunately VCR’s were created so that we could select from the myriad of titles that lined the walls of the rental store. I remember, with a hollow emptiness, the days before the advent of the videocassette. Long wasted hours of inhaling fresh air and performing physical exercise while playing outdoors with friends (these were also the days before Nintendo).

Fortunately, my fiscally-responsible parents did deem it worthwhile to allow us to attend the movie theater on special occasions in order to experience the real world of cinematic magic. On one such blessed occasion we found ourselves crammed together in our stylish, brown van en route to one of the blockbusters of the year: Ghostbusters. We already knew the song by heart (thank you MTV) as well as the story (thank you kids in the neighborhood); which just served to heighten our fevered anticipation to watch the movie. I won’t go into the actual details of the movie, the plot, or even the characters and special effects. Suffice it to say, it exceeded the mountainous expectations our little minds had piled upon it.

For weeks we discussed the finer nuances of the film and would re-enact choice scenes that were indelibly etched into our maleable consciences. In an effort to expand merchandizing, the beneficent movie-makers produced a cartoon based on the movie which allowed us to experience Ghostbusters on a daily basis. The only aspect of the Ghostbusters phenomenon we did not indulge in was the toy campaign (Star Wars and G.I. Joe still held the corner on that market in our house). My parents even invested in the Ghostbusters soundtrack. This tape became a staple in the marathon dance sessions that were held in my parents’ living room. Nothing adds more to the reverberating bass blaring from the speakers than the constant rattling of my mom’s chandelier and curio glass. We knew the tape by heart within two days of having it in our possession.

Unfortunately, my reality was not solely occupied by living room jam sessions and I had the sad misfortune of having to take the bus to school almost the entire extent of my childhood. When I was really young, taking the bus was an adventure filled with interesting new vocabulary words expressed lovingly on the back of seats, hardened chewing gum of every color of the rainbow plastered like warts in the most unlikely of places, and paper formed into precision projectiles that could elicit an occasional “ow!” or “hey?!” from some unsuspecting victim. As I grew older, the bus became a horrifying nature show where the weak are preyed upon by the remorseless carnivores- a place where you would sell out your own brother for a moment’s protection.

When I was in Junior High, our bus driver allowed us to indulge in the art of music. Often, we would be found listening with rapt attention to the antics of the popular morning disc jockeys placing prank phone calls and telling the sordid details of the previous evening’s escapades. The driver also afforded us the unusual privilege of bringing our own music to share with the bus as a form of aural show-and-tell. Many of the carnivores on my bus preferred the dulcet sonnets of such composers as Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath, and Ratt. On many occasions I felt it was a true tragedy that the vast majority of those present had to endure this jarring assault on our ears while only two or three people were actually enjoying the presentation. It was at one of these moments that I resolved that I would bring something for the little people and thus find fame and acceptance by catering to the common man. I even harbored the belief that I could somehow bridge the gap between us lowly life forms and those of the cool by finding some kind of mutual common ground on which we both could frolic. In some horribly, twisted way I was able to forge a fleeting unification of bus-commuting students; but not in the way my self-promoting fantasy had contrived it.

Myself being a lowly 6th grader (lowest form of life found on most Junior High school buses), I was hesitant to enact my plan. One part of me solemnly believed that this would be my ticket to glory and catalyze my future as a “cool kid” at my school. The other, more realistic and often pessimistic, side of me warned of the colossal failure that could precipitate, and of collateral damage that could accompany me throughout the endless expanses of bleak adolescence. I gave a hearty laugh in the face of my over-worried self (something I have not deigned to do in the almost twenty years since this memorable experience) and resolved that I would indulge in the joys of becoming popular.

One crisp, fall morning (I won’t say cool since we lived in southern Nevada and cool can be a relative term when one comes from such a place), I quietly placed an item from my frenetic household into the confines of my backpack. Afterwards, I slipped away to school with a grin plastered on my face that would not have fallen away even had I been depantsed in front of the whole school. Careful planning told me that the optimal time at which to pile upon myself glory and honor would be on the bus ride home from school. In the morning the other kids would be too lethargic to appreciate the wonderful gift I would be presenting to them; and, I wanted to be sure every pupil could delight in the joyful activity I would be providing. The day crept by second by second. Several times I was asked why I appeared in such a good mood. I would just shrug and respond, “it is just a good day.”

Finally, that closing school bell rung. I had the great fortune of being in a class located right next to where the buses retrieved their pubescent cargo. Normally a very reserved and composed child, I had jostled to the front of the classroom so that I might be the first one out of the door and onto the bus. My hand was already enclosing my ticket to popularity; all I had to do now was place it in the trusty hands of the bus driver and my fate would be sealed. I darted across the short expanse to my bus and I clambered up the waiting steps. The bus driver appeared startled as I lunged forward thrusting something towards him. I quickly stuttered, “w-w-will you play this as we drive home?” He looked down at the object and a quizzical expression formed on his face. He nodded his assent and tried to suppress a grin that many a headsman has worn before he has dropped his axe. I was oblivious to the smile and simply floated down the aisle to a center seat so that I could witness the full splendor of the upcoming event.

Slowly the seats filled to capacity and I looked with enthusiasm at those unsuspecting faces. Halloween was soon approaching and I was imaging the shock and delight the other students would have when they heard the words, “When there’s something strange in the neighborhood, who you gonna call? GHOSTBUSTERS!” I then envisioned the bus erupting in cheers and belting out, “I ain’t ‘fraid of no ghosts!”

Each moment was an eternity until I finally heard the squeal of the bus doors drawing closed. The wheels creaked into motion and I held my breath as I awaited the joyous sounds of music. The introduction began to play and I peered around, waiting for the smiles to form. My head was already beginning to sway as the speakers blared out their intoxicating message. My mouth was just beginning to form the words to that perfect refrain when I heard the words, “what is this crap?!” Followed by a quick, “hey, this sucks!” Like the Black Plague, a pall fell over the bus and heads began to swivel trying to locate the instigator of this new musical form of torture. Someone then declared, “turn this crap off!” which was then followed by a seeming multitude of “yeahs!” The bus was beginning to unify in a way even experts on social teen strata interaction could not have predicted.

My head slowly sunk to an almost invisible level (a technique I had perfected over the years of playing “prey” on the bus food chain). Someone boisterously queried, “whose music is this?” Images flashed into my mind of adolescent lynching parties beating a scrawny, little blond-haired boy into oblivion. A counter-image flashed in which I was not found, but the tape was confiscated and pulverized by the bus’s “cool” police. I knew I couldn’t let anything happen to that tape (my parents were not aware of its pilfered status and it would take years of allowances just to repay its loss), yet my will to live outweighed all other options. My head also began to turn, searching for the culprit of such a heinous crime.

The bus once again reverberated in its plea for the bus driver to turn off the horrid music. Fortunately for all parties involved, he reached up and produced a penetrating silence that allowed the echoes of the refrain to die painfully in minds of fifty young students. All eyes swept around like criminal searchlights, ascertaining the guilt of each of the other occupants. Time seemed to have lost its linear dimension and just floated in that moment like an indolent cloud.

By some act of divine intervention our bus finally reached its first stop and began to expel the contents of its metal carapace. Eternity crept on, and the bus arrived at each stop on its route. My stop came and I chose not to exit. I decided that I would wait until all other students were off of the bus before I would retrieve the tape. Five more stops rolled passed and finally we were at the end. After the last kid ambled down the steps I stood up on two quaking legs. I was imagining that all of the other bus riders were now organizing into a blood-thirsty mob and tracking the progress of the bus- just waiting until that “special someone” finally decided to remove his cursed tape and depart from the sanctuary the bus provided.

The bus driver saw me creeping forward through his enormous rear-view mirror and reached up and pulled out my tape. The pity in his eyes was unmistakable as watched me secret the tape into the darkest recess of my bag and quietly slip down the steps. I walked two miles back to my house along the most circuitous route I could contrive, attempting to avoid the condemning eyes of any of my peers. Just the mere sighting of me at an unusual location at that hour, on that day would have been a blaring admission of guilt. When I reached my driveway, I broke into a run and burst into my house slamming the door behind me. Only then did I feel safe enough to allow the fear of a painful demise to slip away. Surreptitiously, I slipped into the living room and placed the tape in its special slot- never to be touched by my fingers again.

Infertility

Becca wrote this piece five and a half years ago after one of our latter miscarriages and when the feelings of hopelessness were coalescing into tangible darkness.  Obviously, the five brilliant lights that Providence would shine down into our lives had not crested the horizon and she needed an outlet--writing.

Stained

     It’s been dark for a long time. Not visibly dark, just the kind of dark that follows you like a shadow. I don’t know how to dispel the looming pain that covers me like a blanket. It’s a warm, comfortable feeling that validates my lonely reveries. If the darkness didn’t give me solace from the pain, if it wasn’t something I welcomed, the power of my dreams would be impotent. The obscurity provides me shelter from the impending storm. Moving on would prove me unfaithful and disloyal, able to find maternal intimacy elsewhere.
     I have always ached for a child. I know it’s not popular to say that now. As a smart, motivated, and successful woman, I should aspire to greatness. I’m not sure what the technical definition for greatness is, but I know that in these modern times, messy diapers, chunky vomit, and sleepless nights do not usually define transcendent achievement. But really, I just want to help guide the life of a little child. I want to take something completely innocent and malleable, and allow it to mold my jaded, critical, adult existence. I crave a little spirit like a war prisoner yearns for freedom. It’s all I can think about, it’s all I desire, and it thwarts my every step toward the future.
     The story begins when I was a little girl carrying around my Holly Hobbie doll. Several years later, when I would play house with my friends, I would insist that I be able to play the “mom” of the family. I taught my little brothers and sisters to add and subtract, their ABC’s and how to tie their shoes. One day my mother caught me yelling at my stuffed animals because I didn’t think they were trying “their best” in singing. From a very early age, I believed I was born to be a mother.
I didn’t really begin to believe that babies were a reality, until I received half of my dream: the adoring husband. It only made sense that the picket fence and babies would follow soon after. We met in college, were really close friends, but didn’t discover we were destined for each other until seven years later. We dated a short time, had an even shorter engagement, and got married on a June afternoon in San Diego. Our marriage was for eternity, and on that day, I was convinced I would have it all. I can still taste the bile of irony when I criticize myself for taking birth control for the first six months of our married lives. Maybe this is my punishment. For a brief amount of time, I implied that children would be an inconvenience to me.
     I can specifically remember one conversation my roommates and I had in college. It was quiet evening, we were all sitting around asking probing questions, hoping to discover the part in us we always try to hide. I was asked, “What is your worst fear?” I remember after many moments of thought, I responded, “That harm will come to one of my children and I could have prevented it; or, that I will be unable to have children.” But many of our worst fears never really come to fruition. In fact, we hope that by speaking aloud those fears we are somehow immunizing ourselves against their existence. Even that night, it never really occurred to me that I may not be able to have everything of which I deemed myself worthy.
     There is a statistic that 50% of pregnancies end in miscarriage. Most women never know it because the fertilized egg is shed without even a hint of its existence. How casual the process of life can be. It can begin and end without even so much as a thought from the woman carrying the child. And just as real, some women will carry those children to term, and never realize the great miracle they helped to create. Having progeny is just an inconvenient result of their negligent lust.
The first month we tried, I just assumed we would be pregnant. It seems so naïve to believe that now, but I just thought it would be that easy. How could 5 million sperm not find their way to one little egg? One of them was destined to make it… blood was always the end result. Every time I felt we were pregnant, I saw the crimson blemish. In the world of infertility, bleeding is a very poignant symbol of your struggle. The blood takes over, inviting the dark to enslave your anima, slaughtering all hope for another thirty days. It fits perfectly that after each month of hoping with all your heart that a miracle has occurred, that you are informed of your failure through the dark red stain that mottles the optimism you cherished all month.
     After several months of trying, I began to feel a dull, continuous pain in my left side that would accelerate into sharp, strong agony. I felt like my ovaries were being twisted like a water balloon until they would pop. I went to several doctors, who ran a few tests, and when they could find nothing wrong, they labeled my bowels as irritable. It wasn’t just my bowels that were irritable; it was every cell in my body. I couldn’t rid myself of this desperation that began to follow me around like a noisome shadow.
     Every month I was convinced we would be pregnant. I clung to this wish silently, because I knew my husband had given up hope, and I alone was left to carry us over the bridge of doubt. Twelve cycles of this longing and devastation began to take its toll on our faith. My husband and I were best friends in every way, but we could not bring ourselves to discuss our inability to conceive. We danced around the issue like political leaders in a debate, cavelling over inane issues while avoiding the major one. We each lived through our own hell, never dreaming of inviting the other one to dwell in such a dreary and despondent existence.
     Invariably after you’ve been married more than 10 days, the questions begin. Even in the most modern, feminist families, some Aunt Martha would turn to you and ask, “So, when are you going to start your family?” The questions seem fairly harmless until you’ve gone through agonizing months of trying. Suddenly, the question, “Do you and Brent want any children?” asked with a hint of judgment ignites a rage strong enough to justify murder of passion. You simply give your most forced smile and reply, “Yes, we want children.” Which can only follow, “When?” It’s so ironic that many Americans consider it inappropriate to discuss what goes on in the bedroom, but don’t shy away at all from asking about the products of that behavior.
     After a year of trying, I was late. This wasn’t too abnormal for me, but a sliver of hope pleaded that this be a sign. I convinced my husband to go with me to buy a test. He didn’t seem too interested in the adventure, as we had gone through this painful ordeal several times before; always to see one pink line and disappointment in its deepest form. We picked the test up at a Wal-Mart, as I watched a mother yelling, “shut-up” to her screaming child. My heart yearned to take that child and wrap my arms around her and whisper that it would all be okay.
     The haunting question that accompanies the dark shadow is whether or not my incapability to have a child is an indication of my weakness for caring for one. Logically, it sounds rash; emotionally, it makes perfect sense. It follows the theory of Darwin that if there were something inherently wrong with me, I would be unable to carry a child to term. I rack myself with questions when I watch the mom in Wal-Mart screaming, and wonder where I fall short.
     We got home from buying the test. While my husband was unloading the car, I inconspicuously peed on the stick and watched as two pink lines appeared in the testing window. I had never seen two lines, and it took a while for me to realize the significance of the moment. It’s funny how you’ll dream about a moment for so long, and then the actual moment is lost in confusion. My husband walked in and with my hands shaking, and eyes brimming over with tears, I showed him the positive test. He gave me little reaction. We had both waited for this moment for over a year, and he had nothing to say. I knew he didn’t believe that this miracle was really ours to keep. It was borrowed joy that would need to be returned in two weeks, just like a book from the library.
     I went back to harboring it all within myself. I would not be robbed of this euphoria I had only been able to imagine before this moment. I felt such a connection to this little life. It was my constant companion. Every decision I made was with consideration for this child. I began a routine of talking to my belly. I couldn’t help it. My heart felt so connected to this bundle of cells multiplying inside me. It validated the internal dialogue I had depended on for years; finally, I would have it all.
     My dreams began to crumble with the pink stain. I had been pregnant for several weeks, when I saw a hint of pink on the toilet paper. I knew at that moment that children would never come easily to me. The pink stain turned into red, like my bitterness evolving into anger. I had to lie down, the pain forcing me to permit the cramps to begin expelling life from my body. I began to feel that if I wanted this baby enough, I could will it to hang on. I could convince this child not to give up on me. I knew, logically, that miscarriages don’t happen this way, but at the same time, I needed to feel like I could do something to change fate, besides lay on my bed enduring the periodic spewing of my abdomen. Like someone clinging to a perilous dike, I desperately grasped onto the love I had for my baby, and supplicated it would be enough to save the little spirit. It wasn’t.
     The strange thing about miscarriage is that it’s not something you want to share with other people. There is always that empty silence separating the grieving from the ignorant. It feels worse to voice your pain, because they have nothing intelligent or even comforting to respond back, leaving you more hollow than you were before. In the life of a mother, however short that time might have been; the loss is a death. I was grieving the life of this baby, and yet I could not openly mourn the way a person would do if they had lost their mortal child. I needed to go back to work, and continue life as though nothing significant had taken place. Motherhood was given and taken away in such a fleeting moment. I was expected to still drop off the dry cleaning, teach six classes in a day, and turn in my term paper. Only I was aware of the blood trickling out, exorcising my body of all traces of life. Everything continued just as it was.
     My husband was stoic through the miscarriage, until he saw the grayish, rubbery form of a body that was our baby. It was a small blob, but you could see the head and make out the beginning growth of limbs. It’s a disturbing moment to look at your little life in the toilet like some dead fish. It doesn’t seem quite appropriate to dispose of the child through the sewer system. I remember my mother told me a story about my grandmother burying her miscarried baby in the backyard. While I look at my little baby in the toilet, I never understood my grandmother more than I did in that moment. My husband sobbed at the evidence of life that had grown from our love, and I think he began to see the pain I would carry every day for months.
     Apparently, you are more fertile after a miscarriage, and so by the next cycle, I was pregnant again. It seemed like maybe fertilization would not be the glaring issue it was our first year of trying. We were elated to replace the pain of one loss, with the joy of another life. I went to my doctor’s to receive any help he could give me in keeping this child. He seemed apathetic to my plight, and only insisted on performing a pap smear. Later in the afternoon, my husband and I walked along the shores of Newport Beach, hand in hand, connected in a way that was not possible before the first loss. I began to think it was meant to be. The first loss brought us together. Infertility would not be a taboo word anymore in our home. The easily discussed fertility would replace the distant word of infertility. We were able to cross the bridge of doubt, and keep a hold of each other in the process. He was more hopeful, more convinced of our worthiness to protect this child from harm.
     That afternoon, I saw the pink stain. I knew I could not survive this again. I didn’t mention it to Brent, because I couldn’t bear to destroy his sanguinity- I felt like we had worked so hard to develop it. I had insisted he recognize the hand of fate, and to embrace the endless possibilities. But, just like the last time, pink turned into deep red, and I was alone. My feelings were lethargic; I just couldn’t bring myself to feel rage or sadness. I only braced myself for the next cramp, and cringed at each painful expulsion from my body. Brent came home from work the following day, only to learn that we had lost Baby Number Two.
     Our pain became a third party in our home. It was this imaginary person walking around the house, irritating us both, but neither one of us acknowledging its existence. It was present in every conversation, at every meal, and in every expression of love to each other. It would haunt us with its presence, and conceding its existence would only give it more life. Like a bothersome relative, refusing to leave, we resented the presence of this ghost in our home. We knew that we could not find peace, until we were willing to cast the specter out. But by casting it out, it would seem we never wanted it all to begin with. So, we allowed the unwelcome guest to circle around us, like a vulture foraging for prey.
     That is when the darkness began to settle. It started as just a gray mist, but over the course of several months, it turned into a great pall of black smoke. Nobody around me could see the darkness, it was personal, belonging only to me; and I cherished it like a family heirloom. It was the only thing that gave voice to my prolonged grieving. To everyone, including my husband, the miscarriages were months ago, and it was time to dream again. We began the cycles of hope and failure, but the gravity of the emotions involved began to take its toll. I felt rage at every birth announcement and feigned joy at every pregnancy. Inside, I was a pressure cooker waiting to explode. My emotions were as elusive as a breeze, and I couldn’t define what they were or where they came from, which made me unable to combat them. When I couldn’t characterize my enemy, I made the enemy everyone. The pain in my left side returned. It was another daily reminder that things were not right, and excruciating pain would be my lot. I found a doctor that was able to diagnose the disease, and endometriosis became my constant companion. It was calming to put a name to the foe, and I welcomed the silent intruder. At least I knew what I was fighting.
     My husband and I were able to discuss the infertility for the first time in almost a year. Instead of saying “infertility” we could say “condition” and that took the blame and misunderstandings out of the equation. We were able to coalesce as one to battle the effects of the condition on my body. He was not my enemy; he was the one person who shared my deep hatred for the trespasser. The ghost coexisting in our house began to walk around us, instead of between us. I felt so relieved to know that adopting my husband’s peace didn’t insult the ghost of my baby; rather, it reverenced it.
     Infertility has been known to destroy marriages. I can see how the merry-go-round of disappointment will slowly begin to corrode the deep connection between a husband and wife. It was difficult to acknowledge that he was everything in my life, and yet this condition threatened our future. I knew I couldn’t let my desire for children demolish my already-established happiness. I began to feel like a gambler who had doubled his winnings and was searching to blow it all before he realized what he had won. I wasn’t willing to accept that I had hit the jackpot already, and that it was foolish to risk it all pining for more. I desired satisfaction. I wanted myself to see what I had, and to appreciate the beauty of my life. I had a husband who adored me. I had a friendship worth more to me than anything, and yet I was searching everywhere for the perfect life, and I couldn’t see all the beauty in front of me. It’s frightening to imagine all the joy that has been missed in the quest for perfection.
     The pain hasn’t stopped. My doctor recommended surgery, and I was convinced it would cure the infertility and pain. My doctor explained that surgery would extricate the displaced blood in my uterus and clear the pathway for children to be created. The month after my surgery, the pain was minimal, and I felt that finally I had found the magical cure. But, within weeks, the pain returned with a vengeance. I was writhing in agony, the surgery offering less than 3 weeks of alleviation. Surgery, treatments, and medication could not give me the relief I was searching for. My body is still a daily reminder of my difficulties to conceive and maintain a pregnancy.
     Modern medicine had failed me, and finally the dark had overpowered me beyond my ability to contain it. One evening, I cried myself to convulsions in the arms of my husband. I began to resent the darkness and its power over my existence. Like a deadly addiction, I abhorred my dependence on this vice. The darkness was no longer something that comforted me; it was destroying me. I was unable to fight the feeling I had coddled for so long.
     During this black time, I discovered I was pregnant. I had been drowning in my suffering for so long, that I felt unworthy to plan for new, innocent life. I carried that baby until I was convinced it was safe enough to dream. My husband and I attended weekly medical exams where we charted our baby’s growth through ultrasounds. We marveled at its little heartbeat, and we believed that this was really our little miracle. We were given it when all odds were against us; something greater than ourselves was involved. At nine weeks, blood and darkness again plagued my progress. I could feel the siren of pain calling for my soul, luring me to an abyss of doubts.
     It all comes down to a battle with myself. I cannot allow this pain to own me. And yet, it would be so easy to acquiesce to my grief. It’s such a battle everyday to recognize my role in peace. If I do not force myself to see the gifts in front of me, I will be unable to pull myself from the cold. I alone hold the power for freedom.
     So, I continue my battle against myself. The comforting darkness that gives voice to my racked emotions never melts with my desire for peace and happiness. I must give up one and embrace the other. Sometimes, I can’t decide which I want more. It seems logical to want the peace. But, in the world of grieving, there is something very tangible about the dark. It’s the one place you feel understood and valued. The darkness seems to understand you in a way that the light never could. But, I know the darkness will never free me. I’m a prisoner to its lure. I know that in order to escape, I must embrace the light. I must acknowledge that the light will not go where the dark determines to take me; it will only struggle to guide me back to peace.