WRITTEN ON September 27th, 2010 BY Meredith AND STORED IN Uncategorized

So here I am, back from my longest blog-hiatus ever. Sitting here, realizing that it’s been a month to the day since my last post, I feel nothing short of embarrassed. I’m not even sure if anyone will still be reading this.  I wouldn’t blame you if you’ve strayed to greener pastures, or tastier blogs.

To be perfectly honest with you, dear readers, I’ve just been feeling totally uninspired lately. Despite the excitement of the new house, its been a tough summer emotionally. There’s a lot that I’ve kept fairly close to the vest, not knowing if I was ready to “write it out.” While I was struggling with being fully ready to share, I lost the desire to write anything at all.

I finally realized that this blog has been a comfort to me since I started writing it, so I might as well come back here with a renewed sense of purpose and lay it all out on the table.

In case you weren’t able to read between the somewhat maudlin lines of my Christmas and New Year’s posts, I suffered a miscarriage at ten weeks, four days before Christmas.  It was devastating. The only thing that got me through was my husband, the love of my life and the one person who really truly can make me smile through anything.  He was and continues to be my every day hero.

January and February were spent in a haze of getting back to normal.  I’d been pregnant for almost three months and all of a sudden I wasn’t anymore.  My body got right back into the business of functioning normally.  My mind was a little behind.

By March, I was full steam ahead on the pregnancy wagon. By May, when I still wasn’t pregnant, I started seeing a fertility specialist, who didn’t take me seriously because we had had a natural conception.  At that point, it felt like everyone in my life was pregnant: my sister-in-law, two of my best friends, and many, many more close friends and acquaintances. Those who weren’t pregnant were “trying” (to use my least favorite term). I couldn’t get away from it. I just couldn’t clear my head of baby noise.

The house was the second thing that saved me. All spring I was able to distract myself with plans for decorating and updating and gardening. But once we moved in and much of the work was completed, I found myself again haunted by our loss and by the never-ending frustration of attempting to conceive.  We’ve had most of the tests. The hubster is a fertility superman.  There is apparently nothing wrong with me either, which is even more frustrating: if there’s nothing wrong, then what the hell is wrong!?

July and the baby’s due date loomed large for the first half of the summer.  Everywhere I looked, my most beloved ladies were getting round and gorgeous, and I hid from them as much as I could.  I spent most of the summer in hibernation, getting from one day to the next, keeping myself busy with made up projects, traveling, seeing friends with whom I could drink wine. July, August, September passed and still no pregnancy.  Were you hoping this sob story would end on that happy note?  Sorry, loves.  It seems my body, always so regular and reliable, is failing me in this quest.

The reason I haven’t written about this is simple: I think about it so much, obsess about it in my own head, and I’m afraid to open up to the public at large (and my oh-so-many readers) because I just can’t stomach the thought of having to have even more conversations (with real people) about it. I’m not ashamed. I fully support fertility options and acupuncture and whatever other methods people take to realize the dream of becoming a parent. But the real reason I needed to write about this is that it’s caused a mental block that is crippling me. I have pictures of at least twenty dishes I created over the summer that I never blogged about: I just felt too listless. I need to move forward and start using this blog as a creative outlet again, and I can’t do that if I’m too scared to be honest with my readers about my daily struggles.

I know I’m not alone.  People deal with fertility issues every day. And I also know that it will happen. I’ve never been a particularly patient person though, so that’s the hardest part for me. The waiting.  The fake happiness for others (sorry, but people with fertility issues are flat out lying if they tell you they’re genuinely happy for everyone else without being even the slightest bit bitter.  It’s just human nature, plain and simple. My gut reaction to people telling me they’re pregnant at this point? Screw you!).  I know I will have your support.  I guess that’s why I figured it was finally time to write about it. I need to get it all out in the table to I can move on and start being inspired by life again…

So here goes: The back door is open in my kitchen, which smells like carrot-apple bran muffins and late summer roasted tomato soup simmering on the stove. I can hear the sound of the rain pitter-pattering on the brick walkway, underneath the lazy drone of September crickets.  I’m cozy and dry inside, about to pour myself a big glass of Rioja and watch the DVR of Desperate Housewives from last night.  Later, I’ll tuck into bed with the book Three Cups of Tea, which is helping me remember that I’m incredibly lucky (and selfish) and that there are problems way bigger than mine out there. Tomorrow is a new day. I’m planning a trip to the nursery for more fall plantings.  Two weeks from today, I’ll turn 32. And despite the heartbreak of the last year, I’ve had it pretty darn good.

Come back to me, readers.  Come back to my table and help me see to again see it as half full. I need you now more than ever.

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