Don't Forget the Tablecloth

Mammaw gave me an article weeks ago that she cut out of the Richmond Times specifically for me. No offense to the woman who’s in my top five list of favorite people, I wasn't overly eager to read what she had found. I stuffed it in my bag and honestly had forgotten it until yesterday, when I was emptying things out and saw the envelope and became overly excited for two seconds because I thought somebody had slipped me some money. Whomp whommmmp.

The article was written by a woman who had experienced three miscarriages and was speaking out about the “hush hush” that always accompanies the people around women who have experienced loss of pregnancy. It has been my priority for two years to talk about my own experience with this topic—um, obviously, I have an entire blog dedicated to it. I’ve never wanted anyone to feel uncomfortable around me because of what I’ve been through and I CERTAINLY do not want women I’m around to feel awkward because they have children or are pregnant. I also don’t want to go so far in the other direction…shove my experience in your faces. (Although the “miscarriage card” has been used in the past and I’m not afraid to use it again, in dire situations, specifically this one: ‘oh I can’t exercise that way because I’ve had trauma to my body and my doctor doesn’t want me to over-do it’). (Insert winky face).

As I was reading what this woman had written, I found myself tearing-up because she nailed what I’m feeling exactly. Freaking nailed it. Her analogy compared every miscarriage to a magician’s trick of yanking a table cloth from under a fully-set dinner table. For a brief moment before the cloth is pulled, there’s nervousness, anxiety, chaos. Then, the thing is yanked from under the china—and there’s a moment of complete shock and silence. Yet the table stays set, everything in order, and its dinner as usual. But what about the tablecloth lying crumbled in the floor, away from the table, looking on?

Since this last time, almost two months ago, I’ve drowned myself in things to keep my mind literally running non-stop from the time I wake up in the morning until the time I lay my head on the pillow at night. I volunteer for things. I take over things. I keep crazy-lady post-it notes covering my desk so there’s not a single second of time wasted thinking of things I can’t deal with. I don’t think about a single thing concerning uteruses, periods, egg-whites, temperatures, counting days, and on and on and on. I mean, I do think about it, but I’ve tricked my mind into thinking of other things when those thoughts pop up in my head so I won’t dwell on them. So technically, I have been dealing with it. Probably not in the best way a licensed therapist would suggest, but hey, it’s been two months and I’m still here, so that’s saying something.

The article also brought up the writer’s feelings toward God. Her feelings reflected mine almost exactly. After the first MC, it was, “Okay that was a fluke, my bad. Please let me get pregnant again soon.” After the second, it was, “Um, God…can’t believe you let that happen again…c’mon man. Please, I want a baby”. Then the third, “Um, excuse me, sir?!?!?! I don’t know why this is happening or why I’m being punished but I’m letting you handle it”. And then the fourth, “WTF!!!!!!” Now, my prayers are pretty much just me listing all the things I’m thankful for and I’m not asking for a damn thing. I used to pray for things in general, like, “please let us have a successful pregnancy.” Then I broke it down and started asking for specific things, like, “please let this sperm make it to where it needs to go and let this extra folic acid build up and this aspirin not clot my blood and these vitamins provide me with extra good stuff.” Now, what’s the point in asking for anything? God isn’t Santa. God isn’t my mommy. I can’t just ask and I’ll receive. I needed to be the tablecloth lying on the floor so I could take a step away from the situation and look at it as a whole. My table is set. I can’t change it. Whether it’s God or fate or the Jedi in charge of my destiny, it’s already been determined and there’s not a cotton-pickin’ thing I can do about it but fold my tablecloth up and eventually make my way back onto the set table.

I’ve been so disgusted with myself because of the bitterness that I’ve allowed to overcome me. Bitterness towards time (because it’s slipping away from me). Bitterness towards people who I don’t think deserve to be pregnant (because I’m so much more deserving? HA) Bitterness towards any faltering relationships of those around me because my next thought is usually ‘oh I’m sure they’ll end up pregnant’. The first step is admitting the problem and I just did. I’ve been a bitter person and I’m frankly sick of myself.

This is me, shaking out the wrinkles in my tablecloth. Folding myself up neatly. Forgetting the tugging that was done and living in the present and being thankful, so very thankful, for what I DO have and giving not one more single solitary thought about what I DON’T. After all, tablecloths can withhold being snatched, balled up, and tossed on the floor. They get cleaned and go right back to doing what they’re meant to do. Except for exercising, because, you know. Tablecloths must be stationary to keep their decorative, festive appearance. (Insert winky face).

Silver Medal

I just finished writing my fourth post from the last few weeks and unfortunately, because 'we got it like that', my husband was able to talk me down from publishing it. Again. I have been strung so tight lately with stress from situations I have no control over. Stress from situations I've had to deal with personally and stress from worrying over other people’s situations. Needless to say, the last four posts I've written have been bitter and straight-up opinionated on said situations that I have no say in whatsoever. So until I’m a famous author and can get paid for officially offending people, I’ll keep my posts sugary-sweet. Regardless of how I’m dying inside to let out all my thoughts. 

Why do men have such an emotional attachment to football? I mean, I’m obsessed with books, and while yes, I get caught up in characters that I wish were in real-life, I don’t pretend to know them personally. For a week now, my husband has been in a constant state of depression because of Aaron Rodger’s injury and inability to play for the next three weeks. When I say depression, I mean, almost actual tears shed. We've lost four pregnancies and have dwindling hope for a successful one I’m the only one in the relationship who has ugly-cried. Rodgers goes down and we are ready to spend our next paychecks on airfare to Green Bay to support Aaron in his time of healing. It’s not depression anymore. It’s daggone emotional cancer.

Mike sleeps literally twelve hours every night and will set Rudy on fire if the poor dog needs to go out before said hours are up. Yet, he’s up at the crack of Christmas to check his phone for notifications from the Packers on the return of Aaron. I feel like he has used his policeman resources to stalk the man’s doctor’s contact info so he can be reached personally on Aaron’s status. I can’t make this stuff up, people.

Ironically, my husband’s obsession with football played an integral part in how our relationship started in the first place. In 2007, I was working as a front desk clerk at a hotel in town. Mike was a police officer for the town. Because we were the only place open later at night (other than gas stations), the cops would come in and hang out in the lobby. It wasn't uncommon for a select few to come hang out with me nightly until my shift was over. On a Friday night, I stopped by the hotel after a class I had just to see what was going on. (I’m not lying when I say that working at a hotel was the best job ever, so much that I wanted to hang out there even when I wasn't working.) Back then, I drove a new GT Mustang. I parked it in the same spot every day, which was pretty much at the entrance. That particular night, I hung out inside for a while then came out only to realize a K-9 police car had me blocked in. One of my frequent cop visitors (the non-K-9) was parked next to it. I made my way over and was basically “shootin’ the shit” with the cop I knew when I noticed the K-9 cop’s uniform. It was different from the other cops’, like a tactical outfit instead of the dressy one. I said to the K-9 guy and my future husband, “Why is your uniform different from everyone else’s?” and he replied in what I can only describe in a "jerk voice" something a total jerk would say. Ugh. Jerk. Too bad I can't remember what his actual line was. I stood outside of his car, awkwardly, and tried to hang with the conversation.

This K-9 cop was sarcastic, like, over-the-top with the sarcasm, yet I couldn’t help trying to check inside his car for glimpses of his left hand for a ring. I’d always heard his name and even knew he used to work with my mom at the same hotel, but I couldn’t drudge up any current info on him in my brain. And obviously, I'm a girl, and it's in our DNA to be attracted to well...jerks. So the next day at work, I did what any self-respecting female in 2007 would do when she was interested in a man. I My-Space stalked him. Low and behold, I had an email waiting for me when I signed into my account.

The email was a one-liner. “When can I drive your car?” What a jerk. I replied, “When I can drive yours" (meaning the police one). We basically bantered back and forth like this over the next few days. Since the Super Bowl was quickly approaching, one of us came up with the idea that we’d make a bet. If the Colts won, Mike got to drive my car for an entire day. If the Bears won, um, I actually don’t remember even having a prize, so obviously I didn't have much stake in the game. Peyton won and thus, Mike did too. I was school girl giddy the day we planned to meet. Mike says all he remembers was wanting to drive my car...I met him and he drove me to Raleigh for our first official date. I think I said three whole sentences the entire afternoon/night. If you know me, you know it would take a zombie apocalypse to make me shut up for five minutes, therefore, it can be said I wasn't myself that day. I was insanely nervous. He is a smoker, so I think at some point I even tried to smoke a cigarette to be cool like him, but that worked out horribly because I didn't inhale and basically wasted a cig from his pac--which he was obviously not a fan of.

From his emails, I knew he was intelligent because there were hardly any grammar and spelling errors. Aside from teeth, that’s my thing. We spent most of the evening together, silently, and ended the night with not so much as a peck on the lips, and I mean the dry kind that you give your granny. I liked him, but our age difference worried me. He says to this day that he wasn't going to contact me after that date because of how snobby I was. I had a court date for a speeding ticket the following week on Valentine’s Day and I think he texted me to see how it went. I was on another date that night and after that date was over, I texted (is this even the correct tense of "text?!") Mike back and we haven’t STOPPED talking since then. He may not have gotten me to say a word on our first date, but I can promise you, he relishes every opportunity to get me to be quiet now.

I guess this is why I take this unhealthy attachment to a football team and in particularly, a star quarterback, in stride. When the going gets tough for us, (and that's quite frequent) at least we still have each other--baby or not. If it wasn't for a stupid bet on a team, I’d never be where I am today with the person who has helped shape me into what kind of person I am...which is clearly a silver medal to the thirty-something, broken-down quarterback for the Green Bay Packers.