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).