Catastrophizing

When I was in middle school, I got an eight-pox case of the chicken pox. Ever the resourceful child, I self-diagnosed after using the massive home reference medical book that lived on a shelf in our library. Reaching the massive tome required standing on a stool, balanced precariously as I lifted the book and brought it back to the sofa. Happily, I quickly found flow charts in the front section that seemed logical and useful. "Do you have a fever?" No. "Do you feel fatigued?" Yes. "Do you have a rash anywhere on your body, particularly the torso?" A quick glance revealed two raised, red bumps on my belly. Yes? Within two minutes, I'd arrived at chicken pox, and, just a few moments later, I was a tear-soaked mess, having discovered that I would surely need multiple shots and must be in the very small percentage of "potentially fatal" cases. Two pox or two hundred, I've always been one to "catastrophize."

Today marks a week since I stopped taking Provera to restart my cycle. Though the body can still respond up to two weeks later, the "normal" range is four to seven days. So, last night, I pulled down another weighty tome to help self-diagnose: Dr. Google. Within a half hour, I'd gone from mildly concerned to utterly panicked; by this morning, I was reading up on domestic adoption, convinced the D&C scarred my cervix and we'd lost all chance of a biological child of our own. No amount of planning to set up a doctor's appointment next week or reading stories with happy endings could calm my damp palms and speeding heart. Though adoption is an amazing gift and one we may consider one day, I had to recognize that I was, once again, catastrophizing.

As I remind Jeff daily, recognizing what I'm doing is the first step. The second one is to check in with what my therapist calls my "wise mind"--that gut feeling that I can choose to, or choose not to, heed. More often than not, I ignore it, deliberately and consciously, because resting in a state of limbo seems almost harder than actively acknowledging the worst case scenario and seeking to prevent it. If I can DO something, perhaps there will be less to fear.

I'm blogging from bed this morning; we'll be headed to RCC in a few hours. For this, I am so grateful. With our church family, I can be raw and hurting and not try to fix things all the time. I only pray to find that ability to rest in the moment throughout the rest of my week. Catastrophizing is the easy way out; what happens if, instead, I sit in a place of discomfort and lack of knowledge until things resolve themselves?

I wish Google could show me how to fix this one.

Thou hast cleft my heart in twain.

Cleft. At first glance, I knew the word was the past tense of "to cleave," so I went to Merriam-Webster for a bit more enlightenment. The second definition in the list was the one that I expected: "to divide by or as if by a cutting blow." It's the meaning Gertrude intends in act 4 of Hamlet, and it's the meaning that my heart intended this morning when I woke up thinking the words. I wanted to remember the tiny Blueberry who broke my heart in two, to sit in the sorrow and grief of still not being able to try again, to rage against those who carry little ones in their bellies and in their arms.

But then, quite unexpectedly, I found the primary definition of cleave: "to adhere firmly and closely or loyally and unwaveringly." Of course--in the Book of Ruth, Ruth cleaves to her mother-in-law, Naomi, saying, "Don't urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go and where you stay I will stay" (Ruth 1:16). What does it mean if, instead of breaking my heart in two, our little Blueberry actually glued it back together? How possibly could carrying that little life with me wherever I go for the remainder of my days in some way bring me renewed life and hope?

I'm not certain of the answers yet, but, after musing on this line for the better part of a day, I am certain of one thing: I will forever cleave to the little one who cleft my heart in twain.

Exit, pursued by a bear.

In act 3 of Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale, a lord named Antigonus is tasked with the despicable job of leaving the newly born princess, Perdita, in the midst of the Bohemian woods. Believe it or not, this fate is actually preferable to the one she had before Antigonus and his wife, Paulina, intervened on her behalf; at first, her own father, the king of Sicilia, dictated that the infant should be burned alive.

Today, Jeff and I saw a touring production of the play by the American Shakespeare Center (ASC). I found myself so wrapped up in the emotional story that I nearly forgot that Shakespeare's most infamous stage direction would have to be played out at some point: Exit, pursued by a bear. While other productions have ranged from the comic (a teddy bear) to the mysterious (lighting and sound effects), ASC tackled the "problem" head on. As Antigonus laid Perdita on the ground in a basket, uttering the words, "Weep I cannot,  / But my heart bleeds," a bear entered from behind the upstage right curtain. Yes, it was an actor with a bear's head, but the impact was no less terrifying for that fact; I felt immediate concern for Perdita's safety and wished I, myself, could reach out and carry her home.

And then Antigonus did something I didn't expect. See, I don't like Antigonus very much. In spite of his earlier promise to "pawn the little blood which I have left / To save the innocent," he's all too willing to save his own skin by following Leontes's orders and leaving little Perdita alone at the mercy of the woods. Yet ASC's Antigonus did something shocking and totally unexpected: he saw the bear coming, quickly assessed Perdita's chances should the animal reach her, and boldly clapped his hands, drawing the bear's attention to himself. And then he exited, pursued by the bear that would take his life.

What a noble man! He sacrificed himself for the marginal chance at life for the sweet babe, yet he wouldn't break the oath he'd made to his king, no matter how disgusting he found that promise to be. In one moment, the Antigonus I'd hated became a man I admired, and he did so because he acted based on both instinct and loyalty, not on on intellectual consideration of his options.

Yesterday was Good Friday, when God made the greatest sacrifice imaginable for us: the life of his Son. Tomorrow, we'll celebrate the birth of new life in His resurrection. Like Perdita, who only survived because of Antigonus's sacrifice, I am only alive because a Sacrifice was made for my life.

I hope it doesn't take a bear for me to learn how to abandon my own needs and desires so selflessly.

We know each other now, don't we?

Living in northern New Jersey for seven years, I realized that most young adults there have lived in the same area for their entire lives. It's hard to break into tight-knit circles of friends who have known each other since they were in diapers; it's harder still when one lets you in, but her friends shut you out. Moving to northern Virginia was a different experience altogether; here, friends are temporary, people are transient, and jobs shift almost hourly. In the less than two years that Jeff and I have been here, we've already lost six close friends for various reasons; that's a hard blow, and it makes us newly cautious.

Going into this weekend, I was worried. M was away for a tournament, and L was out of town as well. Jeff had to work Friday and Saturday nights, as well as a few hours on Sunday. I did a great deal of figurative and literal hand-wringing, counting and recounting the small handful of women who actually know exactly what's happening in my life at all times, worrying that none of them were actually in the same state as me. I questioned how one makes new friends at 34, and I wished--for the umpteenth time--for the perfect getting-to-know you accessory: a baby or a dog. And then I recalled a wonderfully insightful text L sent me a few weeks before:

Try new things and take some chances. It opens doors for you!

Simple, right? At the time I received the message, I started on a quest for new classes to take at a community center or new shows to audition for in the area. However, it never occurred to me that the simple act of making a friend could be taking a chance--even though it's one of the biggest risks we take as adults.

This weekend, I made friends. Not every encounter was perfect, but I'd liken the experience to being back out in the dating pool; only one will be the man you'll marry, but every one is an opportunity for a relationship that may fit in some corner of your life. I got up the courage to invite a friend from RCC to lunch; Jeff and I spent time outside with our neighbors and their little ones on Saturday morning; I finally returned to The Bump's TTCAL board (that's Trying to Conceive After a Loss, for non-bumpies!). I found friendships in expected and unexpected ways, in real life and online communities, in women and men in similar stages of life to my own. Most importantly, perhaps, I realized that not everyone is going to move tomorrow or misjudge me in a week or feel completely horrified at the thought of talking about our little Blueberry. And even if they do, I learned that it just might be worth the risk to find the good ones.

In The Wizard of Oz, after she's joined forces with the Scarecrow and the Tin Man, Dorothy says the following:

Oh, you're the best friends anybody ever had!

And it's funny, but I feel as if I'd known you all the time, but I couldn't have, could I?

I guess it doesn't matter much anyway.

We know each other now, don't we?

Yes, I suppose we do, Dorothy. And, if we'd met ten years ago, perhaps we wouldn't have been friends at all.