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.

Pride & Determination: The Little Amaryllis that Could

   

Every Christmas, my aunt and uncle send us a beautiful amaryllis. It comes in a brown box, and the bulb is tucked into the soil, safely nestled in a little pot. This winter, it arrived a bit late; due to our move and the fact that we'd been in Florida for Christmas, we didn't actually receive the flower until around the time of losing our little Blueberry. As a result, in the midst of our pain and confusion, we gave it a quick spritz of water and set it on top of the refrigerator to fend for itself.


Several weeks later, Jeff reached into the fridge one night and laughed. When I turned around, he pointed up; our little bulb had huge green leaves that were brushing the ceiling! We offered the little plant a bit more water and placed it on the kitchen table to give it more room to grow. If we're honest, we were fairly certain the cats would eat it or knock it over, but we just didn't have the energy to do anything more for it.


Just a week after that, our first bloom sprouted. And then another. We turned it towards the window, sharing the beauty with our neighbors who strolled by, walking their dogs or playing with their little ones. The cats investigated but didn't attack, and we watched with great joy as the petals opened more each day. When they began to fade, we could hardly be sad--what a beautiful life our little flower had had, and what joy it had given us!


And then, before we had time to consider what to do with the pot and bulb, we noticed a new bud. And then another. And then two more! Suddenly, that tiny plant--the thing we'd barely had the energy to offer care and love to--had rewarded us with four beautiful blossoms! We watched in awe as they opened, turning the pot daily, watering it more attentively, shoeing Rosie away from the leaves. For the first time, this was our miracle, and we were prepared to defend and nurture it at all costs.


When those four buds left, we waved them goodbye without sadness. What a blooming season we'd had! And then, many weeks later, as I was about to move the bulb into a bag for hibernation, Jeff startled me one evening by announcing, "Did you see our new bud?" I raced to the kitchen, and there it was. Our little miracle, bringing us joy one more time.


I'm an English teacher, so I'm supposed to love metaphors and symbols and imagery, but the significance of our little flower blooming bravely throughout one of the darkest winters of our lives is too much for even me to untangle. I only have these final thoughts to offer. The amaryllis is a flower that symbolizes pride, determination, and radiant beauty; its name comes from the Greek "to sparkle."


In the determined beauty of our seven sparkling blooms, I find hope in the radiant beauty of our future.

A Brief Acting Lesson

"The Representational actor deliberately chooses to imitate or illustrate the character's behavior. The Presentational actor attempts to reveal human behavior through a use of himself, through an understanding of himself and consequently an understanding of the character he is portraying. The Representational actor finds a form based on an objective result for the character, which he then carefully watches as he executes it. The Presentational actor trusts that a form will result from identification with the character and the discovery of his character's actions, and works on stage for a moment-to-moment subjective experience."

- Uta Hagen, Respect for Acting

I first read Uta Hagen's seminal text on acting as a sophomore at Davidson College. At the time, I loved her description of the Presentational actor; it seemed to promote a natural and spontaneous response on stage that I was often incapable of creating. Because of my love of organization, it was much easier for me to plan how to act rather than to live as a character. I strove to become Hagen's ideal actor--the one who would nightly respond to impulses and surprise myself with slight nuances in my performance.

Hagen's words have been coming back to me piece by piece in recent weeks, but never more strongly than in the past few days. As a result, I trekked down to the (somewhat still disorganized) basement family room Friday morning, pulled her book (off the neatly categorized and alphabetized) shelf, and found the words above. As I read, I was shocked to realize that the past eight weeks have changed me in a way that ten years of acting training never could; I have become a Presentational wife but a Representational teacher.

What I mean to say is this: while I would love to believe that I am a strong, mighty woman--and some days I truly am--I now do wear my emotions on my face and speak them in my voice. If I'm sad or angry or grumpy or tired, Jeff knows it. If I'm thinking about the baby or frustrated with a friend or anxious about a trip, I don't try to hide it from him. I admit when a negative home pregnancy test triggers a desire to exert control over my eating habits, and I spontaneously report "I feel pretty today" when I find that I do. As Hagen posits, in my personal life, I have started to understand myself and, in turn, to allow those discoveries to inform my behavior and actions. 

The classroom, though, is a different world for me; there I am the Representational teacher who decides to push through the day with a face crafted like a fragile porcelain vase, despite the tiny fissures just beneath the surface. It wasn't always like that; I used to bring my baggage into the classroom, allowing my own frustration and hurt to result in a short temper with my students. Now, though, being in the classroom is often a relief; it takes the focus off of me and allows me to assertively choose joy (at best) or normalcy (at worst)--at least on my exterior character.

This is the choice I made the day between learning of our lost Blueberry and entering the hospital for the D&C. I had every reason not to go to school that day, but I ignored them all. I cried between at least three different classes that day, with at least three different colleagues. And yet, in my classroom, watching the expectant faces of my students as they made new discoveries and as I reveled in their genuine exuberance, I found that Hagen, again, was correct when she asserted that "the Representational actor finds a form based on an objective result for the character, which he then carefully watches as he executes it." On that day, I watched joy come out of a choice to follow a form that I executed. I don't know what my students learned  on Thursday, January 12, but I am certain of what they taught me.

And so we come to the here and now. Just over eight weeks after my D&C, my body still not restored to rights, the game of Chutes and Ladders still precariously balanced, I am coming to learn that, as an actor chooses a new approach for each role, I can also choose a new approach for each day, each person, each situation. There is not a right and a wrong answer for all eternity; there is only today.

And today, I choose...

In this moment, I am content.

It's so incredibly hard to say those words throughout our lives--for whatever reasons God has put in front of us. However, on Saturday morning, I could. Jeff and I had spent a wonderful evening up in Baltimore. We visited the Baltimore Aquarium (filled with little ones who Jeff rivaled for unbridled enthusiasm about sharks, rays, and tropical fish) and then had a delicious bite to eat at a nearby wine bar. Over that late dinner, we were able to talk about things weighing on our minds and work through putting words to frustrations or anxieties we hadn't consciously acknowledged before. After a good night's rest, we walked to a nearby breakfast spot for egg sandwiches and cups of coffee. There, seated across from Jeff at a hightop table, I was able to sip from my mug, look at my husband, smile broadly, and honestly say "right now, I am content."


Of course, the next place my head went to was trying to puzzle out how to recreate that moment again. Was it the place where we went for dinner or the particular glass of wine or the number of hours of sleep I got? Perhaps if I could just script another weekend night with exactly the same circumstances, I could attain that moment of bliss once again. And yet, even as I started to ponder that option, I realized that I would take all the joy out of feeling contented if I was constantly seeking to recreate something spontaneously wonderful. 


Contentment is not something I can mark on my calendar or add to my to-do list--it's simply an unexpected gift I can choose to receive.