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.

Hope is the thing with feathers

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune--without the words,

and never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

- Emily Dickinson

I woke up one morning this week thinking of this poem. Since I've never been a Dickinson fan (if I'm honest, I'm not even really a poetry fan), it surprised me that she should pop into my mind. However, since it seems that mornings are the most hopeful time of day for me lately, I suppose it's not such a stretch. The personification of hope as a little bird who "never stops" singing is sweet and lovely, but it's the last verse that resonates particularly well with me. For the the past six weeks, like the poem's speaker, I have felt rather like I'm abiding in the "chillest land" and sailing through the "strangest sea."

Eight weeks ago, I thought I'd be sitting here today, unable to balance my computer on my lap thanks to the growing Blueberry who would be taking up valuable real estate. Five weeks ago, I believed my cycles would have returned, offering hope of the ability to start trying to create our family once again. And yet, today, I remain completely caught off-guard by grief in the simplest moments: when out with friends enjoying a glass of wine or late at night as I feel like I've failed in accomplishing all I was supposed to do that day. The purpose I thought my life would hold just isn't there anymore. I'm not a mom-to-be; in fact, I'm quite the opposite. I had the chance to be a mom--I just failed when I got the opportunity.

And yet, in these "chillest lands" in which I now wander, hope wakes up beside me each morning. In the extremist moments of my grief, it asks only one thing of me: to accept it. Some days, that's easier than others; on the days when it seems impossible, I get easily overwhelmed. However, I'm learning not to think in days but simply in moments. If I can accept hope just this second of this minute of this day, that's a small victory. Though I'm not one for small victories (if you've ever played Taboo with me and Jeff, you know this fact all too well), I'm going to have to learn to take them.

Hope, the door's open. I might not be the best company, but come on in and perch for a spell.

I've been robbed of hope. (But not of friends.)

(Today, it was 70 degrees here, so I decided to skip my at-school workout and go home for a walk instead. Since it has been suggested that I work on being present in the moment instead of constantly trying to plan for the future, my very simple goal was to be present in my walk.)


As I went down the road to the lake and began the loop, I started to think about how I used to love walking this path and daydreaming about the day I'd be pushing a stroller (or strolling next to Jeff as he pushed a stroller). Today, though, those daydreams just weren't possible. After a miscarriage, many women express that they've been robbed of the joy of a carefree, joyful pregnancy. I didn't feel that way; I'm enough of a nervous Nelly that my pregnancy was always destined to be fraught with anxiety as even this past one was. Up until now, I couldn't understand the idea of my miscarriage robbing me of anything other than my little Blueberry, but, today while walking, I realized something new: I've been robbed of hope in the future. A month ago, I believed getting pregnant and having a little one to bring home was possible--I had nothing to prove me wrong. Now, I do.


One of my goals in being present in the moment is to acknowledge the feelings that wash over me and live with them for a bit. As I tried to do that on my walk, as I tried desperately not to distract myself with coming up with new things to be hopeful about, as I tried to just let myself hurt, I became more and more sad. Rounding the corner to the straight part of the path that overlooks my favorite house on the lake, I tried to focus on the German Shepherd in front of me, carrying an unwieldy stick. The runner coming from the opposite direction smiled at the dog, too, and then I realized I knew that smile. That was M.


M. is one of my closest friends--she lives just a mile from us and has been supporting me constantly in recent weeks. She went through a significant life upheaval in the last year herself, so she really gets where I am. And while M. is at our house at least two nights a week and we text almost daily, we've never discussed the fact that she sometimes runs the exact same loop that I walk. (God clearly had a plan for my walk today.) And so, as my thoughts plunged to a point of hopelessness, I found M. standing in front of me, laughing in joy at discovering me, opening her arms to envelop me in a hug. When she realized I wasn't doing well, she immediately turned around and started to walk beside me in my direction, slowing her pace to match mine, sacrificing her own workout, encouraging me to talk, letting me quietly cry. She just loved me--in that moment, in that place of darkness, in that absence of joy.


Hope is the belief in things yet to come. Yes, I've been robbed of one little person who I loved so much and desired so desperately to hold in my arms this summer. But I haven't been robbed of people who are present already today. I trust that if I can just appreciate this moment, hope in tomorrow will return when I least expect it.

January 29, 2012: Chutes and Ladders

Remember the game Chutes and Ladders? Today, while sitting in church at RCC, it occurred to me that I feel like my life has become quite similar to that game. When we started trying to have a baby, I thought it would be impossible; I simply had no faith in my body's ability to conceive. Although I certainly read up on fertility, I quickly tired of things like temping and charting, and I never posted on a message board. By the time I got pregnant four months later, Jeff and I weren't even actively trying anymore. In a way, I landed on that first lucky ladder and went straight from square 1 to square 38--so many things had gone unexpectedly right, and it hadn't seemed like much work or stress or pain--nothing like the conception process has been for so many women I know. With our positive sign on the pregnancy test, I began posting actively on pregnancy websites and sharing my excitement with other moms-to-be, and we started sharing our news with all of you.

And then January 11 happened, and everything changed. I slid down what felt like the longest chute on the board--that awful one that you hoped you'd always skip that took you from square 87 to square 24. There wasn't much joy in the fact that I could eat sushi or drink wine, because those things just reminded me of the ways in which I'd failed. I had to change my ticker on thebump.com to reflect the day we lost our Blueberry rather than the day s/he would join us in this world. I began looking for support on a miscarriage/loss message board rather than sharing joy on an "August 2012 moms" one.

Since that day, I've advanced a few squares. Square 25: we shared our loss with close friends and family who hadn't even known about our pregnancy and allowed ourselves to lean on them for love and support. Square 26: the procedure went well, as did our follow-up two weeks later when the doctor told us I'd healed perfectly and she has no worries for our future. I don't know what Square 27 will be, but I will wait for it hopefully and expectantly (as a good friend reminded me to recently).

And you know what? I don't think I want to take the ladders anymore. I learn much more by taking things one square at a time. 

January 23, 2012: Today's the day when...

I was supposed to share my exciting news with work in general. And tomorrow I was supposed to make the cutest cake to surprise my advisees with the fact that they'd be pseudo-aunts in a few months. And I should have been looking forward to an ultrasound where we'd get to see more. And I should have been well on my way to making my amazing Jeff an incredible dad.

But, somehow, I failed. I came up short. And today, more than any other day in the last week, it just really hurts. I miss our little Blueberry, and I'd like nothing more than to curl up in bed and cry for several hours straight (though that's not an option with evening plans already made). It seems like forever until we can try again, and trying again means I have to start trusting so much--trusting my body to ovulate and my heart to heal and my mind to be less anxious.

Some days I'm so angry because, had we not been surprised on December 15, this would have been off my mind until May. And now I live with it on my mind, and it runs my days, and it makes me a less focused teacher and a more difficult wife and a tearier friend.

I supposed there's no real point to this post. It's just a yucky day--the yuckiest one in a while--and I wish it would end.