He-weasel, Lily and I went for coffee yesterday morning. Because of Lily’s dog status we have to drink our coffee outside of Peet’s. The three of us sat in a silent and meditative reverie on the patio; we, respectively, drank our coffees, ate our treats, enjoyed the fall like weather, sniffed at unfamiliar scents, groomed and people watched the parade of Peet seeking passersbys.
A little girl, just finding her feet, toddled towards Lily in purple sparkly shoes that seemed to be bought as a celebratory gesture and to shine a bright purple light on the little girl’s ambulatory accomplishment. The girl ambitiously attempted to walk, point and name the animal in her view all at the same time.”Dotty”, she exclaimed, as if she was a mini-Adam whose job it was to name the animals into creation. He-weasel, in the name of accommodation, got up and walked Lily towards the toddling toddler who was incredibly tipsy and posed Lily like an expert at the Westminster dog show, so the child could pet Lily without taking too many more steps. Every action he took was intended to prevent the wobbling weeble from taking a spill that would lead to tears and doubt about her ability to walk on her own. Secondly, he saw her enthusiasm for our “Dotty” and he seemed intent on bringing the purple-shoed girl even greater joy by making sure that she could pet the “Furry Dotty”.
I sat back and sipped my latte and watched the interaction between He-weasel and the little girl. As I did, Lily and the little girl’s mother went fuzzy and disappeared from my focus. Words came to mind against my will, “He-weasel would have been such an amazing father.” Saying those words to myself was like taking a scab off a wound or toothpaste out of the tube, I knew that I couldn’t undo it and that I would be left with a big mess that hurts.
The moment I fell in love with He-weasel was when I saw him talking to some children that had been brought to a very-adult birthday party by the kind of parents who bring their kids to an R-rated movie at midnight, that we had both attended( there was a tequila fountain and a pin the tail on a playboy bunny game). He-weasel tried to entertain the kids and amuse them, even as other guests, rolled their eyes and huffed at how the kids presence might hinder with their plans to enjoy complete debauchery and perhaps achieve previously unprecedented liver damage. I sat back and sipped a Jack and Coke and fell in love with the him as I watched.
I am sure it is because of the month I’ve had and because on Thursday I got the flu and that I am feeling tired and drained and depleted and because the stupid holidays are around the corner and the holidays always make it worse, but I got hit hard by the infertility grief—slammed is likely the best word—I got slammed by my grief. We went shopping and then to lunch and I started to melt. Everything he said made me think of home and of the holidays and babies and Lake Bluff and I just wanted to go home and I wanted to cry until somebody fixed this mess. I went to my old standard that I always go to when I get to this place, “It’s not fair.”
When I got home I thought about calling Igor only today I am feeling tired of telling him the same stuff over and over. I knew there was nothing he could do about it in a 15 minute phone call so I decided to Google “depression after infertility”. I don’t know what I was hoping to find. Perhaps I was hoping to feel a little less alone and for some evidence that my lingering grief was normal. After a few unsatisfactory returns I found the article “A Roadmap for Life Without Children” by Shelagh Little and one paragraph into the piece I was sobbing in recognition. Shelagh knew my pain. He-weasel saw my crying and he asked “what are you reading?” But he asked it in a way that was loaded with the tone of “what masochistic act are you committing against your self?” I am sure he thought I was visiting the What to expect when you’re expecting web site.
“Nothing” I lied.
“You are not reading nothing.”
“J Crew’s web site.”
“J Crew is making you cry?” he asked in a tone of appropriate disbelief.
“Uh-huh”, I sniffed.
He-weasel weaseled into my personal space to see what I was actually reading.
“It’s really good”, I explained as he looked on to see words instead of cashmere cardigans.
“Then why is it making you cry?
“Because it’s true. Because this is how I feel.”
I made the mistake of reading the article aloud to him and the article so hit home that I punctuated each paragraph with long crying breaks.
As puffy as my eyes are I am not sorry I read the article. I am sorry I didn’t read it earlier, it is the best article on life after infertility I have ever read and I feel like it describes exactly how I feel, Shelagh Little writes: “infertility is…like a low-level, lifelong bio-psychosocial syndrome. My physical inability to produce children has emotional and social consequences that I struggle with, at least to some extent, every day.” I so related I Googled the author’s name in hopes that she had a book or a blog or something so I could read more, sadly I found nothing.
I got up from reading the article, even more tired and depleted and a bit woozy. I felt a bit dizzy and I toddled towards the kitchen. My inability to walk a straight line got He-weasel’s attention. He rushed towards me and put his arms around me in an attempt to steady me and stop me from falling.
