PBF is due this week. I keep checking my phone because she promised to text me when she goes into labor. It’s put me into a weird state where I am alternately excited and filled with fondness for this person (who has been an extremely compassionate best-friend-of-an-infertile, as well as being the most awesome person) and wracked with sobs of deepest despair. The despair sounds kinda like this: can it really be possible that I will never have this experience? Is this really my life? When oh when will my fucking drugs get sorted out so I can at least feel like I’m doing something? How will I endure the next five months with no chance at conceiving when I’m freaking out about the possibility of things being delayed by a week? When will I be capable of feeling happy again? What if the answer is never?
I know–SO BORING. Basically the set of feelings most of us go through on a daily basis. Anyway, last night I tried a cure that has sometimes made me feel better, or at least briefly more alive. My husband is out of town, so I put my favorite mix on the iPod player in the kitchen and danced my little heart out. With the lights off so the neighbors couldn’t see my craziness. I used to love to go dancing when I was not so old and lame… At first I was like I don’t remember how to do this anymore. That felt really fucked up. Like my body is had turned into this fossilized object that can only 1) sit at a computer and 2) fail to conceive. But this particular mix includes songs that span my musical life–from the early Pixies and obscure Russian rock band days to more recent stuff (any Ra.tata.t fans out there?) so I was eventually swept up in a nostalgic wave that allowed me to get over myself a little bit. As always, though, things came back to that gaping black hole in my life. There’s an unfortunate Lo.w song on the mix, I.n Meta.l, in which the singer describes her reluctance to see her baby grow up and her desire to protect her daughter. It’s full of cooing baby sounds. Rad.
I don’t know, folks. Sometimes I think that in a few years I’ll look back at this bleak era (which so far isn’t even the worst part of my life, though I realize things could go plenty down from here) and think, that was hard, but we got through it. Other days I imagine myself still in exactly this place. Still whining online, to a new group of sad women, because all of you will have moved on. Still trying to recapture some fragment of my former self by visiting Club Kitchen, and still failing.