Greetings, KuKd Tribe Members and Inquisitive Guests!
I apologize for slipping under the covers for a moment - my brain has been thoroughly taken up by getting issue #4 of Exhale "to press." One would think that it would be easy, putting together an online magazine on a subject you care about! I surely thought it would be. People send you good stuff. You mindlessly copy and paste that good stuff into a website with a glass of wine balanced on your armrest, mess around with fonts and colors (the best part!), click "publish," and boom - you're done.
Not so, I'm finding out.
I won't bore you with all the nitty-gritty 'zine-editing details that somehow act as a great big time-sucking vacuum. Just trust me: such details exist. Not that I'm complaining about this fact; I'm just covering my own ass in case anyone ever thinks I'm slacking in the blogging arena due to lesser affairs, such as experimenting with different hair-dos, or perusing Cosmo's 2008 list again with great hopes for one - JUST ONE - decent looking male (I gave up on that many moons ago).
What's more, I did waste about three precious minutes of my morning peeing on a stick (my piss smelled delightfully like an espresso-urine cocktail!), watching the one blue line show up, but not the other blue line, feeling an unbalanced mixture of things, and tossing the stick into the trash.
Not that I really, honestly thought I was knocked up. Do we ever really dare to think such a thing anymore? Truthfully, I have no idea where I am in my cycle right now. Anyone who has forcibly expelled the entire contents of her uterus (including what looks like about three cups of blood) by shoving some magical pills up there will attest: all sense of cyclical normalcy, connection with Mother Nature, just goes away. Right down the toilet, along with those three cups of blood and that godforsaken ovum. My body is a mystery to me now, a temporary slave to Western medicine.
I just needed to know for sure. Because if I WERE knocked up, that would mean I would be spending my entire day feeling horribly paranoid and guilty for that undisclosed number of whiskey shots I downed at our dance party on Friday, chasing them gleefully with cold milk straight from the gallon, as well as the ungodly amount of caffeine I've been infusing myself with lately.
I'm a writer, not a mother, dammit! I'm trying to finish a book! We writers treat our bodies like shit. It's how we produce our best work. We drink a lot of coffee and booze. We eat Fritos from the bag in unchecked handfuls. I've done all of the above these past few weeks. If I smoked, I would do that too. But I don't smoke, thank god.
So there was relief that the line didn't show up. But there was something else: a bit of I'm not sure what, just a flutter. Maybe a twinge of disappointment? How could that be! As I said, I'm afraid of children these days!
Here is what it was, actually: a fleeting glimpse of an Irish-looking boy with dark brown hair and a big smile, freckles on his nose, a composite male child representing those lost, some children I created but never knew, randomly showing up to haunt me, as he does at the oddest times. A searing little edge of frustration at not knowing him, or them, or whoever they are (what IS a four-month fetus? an 8-month baby in utero? a blighted ovum?), frustration at having nothing but my imagination to connect me him/them. Imagination can be such a lame-ass substitute sometimes. He might have been blond. Could have been a total shithead with a drooling problem and a bad attitude.
Why would the mere sight of a single blue line evoke his image without warning? What's that got to do with a pee stick, months and months and months later? And why wouldn't his image stick around, but disappear into the crunch-crunch sound of my morning cereal, the busy-ness of my day, not to be thought of again for some time?
What the fuck is UP with that?
I never claimed to UNDERSTAND the psychology of KuKd, I can only attest to its overall weirdness and randomness. So don't quote me in any scientific journals, please.
Those are the things took my day, my week. Exhale completed, the image of that strange composite boy evaporated, the morning cereal digested, the pee stick safely ensconced in the bathroom waste basket for a nosy house-guest to rummage through and discover (surely there are people who do that...), or perhaps for an archeologist to discover a thousand years from now, wondering why our earth is so littered with pee-and-coffee-infused plastic sticks...
Now that I'm FINALLY HERE, after all of the above, I suppose I should get to the point of this post, or at least make you believe that I do, in fact, have a point. By now, though, I think I've probably spent so much time building up to my main point (whatever that was going to be) that I may as well save that main point for my next post! Yay me - successfully dodging the task of saying something concise and clearly meaningful!
Let me wrap this up with a bit of meaning anyway, for those of you who need some closure:
In my last post, I indulged you in a couple of post-KuKd reality checks: life inside the head of a dead baby momma, 1.5 years after the event. To summarize: I concluded that "Ultimate Shitty Event," although a seemingly appropriate name at the time, somehow doesn't seem to fit this event anymore. "Stillbirth" won't work either of course, this flat and gray compound word, so medical textbook-ish, boring and blah, hardly conveying the rip roaring excitement of delivering one's deceased offspring! I will continue to work on finding some new terminology, and am ever-open to suggestions. In fact, let's do a blog-versation soon that very topic, shall we?
Also in my last post, I conveyed (I hope) my post-KuKd propensity to over-think, over-worry, over-freak-out about various things.
What I WAS going to do this time was continue a bit further down that road of pointing out some less obvious aspects of post-KuKd life. I think I've touched on that a little bit here - the strangeness of something as simple as a pee stick, the conflicting desire to both be a mother, again, and be a writer. Just a plain old writer, living on the edge, putting myself out there. Over-analyzing things, again.
Hallucinating sometimes, not knowing what to do with those hallucinations, what to make of them.
Wishing I knew.
Signing off now as your ever-confused, KuKd blog-o-babbler! Start getting your vocabulary strategies lined up for our upcoming quest to find better words for some key KuKd terms: stillbirth, miscarriage, and -yes- infertility. Down with scientific jargon!