When I was living in Boston, I took a ferry with some work friends to Province.town for the day. There is a fast ferry that takes about an hour and a slow one that crawls in in 3 hours. Well, we missed the fast one, so we had to take the slow one. Unfortunately it was a gray, windy, coolish day on the water, and that ferry carried us up.... and down.... every swell and ebb. Even the regulars were commenting on how rough the waters were. I was praying to throw up, and fantasizing about renting a car to drive the 3 or 4 hours back to Boston, anything but getting on the water or that boat again.
It's a Worcester day today, in the 40s or 50s, breezy and chance of rain.
I haven't done much writing, but lots of thinking. I was very optimistic last week. It was thrilling. I was full of thoughts of my future, of coming back to writing. Of perhaps using my experience and my words not only complete my program, but create something, I don't know what, but maybe something that would reach someone, the way the DBMs have reached, and comforted me. Told their stories. Abided with each other. Maybe something that would include them.
For the first time in, probably...years, I have felt like a writer. An insecure one, of course, holed up in her room, laptop closed and glaring white and blank. The notebook with pen clipped on, a fast-writing pen, calls to me, but I am ambivalent.
At the end of each day, though, I was anxious. Perhaps the new drugs. More likely, my own neurosis.
My sister sent me the doctor's name in Chicago, and said she'd be happy to pave the way when we're ready. Yes, I know, just asking for the info is a step forward. I've made some lists of info about me, our history, and questions about cause. The one list I didn't make was the one that asked how this guy would support and or maintain a pregnancy with me to achieve a child. Or if I should even try, physically.
This weekend, I had this image of a little tow-headed child, maybe 8 or 9 months, sitting with his legs sprawled, investigating a toy. (Actually, it might have been a girl, with a mop of white-blond hair). It wasn't a dream because I was awake, it wasn't a wish, because it wasn't conscious. Just popped into my head. It was just there for a moment; I tried to look closer, but it faded, like trying to go back to a dream.
I've been getting that hopeful twinge of trying again, though we are not ready. Just every once in a while. These little steps I take, toward school, toward consults. Then I get scared. Panicked, nervous. I've shared some writing and wonder what the reaction is. I think I'm fooling myself.
My sister is 24 or 25 weeks as of yesterday. Edge of viability. She was in NY, staying with my dad. No one brings it up unless I do. Which is good. But I do feel so outside of things. I don't know what else would expect. They are being respectful to me and my pain. Dad mentioned that Grandma is happy to see her, but doesn't like that A is traveling. Considering the cerclage, she is safe to travel for a while, I think.
Hearing that though just made me so sad. Really really sad. It's no surprise, but... well I guess the intensity of it is. She has a real chance at a child, though this is not a conversation she will have. She refers to knowing about too many things that can go wrong. I agree. She will have no showers, no furniture in the house. Not until there is a living, healthy baby there first. I don't blame her.
I guess I just envy her.
At the end of that day, I was feeling a little better, and with some dram.amine, we took the fast ferry back to town. The drugs made me sleep, sort of, and when we got there, C and my roommate were there to greet me, my legs were rubbery, and my head woozy, but I made it.
Haven't been back on that boat. Yet.