Who the heck knows what CD I'm on and I don't care

How's that for a break in titling scheme?

This is my 100th post. Never did I think that this blog would survive one hundred entries. I also never dreamed that it would see me through 3 miscarriages and a divorce. But it did. And you know what? It's ok. I'm not broken. I'm battle scarred and bruised, but those are wounds that can heal.

I am also much stronger than I ever imagined.

The last few weeks I have been feeling a steady shift. I am calm and carefree. I'm meeting peoples eyes as I walk by them on the street and smiling. That light that I haven't been able to see for so many years is shining bright. I see it now. And it fills me with so much (dare I say it) ... hope.

I walked into Cindy's office yesterday. She said, "Tutti, what's going on with you?! You are... twinkling!'

She's right. I am.

I'm driving to my new home across country with a very good friend of mine (this one actually). It's going to be an epic road trip filled with girlie adventure, Rt. 66 memorabilia, and a drooling dog. My friend has taken it on as her new life's mission to put together the most amazing playlist for us to listen to while driving the open road. It's like a soundtrack to a movie that hasn't been filmed yet. Every morning she emails me a  'teaser' to listen to. I look forward to these and turn the volume up with reckless abandon while trying to imagine where we'll be next time its played: stopped at the edge of the crater of the Grand Canyon at sunset? Driving through the desert of the Navajo reservation? Watching the the skyline of NYC emerge on the horizon?

I've come to realize that for the last few years, my life has been... silent. I've only heard the white noise of stress and grief buzzing in the background. But now, the music is back on. It's pumping. It makes me feel so much. The 'play' button has been pressed. And now all I want to do is dance.

_________________


I'm going to take a small break from blogging. I plan to return once I move and get settled into my new home. It may be as long as a few weeks, maybe even months. As selfish as I feel saying it, I just have to concentrate on me right now.

I hate that I left you all so suddenly. It upsets me not knowing where you are- celebrating, waiting, mourning? I'm so, so sorry. It's not because I want to; I hope you all know that. Each one of you and your stories are very important to me. I carry you guys with me everywhere I go. I continue to hope for all of you.

Cycle 23, CD 2

I wish that I had been able to chronicle the events of the last month so that maybe someday I could look back on it and reflect, maybe allow for some extra processing, and not keep you guys in the lurch. But it has just been too intense. I simultaneously feel like each day goes by in blink and like each day is a long battle that has no end.

At some point I owe you all an explanation of what happened. Why my marriage failed. What went so horribly wrong. But right now I'm still too close to it. It's still too raw. The betrayal and anger are coloring my world too vividly right now. I need distance and a bit of perspective to be able to dissect it better. Please bare with me for a bit.

Logistically things are moving forward very quickly. I have filed the preliminary divorce paperwork. Mike has signed. Our home went on the market two weeks ago. By some miracle, we are already in escrow. If things continue to work as they should, my home will be occupied by its new owners within the next few weeks. The cogs are in motion.

A friend asked me a simple question the other day, "How are things going over there?" I used humor in an analogy. I told her that if a priest came to my door, he would immediately douse it in holy water because the evil energy is so palpable. I think a hefty dose of garlic might be in order too- you know, just in case. Sometimes you need to laugh in the face of pain. In a normal divorce (is there such a thing?) one or both people move out immediately. But due to finances, neither of us were able to do that. We have been, and continue to, live under the same roof. It is a hell I don't wish on anyone. My days are lived in dread of  hearing that front door lock un-hitch and seeing Mike walk in.

I used to think this was the man I would live my life with forever. Love unconditionally. Be the father of my children. But now he has morphed into the man that makes my stomach lurch and feel the raw emotion of hatred. How is that even possible?

Last Sunday I went to breakfast with a good girlfriend of mine. We were supposed to go shopping but got too caught up in our migas and Bloody Marys on the beach. I had wanted to get some new Converse sneakers for the long road trip back east (my new landing spot), but it didn't happen. Toes in the sand, a bit of numbing alcohol, and the warm sun on our faces seemed too good to rip away from. No regrets; we had a wonderful, healing afternoon together. So much better than retail therapy.

But tonight as I stepped out to walk the dog, I was surprised to find a package on my doorstep. It wasn't something I ordered, but it had my name on it. Confused, I gingerly pried it open. The box contained a brand new pair of bright red Converse. I was immediately hit by a sense of overwhelming... love... friendship... compassion... understanding.

Kind of like the symbolic socks that Cristy sent me after my last miscarriage, I immediately knew that these were more than just new bad-ass new sneakers. These were a modern version of my own ruby reds. And they are going to take me home.

All I need to do now, is click my heels.

Cycle 22, CD 6

I was so taken aback by the outpouring of love and support after my last post. Saying thank you seems painfully trite. To be honest, I was terrified to write about the dissolution of my marriage. It is topic that typically elicits much judgement.

Truth be told, I am embarrassed. Horrified. Grief stricken.

Part of me wonders what I did to deserve all this. The other part screams back, "Nothing! You did nothing to deserve this." I toggle back and forth every 5 minutes.

So yeah, the bucketfuls of love that came screaming through last week was something I needed very badly. Thank you.

Right now I'm overwhelmed by the logistics: packing, selling our condo, disentangling my life from someone that thought I would be with forever, filing divorce papers, work obligations, finances, contractors, moving, jury duty, being sick. It's all just, so much.

On top of all that there are the emotions. Some days I can ignore them, put my head down and plow forward. Other days, they overwhelm me. Growing up I always said I didn't believe in divorce. I told this to Mike over and over again prior to getting married. Not that I didn't think it was right for others, just not for me. I always thought that if two people loved each other enough, you could work through anything. What I didn't realize is that unless both people work at it, it is not possible.

Mike stopped working a long time ago.

This was not the easy decision.

But it is the right one.

I'm choosing love. Love for myself. My life. My future child.

Cycle 21, CD 23(ish)

When I came around to the idea of starting an infertility blog, I thought long and hard about what to name it. There is so much in a name. I remember sitting on the beach late one November evening, all by myself, mulling over our journey to grow our family. I breathed in the cold salt air. Filtered sand through my fingers. Dried my tears with the back of my sleeve when my face became wet. 

At one point, I thought how easy it would be to drown in those huge waves and sink to the bottom. And in my sullen mood, I realized that is how I felt. I felt like infertility had muted everything. That it was drowning me. All I wanted to do was come up for some air, but I was stuck holding my breath. It was an analogy that made sense to me. Hence, Submerged was born. 

Years ago, Mike and I took a vacation on a remote tropical island. We decided to hire a photographer to take some photos of us- to document our time there. We had already captured some beautiful images together when our photographer asked us if we would be open to taking a few shots in the water. Underwater even.

The photo in my header isn't just any photo. It is the exact moment when Mike and I slipped underwater together. I love how simple that photo is, just a tiny splash and we were gone. It seemed the perfect one to use for this space considering we were on this journey together. And so, the design of my blog was set.

The underwater view of that same photo captured us submerged in those remote waters. It has always been a favorite of mine. So ethereal. So soft. Muted but beautiful. [I'll post it here for now, but will remove it in a few weeks for the sake of anonymity]. 

I was content to stay down there, holding my breath and my husband close. I never would have guessed that this is exactly where we would remain. Suspended and suffocating. But we are mortals and eventually my lungs became too tight. I needed to breathe again. 

My last miscarriage, as painful as it was, opened my eyes. From beneath the watery surface, I finally saw that there was air, light, and warmth in the distance. I knew that if I didn't want to be pulled to the bottom, to become a relic on the ocean floor, I had to make the choice to swim against the tide. Except my husband let go of my hand somewhere along the way, and disappeared into the abyss.

I always thought that Mike and I would resurface together. That we would take that first painful and beautiful breath at the same time; filling our lungs with life and hope until we reached solid ground. Instead I find myself alone. I'm tired, scared, and don't know which direction is up any more, but I will fight to get to the surface with every ounce of strength I have left.