This summer, with a glorious, chubby, curious, active, almost-three-month-old I find myself paying attention to last summer. Where was I? What was happening? Was I pregnant? The first time, or the second time? I think about the day in July of confirming that the pregnancy, that much wanted pregnancy, was not going to result in a baby, and deciding that I would rather end it than wait for it to end itself, and bleeding and crying and aching. I remember being afraid that this was it, that I had waited too long, that I wanted too much, that I was at fault for that ending. I think about the July days spent bleeding and crying and discovering how many (so, so, many people) I know who had had similar experiences. I remember the comfort of sharing experiences of miscarriage and loss and what succour there was in knowing I was not alone. Sometimes when I think about the crowd of people I know who find conception and pregnancy so much more difficult than desired, it seems amazing anyone anywhere ever has a baby.
This is the anniversary of the narrow window of deepest doubt, and of loss. The narrow window of trying to discern if we should try again, or if we should celebrate what we have and stop audaciously asking for more. In the window between pregnancies I took Stanley camping at a music festival just the two of us. I spent a week at a cottage with friends. I prayed. I paddled in a canoe and I asked the water for guidance. I felt so unsure, and so empty. And at the end of the week, as unlikely as it seemed, I decided that it was time, and I travelled, and I got pregnant again, and this time we made a baby.
Last year I didn't see many SummerWorks shows because I was away making a baby. This year, I won't see many SummerWorks shows because I will be home loving that baby. Last year - this year. This year - last year. I revisit the past and the emotions of the past visit me in the present. And it is still sad. With the wonder that is a new baby sleeping upstairs it seems indulgent to want to mark and mourn this loss, but I do. Something happened. Something started. Something didn't come to fruition, and even not knowing what that possibility was I mourn the potential future.
I'm not good at being pregnant. I feel pretty wretched most of the time, nauseous and exhausted, fearful and funny-shaped. I find many of the physical changes weird and uncomfortable. I don't like being pregnant, but I sure like being a parent. I did the former for the latter. I did the former for a year. I hope very much I get to do the latter for the rest of my life.