I am sitting here at my computer, and I should really be outside. I will write until my coffee maker beeps at me, telling me my decaf is done, and then I will sit in my chair and watch the changing of the light. I will find time. I will live in found time.
It is easy to call it lost time, this summer that should have been something else. In October of last year, we remembered how easy it was on Chlomid to conceive Gabriel, the first cycle. And we did not imagine that it would be hard. So hard, this time. And that cycle was a bust, and we waited on the next, which was also a bust, and more busts and more back to back to back drugs and pokes and prods, and living in increments and finally the last 2, breaking my heart and ending in such early miscarriages I was left with a used pregnancy test that literally showed half a plus sign. Out of breath, out of heart, out of will, out of time.
And last fall, in late September, as I put my garden to bed, savored my sweet peas that are so wonderful in their new garden bed, I grieved a bit, thinking that I would not be able to garden this summer. Thinking that in my 5th year, when things were getting easy, I would not have my garden. And the grief was not just for my garden, but so for me as well. That unlike other DBM’s, I will get sick again, this could happen again, and bed rest is a forgone conclusion. I was, to be quite honest, pouting about my hard life, just a bit. I pouted a bit, wondering if I would be on bed rest, holding on to a baby at the hospital, or grieving another child not with us.
I decided to play. I decided:
I was going to make the best of this summer. I was, as much as possible not going to mourn what I wasn’t doing, being: I was going to celebrate what I can do. I was going to sit in my backyard, drink pomtini’s and weed. I was going to stain my deck and rip out my front veranda, and repave my front walk. I was going to stand on my front porch and watch the fireworks from the Ex, every night, and I was going to sit in my back yard and listen to the merlin chatter at me. I was going to dead head, and wander around with a cup of coffee, and see what grew during the day. I was going to tell the Madonna lily to pick up it’s socks, and be impressed by the lilies.
That was what I was going to do.
And the setting sun outside my kitchen window, as I write this, tells me that summer is drawing to a close. Not completely, we have at least another month, more likely 6 weeks, but the bloom is quite literally off the rose.
I still don’t know what we will do. I have another 8 months until I can see the next specialist. But . . .
My coffee maker has beeped, and I am going to get my book, and I am going outside, and the book will sit on my lap, the knitting on the side table, and I shall simply stare, not idle, merely finding time.