spinning my wheels

I hate February. I have always lived in the Northeast and I have always hated February. And now I have two more reasons to hate it. February 1 is right about the time Brian's busy tax season kicks in. And February 28 is the day I lost my baby.

I am going so f*ing stir crazy right now. I am on a work deadline and have been strapped to my computer for days. I desperately need a walk, a stretch, some sunshine. But it's 25 degrees out, and I've only got so many hours before Lilly comes home and laundry needs to get done and dinner made. I can't seem to get any kind of self-care going, or any social life going, and I feel like a huge lump. That is typical February, though. Only worse.

On the rainbow baby front, the last 6 months has been delay after delay after delay after delay. My period is nowhere insight but I am not pregnant. I'm on cycle day 44 or something ridiculous like that (for me). We can't try again until I bleed. A week ago I got an acupuncture treatment to try to kickstart things, but there is nothing yet. My hormones crank up overnight, but in the morning, no change. Oh the irony of constantly checking my underwear and actually hoping to see blood!

Years ago a psychic told me that I was never going to have children, and in the same breath she asked me why there was a ghost baby suckling at my breast. Well, now I know. I am starting to think this is just not going to happen for me. I should just drop the pregnancy plan for now, and focus on getting healthy and active again. On the other hand, a friend with a healthy one-year-old girl recently gave me that same advice, and it pissed me off.

I actually do know what I need to feel better. Not better from the loss, I have no idea about that. But better generally - physically healthier, creatively active, better supported, yadda yadda.

I need a community of moms, loss moms or not. I need to work or volunteer some place that I really care about. I need to spend time outside. I need to work on my book. I need to put down roots and find a way to nourish myself and my family into some kind of new life on the other side of loss.

But I can't now. You see, we are planning to move across the state in six months. There I will find a job, find nature, find community. Then it will be summer, and the ground will no longer be frozen, and I will be able to plant something.

But here it is February. I am spinning my wheels against the cold earth. My body feels contracted. My friends are far away. I work from my bed. I wait for Brian to call. I put bread in the bread machine. I drink my Chinese herbs, and I wait for all the new cycles to begin.