Loss vs. Loss

I discovered while typing up a Lost Dog sign for our newly missing dog, Beulah, that I was basically describing myself.  "Will be scared". Those words were as much about me as they were about our little dog- who was never found. Sadly.  The grief has been rough, but it's been eye opening as well.

Will be scared.  That's been me, the majority of my life. It's a daily brain + soul arm wrestle between me taking action and the anticipated feared worst-case scenario reaction. Fear has kept me alive yet a handhold out of reach of what I most desire. What is the substance of my fear? Fear of loss. Well, now that I've lost a being extremely dear to me, I'm facing my fear and dunking my head in the bracing water of loss. 

One of the most profound emotional bitch slaps of this whole adoption process came from my husband. This was not domestic violence; he was speaking in his usual gentle, lovely and loving way to me- despite my emotional resemblance at that moment to the Tasmanian Devil. We had just met our social worker- a lovely woman who struck me as someone I might have been if I hadn't lucked into being a neurotic creative crazy person. I could be an adoption social worker, I love kids, families, I love helping people and I can speak quietly if I concentrate hard enough.   Our meeting with her was uneventful enough yet I was furious once she was gone. 

Fury has been my face cream, my shampoo and deodorant since I found out I couldn't conceive without throwing massive amounts of money and other women's eggs at the situation.  I wake up every morning, brush my teeth and am filled with fury at all we have to do in order to tap dance and cajole another woman into giving us her child.

Furious at how we have to turn our lives, our finances, our medical histories and our personal mistakes inside out in order to qualify to pay to become parents. Furious at the birth mothers who haven't called back and even more furious with the ones I have spoken to who have passed us over- despite the truly adorable photo albums I've slaved over during windstorm blackouts and while mourning our lost dog. I'm just plain mad. 

So, to be polite to our social worker and to make sure she hasn't noticed my general seethiness seeping out, I follow her to her car. I wryly joke, to make sure she has no idea how furious I truly am about the four home visits and the interviews we will be subjected to before and after our child finds us... and I honestly can't tell if she likes us or not. Which really ticks me off because my husband and I are not only generally liked, we are well-liked, dammit.  

So, I slam back into the house after watching the calm life of the socially caring person I almost was drive off in her Prius and Andrew looks at me with a wry smile.  "Now that we can't be in therapy, because birth mothers won't give their child to someone who's in therapy, how are you going to deal with your loss?"

Irritated beyond belief about this really annoying fact about adoption, I snark back at him- "What loss?" He pauses for a second- and I can see him wondering if what I just said was a trick question- then he takes a deep, brave breath and says, "Well... your loss of fertility. Your loss at being a mother who gives birth to her baby."

I snorted instantly- it was an intake of air that started as a sarcastic chuckle but by the time the air hit the back of my throat, it was already a sob.  Loss. Oh, right... that.  I was so busy being mad I forgot to be sad.  Despite all the hurdles we have to leap over in order to make room for our baby, I have to make room for the lack of control I have- and the sadness at not being able to make a family with my body.

Then my loss was tripled when dear little Beulah left us. The lack of control over being able to find her and the refusal to give up looking mitigated the grief until it became clear she isn't coming back.  Anger is a veneer for pain, sadness and loss. I'm no longer angry. I'm living in the loss.  It's harder to live inside the loss as opposed to living in the rage, but as my abundantly patient husband might say if he weren't so polite, I'm definitely much easier to live with.