helplessness

More blows followed.  One by one our friends announced their pregnancies, and every month my period came -- although, gratefully, it started appearing on time rather than spontaneously.

I wouldn't say the news got easier to take, neccessarily.  I would say we learned how to deal with it.

Meanwhile, our hopelessness increased. 

See, you can't really do anything medical about not-getting-pregnant until you have been trying for at least a year.

And a year is a long time.  It is an especially long time if you never thought it would be a challenge to get pregnant.  I just wasn't prepared.

Its worth mentioning that this wasn't the only thing beyond our control.  In August of 2010, with no job prospects on the horizon and Mike's last day looming only weeks before us, we decided Mike would not return to work, but instead go to school full time and finish his degree.

I think this sounds honorable and wise.  As I write it, it sounds like a pronouncement that would make anyone proud. 

What is not in that statement is the sacrifices you have to make to live on one income.

I took on additional jobs.  I tutored.  I did graphic design work.  I signed on for any project that would bring in money of any kind -- not matter how small the amount.  I took on a sixth class and sacrified a planning period and was forced to bring stacks of grading home.

I sometimes I worked 70 hours a week. 

And still, every month I had to take money out of our savings account to cover our bills.  Every month, we ate out less, bought fewer things for ourselves and chose to stay home instead of go out.

I stopped talking about getting pregnant, because I was sure everyone was sick of hearing about it, and instead tried to prove that I wasn't bothered by it anymore.  I didn't want to seem as helpless as I felt, so I threw myself into being a good friend, sister, daughter, with a kind of gusto that initially made me proud.

I fielded every crisis phonecall.  I coached friends through wedding stress, relationship messes, and the fear of change. 

We had people over to celebrate their successes, and lament their defeats.

We hosted charity events; we hosted out-of-town guests; we hosted family members during the holidays.

We put up one hell of a front.

But we were falling apart.  You can only keep that up for so long. 

Mike was miserable.  He was home too much, and left to think for too long.  He thought too much about his future career and if it was the right decision.  He thought too much about not being the bread winner.  He thought too much about if were were training the dog properly.  He thought too much about what I wasn't getting done around the house.

His implosion was physical.  When he finally lost it, it was in the form of an MS symptom that could not be ignored.  His face tightened and cinched near his eye, and the nerves and muscles just would not relax.  He was uncomfortable physically and mentally because it was impossible not to notice the persistent sneer.

Worse: it was right when the holidays kicked off -- when you see anyone and everyone you haven't seen in months.  When you take a million more pictures than you ever take in the rest of the year combined. 

And it didn't let up for weeks.

What seems strange to me, is that when I look back on that Christmas, I don't really ::feel:: that tension in the way I know it existed.  I remember being tired and busy and I know there was a lot of red wine involved, but I have these warm memories of that holiday.  Which I guess is a blessing, because the next month was a nightmare.

When I think about it now, I'm surprised I made it that far before I really and truly lost it.  I'm surprised by how well I held it together, because no one ever saw it coming -- the breakdown, I mean.  No one.  Not even me.