I have not been able to write about last weekend’s trip to see my parents.  I haven’t been able to process it yet, and vast amounts of crap from my parents are still in my car, waiting to be processed in their own way. 

On the way home from R.I., we stopped in the sleepy hamlet of the Bronx to visit a friend from college, who now has a 4 month old daughter.  We played with the baby, ignored our crying, crated puppy, and caught up on college suite-mate gossip.  The baby is adorable, alert, smiley, and engaging.  She barely fussed, and is much cuter than her Facebook photos could have let on. 

As always, when I am with a baby – my nephew, a friend’s baby, or a baby-in-utero (a pregnant friend/coworker) – I am able to separate the child from my own potential child, lost in miscarriage.  I do not blame the child in front of me.  I am able to play with him/her, share in the joy of the parents/grandparents/mother-to-be.  Am I horribly jealous?  Sure.  But just as I’ve been keeping my personal life private for many years, I dare not share my true feelings with the mom or the child.  I do not allow myself to become weepy, though I may get a little melancholy after our visit. 

Little H.’s mom is a modern Orthodox Jew.  As such, she is expected to be fruitful and multiply.  While her lifestyle is a far cry from the baby-a-year families of more traditional Judaism, she has still endured many well-intentioned inquiries as to her womb’s status almost immediately after her wedding.  As we sat and played with little H., her mom asked me, as Mr. Apron and I have been married longer than she has, if people have stopped “asking” us yet, if they’ve stopped hinting, or looking suspiciously at my belly, or if our parents have stopped slipping us how-to books under the door.  Reluctantly, and a little sadly, I assured her they have stopped nagging.

What I didn’t say, though, was the reason our families do not ask.  Given that perfect segue, I nevertheless refrained from telling my friend about our miscarriage.  Aside from two friends who live near us, and we therefore told early on about our pregnancy (thus we had to “untell” when we miscarried), my friends do not know.  I thought that was the whole point of not telling anyone until after the 1st trimester.  It was a convenience thing, a safeguard, an old wives’ tale meant to protect you from having to break bad news when the tenuous state of the new pregnancy didn’t go as planned or expected.  Why should I tell them at this point?

Mr. Apron met up with a friend of his while we were in R.I.  As we left little H. and her mom, this prompted me to ask him if he had told his friend, if his friends knew about our pregnancy.  He says most of his friends know.  Most.  Two of mine do.  Two.  And only because, as I said before, we had leaked news of the pregnancy.  Not even when a coworker and I were trapped in the car together for an hour-long drive to Delaware for a conference, and she spoke openly about her own miscarriage, did I let a word about my own pass my lips.  Still not when another gaggle of coworkers were discussing pregnancy, miscarriage, and expressing disappointment that miscarriage was not more openly discussed.  I remain silent.  Always.  I stuff my experience, my shared feelings down, down inside me until they explode anonymously on my blog.  Mr. Apron and I talk.  My therapist and I talk.  But our current frustration with getting pregnant again only seems to prolong the grieving and make our suffering more drawn-out. 

I wish I could share with my friends.  I wish I felt comfortable sharing my sadness without feeling like it will scare them.

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