My Awakening.

Today I'm linking up with the Red Dress Club! Here's today's prompt, courtesy of Katie / @Ksluiter:

Hemingway was famous for his super sparse writing. He used almost only dialogue in many of his works. Write a piece in which you use ONLY dialogue. (I'm bending the rules because, well, I can.)


"Let's go someplace where we can talk," Jessie said as I got into her car.

"What about P.J.'s? I'm seriously craving an iced mocha," I suggested.

"Nah, I was thinking of someplace quieter. I just really need to tell you something," she said.

"Okay. Well, wherever you wanna go is fine, you're the one driving," I said, as I reached over to switch on the radio. I started humming along with Dave Matthews.

"So how are you? Are you going back up to school next week?" she asked.

"Yes! I'm so ready. I'm sick of talking to my shrink, sick of thinking about it all, and I really just want to get back to normal. Whatever that is. You know?"

"You're not going to hurt yourself again, are you? Because I gotta tell ya, that scared the shit out of me Erin. You just can't do that," Jessie said. "It's fucked up."

"Honestly, I can't promise I won't do it again 'cause I still think about it. It's like the urges come on so suddenly sometimes and I can't stop myself. Nobody gets it. But the Prozac and Klonopin are helping," I added.

"I'm worried about you. I mean, you're my friend and I love you and I don't know what I would've done if I'd been the one to find you with blood everywhere," she said as she pulled her car into a spot at The Point on the Lakefront. Then she turned off the music.

My stomach lurched. The Point was where people went to make out. I saw a few other cars, most of them with foggy windows. I leaned the side of my head on the glass and looked out at the waves. Jessie took the keys out of the ignition and tossed them into the cup holder. It got quiet. My stomach gurgled and I clamped my hands down over it instinctively.

"I'm not sure how to say this," she began. "We've been friends for a long time and I don't want to lose that. But lately..." she trailed off. "Lately I've been thinking about you. Like, a lot." She stopped and took a deep breath, then exhaled.

"I've got feelings for you," she blurted out.

"Feelings? What kind of feelings?" I asked, staring hard at the whitecaps, blurring the edges of her in my peripheral vision.

"Why can't you look at me? Can you look at me, please?" she asked.

Reluctantly I lifted my head and slowly shifted to face her.

"I'm in love with you," she said simply. "I just am."

"So you're telling me this now. When you know about Lauren, my dad, and everything I've been dealing with. You know I have feelings for her and I'm a mess dealing with all that crap, plus the cutting, my parents. And you do this now?"

"I know, I know. But I had to tell you. I had to get it out," she said, shrugging her shoulders.

I sighed and rubbed my temples.

"What do you want me to say, Jessie?" I asked. "I'm sorry I don't feel that way about you. And even though I don't really know who I am or what this thing with Lauren is all about, I know my heart belongs to her for now. I may be a freakin' train wreck, but I know that much."

"So why can't you just look me in the eye and say it?" she asked.

"You know I'm terrible about the eye contact. Get off my case," I snapped. "Besides, this is the last thing I need right now. I'm not trying to hurt your feelings or anything, but I just can't deal."

I began unraveling. Looking out at the waves, I thought of Edna Pontellier. I longed to be in the Gulf, giving up, handing myself over to the rough waves. Salty, swirling water sucking me under, drifting down into the dark, cool deep. It would be so much easier.

"Jessie, I'm sorry. I really am. But can you please just take me home?" I plead.

Inwardly, I'm stuffing down the sudden overwhelming desire to cut myself, to offer up my blood to some unknown God.

Being a Woman, Being a Mom.

Yesterday I read a very personal piece about breastfeeding by the talented KLZ of Taming Insanity.

Her poignant and powerful post stirred up so many things inside of me, particularly my feelings about being a woman and how I define it. How I struggle with it, even now at the age of 34.

Without medical intervention, I can't get pregnant. I don't ovulate because I have PCOS, which you can read about here. I have blogged about our journey several times, most recently here for the Red Dress Club.

What I've been thinking about lately is how my own feelings of femininity are closely tied to my inability to conceive. How being a women at its most basic level means being able to bear children. Carry said children in your womb naturally, effortlessly, beautifully. There is honestly nothing I love more than a pregnant belly--preferably mine, but I'll take yours, too--and I miss mine desperately sometimes. So if I come up to you and ask to feel your belly? Please consider letting me. And then don't worry too much when you see me start to cry.

The times I've felt most feminine, most proud to be a woman? Were undoubtedly when I was pregnant, my belly full of babies, round with potential, an outward sign of my femininity, my power, my prowess:

 18 weeks

 22 weeks

 23 weeks

 28 weeks

front and side views

at 30 weeks!

I know I am so lucky. I consider myself blessed to have my two little miracles, blessed to be a mom. Despite everything we went through, I now have my twin daughters, Abby and Izzy. Nothing can ever take that away. I am a mother.

I am a mother. I am a mother. I am a mother.

I am a woman.

Hear me roar!
If I can do this? I can do anything.

Abby & Izzy's Birth Day, 12/9/05

Where do you think your feelings of femininity come from? Am I just nuts? I'd love to hear your opinions & perspectives on this.

The ABC's of a Dream

I'm linking up for the first prompt of 2011 over at The Red Dress Club :

Write a short piece - fiction, non-fiction, poetry, whatevs - in which each sentence starts with the next letter of the alphabet, starting with "A." So your finished product will consist of 26 sentences. (I am tweaking this a bit and making mine 26 lines, so technically just over 26 sentences.)

A dream in which you finally start telling me the truth. Your truth.
Bringing friends with you on a spontaneous trip to Vegas, you appeared suddenly.
Careening your convertible up the crowded street, dirty but drivable.
"Don't come here," I plead, backing away. "I can't. Not again." Willing you away.
Ever the charmer, you hop out and grab my hand, yanking me this way and that. Your way.
"Forget it all and come with us," you said after we sat down to have drinks.
Ghosts floated all around me, warning, wafting, swirling--gentle reminders.
Hovering nearby, my friend Heather made eyes at me, but didn't utter a sound.
I had to borrow money from her to pay for our stuff since you were "saving for Vegas." Cheapskate.
Just like always, you made me doubt myself, your sincerity, your intentions.
"Kid, you know I love you. Just get in the damn car," you said as you looked over at your friends.
Lunging at you with all my frustration in my fist. I miss. I try again.
Maniacal laughter, mirrors in a fun house: everything's misshapen, distorted. Bubbles and blur.
No, no--spinning round and round, my skirt billowing out like a bell. I want off this ride.
Out of nowhere you jump up and grab me.
Pushing and pulling ensue, a tug of war over the past and future.
Questioning myself is never so prevalent as when I'm with you.
Running around doing this same old dance drains me.
Sometimes I get so tired of carrying this burden. Your burden.
Too many people telling me what to do, like you.
Until I remember that this is just a dream.
Vanquished, vindicated me. I hold power over you!
Wielding my magic wand, I wave it until you get smaller and smaller.
Xanax won't be necessary anymore, you are so tiny I tower over you.
You can't haunt or taunt me anymore.
Zen-like is how I feel when I wake.

Ramona Quimby, My First Love.

I'm linking up today with the Red Dress Club:

The prompt is:
Write a short first-person story about your first love, or write a short fiction piece about a character's first love.


I'd asked my parents to take me to Waldenbooks. My dirty Tretorns spirited me from our space in the parking lot into Lakeside Mall, which always smelled of Swenson's waffle cones.


My palms were sweating so much the crumpled bills in my hand were damp. I'd been saving my weekly allowance for ages in my purple cash box that opened with an impossibly tiny key. "Erin" was carefully carved into the metal as if those four letters would prevent someone from stealing what little I had. 
 
I walked straight to the back of the book store where the young adult section was. Too many decisions: Beverly Cleary, Judy Blume, Baby-sitters Club. But I knew what I wanted. I gently eased the orange paperback from the shelf with the tip of my index finger. The stiff book crackled when I opened it and had that wonderful new smell. I inhaled deeply.

I walked briskly to the check out and placed my purchase on the counter. I smiled at Ramona and couldn't wait to bring her home and up to my room.

  

Ramona Quimby, my first love.

Trapped With Twins and My Medela Breast Pump

I'm linking up again today with the Red Dress Club. We're doing "flash fiction." If you're unfamiliar with flash fiction, think of it as a condensed short story. Shorter than short. The word count for flash fiction typically ranges from 100 to 2000 words.

and the prompt I've chosen is:

 "Trapped"

I'm trapped in the mire; the thick, dripping, caramel-like consistency of my mommy brain. Neurons fire in a mad frenzy, crashing into one another--then disappear, POOF-- in a cloud of dust. I am incapable of a single coherent thought.

OVERLOAD. OVERLOAD. CANNOT COMPUTE.

I'm so exhausted I'm falling asleep at the pump. The Medela Pump In Style, that is. Though there's nothing stylish about it.

I sit, boobies locked and loaded to this dreadfully slow contraption (the one I got to use in the hospital was like a Mercedes, while this was more like a Yugo):

photo courtesy of www.medela.com

Listening to the obnoxiously loud motor, rivaled only by the obnoxiously loud screaming of my twin baby girls. One is howling in my lap, the other lies on the floor next to me, red faced and squawking. Fortunately with all this carrying on my let-down reflex is uninhibited; yet the noise is closing in on me, trapping me in its tight web.

Sometimes you can say the same word over and over until it becomes a string of meaningless sounds. Well, the crying is kind of like that, too. Soon it barely interrupts my tired trance. I'm staring at the wall, one forearm holding the pump's parts in place with my free hand pressing a paci into Abby's mouth. I realize my mouth is sagging open and that it's time to switch out bottles. Which is messy and complicated with a baby in one's lap. Let's not even talk about how many times I've spilled milk on the carpet trying to do this dance.

It's January in Kansas, and bitterly cold outside. Because the girls are preemies, their risk for RSV is exceptionally high and their neonatologist told us not to take them out. Too many germs. So we're sequestered. Only my husband uses his Get Out of Jail Free card for work every day and has intelligent conversations with actual adults. He also gets a regular shower. He eats meals in peace, even if they're sometimes rushed.

Me? My hair is filthy. I smell like milk. I've been wearing the same pair of pajamas for three (going on four) days. Sometimes after the girls are fed, burped, and freshly diapered, I swaddle them tightly and strap them into their vibrating Fisher-Price seats. I turn on their white noise machine, poke the pacifiers in, and pull their bedroom door closed behind me. Then I go to my room, closing my door quietly behind me.

I'm trapped. I crawl into my bed, close my eyes and pray they fall asleep.

Red Writing Hood: Let Go

It's been a long time as I've been too intimidated. But today I'm nervously linking up again with the Red Dress Blog. My assignment: write a piece (fiction or non-fiction) inspired by a song. It can be any song of your choosing. If it is not clear from your story what the song is, throw us a bone and put a note at top or bottom of your post to let us know what you picked.

The song I chose is "Let Go" by Frou Frou. It's on the Garden State soundtrack, which is one of my favorite movies ever. How can you not love Natalie Portman my girl crush and Zach Braff (he starred in it but also directed it)? Garden State was released in September 2004, when The Father Load and I were in the thick of our infertility.



Flying down I-435 at 7 a.m., heading to Overland Park Regional Medical Center. Again. My red sharps box sits smugly next to me in the passenger's seat, half full of used needles. Evidence of my complete and utter failure as a woman. My body's unwillingness to cooperate. A symbol of the perpetual emptiness of my womb, the laziness of my ovaries. And super! It's the color of blood, the one thing any trying-desperately-to-conceive-woman dreads seeing. Well, aside from pregnant bellies, babies and birth announcements, that is.


"Let Go" is on repeat, blaring from the speakers in my navy blue VW Jetta. I'm trying to let go, to not worry that my ovaries aren't doing what they're supposed to be doing. I'm "too busy writing your (my) own tragedy." I have a full feeling, I'm bloated, I've been crying at every God damn commercial and if a pregnant belly even enters my peripheral vision, I lose my shit. Surely there's something going on inside me, but I'm too scared to let hope in. The possibility of parenthood has always hovered just out of our reach. Today is the first ultrasound after weeks and weeks of injectible fertility drugs. First Lupron and birth control pills to supress me and mimic menopause, then daily cocktails of Gonal F and Repronex to rev me up and put my ovaries into overdrive. Eggs galore being the ultimate goal. Delicately balanced, of course, with the desire for quality over quantity.

This is my second round of in vitro, hence the reason I'm trying to let go. Because aside from all the money that's been spent, I'm emotionally, physically, and mentally undone. I'm hollowed out, a fragile shell of a person. The idea of doing this song and dance again nauseates me. I want to be a mother, but at what price? There are plenty of other babies and young children already living in this world who need homes. Carrying a child in my womb isn't necessary in order to be a mother or for said child to know he/she is mine. Sure, that part would be nice, but I'm not gonna quibble over that.

The other night our friend Yasmeen and her husband came by to visit. They were in from out of town and Yasmeen and I had grown close when we were both struggling to get pregnant in the early days. Then after a few weeks of not hearing from her, I got the dreaded call. Yasmeen was pregnant. I was happy for her, sad for me. I'm always being left behind.

When I go upstairs to greet them, her belly takes me by surprise and I start sobbing uncontrollably. I let her hug me even though there's a part of me that wants nothing to do with her, that jealous, selfish part of me that's so ugly I want to smother it. But the other side wins out, the side of me that wants what she has--life growing inside of her. I ask if I can touch her tummy. "Of course," she says, smiling. I lightly lay my hands on her. Her belly is high and hard, so round. She is lucky. She is living my dream. Something thumps my right hand and I jump, and then start to cry harder, but can't help the smile spreading across my face, which is now dripping with snot. I turn away and curl into The Father Load's waiting arms, bury my face in his neck. Let go. Don't hope that the drugs are working. Just don't. LET GO.

I snap out of the memory and remind myself I never thought I'd get this far. Never even thought I could give myself multiple injections every day. The first time was the worst. Standing in the kitchen shaking and hyperventilating, leaning against the counter with one hand, my shirt pulled halfway up and tucked under my armpit. I'm embarrassed, though no one is there to watch me. It's just a needle. How do drug addicts do this all the time, I think to myself. Then:

"Jump in. Whatcha waiting for? It's all right."

I pinch a small slab of skin from my lower abdomen, jab the needle in, and push the plunger. Done. Crying with relief, I call my mom and tell her I've done it. My husband comes home prepared to administer the shot, and I smile with tearstained cheeks and tell him he doesn't need to worry about it. I'm beaming. And with each day, administering the shots becomes easier. I'm practically a pro.

There's beauty in the beakdown. After weeks of injections and a tender, bruised belly, it's time. They retrieve 14 good eggs, and we have two to transfer on the fifth day. Six days later I'm at home and feel a familiar wetness in my panties. A sob catches in my throat as I stop right there in the middle of my living room, yank my pants down and see the bright red blood.

no no no no no no no no no
I grab the phone and with shaking fingers dial my husband.
"I'm bleeding," I say when he answers.
Silence.
"I'm going to call and see if I can get in for a pregnancy test. I need to know this is over. I need closure. I need to move on. I can't do this anymore."
The Father Load is holding back his own tears and his voice has gotten so low I can barely hear it.
"Okay," he mumbles.
"We're going to adopt," I say.
"Whatever you want," he replies.
I hang up.
I call the nurse and after blubbering into the phone I finally make her understand what's going on.
She puts me on hold.
For what seems like a long time.
Then she comes back on and tells me I can come in tomorrow morning, because today is really still too soon.

No sleep that night.

I stagger out of bed, zombie-like, and go through the motions of brushing my teeth, using the bathroom, putting in my contacts.
Before I know it I'm at the office with a tourniquet on my arm. And it's like I don't even know how I got there. I don't remember having driven myself. But I did.
Then magically I'm back at home, as if transported. I feel nothing. I sit on the couch in silence, starting at the green patches of our yard coming back.
After two hours, the phone rings. I look at the Caller ID and it's the nurse.
"Hello," I say. Praying for the last time that this is some hellish mistake.

It is.

I am pregnant. With terribly low levels of progesterone, hence the bleeding. But after everything, I.Am.Pregnant.

And now?

I have let go of the desire for more children. We are enough. The four of us. My twin girls, my very patient husband, and me.

Someday I will have to let the girls go.
But not today.

Red Writing Hood -- Debacle

I'm participating with The Red Dress Club again today. The instructions were as follows:


This week we're going to switch gears and write a little poetry. Writing poetry helps us work on cadence and rhythm which can make for better fiction. So by flexing our poetry muscles, we can in turn create more fluid fictional pieces. Please write a narrative poem that focuses on the workings of a family, whether it be your own or one that you've created from scratch. Good luck!



**I am not a poet. I wrote this when I was in high school and this is the second time it has appeared on my blog.**

DEBACLE

We stared blankly in a dumbfounded silence

Not daring to even steal glances at one another
The five of us sat tense, unmoving
As rivers of emotion threatened to escape
From behind our downcast eyes.

My mom, my two brothers and I listened
As my father told us a story about how it felt to hide,
Crouched behind a wall of fear for forty years
He said it was time to face the truth,
Time to reveal the secret that had been silent
Within him for so long.

But it had always been lurking there,
Stirring underneath his skin.
It had crept up on him quietly, slowly,
Like a fever.
Until finally, on this day, the fever broke
And relief swam over my father as he confessed
In a shaky voice, "I'm leaving you all because I am gay."

It's too bad his relief wasn't contagious---
He seemed to think it should have been
I just fell apart
We all fell apart
A jigsaw puzzle dismantled
The pieces scattered everywhere
So we're trying to fit them together again
But it's hard to make a new puzzle
When we liked the old one so much better.

How could he create a family knowing all that he did?
His family was his garden--he watered it, tended it, nurtured it.
But he wondered why, if the flowers thrived so,
Did he still feel an unbearable emptiness inside?
After all, he did have a loving family,
Even if it wasn't the kind of family he desperately wanted.
He thought we, his fictitious family, could hide him,
Even from himself.

He was wrong.

Red Writing Hood --- A Short Story

Today's assignment for The Red Dress Club is:

Write a short piece of fiction about seeing an ex in the grocery store from the first person point-of-view. Instead of writing from the female perspective, we want you to write from the male perspective. Hopefully, this will help us in regards to character development and stepping outside of ourselves as writers. Have fun ladies!
(It's my first time. Go easy on me.)

The Jitney Jungle's automatic doors swooshed open and a welcome blast of Arctic air hit me in the face. I swiped my damp forehead with my sleeve and yanked a cart from the jumble near the entryway. Ignoring the open container of anti-bacterial wipes, I headed straight for the frozen food aisle. I opened the freezer door and stood there for a minute, still recovering from the brutal Mississippi summer heat. It was like a hangover that wouldn't go away. I slumped against the freezer door holding it open with my hip, hands jammed in my pockets, my eyes half closed, in a kind of trance.
 
"Anythin' I can hep ya find?" asked a pudgy employee wearing fuschia lipstick all over her top two front teeth. She looked almost hopeful. I hated to burst the bubble of chewing gum she was working on, but frankly I'm a guy, and aside from sex, my needs are simple.
 
Over the annoying sound of her gum snapping I said, "Nah, I'm okay. Just lookin' for some Hungry Man...Men...whatever," I mumbled, as I felt a reddish hue creep up from my starched collar to my stubbly cheeks.
 
"Right there," she gestured to the door I'd just been shamlessly cooling myself off in front of. Before I had a chance to thank her, she'd turned around to help an elderly woman with a walker who was asking where she could find the prune juice.

Shuddering, I tossed two weeks' worth of frozen dinners into my cart, hurried past the Green Giant vegetables, and strode over to the hygiene aisle to grab some deodorant. After I made sure no one was looking, I sheepishly scooped up several twin packs of Secret Shower Fresh. For some reason it's the only deodorant that works for me. I've tried other kinds before, believe me. And those were the only times I could smell my own special brand of stink. So for now I'll just keep Secret one of my secrets. My bathroom cabinet is full of barely used Right Guard and Old Spice, which are only good for show.

I wandered around Jitney a bit, not quite ready to go back out into the oppressive heat. I ended up throwing some other necessities into the cart---Doritos, Diet Coke, beer, and what the hell, a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts. Once I realized it was in my best interest to head to the checkout, there were only two lanes open and both lines were long. I sighed, opened the bag of Doritos, and munched away as I draped my forearms over the cart's handles.

Suddenly I glimpsed a head of honey-colored hair putting her groceries onto the conveyor belt. The familiar and deliberate tucking of her hair behind the ears, the dimple in her cheek as she smiled at the checkout clerk. My heart started racing and my armpits grew damp. No, no, no. This isn't happening. It can't be.

But it was. Sarah, the girl who had ripped my raw heart out of my chest, threw it on the ground, and stomped on it like she was under the chuppah at a Jewish wedding. I hadn't seen her since the night she told me she "couldn't do it anymore."

"Do what anymore?" I'd asked icily, caught completely off guard.

"This," she'd said with a sad look on her face. "Us. You and me. I just feel like I don't really know you, like you're hiding things."

I threw my arms up in the air. "What things?" I snapped, with clenched jaws.

"Why haven't I met your family after all this time?" she shot back, eyes blazing.

There it was. The secret of all secrets, rolled out like the red carpet. Only I didn't dare step on it. The secret I couldn't seem to share with anyone, not even my own girlfriend of a year. Because my dad is gay and lives with his lover, I answered her in my head. Because my mom's best friends are her box of Franzia wine in the fridge and her bottle of Prozac. Because you have the perfect little family and no one has any problems, while we can barely keep up with our psychotherapy bills. But I couldn't speak. Couldn't say one word of any of this. Fear had taken its hold of me again.

She detested my silence. "See?" she said and walked out, slamming the door behind her.