How did I get here? It's not the mountaintop I planned for myself, or even imagined. It's not really a precipice I saw coming.
It all started when my son was born...No wait. When we found out I was pregnant... No, I think it started when I got married. Yes, I can start there.
I got married twice. The first was what we consider the real wedding. The first was not what I had planned for myself (this is getting to be a repetitive phase, I guess for good reason). It was the second, big colorful Indian themed bash, complete with Indian buffet and sindoor smeared on my scalp like a fresh bloody wound, that was closer to the fairy tale wedding I'd imagined. But instead it was the first ceremony that touched my soul.
The first was in my small one bedroom apartment, perched atop a 100 year old, four story Victorian, clinging to the mountainside. It had a breathtaking view of the gently sloping historic graveyard across the steep street, the colorful bustling town beyond and the grey waters of the channel that bled into the grey sky and framed my world. I wore a pale blue satin strapless ball gown, crusted with sparkles and topped by a golden lace shrug. My husband wore his best tie. Five friends (including my mom) witnessed as the officiate walked us through our vows and into our new life as husband and wife. We stared into eachothers stormy, pink rimmed eyes as we pledged or loyalty and love, in sickness and in health. Then we shared Thai take out from the best (and only) Thai Restaurant in town (which had a big sign in front of the storefront - always crowded with people bundled against the drizzle, waiting anxiously to be given refugee and a warm meal - stating they were a small family business and couldn't accommodate to go orders). And then we were free to enjoy our newlywed bliss for five years before the burden of a baby, according to my plan.
A baby would come after I'd established myself in my career. When my husband was ready to go back to school for his PhD and be a part time student and a part time stay-at-home-dad. When we were living in a three bedroom, two story home of our own, complete with shining bamboo floors and polished concrete countertops.
Abrupt transition here. Let's skip two years ahead (hear that sound of a record scratching as you move the needle). We had just moved from our small town back to the lower 48. To the "big city!" I intentionally didn't have a job lined up. I was finally getting a month off from the sleepless nights of school and the cortisol pumping days of work. I had yearned for this break from the rat race since I graduated college (this marriage thing wasn't so bad). My husband had a job that had paid for our move plus a signing bonus. Not exactly his dream job, but it was a big company with room for growth. Most important, the job got us out of the depths of snow we'd been buried under for months each winter. We'd planned out our near future. We would get pregnant in a year, once I'd established myself in the new architectural scene, gotten my dream job and made a name for myself.
I spent my extended vacation lazing on the mattress on the sparse bedroom floor, and then on the oatmeal colored vintage sectional, once it was acquired. I unpacked boxes, played on the computer and watched the new flat panel tv... ...and ate. I ate a lot. Why was I bone tired and bottomlessly hungry? It must be the let down from years of stress and relentless "doing" suddenly turned to nothing.
One night we had special plans. We decided to try out the big city version of one of our favorite pastimes from the small town: the gallery walk. In our small town we would walk the windswept streets in our carharts and rubber boots, rushing into the warmth of glowing shops, sipping wine and hot cider, nibbling cookies and cheese, chatting with rosy cheeked friends. Eagerly we made purchases of tiny, but rich new creations while absorbing the nourishing words of artists that we knew on other days as our hair stylist or co-worker.
Now in the big city we dressed in our urban best. We ran from white echoing gallery to cavernous modern industrial storefront, escaping the downpour, wishing for our rubber boots. I told my husband in a voice loud enough to be heard over the pelting rain and our heavy breaths "I'm not feeling well, let's go home.
The next morning I woke up at 5am, shaking off the nervous sleep of the night before. I dug out the pregnancy test we had left from our previous "what ifs" and I peed on it. I couldn't imagine that 3 years later, this ritual would become my obsession. On this day, new to the big city, I was jittery with anticipation and a drop of fear. In a few seconds tiny grey letters appeared in the tiny grey digital screen: "pregnant" (now hear sound of a wet piece of meat - my heart - dropping to the floor).
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