Afternoon Crisis

Yesterday there was a crisis at work.  Oddly enough, in the test prep biz, this happens quite often.  I field a frantic call about a locked classroom, a lost exam, a lost instructor...  These are almost the norm.  I have a love-hate relationship with such crises because, while they are a pain to manage at times, they also keep me on my toes.  I have to remember to cross my t's and dot my i's (which I don't, actually, in the handwritten word).  For business sake, for J-Man's sake, and for my sake, I try to avoid those troubleshooting cluster-fields.

Yesterday's crisis was different.  I received a call from an instructor, let's call her Aria, and she whispered like a shattered leaf.  Aria told me, voice shaken, that she couldn't teach that night because she'd just left the doctor and received bad news.

I don't like to be the manager who puts my own selfish needs before those of my instructors, so I asked as delicately as I could if she was ok.  The class and its inherent hour of phone calls, sub searches, and rescheduling could wait.

"I just had a miscarriage,"  she told me.  And my heart broke.

Aria is a great, great, great instructor.  Kids love her.  Parents love her.  In a boss-appropriate way I love her because she makes everyone happy.  She reminds me of a good friend of mine with her slightly asymmetrical, spunky haircut, her nose ring, her capacity for the creative that has always eluded me.  The last time I saw Aria I noticed her nontraditional wedding ring and wondered what guy would be her perfect fit.  In summation, she is a gem.  And she was barely holding herself together on the line.

We hung up and I worked on a solution.  Shift the kids to Thursday.  Reschedule the exam.  Have my support call all the families.  Explain it as a 'medical emergency.'  Check, check, check, check.  Problem solved.

Except Aria was still at home, still in pain, still facing this seemingly unwinnable game of motherhood.  As I thought about her I imagined what it must feel like.  I wondered if she, like I, had been praying for this for months, or years.  I wondered if she had a name all chosen.  If she stood in the mirror when bloated and imagined what she'd look like at 4 or 5 or 6 months.  My own empty abdomen ached in response. How do you bear that feeling?  What will I do if that happens to me?

I think about how much more devastating it must be to lose a child that actually existed.  I watched Parenthood recently and Julia was explaining that the worst part is that every month she starts to believe there's a little one growing inside her already.  She creates a bond with this child, and it ceases to be just a possibility, instead manifesting as reality. So the ensuing PMS is not just uncomfortable and annoying, but a day of mourning.  It's as though she was miscarrying month after month after month. I completely empathized. 

I have to admit, I've taken a peek at the grief and loss pregnancy boards on occasion.  When I get tired of estimating my nonexistent due date and reading cheery messages from all the contemporaries with their BFP's (baby board talk for success) and my heart can't read another story of failed IUI's and clomid cramping, I mosey over to the sadder boards.  I tell myself it could be worse.  And while I know that's morbid, and even a little weird, and maybe not the sort of thing you admit, I also know that I told my readers I loved you this week, so you'll forgive me.

I think about the million things that can go wrong on this journey and I remember that in the whole spectrum, I'm doing ok.  I'm healthy.  Impatient, but healthy.  And if my lady parts don't ever work the way I want them to, I know I'll be ok in the end.  I know that all the cliche things people tell you are true.  "Your time will come." "You'll understand why it took so long one day." "You'll look back at your children and know they are perfect, and came at the perfect time." "You're lucky to enjoy your spouse before kids." All that is probably true.  (Exception: "It'll happen when you stop wanting it so much" - pretty sure that's a load of BS, knowing people for whom it's just plain impossible).  But the rest will feel better when I'm a mother to my own (biological or adopted) offspring.

In the meantime, I'll count my blessings, love my husband, and say a prayer for Aria and her husband too.