1. SUPER VOLCANOES
2. Meteors

We live in earthquake country out here. I’ve even been in a big one (Loma Prieta) that knocked me down a flight of stairs. It was scary.

BUT NOT AS SCARY AS A SUPER VOLCANO!

Let me ‘splain.

Anyone who’s been to Yellowstone has probably seen this stuff.

So pretty! Look at Old Faithful burst! Wow!

(Photos copyrighted: The Nation Weblog)

No.

Those geysers and pretty rings are the very surface of a super volcano. Not a regular volcano like Mount St. Helens. Oh, no.

A SUPER VOLCANO!!

What is a super volcano, you are wondering.

It’s a CATASTROPHE.

“Is the world’s largest super-volcano set to erupt for the first time in 600,000 years, wiping out two-thirds of the U.S.?”

SEE? Granted, that’s from The Daily Mail. BUT STILL!

What can we do?

Nothing, really. I mean, granted, the coupon collectors and people with the storerooms full of Diet Mountain Dew and off-brand anti-perspirants and discontinued mascara are PROBABLY AT AN ADVANTAGE. Right? The first thing CVS will be out of is Cover Girl’s Longest Lasting Lashes. I mean, people have priorities!

Image copyrighted by TLC.

What are you afraid of?

The best line in the whole book was this: Elizabeth Gilbert was going through a hard time, and someone noticed she had put on lipstick.

She responded: “Project Self Esteem: Day Fucking One.”

I have to admit that there are hopes that this writing project will help me out of a personal rut. I’m not feeling super duper great about myself. I really don’t think any woman does. I hung out with a mom today who looks like a supermodel. She didn’t seem super confident, either.

So.

What do I talk about when I don’t have an Athena post bursting out of my brain? (Which is why I always write.) TM AprilV

What do you guys think about Lana Del Rey? Poseur? Savant? Daddy’s money buys fame and plastic surgery? I actually kinda like her. “Video Games” is haunting my brain. But I love that noir/LA Confidential/Old Hollywood crap. I used to be obsessed with Hollywood. I used to drive down there on occasion when I went to school nearby. I went to a super fancy party in Pacific Palisades with my super fancy journalist dad. Dean Cain was there. Sherry Lansing was there. This guy hosted. Some moviemaker I’d never heard of told me if got implants, I’d be a star. *Eyeroll*

Why does Joan Didion live there?

Also, why is there a no man’s land in the importance of women between the ages of 40 – 80? When you are 80, you can be saucy and important and be the Dowager Countess and wear lace jackets and Chanel suits and say, “Darling, where IS my cocktail ring?” Like my husband’s grandmother. She was romanced by the scion of a famous Hollywood empire builder HER ENTIRE LIFE. Even after she was married and had kids he never married and remembered her until he died and sent her letters. Maybe he was secretly gay.

But it’s hard to explain how really RAD Darcy’s grandmother was.

She also did this. Third story down. That was my first real writing gig on the Internet. The typos are ALL MINE.

So when I turn 40 and become invisible, I imagine I need to develop some sort of skill.

I have been attempting to cook.

Tonight I poached Salmon in white wine with fennel from our garden and Kosher salt. It was good.

I also made KALE. Yes, Kale is RAD. I love it. It tastes good and it is good for you! How could this be?

Heidi Swanson’s a genius. My husband knows her and brought me her cookbook. I WAS HIGHLY SKEPTICAL! But her healthy recipes don’t taste like sprouts and gross “food” I used to eat with this one friend who went to Humboldt State AND NOT TO ENJOY THE EXPORTS OF THAT AREA, but to make the world a better place. By eating her bean sprout and lentil soup that she MADE in her Thermos and listening to Tracy Chapman. She was embarrassed to be associated with me eventually (college should be FUN?!) and dumped me as a friend. Rightfully so. I am sure.

Anyway, I made this.

Yay, me.

PROJECT SELF-ESTEEM. Day FUCKING one.

I think the real title of this post should be “Bitch, please.” Because I know I suck for all of the below bird shit. BE FOREWARNED TURN BACK!!!

NO? Seriously?

OK, then.

I always forget the name of this monthly blogging thing. But I need it. There’s nothing that makes me feel more in control than a deadline. Nothing makes me feel more powerful or successful or rad than achieving some G Dammit results.

Which I never fucking achieve. Everything is day-to-day Sisyphean. Cleaning poo. Doing laundry. Picking up. Dropping off. Cleaning poo. Saying No. Saying Yes. Getting told everywhere and by everyone that what I do sucks. Not sleeping. Getting every virus in the county. Did I say cleaning poo? Making five different meals (ten, really) for the pickiest, most demanding four year olds in the universe. Yes, I know karma is a bitch, since I was/am the world’s pickiest eater. Yes, I know I’m lucky. I really, really do. I am so grateful for my children, they are so wonderful. They are everything.

But I eat not just kale and drink too much coffee/Jamba Juice to stay awake. To stay alive. I’m becoming that frumpy person. And I don’t have a lot of qualities other than my once-attractive facade.

Before

After

Truth is, I’m lazy uh, not motivated on my own. What do they call that again? Not self-paced? I always did my best work when some other boss or person was expecting me to jump over some yardstick. I have been productive as hell for over fifteen years.

How high? Was my mantra. I always exceeded that yardstick. I DID SERIOUSLY!

I realize that I NEED some accountability. I need some structure. I need the NAPLOMOFUGOMGWTF whatever it’s called. And I happen to know that the lady in charge is RAD.

So. Here I am.

A Post A DAY. Yes, I picked the shortest month of the year. Yes, that was DELIBERATE.

Feel free to skip my posts for a month. I will try to keep the self-indulging whining to a minimum.

In the immortal words of Western Career College,

“You can do it! WOW!”

Does anyone else, other than Esperanza’s partner, love The Beach Boys AND Radiohead? No? Of course not?

Well, here’s this song.

I’ve only listened to it 17 times today. Yes, I love snobby depressive-rock. Judge away. Lord knows, I do.

Two gifted writers took on the tough subject of womanhood this week. Go read these tremendous posts now. I’ll wait here and let my latest episode of “Downton Abbey” load.

Mel asked an arresting series of questions:

“We want to accomplish so much, we want to break that glass ceiling, we want to be seen as more than wives/mothers/daughters/sisters. And at the same time, we are limited by men…and we limit ourselves. We worry how others perceive us. Are we cold if we want to stay at work and not pick up a vomiting child? Do we seem uncaring if we don’t show up to school events? Offer to host Thanksgiving? Take care of an ailing parent? Do we seem like we don’t have our priorities in the right place if we take a job that requires a lot of hours away? Do we look like a failure if we can’t juggle work and parenting neatly?”

She astutely points out that no one sits around judging men for their various choices. This is true: if there is a dad at a school event, other moms often say: “Good for him for coming!” Why is that? I’ve never heard anyone say that about a working mom who shows up.

We have much lower expectations of men. We scrutinize men less.

Esperanza also has notes:

“How are we supposed to succeed when these roles are at war with each other? How can we ever be dedicated mothers and wives when our careers pull us away from our husbands and children? How can we take advantage of our education when we do so at the expense of our family? If we want, or are forced, to do all three we are setting ourselves up for failure.

And here is where the guilt comes in, and the judgement – the condemnation of ourselves that turns outwards in the disapproval of others. If we can never satisfy our own standards, we better find everyone else lacking as well.”

There is some serious wisdom here. About why we judge. About why we feel guilty. I think she’s right.

I personally feel like a loser all the time. I compare, compare, compare. Look at so-and-so who has five kids and works full-time as a lawyer. Look at her, the one who grows all her own organic food. Just being at a birthday party is often excruciating and painful. Look at X, who’s so skinny and works out. WHY DON’T YOU DO THAT?

WHY DON’T YOU DO THAT? might as well be the question that defines my life right now.

But it shouldn’t.

There was a job I once had. I thought I was a failure at this job. I looked back recently at the results of my tenure, and actually the company was terribly successful during my management. I had NO IDEA.

Have there ever been so many high-achieving women? Have there ever been women who put so much thought into being ready to be mothers? Have there ever been so many mothers who care so much and try so hard? Has there ever been a generation in history so consumed with raising their children to be happy and healthy adults? I think not.

So here’s the truth.

I had a very productive career. I worked many hours and climbed the ladder and achieved excellent results most of the time.

Now I’m a SAHM. My children are smart, happy and tremendously confident.

I work hard at my marriage.

I know you all give 120% to everything you do, too. I know you are superlative at your job, juggling life, managing your relationships.

We should feel RAD about ourselves. All of us. We rule. We really, really do.

What are YOU most proud of?

But I was once a beauty. In my own way. I never, ever looked good in a bikini. A serious handicap when you attend college here:

I was often told I had “icy” good looks. Think more this:

And less this:

I had a friend who looked like the above and we would go out together, and we attracted a totally different type of man. Which was excellent because no one wants to fight with their best friend over a stupid guy.

But there was never a shortage of male attention. In my teens, my twenties, I was disconcerted by the attention. I was scared and annoyed by it.

Now? I would kill to have it. Sometimes.

I think of what I would need to get a portion of it.

Plastic surgery.

Botox. Juvederm.

Starvation.

Trust me, I have considered them ALL. I live in a place where most moms look like this:

Remember in “Clueless”? Cher’s mom dies as a result of a “routine liposuction”? Yeah, that won’t be me.

I want my daughter to NOT rely on her good lucks. I want my daughter to respect the aging process.

My daughter tells me to wear dresses and “be pretty”. I don’t know where she gets this shit.

Meanwhile, I remember the time I was hot enough to get this:

And drove one of Hollywood’s best looking men around in my car, all the while rolling my eyes because I thought he was a huge dork.

Meanwhile, I take a photo with my iPhone and see my double-chinned visage on accident. And cringe.

Is that really me?

How do I come to terms what I once was with what I am and what I will be?

And why does it matter SO MUCH?

Stirrup Queens had a good idea for protesting the SOPA bill: “I want to highlight the good that comes from the online world instead of withdrawing our sites in order to teach a lesson.” So she put together a round-up of bloggers offering advice on one topic they excel at.

At first, I was stumped. I honestly don’t think I do ANYTHING well. But then I realized there was a compliment routinely bestowed upon me by friends and family.

I am consistently told I keep a neat house. Which is pretty true.

Disclaimers:

1. We have a cleaner who comes twice a month. But this is new. And probably won’t last, due to financial constraints.

2. I am the kind of person who cares a lot what people think.

2. I SUCK at decorating and my carpets have stains.

OK, so what I AM good at is keeping messes out of sight. And this was even true when I lived in a small space.

Here’s how I keep clutter at a minimum:

1. I go through all of my stuff regularly: clothes, books, toys, cosmetics, movies. I am ruthless about getting rid of things that I haven’t used after 6 months.
2. I love having yard sales, selling furniture on Craig’s List and clothes through consignment stores. Not much makes me happier than making money from things I don’t use anymore. Also totally gratifying? Gathering up stuff that doesn’t sell and driving it over to Goodwill. Drop-off is easy and donations are tax-deductible.
3. I don’t purchase a lot of material goods in the first place. Not for any particularly noble reason, but mostly because if I buy something it has to be perfect. That’s why I love my Chanel purse, and don’t have any other handbags. I was taught to buy quality not quantity by a former co-worker. It’s a lesson I’ve taken to heart. Things I buy are generally built to last.
4. Things I will NEVER get rid of: a few important items imbued with sentimental value. The Amish quilt my in-laws gave us when we got engaged. The wedding china my parents purchased for us in our first year of marriage. The family photos and inherited paintings from my husband’s grandmother. My grandmother’s jeweled broach. These items may not have much financial value, but when I see them and touch them, they actually bring me joy.

In terms of keeping the house clean, every day I tidy each room and clean certain areas regularly: once a week I mop the floors in the kitchen and bathrooms. The kids are expected to put away their toys after playing. I learned long ago that it’s much easier to work a little each day than do a massive clean-up every few weeks. But this was a skill I picked up that’s basically Cognitive Behavioral Therapy: I cleaned every day for a month, then it became a permanent habit.

I also invite friends over a lot: both personal friends and play-dates. That keeps me honest.

Darcy would want me to tell you that sometimes I don’t do the dishes. Which is true. And I’m bad at keeping on top of laundry

“We’re pregnant! And not just with one, but two babies!” we exclaimed. This was one of the few times I left the house during that pregnancy. I wanted to see those fertile faces go into shock, then see them pass around cigars, burst into song (“This Woman’s Work” would have done nicely) and a round of hugs and backslapping would have been swell.

Instead, we caused jaws to drop. Literally. And when I looked over at my friends, the twins parents, they were silent for a good few minutes. The mom turned several shades paler than her normal olive skin tone. And she said: “There will be times, like when they get sick, when you will want to cry to the gods, WHY?”

It was rather like in Sleeping Beauty (or Sleeping Bob, in our gender non-specific book where a princess wakes up Bob) when Mallificent makes her ominous proclamation.

And indeed, when the twins are both sick and when I am also sick, like this week, it is a grueling experience. But there’s a secret benefit too: lying in our big bed, the three of us, watching “Pinnochio”, getting up at various times to puke or, you know, WHATEVER, eating crackers and applesauce, apple juice and all sorts of non-routine food. It felt like we were kind of a team. True I was doing most of the heavy lifting and all of my no TV, read books, play outside, make up stories work went out the window. But the three of us snuggling, smelling of barf and leaking mucous, together. It was gross, but somehow I got the sense that I would remember this feeling fondly.

Later.

And for that, instead, I thank the gods.

One of my favorite bloggers in the whole world is Lori Lavender Luz from Write Heart, Open Mind. Last year I participated in her book club for Melissa Ford’s “Life From Scratch” and had a tremendous amount of fun. Mel, I am still anxiously awaiting the sequel

So when Lori announced this year’s book tour, for Jennifer Lauck’s “Found”, I was eager to sign up. The topic, about a writer’s search for her birth mom, piqued my interest. While I have learned about adoption from bloggers like Lori, I don’t know that much about it from the point of view of someone who has been adopted. Adoption was a road not taken for me during my journey through infertility, but it was seriously considered.

Jennifer Lauck first came to public attention after Oprah singled out her memoir “Blackbird” and it became a New York Times bestseller. “Blackbird” detailed her extremely grim, almost Dickensian upbringing: think Oliver Twist minus the happy ending, plus a hippie cult. Adopted by a mother with a terminal illness, Lauck tended to her as a nurse until she passed away. Soon after her adopted father died too, but not before marrying a “wicked stepmother” who lent Lauck out to work for a sinister religious group. Lauck is then passed from family member to family member, sexually assaulted and used by the relatives who eventually took her in and formally adopted her. She worked essentially as a servant for them and they collected her adopted parents’ benefits, supposedly for her college education. Although when she’s ready for college, she’s told the money is gone.

To say that Jennifer Lauck did not have a positive experience with adoption is the understatement of the year. The people and institutions that were supposed to help her failed her time and time again.

“Found” details Lauck’s search for her birth mother, the hoops she had to jump through to find her, their reunification and the bittersweet afterward. Lauck is very honest about her feelings of abandonment, the physical sensations she feels being around her birth mother and why it is and was so important to her self-identity to know the biological DNA and definition behind her own temperament and personality.

I was especially moved by Lauck’s writing when she described how her son was physically removed from her after his birth. It made me identify with her in a flash:

“I was a mother now. I wanted my child. The baby fussed and the nurse patted his back as if he was hers. I sent my husband my best ‘If you don’t get that baby, I’ll kill you’ look. My eyebrows pulled together, my jaw went tight, and my eyes went narrow. As he reached out, yet again attempting to fulfill my primal wishes, the nurse shooed him away. She said something about hospital rules and my being overly emotional.”

Something I haven’t talked about here is that my physician recently diagnosed me with PTSD. She thinks it’s because of my miscarriages, but also the separation of my son from me upon his birth. He was put in the NICU when he was born, like Lauck’s son. I will never forget what bad shape I was in after my C-section: I almost suffocated due to an allergic reaction to a medication and I was in tremendous pain because they had to take me off painkillers altogether because of that reaction. (I imagine it’s how soldiers felt after being operated after the Civil War.) I was still so incredibly determined to see my son when I heard he could not be with me. Thankfully my daughter was OK, and had been brought in to be with me, but the morning after my C-section I walked to the NICU, slowly and in great discomfort. Each step I took was agony and the walk took 20 minutes (it felt longer) but the physical NEED to see my son was overwhelming. It overcame pain that was a level 8, exhaustion and fear for myself. Nothing mattered but that I see my son.

I have nightmares every night that I am unable to get to my children. That I am motionless, that some natural disaster or nuclear war is coming and I am powerless to stop it from coming for my twins. I wake up screaming many nights. So I am very thankful to Lauck for identifying so clearly that EXACT moment that caused the PTSD. And for telling me that I’m not alone in feeling that way. I thank her very much for that.

So, onto the questions!

1. Jennifer writes a lot about the first mom’s biological bond with her child. She writes of this bond as primal, almost as if adoptive moms will never be able to completely bond with their children, and I wonder what advice she would give to adoptive parents, particularly, women who want to be honest with their children about their birth stories and those who may even have functional open adoptions where every member of the triad respects the other.

Based on my own experience, I do think the biological bond is primal. But I can’t speak for all birth mothers: I was ready to have children, desperate to have them, even. I do think, after reading “Found”, that being aware of a primal bond is a really good idea.

What part of Ms. Lauck’s adoption journey challenged your idea of adoption the most?

I think what surprised me most was how small interactions with her birth mother Catherine could have so much more meaning than just face value. For example, Catherine opts not to pick Lauck up at the airport gate and instead tells her to meet her at the curb. Lauck’s reaction is this:

“Yes, Catherine is pissed.
No, she really didn’t want me to come.
Yes, my heart is broken.
No, I’m not surprised.
I cry as I stand at the curb, waiting.”

The smallest gesture causes a chain reaction, leaving her feeling utterly rejected. I think this is a most telling interaction, and a good one. From reading some open adoption blogs, it does seem that when a birth parent is late or doesn’t show up for an appointment, there is a big emotional reaction from the child. I appreciated Lauck’s honesty here.

In reading this book, I, an adoptive mother, was struck by how less than ideal Jennifer’s childhood was. My instinct is to blame the death of her adoptive parents and the subsequent bouncing around, abuses, etc that she suffered, for her trauma and feelings of abandonment as opposed to looking to the fact that she was adopted. Obviously I have a vested interest in this perception and I am acutely aware of this and that I need to force my mind to stay open to see the entire picture. I wonder what others think…am I alone in trying to downplay the adoption issue? Is her experience magnified because of her repeated experiences of trauma/abandonment or are her feelings fairly typical of adult adoptees?

I grappled with this question too. What if Lauck had been adopted by others? What if her situation were different? I haven’t read any other accounts of adult adoptees, so it’s hard for me to say. I do know her childhood was appallingly terrible, unique even in its utter lack of stability, love, trust and hope. The parents I know from the ALI community who have adopted children are so incredibly committed to loving them, providing the best possible environment for them, reading constantly about how best to parent them, and caring intensely for them. It’s therefore really hard for me to believe that excellent parenting doesn’t matter at all. I believe it matters a great deal.

And to continue to the next leg of this book tour, please visit the main list here.

If you’ve never commented before (Mom!) or comment frequently, I’d love to get to know a little bit about you:

1. What’s the best TV show, ever?
2. Are you dealing with Adoption, Loss or Infertility?
3. What was the lamest pickup line you’ve ever heard?

Thanks for reading!

All photos copyrighted by Bodega Bliss

On January 24, 2010, Courtney Cheng started a blog to document her pregnancy to friends and family members who lived across the country. The first post on the nascent blog, which she titled Bodega Bliss after the idyllic Northern California hamlet where she had met, married her husband and settled down in, was called “Just What the Internet Needs” and announced her new hobby: she would be a mommy blogger. The post was self-deprecating and full of the usual sentiments a mother-to-be would feel: hope, fear, excitement and joy.

“I’m feeling all kinds of emotions. A little scared for how much our life is going to change, excited to go on this journey only given to women, I’m even looking forward to watching my body change (I say this now still looking exactly the same way I did a month ago). And I’m hoping you’ll be there with me during the whole thing.”

Cheng, then 29, posted a photo of herself and her “bump” at 6 weeks, a positive pregnancy test and a list of her symptoms. (Tears after hearing Tegan and Sarah’s “Where Does the Good Go?” and feeling tired.) There were a few tussles with her insurance coverage: she was denied basic health services because of an abnormal pap smear she had received 6 years ago. Then her husband, Tim Cheng, posted his own whimsical take on the thrill both parents-to-be were experiencing on February 7, 2010:

“My gal is pregnant and loves random names like Sophielillla Jackson and such. No not really, my favorite name so far is Finn. We are stoked. We have a walk-in closet that Court thinks might do as a room for the kid. That’s great, we will stick the child in there with the jackets, it will be warm. I like how she’s always giving updates on what is developing inside. She’s doing yoga which is great, I’m proud of Mommy. We’ll keep you updated on when Sooophillilla or Napoleon is born. Or plain Jim.”

This innocent and carefree post was followed by an excruciating untitled one seven days later, on Valentine’s Day of all things. This haunting entry, untitled as if the subject matter was too awful to deserve to be named, describes in terrible and honest detail the physical and mental anguish Courtney felt as she miscarried her first child:

“When I had woke up that morning I had my hands on my belly and had mentioned to Tim that I could feel my pulse in my uterus. I thought it was just the blood going to my baby helping it grow, but I realize now that’s not why the blood was rushing there. Tim was here with me when I passed the tissue our baby. I can’t tell you what that felt like. In between my shaking and sobs, I wanted it all to be a nightmare. This wasn’t how I was supposed to be having our baby, this wasn’t supposed to be happening.”

The next few months of her blog, Courtney alternated between apologizing to her readers that she was so sad and promising them she would feel better and describing how the loss effected her in stark outlines:

Even when I’m covering up the sad like today, I still just want to be pregnant. I want to be having that baby that I’m not having any more and is buried beneath a tree. It’s just not fair.

Courtney had not expected her optimistically named blog to turn into something else altogether: a diary of what it was like to go through a miscarriage. There was a little good news sprinkled in those first six months of writing: Courtney had finally gotten full-fledged health benefits through her employer, a non-profit agency. She had been forced to go to a clinic populated mostly with meth addicts because of her lack of benefits before, so she was hopeful about seeing a real OB-GYN in a real practice.

On July 21, Courtney told her readers a shocking secret: she had been pregnant but hadn’t told anyone because she was afraid. Unfortunately, her fears were proved correct:

Without going into specifics, the baby most likely died somewhere around 6 1/2 weeks. I did see a heartbeat at one point, but it didn’t calm my fears of what ultimately turned out to be true. They did a D & C as soon as we found out; I was 9 weeks, 4 days.

If the first miscarriage had burst the bubble of Bodega Bliss Courtney the newlywed had felt, the second one was scary and disturbing on another level: something might be wrong with her body. She pressed her OB-GYN for testing and answers. The costs of the testing were not cheap and as a middle-class couple, those tests were an expense they were at a disadvantage to pay:

“One of the 12 vials of blood they’re testing has the description of “MTHFR” on the estimated price list for the tests. HA! And in case you were wondering what that MTHFR costs, it’s $390.00. Out of $2,721.75 for all of them. MTHFR!”

In addition, the D & C Courtney never wanted to have cost $15,628.16, and she was responsible for paying 25% of that fee.

The financial expense and personal tragedy were weighing heavily on Courtney at this point. She was constantly seeing pregnant women at the local grocery store. One small ray of hope: her OBGYN had found that the MTHFR test had come back positive, and while she was not a fertility expert and Courtney and her husband were without the funds to see a fertility expert, she said she would check with one and find out what this positive result meant.

A major problem for Courtney is that so little is really known about the condition she was most likely suffering from: Recurrent Pregnancy Loss (RPL). According to Reproductive Biology Associates, the definition of RPL “is two to three consecutive spontaneous abortions (miscarriages) before 20 weeks gestation. Sporadic Abortion: A single pregnancy loss is a common event occurring in 10-20% of all human pregnancies. Approximately 1-5% pregnant women have a diagnosis of RPL (40,000 – 200,000 U.S. couples/year).”

Another problem with RPL is what might happen next: “49% of women with two consecutive losses and no live-born children will have a loss in their next pregnancy, whereas 29% of women with two losses and at least one live-born child will have a loss in their next pregnancy.”

All was not hopeless, though: “Approximately 70% of couples experiencing RPL will have a liveborn child without medical therapy. Most of these patients will be under 35 years old.”

Courtney was only 30 years old. If she rolled the dice, she had a pretty good chance luck would be on her side. But the two losses in less than a year were weighing heavily on her.

“But some days are still really bad, the kind where all I want to do is curl up into a ball and let the tears fall. I want to cry for the unfairness of it all, for the social awkwardness and for being forced to give up my babies. I guess it could be the weather; this rain makes it easy to want to stay in bed and not face the world, to hide from anything or anyone out there that would remind me of what I lost. Maybe it’s why I don’t seem to want to go out any more. I’ve been perfectly content staying in every weekend for months now.”

Her blog was now what she would have never imagined it would be: a blog about recurrent miscarriage. But she was finding solace from the writing of others, like Kate Inglis from Sweet/Salty. And she met women in her area through blog exchanges. Her blog picked up a steady following of readers who were drawn to her excellent, spare writing and her story: her ordinary yet extraordinary experience with loss. Those readers were either going through ALI pain of their own or recovering from ALI trauma in the past. And she put into words what many of them couldn’t say or wouldn’t say.

She began Eastern medicine treatment, which was also expensive, but less expensive than the thousands of dollars she would have to pay for fertility treatments and consultations. She took folic acid, multivitamins, ate healthfully, exercised, didn’t drink.

Finally in May she found out she was pregnant for a fourth time. (She had also had a “chemical pregnancy” earlier.) She shared the news selectively and did not post about it. In fact, her readers didn’t find out about it until June 29th in a post chillingly called “Four”.

Four. I’ve lost four babies. That number is daunting. That number changes everything. At three, there was still a chance, my percentages were still pretty great. But four? At four they’re not so good. At four I have to start thinking that this might not happen for us. At four I have to start imagining alternatives – alternatives I never wanted to face.

To read Courtney’s blog from start to now is to understand, in words cherry-picked from a uniquely understanding heart, how the human spirit can endure so much in the quest for its heart’s desire. And how, sometimes, the heart just can’t take any more misery and tragedy. Sometimes, the orchestra music doesn’t swell, the happy ending we’ve grown to expect and want and desire, from Hollywood, from friends on Facebook, from classic literature thousands of years old don’t arrive. Our own endings get delayed somehow, or sometimes they arrive in a different form. Sometimes they don’t arrive at all. This period of suffering we in the ALI community go through changes us, probably forever. Loss is a tribal tattoo written secretly across the souls of those who undergo it. Most of us are quiet, but we will see in another’s eyes a signal of that tattoo we each carry.

The difference is, Courtney lays that tattoo bare for everyone to see, whether they are in the tribe or not.

Courtney’s story is in the middle: she’s in fact still paying the medical bills from her last D & C in June and more tests a reproductive endocrinologist did in August. The large community of bloggers who have rallied around her want more than anything for her Hollywood ending to arrive. But Courtney, with her unique voice and wisdom, says this:

If I really think about it, though, I do know one hope for 2012: find some freaking happiness. And not in the form of a baby. In the form of I’m-going-to-sleep-now-because-I-can’t-wait-to-wake-up-to-my-life kind of way….not the I-don’t-want-to-go-to-sleep-because-that-means-I-have-to-wake-up-again way of the past. Because that way is getting old. That way is so 2011.

And if Courtney’s words don’t reflect the triumph of the human soul, I don’t know what does.