Not For the Faint of Heart

Just like any good runner (or at least one that can run more than the one-twentieth of a mile that I can), I have hit "The Wall".

Yesterday I declared through part scream, part tears, "I can't do this anymore. Forget it. I'm done." I'm not sure what my beloved husband thought... the dear man is having to put up with so much right now, and fortunately he knows me enough to be able to harbor my storms quite gracefully after 15 years.

What you all can't see from the outside of this process is that for those of us on the inside, creating this thing is a full time job. I have determined that this beast grows exponentially. So if on Monday my to do list has two items on it, when I pick up the phone to complete item #1, it immediately turns into a 10 tiered project. Then each of those turns into the same. A whole day can explode in mere moments, and there in the background is Ariah and the dog both either pulling on my leg, pulling on each other or pulling everything down from the shelves and spreading it around the house as thoroughly and evenly as possible. At the end of a day the explosion is evident,the house looks like a land mine went off, it feels like a land mine went off, and the to-do list has turned into 20 items long for the next day (which will turn into another beastly number the following day when it all begins again). You can only imagine the shape I am in by then.

So, I threw in the towel. I'm done. I faced up to the fact that I am not superhuman, and can't possibly tow this line any longer. Ya... today I'm back at it. Up this morning by 2:45 getting going on what yesterday seemed impossible.

When Trace died, I had the feeling that every other bereaved mother or father has likely experienced... the desire to scour the earth for your child, to quite literally move land and mountains, traverse vast distances of ocean, turn over every stone, in search of your child. What hurts so darn much is sitting still, unable to do anything with the loss while your body is screaming to pour all its energy into finding your baby.

I remember during those months having discussions with Scott about our physical infertility and the choices we faced. It seemed hard, really hard to pursue another child. Not emotionally- we knew that could we conceive in a moment of lovemaking that we would do so without reservation. But physically and financially... how would we ever do it? It seemed we would have to move mountains.

We talked about just that, how if your child were lost you would indeed dedicate your life to finding him. I wanted to know if there was a difference between a child living in body and a child living in Spirit. If this child that is to come to us is our child already, even when not in human form, then would we not run to the corners of the Earth to find him?

A friend of mine, upon telling her I had decided to quit, responded with such grace. She said, "I can understand the feeling of needing to stop. It is really important sometimes to know you can say no. To try on the 'no' for a while, and then to spring up from that place into the yes, knowing you chose the path."

My mom said to me that even if I was sitting on a rock through this whole thing, it would feel overwhelming. Going through a gestation of any kind after an infant loss is tremendously emotional and stressful. I can't even manage to get out the diapers to see what I need. I did that last time, and it was futile. This time I'll believe it when I see it. Until then, I am willing to search the earth over.

So, the paperwork is filed with the INS. Now we wait. Our dossier will soon be hand delivered to the Rwandan Consulate in Washington, DC. Today's job (among twenty more, including 'vacuum dog hair out of car') is to get Leahy's attention. I want them to make concessions to keep me in Rwanda, issuing the child's visa at the US Embassy there. If you asked me if I actually wanted to visit Nairobi right now, the answer would be, "No Not so much."

Wish me luck.