A few years into the period of my life that introduced me to a painful struggle with infertility and miscarriage, I created a personal website with the upbeat title of “Silver Linings”. It was one of those freebies made available through whatever ISP we were using back then and wasn’t meant to be anything more than a personal parking spot on the Web. It wasn’t related to any writing career, imagined or real, nor was it a way to keep in touch with family and friends. I wasn’t really sure why I made the thing at all; I guess I really just felt the need to try and make sense of my reproductive chaos, and this seemed like an acceptable vehicle.
It felt so satisfying at the time to have conjured up a term – silver linings – to convey my emotions and thoughts about our baby-making experiences from 1994 to 1999. It felt almost… smug. It also gave me hope that there would, in fact, be a silver lining found on the horizon. It gave a label to my dreams…and to the reality of my situation. I wanted that label to mean something real, because labels are hugely important to me. Just last week, I tried to explain to my son how reading a poem’s title could sometimes wrap up the complex imagery of words that might otherwise seem like just a bunch of obtuse drivel. We do the same thing when trying to fit together life’s pieces into a comprehensible picture; we name our pain.
I can’t think of the word “levity” in terms of our losses without also immediately hearing the mocking call of “absurdity” echoing behind. But an assignment is an assignment and, in fact, as soon as this editorial topic was handed out, my head gears started squeaking. Still, I haven’t quite landed the thoughts that took flight (so, I’ve no sense of self-righteous complacency today.) See, I thought I had it figured out – and I really do love a challenge, even if I’m pretty innately lazy. If there’s any combination of words that same to defy coherent connection, it’s “miscarriage” and “levity,” but wow, what a great way to practice thinking outside of the box!
Immediately after reading the email with our theme for this issue, my brain cells were flooded with memories from two years ago, when I rolled around on the raggedy, flea-bitten sofa of a hostel in Honduras. It wasn’t actually a hostel, but the living area for visiting volunteers at the Tegucigalpa clinic where I was ‘missioning’ with friends closely resembled the well-worn ambiance of a cheap third-world weigh station. When we weren’t trying to avoid being flung out of the back of a pickup into a mountainous jungle or speaking Spanish poorly to understanding native patients, we gringos were processing each full day’s activities. One night in particular, I mind-melded with another former social worker in a way only old war buddies can.
While the 10 other volunteers, some close friends, some newer acquaintances, but none of whom were strangers, watched with combined horror and amusement, Joy and I raucously regaled each other with Tales from the Dark Side of Social Work. Joy had spent years helping poor folks find food, shelter, and clothing, while I had done similar time with similar clients who were also dying from AIDS.
“Gallows humor” it’s called, with good reason. Our diaphragms ached as we gasped for breath in between guffaws. Our similar paths enabled us to finish each other’s thoughts aloud whenever uttering the next line in a tale was made impossible by convulsions of laughter. The magic of the evening was made sweeter by the fact that it had been many years since I’d had such an opportunity, to dredge up emotionally painful recollections and rehash them with someone who’d witnessed related tragedies. Joy – true to her name – was expert at combing out the hilarious tidbits within the horrific wholes. It was like picking through a bitterweed salad to find the dandelion greens. Our forks were in tune, while the rest of the house watched empty-handed from the sidelines.
Laughing with Joy about the hungry, the sick, the wounded, and the dying was the most fun I’ve had since my week-long 30th birthday. On the contrary, I don’t recall tears streaming down my face at any point during that week in 1991. Sixteen years later, on a red velveteen couch with busted springs in a third world country, my face was drenched as I released sadness that I’d kept pent up in order to get from one day to the next.
Try as I might, though, I cannot evoke a memory of any similar sharing of the insanely absurd with my “miscarriage buddies.” I even asked my son’s father if he could recall a single moment of “Well At Least There Was That Hardy Har Har!” from those years. All he could come up with was our conception-seeking increase in sexual interactions. And believe me, those weren’t any fun. Laughter about our pregnancy losses has never been on the menu, but the camaraderie of a secret society with a special brand of the insanely absurd in common… it is a bond like no other.
I still haven’t arrived at a label and corresponding “a-ha!” moment for those years and those losses. Turns out that even “silver linings” doesn’t really add up, and labeling something doesn’t always make it so. However, that being said, sensing that occasional connection with others who have the same wounds is often enough, even if our giggle-boxes haven’t turned over.