The Perfect Dress

I am standing still. And because I am standing still, I am beginning to obsess about ridiculous things. At the moment, I am frantically trying to find the ‘perfect’ dress for a charity gala we’re attending this upcoming Friday night. I’ve messengered my friend who invited us multiple times. I’ve texted my husband to interpret her words. I sent the same text to another friend to tell me what she thinks is appropriate. Do I wear a black dress? Does it need to be a gown? How did I overlook this detail? Is ‘Black and White Prom Attire’ a theme for the decor or do I need to wear black and white? I even sent an email to the address listed on the public flyer that clearly says, ‘Black and White Prom Attire’ and shortly after received a response from… (Doh!) the same friend who extended the invitation to us in the first place. I quite literally shouted, ‘Shit!’ while sitting in front of my computer in a crowded Starbucks. Shit. After I sent her the obligatory, ‘Sorry, I’m such a nut and thanks for the EXACT same advice you gave me about this arbitrary dress code’ response, I felt my temperature rise and I wanted to jump out of my body. I wanted to be away from my brain.

I bought a beautiful dress to wear to this gala. It is beautiful and fits amazingly. So, I am disappointed that I won’t be able to wear it because it’s not black and white. And I’m trying to make it work. I’m trying to make it work because I feel a total spinning happening around me while I remain stagnant. If I can have the perfect dress for the occasion, I will feel more whole. I will feel more in control. I will catch up to those around me. I am obsessed with finding something to exert any power over. I want power over my attire. I don’t want to show up and look out of place. I already feel so out of place because of infertility. This dress is supposed to be my costume, my mask that hides me from the harsh parts of my reality. The parts that break me apart and leave me standing still, feeling alone and vulnerable. Without my perfect mask, I am terrified that I will fall to pieces in front of our friends and strangers. They’ll see that I am not ok. That I have no business trying to be happy when I am so continuously devastated. They’ll see my envy when they talk about their children and how each one has grown so much and ‘isn’t it amazing how different siblings are from one another?’ The conversation will take us into the spinning and I will stay in my same spot. With my same pain. And I will feel guilty for hearing them through the veil of my own grief and then I will feel angry because guilt is not as easy to feel as anger. This will all be happening under the surface of my silly dress while I calmly walk myself through breathing techniques I’ve learned to keep me from: a) crying hysterically, b) losing my breath and beginning to panic, or c) running away. I often wonder if people can tell that I am counting my inhales and exhales during those conversations.

At this point, it is clear to me that the waiting has taken a toll. I am frustrated and losing hope. I am increasingly anxious. I can do nothing to make IVF begin again. All I can do is wait on my body. It is infuriating to not be doing anything to move forward with conceiving our baby. I try to stay present with my daughter, my husband, our friends and family. Despite my best attempts, I drift in and out of my reality and I cannot stop thinking about time and its passing. I noticed during a conversation with my dad this week that my head drifted to the future and how I would cope with his death one day. I pictured myself crying and sitting with that hole inside of me and then I realized that this future grief I was dipping my heart into was quite similar to the never-ending ache I feel for our second child. My mind carries me into all kinds of future grief scenarios with people whom I love. It’s as if it’s attracted to the pain…like I’m wondering how much pain I can manage. In those moments I am certain there are pains far greater than those I’ve experienced and out of morbid curiosity, I long to understand them better. Maybe I can prepare for them, my head says. I know better.

I will return my beautiful, perfect-for-me dress and I will wear a black dress on Friday evening. And I will try to remember that I am not alone in my pain. That we all have pain stories and I am not alone. I will continue to wait. To breathe.

*Today, I am grateful for my little Starbucks that is just down the street from our home. I sit here and I wrestle with my thoughts and feelings and sometimes they come together and form mostly coherent sentences that becomes my writing. I create in this space. I like that this place is here and that it is constant and predictable. Those things soothe me right now.