When I started on this blog journey, and more specifically, when I started the post-Shep years, I mentioned something about how this blog was for me. And while I love readers and followers and comments like Victoria's Secret models love a lemon wedge for dinner, in the end...it's all about me. (And now as I type that, my mother's voice is echoing in my 13-year old brain: Allyson, everything is not always about you!" Clearly, she was confused). I have such a spotty record with journaling (it has to be the perfect journal and the perfect pen and the perfect time of day with the perfect spot on the couch...that sort of thing) that very rarely do I actually capture the moments that would provide insight into my life later down the road. Instead, I end up writing about how Oprah had Chris Rock on and he made a really funny Joe Biden joke. Or how, for the first time in my entire adult life, I did all of the laundry without forgetting any of it in the washing machine for 3 days. These are not life-altering events. They really don't even give a clear picture into how my life is right now so that in 20 years I can crack open that journal and recall the smell of mildewy laundry and laughing at our VP's guffaws. What I would really like is to have a scene straight out of Bridges of Madison County where I die and our children are packing up the house when they discover my journals and read about the life I had that they never knew about. Although, that life would never include sleeping with a photographer from a famous nature magazine. I promise, Neal. Swearsies. Actually, I'm a pretty open book so I have no idea what it would include, but surely there would be a juicy tidbit, revealed only after my death. Surely.
All of that to say that my blog is my journal now and I've done better at keeping up with it than I ever have with paper and a pen. And so, this is one of those days where I put it all out there for me. Want to comment? Go right ahead. I love them and I get all new-pink-purse-giddy when I read them...but please don't feel obligated. I just need to have this documented so that I can look back in a year or 5 and say "that's right. That's how I felt then. I remember it now."
I can't believe it, but I seem to have turned a corner in dealing with Shep's death. It's only been 4 months, but I can actually conceive of the idea of getting pregnant again (oh I made a pun! Almost as good as irony). Two things happened this week that have convinced me that I am moving forward, even though I still have days where it feels like I took 3 steps forward just to take one giant leap backward. (Red light, green light...red light....green light. Although, a more accurate description would be: Red rover, red rover, bring Allyson's sanity over).
1) I went to our new, super-snappy, 24-hour gym in the middle of the day for a nice long workout. Days of Our Lives was on and, honestly, nothing makes the run go by faster than to see if Bo is going to choose Carly over Hope. Plus, it keeps me abreast of all the latest hair and clothing trends since Kentucky remains hopelessly behind. Anyway, as I was walking in, I ran into a former colleague of mine who asked how I was doing, where I was working now, y'know...former colleague chit-chat. I said that I was making and selling jewelry online now, that being pregnant and doing massage was not going so well. She nodded eagerly...like too eagerly...like she completely understood. Then she raised her sweatshirt and VOILA! She's pregnant. "I'm due in March! Can you believe it?" Um...no...actually I can't. "When are YOU due?" Yeah, I'm not. Anymore. Now you ask: why do you have to bring up the whole pregnancy thing all the time? It makes people who ask about it feel like dog poop when they get the answer. Especially pregnant women due almost exactly one month after you were. And to you I say this: If I deny Shepherd's existence in this world then, in effect, I am denying him. I am denying a human life. My human life. And I absolutely, flat-out refuse to do that. Last summer, I knew 5 pregnant women and now, there's only 1. Miscarriage (and I HATE that word. I didn't "miscarry" anything. I didn't "lose" anything. Something was taken from me. Somebody. If I could find an appropriate synonym, I would coin it immediately) is common and we can't just sweep it under a heavy wool rug and hope it never crawls back out. I'm not saying it to make you feel sad or bad or any of the other 1584 emotions. I'm saying it because it happened, like "I drank too much espresso yesterday" happened and "I hit the garage with the car" happened.
But something else happened. After we parted ways, I did not get back in my car, drive to the first bar and drink my emotions from a shot glass. I did not go into the bathroom and throw up from jealousy and fear and anger. I went into the gym, got on the treadmill, and ran 5 miles, knowing that I will not be able to do that when I get pregnant again. And when Lightening Crashes streamed through my Blackberry, I did not switch it over to rap, nor did I sit down on the treadmill and cry until my head throbbed and my heart splintered. I kept running.
And when I got home that night, I did not pour a double with my favorite redneck bourbon. I made dinner and sprinkled it with bleu cheese...something else I forbid myself to have when growing a fragile being.
2) Neal and I don't have Showtime, and yet we are consumed with the wit, irony, and hellagood writing on Dexter. So, we watched the first 2 seasons on Netflix streaming. Now we are so caught up that we're relegated to waiting for the mail to arrive every 3rd day so we can watch season 3 on DVD. (Read: we have the 1-DVD-at-a-time plan. That fact alone makes me wonder just how long the USPS can survive). If you're a Dexter fan you know that season 3 is where Rita, wife of creepy-but-somehow-still-hot Dexter, gets pregnant. If you're not a fan but wanted to become one, well...whoopsies. Is it too late to post a spoiler alert? Anyway, sometime around her first trimester, she starts bleeding and her new friend (the wife of Jimmy Smits' character - who I cannot watch without thinking about all of his nekkidness on NYPD Blue) rushes her to the hospital. She's fine and they all go about their business; Rita being hormonal and whiny, Dexter stalking and killing people in his own clever way. The point? I did not turn off the TV, yank the DVD from the player (which is much less dramatic with DVDs than VHS tapes. Isn't that annoying? I can yank a VHS tape from a player with every bit of the scorned-woman-fury I can muster, but it is just not the same with a DVD), and haul it off to the mailbox. Nor did I get up to pour myself a double so that I could finish the second episode. I watched. I enjoyed. And I took a deep, cleansing breath. I'm not sure I can say the same for Neal, though. He's so protective. *Kiss*
These are not, for most people, reverse-the-spin-of-the-Earth revelations. For me, they are huge. HUGE. I know I still have a long road ahead. I refuse to get pregnant again until I have appropriately grieved for my first child. But this just shows me that I am moving forward and through the grief process. It's slow and it's painful and some days I do hide in the house and eat Nutella from the jar. But those days are getting fewer and fewer and for that, I am exponentially grateful.
Thanks for letting me put this out there. I know I have a lot of new followers and I don't want you to think this blog is all death and dying and taxes, but sometimes you just gotta let it all out. Tomorrow will be better. I almost punched the Gym Manager in the throat on Wednesday. Doesn't that just scream Situation Comedy Hilarity? Yeah, thought so.