Oh, 98232.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

These are the things of which we don't speak, y'all. (Or even know).

Reading another blog born in the Carolinas today inspired me to add y'all to my sentences. Something about it feels friendlier. So imma try to do that now, y'all.

Unknown unknowns; there are things we do not know we don't know. Such a lovely concept. Thanks to the US defense leg and D. Rumsfeld for it.

...and then there is the call I keep receiving from "Unknown" who remains unknown because they do not leave a message. I screen, ladies and gentlemen. Leave messages.

Disclaimer: I have both a cold and what I believe is an infected incisor and thus, my cognitive sentence and idea forming skills are waning and mildly medicated away. Dripping out my nose, y'all.

Everything comes back to Edison. A thriving arts and beer elbow in this zip code. Just take Bow Hill Road exit from I-5. (Exit 236). Take it and do not stop heading west until you hit the quaint village macaronied by slough. Take it today, perhaps with me in tow, and then take it directly to where I left my car. Two days ago, y'all. Boxing Day and Sunday and dancing to that familiar Edison twang and reuniting with my lovelies. Shuffleboard and last call and let's go to Matthew's after party! I had a good time. And heck, I'm glad I didn't drive away from it. Even though I've recently learned that the boy I used to hold hands with on the elementary school bus is now a locally patrolling officer and I'd sure like to see him again - still glad.

What's making this difficult to transition to, this topic of unknown unknowns, is deciphering the language with which to talk about something that experience and societal habits ordain the secrets you must keep. News you must not share. Anything that dispenses discomfort. And then you will join me in the knowledge, and perhaps we can coexperience unknown knowns together. And known knowns. And perhaps we'll all dissolve this understanding and overuse of kn- words to the point where they look wrong when we type them.

Several people rubbed my stomach at the bar on Sunday. You see, what's more troublesome than telling people you are pregnant, is telling them that you have miscarried. And that you are not a fetal alcohol syndrome fetus mangler on your fifth beer. I feel bad to tell them this. Just in the same ways I can't tell people no, I have trouble delivering bad news. I hate making people feel BAD. Also, I don't want people to feel bad for me.

So very many of the women I tell respond with their own miscarriage stories. How common this is, y'all! And honestly, how much better these stories make me feel. Being alone in something sucks. I took myself out of public for awhile after learning, (coincidentally, the crappy news came via phone call received while shuffleboarding at the Edison), to privately grieve with my husband. To get past the point where I couldn't talk about it to the place where I can.

I'm not encouraging the complaint. Heavens-to-Murgatroyd we hear enough of those. I'm just sayin' that I don't understand the implied safeguarding of certain particulars. I'm not going to generalize with "having a tough time," or "everything's just fine!" I'm going to tell you we've been busy with this, and it is what it is. Starting now.

My husband and I have reached a point in understanding and have found places to appreciate our cards. It feels good to know that we are capable of making a person from nothing. We know that if something is wrong our bodies deal better than our minds. We know that we will be able to both enjoy a champagne toast this New Year's Eve, y'all.

I'm not sure any of this falls under the unknown unknown direction I set out to take. Or has an insight into 98232 life specifically. But I remember wanting to write about these thoughts as I was driving a few days ago, and well... there it is. Y'all.

1 comment:

  1. Love love love love love.

    Fuck belly rubbers and people who are uncomfortable. I have had two miscarriages, neither of which was something that wasn't totally necessary (as I was young and stupid and obviously not ready for motherhood in general). My body took care of me when I wouldn't have had I known, and I am ultimately grateful.

    I'm sorry people are shitty. I'm sorry that life can be shitty.

    On NYE, we will drink a toast (via the wonders of text messaging) to the shitty things life throws at us, and the important things we learn from them.

    Love, Kat