Moving.

Now this is something I have entirely too much experience with. In my adult life I moved exactly 3 times during college, then from Hawaii to NorCal, then from Norcal to SoCal, then from apartment A to B to C to Garage (long story) to apartment D to condo with husband. All in about 8 years. But this move, the move from communal apartment/condo living to actual house/suburbia living, has felt far different than the others.

First and foremost, Grandpa’s funeral was the day we closed on the house. One door closes another door opens or something, right? We drove back to SoCal after the funeral reception preparing mentally for a weekend of Bar Review, moving, AND guests. We got through it. I sleepily made it to the first formal day of bar review the next morning (it is SO FREAKING HARD guys, like the joker meets the riddler while on crack and chains you to a chair and makes you pick the best right answer). During class, I forced myself not to think about dead grandfathers while Merp continued to pack up the condo and waited to receive our guests (to a half packed up home). Then two days later, the movers arrived, hours late. Merp stayed to supervise, while I hightailed it to the new house miles and miles away to let in the temporary blind people. That’s when I wrote the post about Gramps. That’s when, sitting  in my humungous, spanking new EMPTY house in beautiful suburbia, waiting for my truck of “stuff” to arrive, I thought entirely too hard about death. I thought about how we’re all going to die and how I couldn’t believe the time had come for Gramps to go (like it’s really that surprising for a 93 year old man with heart failure to pass away, but alas). And I thought about how you can’t take any of it with you. Ironically, I had been packing away the “it” for weeks, taking care to swaddle glasses and dishes in soft green foam, like it mattered. But sitting there that day and thinking, it all just seemed so meaningless. And to be honest it STILL kind of does. Like do we really need all this space? (We have graduated from 1150 square feet to 2800. Gulp). Space that we will fill with “things” to make our short time on this planet more comfortable. What does it matter when we: me, you, Merp, my dogs, and EVERYONE is going to die eventually anyway? It’s like why make your bed if you’re just going to sleep in it later. Why decorate your home if you’re just going to DIE. Is this depression? Pregnancy depression perhaps?

Yeah. I think I kind of lost it there for awhile (aka the last week). And I’m just only now finding it. And I feel guilty because I should be happy. I should be jumping up and down that I’ve won the prize. After 2 years of infertility I’m pregnant with a seemingly healthy baby girl, married to an amazingly wonderful man, who buys houses for me and indulges my custom couch orders (I talk a big game, but I’m still going to decorate the shit out of the new house as soon as finances allow). I DO have so very much to be grateful for, I know it. But for some reason I couldn’t (and still can’t at moments) shake the morbid cobwebs out of my head. The phrase: WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE just keeps lingering in this brain of mine. I look at my chihuahua, my little baby dog Hercules, and think, “You’re 10-years old my sweet thing, and if I’m lucky I’ll have 5 more years with you, maybe more if I’m really really lucky.” MORBID. And sad. So sad I can’t go there for too long without tearing up.

Is this over-analysis of the life/death conundrum a 27 week pregnancy symptom? My good childhood friend made a point when I wrote her an email along these lines. She said, now that we’re going to have children we’re not the youngest generation anymore (which means we’re that much closer to… you guessed it). We’re no longer the kids. Wow. She’s already a mom and hopefully I’m really going to be. Sometimes I’m scared of that. Sometimes I’m not. But right now I’m just trying to free myself through this blog post from the weirdness that comes from being in a big empty house that doesn’t feel like home yet. From the weirdness that is a death in the family. From the weirdness that is coming to terms, really truly coming to terms, with thy own mortality.

I think that’s why infertility is so hard – because it links deeply to the core of our need to survive and thrive and leave behind our seed. It links to our need to love and to multiple that love. When it’s something you want, you really really want it and not like you want a “thing.” Oh no, it’s far more meaningful than that.

I know I might sound ungrateful and neurotic in some of the paragraphs that came before this, but I, in thinking about all this morbid stuff, have been harshly reminded of Merp and I’s struggle to make dear Daphne. I haven’t forgotten that desperate, disgusting feeling like it may never happen. Hell, I still feel that way sometimes and chances are good that Daphne, she’s-a-coming. SO ladies, those of you who are still out there in the trenches, trying not to tear your hair out after another BFN, I’m praying for you. I’ve really been into that lately – praying. You don’t have to box it up, you don’t have to hire movers to transport it – and you may or may not be able to take it with you (jury’s still out on that one). God, whoever or wherever he/she is, has been a good friend to me.

If you made it this far without wanting to slit your wrists, I promise next time I’ll post about puppies (not aging chiweenies) and kittens and the joys of attending your first prenatal class alone while your husband drinks too much scotch at a work dinner far far away. Absolutely, positively promise.

Related posts:

You Can’t Take It With You – Part 1 The Good Wife Project – Getting Started A Blogging Break, Scary Mommy, & All The Love Viability (almost), & Craziness Ahhhhh, freak out!