Long probing needles and the Lost Weekend (babylost, that is)

I had the beginning of a HI-larious blog post completely written in my head while driving to my father yesterday. I mean, it was comedy gold. Very very chuckle worthy. And I was looking in the rear view, "Beatrice, take this down." Really, she can't take notes. Well, not well. It ends up all swirly circles and puppy dogs. And so, as soon as I wrote it, I bid it adieu. I am old now. Unable to remember shit. Literally, I really don't remember shit. Not when I took one. Not when I changed one (on the girl). And so, much like an elaborate sand mandala, I allowed the blog post, of which I cannot even remember the subject, to drift away on I-95 and be crushed by an incredibly staid Guaranteed Overnight Delivery truck. For that is when I lost it, the thread of blog post, when I saw it pass me at 85 mph. "There is something you need to learn about being smoked by the G.O.D., Inc. truck," I thought. "Something profound and terrifying."

Many moons ago, in my first incarnation as a university student, I took a class called UFOs in American Society. It is the only class about UFOs and abduction taught at an accredited university. I shit you not. I sat in a lecture hall in 1993, listened to a man lecture, and watched 150 people taking notes about the definitive signs of abduction. It was fascinating. There is a very very fine line between the shit research and the shittier research of abduction, mainly because the entire evidence basis relies on hypnotherapy sessions with individuals who suspect, or desire, alien abduction. But there is some common threads of alien abduction, and all of it centers around fertility and making hybrid babies. Once it got to the hybrid baby part of the semester, I admit, I stopped showing up for class. And so in the most embarrassing  part of my university transcript, I received a 'C' in UFOs in American Society.

I have used a ridiculous amount of my learning in that class in my everyday life, especially when I moved to Arizona where I met quite a few people who were abductees, or you know, said they were. I had common ground to at least understand their experience and why they believed it. And sometimes, in those moments of eye contact and drinking heavily, I believed it too. And so some mornings, when I read blogs, I wonder how many of these women writing are abductees.  Much like I look around in regular life and think, how many of these people lost babies? What is your secret story? And that is just it, we all have some secret history of which we do not reveal during our first date, or even our twentieth, but somewhere between a letting down of the guard and an opening up of the trust.

This past weekend, some East Coast (and a Texas) mama got together for the Babylost Retreat Weekend and we, in our way of simply showing up, revealed part of our secret history. I admit, there were a lot of things I could have calling this weekend, but Baby-Lost Weekend sort of reminds me of John Lennon and has this air of debaucherous revelry. I sort of delighted in telling my normal friends. "Yeah, I'm going on a Baby Lost Weekend. See you in 18 months."

I have so much to say, and yet, I can't really say anything: What happens in Ocean City stays in Ocean City. I met some incredible women, sharing stories, food, love and time. There were ten of us in all: Sarah, m, Lani, TracyOC, Tash, Niobe, Julia, Molly, Laura, and of course, me. I had no idea what my expectations of the weekend were. Admitedly, awkwardness dominated my imagination. Self-consciousness, maybe. But it was the exact opposite of that. There was a beautiful ease and comfort being around women who wanted to connect, talk and relax. And each of us contributed our own piece of what made the weekend amazing.

At some point, I was sitting in room with Lani, m, Sarah and Tracy knitting, Niobe and Julia editting the photos of the creepiness surrounding and amidst our rented Victorian home (why are blinking dolls an acceptable decor in ANY time period? HOLY FUCK!), and playing Scrabble with Molly while Laura and Tash sat and talked with us all, and I felt this sense of peaceful energy and calm. See, I can have this laughing, rolling ease of conversation. I can connect with people. It both reminded me of what I have lost, and gave me hope of what I can have. I think out of the entire weekend, my favorite moments were the flurry of kitchen meal activity. In my family, the kitchen is where the bochinche happens. While drying dishes, or chopping vegetables, we learn of the latest gossip, the old stories of the family and the laughing until you cannot breathe. It wasn't any different with the other mamas, and that what defined this weekend--it was like hanging out with family. We are all different, and certainly approach our losses in different way, but there was a kind of unconditional love and acceptance, unlike many of our own families in some ways. What we want our families to be, perhaps. It was beautiful, serene and magical. Good medicine.