New life, new work, new home, new dreams, new intentions, new expanded readership, new blog. www.mulberriesandmanure.blogspot.com

Mulberries and Manure

hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where things be happening. I am still trying to decide if I am going to occsionally post to this blog now that my life has changed so drastically. It has been a place where I have gotten intensely personal for a core group of confidantes (and whoever else cares), sharing what it means to find a sense of self in the world. It has been a letter to the universe (and, of course, whoever else cares enough to read it.) In that capacity, perhaps I may want to, but I am moving on to other projects in the pursuit of my new, better, more fulfilling life. I have started school, a two year program of whole-body wellness learning and business management, with the hopes that it will pay dividends in this future I want to create. My days are spent either outside caring for this large yard and garden, or inside, sitting and doing workbook assignments and cleaning or finding quiet projects to do while listening to lectures from the amazing leaders in nutrition and holistic living on every subject imagineable having to do with the wonderful organism that it us- our bodies, our spirits, our individuality, the art of food and eating and living well. A big focus of the school, the Institute for Integrative Nutrition in New York (I am doing it online) is to educate it's graduates in the concept of bio-individualty and it's implications. The concept that everyone is different. A right choice for one may be a wrong choice for another. Some bodies thrive on one diet, while others are thrown into chaos on the same diet. And as graduates and AADP certified health practitioners, health coaches, we will be equipped to help each individual client discover precisely which foods nourish them personally, regardless of what they think they should be eating, and which foods sabotage them personally, regardless of how they affect others, while finding triggers and identifying cravings that give clues to an individual's needs.

The days are warming, or should I say heating up. My garden is in various stages of growing- various plants are up and thriving, various ones are still germinating, some are in trays in the house needing to go out, some are still in their seed packets. I have a flock of hens now. We live on my grandparent's farm. And I have started a new blog, one that is directed at a more diverse readership than this one. A "real" blog, less about things that make me go "Hmmmm" and more about things that make me go "Ah-ha!" I have decided that this journey I am starting on, the bumbling process of creating a sustainable farm and food supply, of returning to more connection with our food, of leading a more intentional life toward more sustainable goals, on a farm that my roots are deeply dug into and my history is a happy one, is a journey I want to record without all the personal stuff that this blog has been so full of. Although I am still an avid fan of full disclosure and radical vulnerability, and can't help but let it leak into my writing, it may be time to shelve this no-holds-barred blog for a while, since most of the time when I do have time to sit and write, I will probably be over there instead telling about doing instead of thinking. This one has just been a whine-fest anyway lately, and I am thinking that a clean break from the meltdown I had this winter, and blogged about here, is something I need. This blog was a voice old me spoke with. The address to the new blog, the voice of the future I am laying the groundwork for, is www.mulberriesandmanure.blogspot.com.

My running route- one of the "other things to like". I'm not actually sure who owns all of the grassland around our house- a house we will only live in for another week, but I sneak through it anyway. Would I rather be running a trail through the pine trees, with 100 mile views? Maybe. But at least I didn't have to give up running through wild places altogether when we moved here. I remember when I was a kid walking worshipfully through these grasslands (yes, I was a weird kid), thinking, "right here- the four inches where my foot is right now, how long since a human foot has been here? Was the last human foot a Native American one? A buffalo hunter? A cowboy? Or has this spot ever felt a human foot? Could I be the first?" And I felt I was a lucky person, getting to put my foot where possibly, no other human foot had ever touched.

Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where there is finally payoff. Right now, in Summit County, we would not be loving life. We would be in the middle of spring break, dealing with barf and slush and crowds of really bad drivers on roads designed for a fourth of the traffic. We would not be skiing except at night on weekdays. If we could negotiate a few hours off work, we would be seeking out the backcountry, with it's extremely unstable snow and dangerously windloaded aspects, fearing to go on inclines of more than a 30 degree angle and wishing for the season to end so we could take our celebratory and inevitably rainy mountain biking trip to Fruita or Moab.

But in Western KS, life is kinda alright. It is close to 70 degrees and only mildly breezy. (And why, you ask, do I sit inside and blog on such a rare gift of a day? Good point. I will be going for a run soon. Then I will soak up every ray of sun my winter-white skin can handle. But at the moment, my low blood sugar has me thinking I need to eat first, but the energy to do so has gone the way of my blood sugar. So it is easier to type for a moment.) Since writing the words "mountain biking trip", I got this physically painful longing to be on my bike, crisp mountain air and hot sun, sage and pine. But there is other stuff to like. I keep repeating this to myself. Other stuff. Like warm, quiet days in the middle of March. Other stuff.

My post-breakdown prying-my-butt-off-the-couch has come full circle by now. Thanks. I rebounded in a big, scarily enthusiastic way. I enrolled in online school for the next two years, The Institute for Integrative Nutrition, to become a health coach. I set wheels in motion for a community garden, and eventually, hopefully, community greenhouse to become a reality. I called a "local" (by local, I mean only 90 miles away) yoga instructor to inquire after the best way to turn my love of flowing, stretchy poses into an (most likely pitiful) income in a western Kansas town. I am inquiring and kicking over rocks, trying to devise a workeable business plan for a zen little wellness center and whole foods retail in the middle of a factory farming community. And I feel like I was always going to do this, I just never knew it until now. I am amazingly calm about this. If I can't make humans, I can help the ones who are here get more out of life. And if I should happen to suddenly discover one growing down there in my possibly broken regions, it is a life that can accomodate it. I am feeling so good, not being stagnant anymore. It took a few months of living luxuriously unemployed before I realized what it was doing to my mental stability and self esteem. I have realized that my personality must always be reaching to appreciate what I already hold. Personality flaw or strength? I don't know. A little of both.

And now, a salad calls my name, as does a golden retriever, the best he knows how. Perhaps at a later date I shall go into the particulars of school, wellness center, and community garden ventures, but for today, there will be good times and sunshine. Ahhh....

Hello and welcome to An Altitude problem, where things did get better. I sit here in front of a sunny window, typing on the desktop keyboard (that will explain some of the typos, if I don't catch them all...I have a hard time changing keyboards). Sparrows chirp, meadowlarks whistle, and mourning doves moan outside my little white farmhouse, a house that will only be mine for a few more weeks. An extremely chunked-out Marvin is stretched out luxuriously on the living room rug, paws curled, and a golden retriever who has grown his long feathers back since his shave-down when we first moved here lies against the couch, upside down with feet in the air, lips hanging down (up) over his face. The house is chilly, as it is when it isnt hot in here, since the ancient floor furnace has only two settings- on or off, and when it is on, it belches heat, crackling and popping and roaring as the hot air rushes out of it, and when it is off, the house is instantly reclaimed by cold drafts from the many windows- the same windows that makes this house so cheery and light.

A few days after I wrote that last post (actually, post before last, in which I was in such a dark place), I woke up. That is honestly what it felt like. I guess it was more hormonal than I even gave it credit for. I started a new cycle, and boom. One morning, I felt like going for a run. So I did. It was great. I had energy. I didn't use the road as a private place to cry. I never stopped to walk or have a meltdown in the entire 6.2 mile loop. The nex day, I went to mommy's day at the neighbors and didn't feel a meltdown tearing to get out and spew crazy. I just felt a normal amount of sad over all the toddlers, the normal amount of cheated, and a nice perspective that it wasn't the end of the world, even if I don't manage to ever keep a pregnancy I still have a good life and a lot to be happy about. Not saying that I actually enjoy other people's babies, and hearing them sing their significant other's praises over parenting instinct makes me want to light them on fire as I think about the possibility that I may not get to see my own significant other realize that he is a parent and step up to become one. And not saying that I don't get that let-the-crazy-out feeling a few times when they hint that someday, I will see, when I have kids... or a huge twinge of something that makes my guts twist in involuntary resentment when a friend announces a pregnancy and she has no reason to think she won't keep it. Or when someone gets pregnant accidentally and just magically keeps it.

But a switch flipped that day, and I went from being not okay to being okay. I go whole days now without tragic thoughts, and I have the energy I remember from last summer, energy that has me wanting to go out and run, bike, ski, shed the 15 pounds that I gained through the whole ordeal when I ate bread, butter and jam in copious amounts for a month and a half and the weather was too depressing for me to force myself outside and put one foot in front of the other, when I had no energy to get off the couch, let alone try to do somethig healthy like work out.

I am terrified of that happening again. That was six weeks I will never get back, and the thought that it could happen again has me wanting to not try again until the memory wears off a bit. Looking back, I can see that it wasn't me. It wasn't my nature, it wasn't my personality, it wasn't the true me. It was the chemical imbalance brought on by out-of-whack hormones. It was like I watched myself cry, scream, drag my tear-logged butt off the couch to cook, leave dishes in the sink for days, and I almost started to believe that was me. I hated myself for it. B, bless him, kept telling me to just snap out of it, to decide to be happy, to start acting happy and happy would follow, to go for a run and I would see that I would feel better, that I was taking this too hard, all the stuff that men, in their need to problem solve, think should be helpful. He took me shopping for new jeans when mine got too tight, and stood outside the dressing room as I tried on pair after pair until he finally said, "okay. this pair gives you a cute butt." Then bought two pairs for me. He tested the waters when I said I wanted ice cream, and if I didn't back down immediately in the interest of my allegedly cute-again butt, he bought it for me. He was good, if not entirely understanding of what was going on. He was a bit of a punching bag for a while, and I leaned on him pretty heavily, but he eventually got better at recognizing the things that might cause a psychotic episode and steered around a lot of it for me- turning down invitations to places with babies or pregnant people, out-of-character lying when I asked if I looked fat and haggard, started making small guestures that I have tried to get him to do in the past. Poor man. I put him through a lot in those six dark weeks.

And now that the sun shines again, inside my head and outside my front door, I am eaten by guilt over how I acted, but I also see how the train wreck careened out of control and realize that there was not much I could have done to stop it as it was happening. I couldn't decide to be happy. I couldn't decide to act happy. I couldn't do a thing about the incessant crying and the inability to get off the couch, the constant slight dizzy nausea and the aching exhaustion. Mental stamina wasn't enough to give me a win over that one. And I feel better realizing that wasn't the real me, and after six horrible weeks, within 24 hours the hormones stabilized and I was me again, the me I like, a me who sings like nobody can hear me as I wash dishes, who runs 6-8 miles at a time without huge difficulty, a me who has patience and energy, who wants to be with friends and laugh with her husband and throw a long-neglected tennis ball for her dog.

It has made me realize again though, that who we are is merely a shaky formula that may not stick around forever. Do we really even have personalities? Yes, we have preferences, but to say we have a sunny personality, that we love people, that we have good energy or that we are patient, those are things that can go as easily as they come. There are days when we feel truly good, when the chemicals balance and we feel happy in that layer just under our skin. And then the weather under our skin changes, for some reason. It can be anything. Toxins. An allergic reaction. A fungus found in litterboxes and undercooked meat that recently, has been found to affect mood. Medication. Hormones. Diet. Whatever the cause, who we are when our brain chemical formula is optimal means nothing when the delicate balance shifts and suddenly we are lashing out at those around us, we have lost patience, we feel like shaking everyone around us until their teeth fly out of their heads, we are irritable and borderline homicidal, or suicidal because we are convinced this is truly who we are and we are worthless pieces of trash. When we overeat on simple carbs because the sugar rush makes us feel human for just a few moments, and then watch our bodies change for the worse on a poor diet and hate ourselves even more, and cant find the energy to do anything about it and decide we just don't care.

And now for the point of this ramble- I'm not sure that I believe humans are naturally good or naturally bad. We are merely containers for an unstable cocktail of neurotransmitters, hormones, nerve impulses that govern our movements and responses. It's scary to me how much of our interaction and response to the world around us is just an effect of seratonin, dopamine, norepinephrin, testosterone, estrogen, progeserone, adrenaline, the list could go on, all working together to create that thing known as "nature". "Personality". If one variable in the formula is too high or one is too low, we suddenly change from nice people to not-nice ones. Without warning, we lose ability to concentrate. We lose ability to empathize. We lose analytical thinking and replace it with whatever is governing our decision-making process at the moment.

We have this ethical code that tells us how we are supposed to act, what we are supposed to say in spite of how we feel, and we live our lives trying to push down our impulses and live within that code, a code that our own experiences have taught us by producing guilt when the chemicals rebalance after an episode in which we acted upon impulse. "It would be maniacally fun to go on a murderous rampage and pull out my boss's fingernails, but it wouldn't be right, and I would feel terrible later for the pain I caused". So we live in this constant battle with ourselves, trying to fool ourselves and everyone around us into believing we are a certian person, when truthfully, who we are is just who we are at the moment, or who we were taught to fake it to be the rest of the time.

And now, faithful few, I am needing to do things. There is laundry and dishes and all manner of housewifely duties awaiting me. Because that is my life now. I am getting extremely excited about moving into the farmhouse and claiming that precious, special space that I still can't believe is to be mine. It was always a space I felt good in, safe and valued, and I have this crazy notion that somehow, the walls are still leaking out all the good karma and happiness they absorbed for so many years. They are kind walls, and I think there is still an echo of the love I experienced there. In a weird way, I can't help thinking that being there will be like seeing Grandpa and Grandma again. I don't know. It's weird, I know. But it's like I'm anticipating seeing them after a long absence, talking to them again, feeling less lonely for them by being a part of their life again, even though it is a life that they, themselves, are absent from. When we spent the summer there after they died, living with their stuff, I struggled back and forth with needing to personalize her space with my own touches so that walking into a room would not have me expecting to see her there, and loving the feeling that she was there, just never in the same room as I was. The feeling that nothing had changed, nobody had died, all was as it always was, and any given moment was just like a hundred other moments before they died, when she was in the basement and he was in the shop, both just out of eyesight and earshot.

Now, I think, moving back, with the walls an airy green, the flooring modern instead of orange shag and geometric linoleum, the cabinets a cheery cream instead of 1975 dark walnut, the kitchen bar gone, I will feel more like she is in my space. Things have changed enough that now it will be my house, but there will still be the pleasant, if mild, expectation that maybe she is just downstairs getting a jar of pickles, maybe I will hear her voice or catch a glimpse of her frizzy mop and ample waist and feel, again, like the years since I last saw her never happened.

I was one of those lucky kids who came from a line of young women- Grandma was 18 when she had my mom, her only daughter, and my mom was 21 when she had me, her only daughter. So I got to be a part of a three generation trio of females in which there was only 40 years between oldest and youngest. There was girl power in our family. We were extraordinarily close because of it. I grew up feeling a bit like I had two mothers- one who worked and did so much, all she could for me in spite of her own obstacles, jobs and obligations, and one who was my backup for emotional needs when my own mom was too busy being an overworked 20-something and 30-something. She was the young grandma who still had kids of her own at home, who welcomed the chance to have her daughter's daughter around. Chris, Sandi, Susan. The three women in Jim Koehn's family. I want so badly to be able to have a daughter of my own, now that we are back here and in a place to do it- and I want to name her Christina, and I want another trio like that. Even though we won't all be as close in age this time around, I feel as though we could still have it. Of course, little Christina is only a dream at this time, and one that biology may not see fit to give us, but a girl can dream, right?

And now, on to the rest of my day. Hope yours is good.

My dog thinks I'm awesome.

Bright spot- any living being who loves unconditionally, who is eternally happy, and who only needs a sturdy toy to convince them to romp. Dogs are lifesavers. They make us laugh when we are sad, they provide touch when we are lonely, and they smile without even meaning to. Andy may never lead a wilderness rescue party to my nearly frozen body or tell us that Timmy has fallen down the well or be able to find his way home over long distances (this much has been proven), he may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he makes us laugh in moments that would otherwise be forgettable. He's kinda clumsy and spastic and he forgets his manners when someone knocks on the door, but he's a good dog.

Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where when the sun shines, all is well. I think that we won't remember a lot of this winter in the future. It goes that way with the bad times- our minds block them. When people remind me of details of my life, the things I don't remember, trips I can barely remember taking, things I can barely remember doing, those are the things that happened while I was sad or grieving or overwhelmed. I think this winter may be one of those times.

Maybe it's SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder). That's when the weather actually affects your mental balance. There have been so many sloppy, gray, cold, windy days this winter that the few nice ones stand out. They stand out as the ones I didn't cry. Like three days ago, when the thermometer showed 70 degrees and the wind was not howling, and I went outside and the world felt good. I don't know. It has been one unsettling thing after another this winter for us- the big job change, the move to Kansas, the uncertainty of not knowing where we would live and then finding someplace that had weird emotions attached to it, being close to my family again, which is a good thing, but brings more knowledge of the stuff they are dealing with. The stress of bills coming due without income to cover them, since it has been such a wet winter, the stress of B being home, listless and antsy to work, the stress of wanting to try to get pregnant, but switching over insurance and not knowing what we would need to pay if it happened too soon, the stress of still paying off the bill from the last miscarriage, the brief moment of elation tinged with worry when I got pregnant again. The almost instantaneous mental imbalance and physical tiredness and dizziness caused by raging hormones, during which I wondered who had crawled inside my skin and replaced me, since I was simultaneously a more gentle and more irritable person, which threw B for a loop and made him unpredictable when I needed him to be dependable. The same hormones that, when introduced to the natural feelings of grief and loss- anger, betrayal and self-pity, magnified every emotion to the boiling point. In the middle of it all, there have been long hours in waiting rooms for surgeries- reconstructive for my mom, and what turned out to be a triple bypass and a valve repair for my grandpa. I am aware of how blessed I am that those who are important to me woke up from surgeries and are on the mend. Those have been their battles to fight, and they make mine seem insignificant, but at this point it seems less about the size of the battle and more about my inability to move on.

Now that the hormones are finally beginning to stabilize a bit, I am left with a bit of a void, listless and unsure of myself and I am still sad. Especially on the cloudy, windy days when the cold cuts through coats and pants and makes me shiver and shivering rattles me apart and makes all the bad stuff come crashing back. I won't lie and say I came through this last miscarriage with anything like grace. There has been a lot of sadness, sadness that I am not sure is entirely in proportion with losing a pregnancy. A lot of it has to do with the fear that this time confirms that it will be a long, difficult road for us. A lot of it has to do with losing hope that my future will be like I had thought it would be. Some of it is the dread of what we will have to go through to have a successful pregnancy. Some of it is the feeling of being so alone, even in a crowd, because everyone else seems to have lives that are moving forward and mine feels so stagnant right now. Yes, a little of it is resentment that B wants so badly to have his own biological child, which means we cannot move forward and start the adoption process, as I have wanted to do for years. (We have been dialoging about this and searching for compromise. He knows how I feel, and he knows this is not personal resentment, since I am also committed to bringing a biological child into the world, and I know how he feels. It's a difficult situation to be in, when ideals clash with instinct and my body makes a simple solution impossible. Both instinct and ideals are important and both affect us in irreversible ways.)

In a way, this miscarriage has prepared him for fatherhood. The next time it happens, his first response won't be negative, off the cuff, like last time. He doesn't deal well with surprises, even good ones, but he understands very well the concept of working toward something. If this next one costs him time and money and doctor's appointments and the loss of his privacy, it will be a good thing when it happens. He finally admits how excited he grew over the last one the longer it held on, and how angry he was at himself for becoming that excited when we lost it.

I know this is normal. But I admit to crashing pretty hard this winter. There seems to be very little to be excited about. We are unable to move onto the farm until spring, which is gnawing at us because I have no projects to do in a house we will be leaving soon, on a yard I have no future in, with no resources to work with. With resources I could do other projects, like finally learn another language or get an online degree in my stagnant time, but that's not an option right now. If we were already at the farm I could start projects and distract myself, but the current tenants need more time to find another place, so B continues to drive there every morning and work from the shop and think about how wonderful it would be if we could live on-site, but in the meantime, we are unable to move forward. I feel guilty wishing the tenants would move out, since it is a good fit for them and it is more than we deserve to be able to live there. So every day I go do something that does not contribute to my future, it's just busyness, or I sit in this house reading or watching a fluffy movie (because documentaries and shows and movies about current issues tends to make me want to direct energy into changing the world, which as I realize isn't an option, leads to more feelings of uselessness). I look outside at tossing, waving tree branches, and this house, all but the living room, is perpetually cold, so even going into the kitchen to cook has me shivering. And we know how I feel about shivering. I try to articulate how I feel to a few good friends in the hopes that getting the words right will illuminate the way to fix me, and they understand, or try to, but hearing myself say it makes the guilt mount that I have a good life, so why am I sad?

And then the sun shines and the wind stops and for that one day, I feel like myself. I feel happy. Life doesn't seem so tragic. I become ashamed of myself for being so down. I get out my bike and I ride it and the wind isn't cutting through my clothes and I'm okay. Which makes me wonder if all I am feeling is the weather.

I am sorry this post isn't more encouraging or entertaining. It is honest. I have watched others deal with debilitating depression before and I know the signs. I also know that I am displaying the signs. If I saw a friend in my situation, I would be worried. But I am not yet ready to say that the signs are anything but circumstantial, and that changing my circumstances won't make them go away. I just have to find a way to fight it until my circumstances change- until someone can tell me what is wrong with my body, why it won't allow a baby to stay in there, whether or not it will ever be able to keep one in there, until the days warm up and I can be outside, planting a garden, working in the healing dirt and the loving sun, until I can get over myself enough that I can be around babies and pregnant women and not feel like I am crumbling inside of myself, until I can work toward something, anything. Until I can start a project or two, and they can make me feel enthusiasm again. Until I can stop leaning on poor B to make me feel better, and start giving back to him again.

I don't say that as a big revelation or a cry for help, but just as a fact that i can be honest about, and as such, begin to try to rise above it- I am not okay right now. I haven't been okay for several months. I may not be okay for several more. But it will happen. I have faith in myself enough to know that it will. I will be okay at some point in the future. In the meantime, I have to be happy and thankful for the few times in the middle of this crash that the spikes happen, the sun shines, and I forget to be sad.

I write this because I want everyone reading it who has dealt with depression and sadness and negative emotions to know what I know- it's not a shameful thing to admit it. Mature friends won't freak out and will know when they need to step in. It's ebb and flow, up and down- a life is. It is okay to admit when you are down and that you fear when the other shoe is going to drop. The only requirement one should follow after such an admission is the promise that everyone will also know when it is better. And the understanding that better isn't always pefect, it's just better. We take what we can get.

I am employing a trick I learned about at a personal level five years ago during a crash like this brought on by our marriage falling apart and us discovering that we needed to rebuild it, a process that we saw could take years before we were back to our easy level of trust and hope. It's a little bit obvious, but only those who have lived it know how useful it really is. It's called "one day at a time". It's the knowledge that I'm not required to prepare myself for future hard times, I just have to get through this one. And I am not required to see this one through to the end, I am only required to get through the next 24 hours. Removing the pressure of needing to be okay long term lifts a burden from me and suddenly I am able to think about the future, a future that only extends 24 hours ahead of me, with happiness. By removing the need to think about the future, I am forced to live in the present, and I do not see any other shoes dropping in the next 24 hours. That is freeing. That is a joyful thought. There will be no more miscarriages in the next 24 hours. I can stay here and just exist and not need to be working toward something for the next 24 hours. I can avoid (or even be exposed to and be mature about and happy for) all the people involved with babies and pregnancies for the next 24 hours. I can shove the anger and betrayal, and the guilt of feeling anger and betrayal, away for the next 24 hours. And for the next 24 hours, I can be okay.

So, faithful few who are concerned after this post in which I admit that I am not really okay right now, you don't need to worry about me for the next 24 hours. Or the 24 after that. Or the 24 after that, although we are not breaking the rules and making any agenda for future 24 hour periods of time.

So here's to the next 24. They're gonna be good.

Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where all good things come to an end. Sorry, folks. It seems it takes more than believing and wishy thinking to keep some good things around. And once they are gone, the real challenge is to look around and see all you still have, and have that be enough.

It was a weekend defined by loss, in several different ways. On Thursday, Tom Nightingale, a cousin by marriage, had a fatal heart attack behind the wheel of his semi truck. No one else was injured, but his family- wife and three kids, 10, 13, and 16, had their lives changed forever by that phone call. A young death always turns a community contemplative. Tragedies strike all the time, and like lightening, the ones unaffected feel as though it could have as easily been them- as indeed it could have been.

We had planned to go to the funeral, but that night I started bleeding. The next morning I raced to the clinic, feeling deja vue, hoping against hope but not convinced that I would be more lucky this time and be able to keep this baby. I had blood drawn, and before the results were even back, the heavy bleeding and pain had started and I realized it was already dead. I proceeded to lie on the couch for the next six hours and have a spectacular meltdown, one that had Andy shoving his face against my neck, trying to jostle me out of my distress, and went on for long enough he finally gave up and slept close to me on the floor beside the couch. Bobby came home late that evening and he held me while I spent my hormone-fueled grief and rage on gut-crunching crying and demanding that he explain to me why it had to be that we were only ever allowed a glimpse of how we could be before it was yanked away again. Then, as suddenly as it started, I ran out of tears. With no further comment, in sudden quiet, I got up, took a shower, washed my hair, and in no way felt like putting myself through the discomfort of squeezing out another tear. I had to explain to a shell-shocked Bobby that it was this way last time, too, only last time he hadn't been there for it. This was the part we had to get through before I could readjust to being singular, my body supporting not the future, not our baby, just me. We watched a movie to give our minds a vacation, and I spent the night on the couch so my insomnia-causing headache wouldn't keep us both awake. The next day the cramping pain hit much harder, and that night I moved to the couch again, since the pain was making me toss and squirm and keep him awake. The worst had passed by the next morning, and things were starting to be funny again- at least the funny things. They set my follow-up appointment for this morning, the same time as Tom's funeral, so I ended up opting for going to that and being with the Eicher family in thought and prayer instead of in person.

Altogether, it was not a very good week. I spent the first half of it feeling more pregnant every day- like I awoke every morning with a hangover, and it took me until noon to feel alive. That, I was happy about, since I took it as a good sign that the pregnancy was a stronger one than the last. But it did cut down on productivity. Then I spent two days on bedrest, since that's the usual treatment for a threatened miscarriage, but since I knew it was pointless, it was mostly my excuse for letting myself wallow in self-pity for 48 hours.

In the meantime, Grandpa Weldo has been in the hospital for over a week, bronchitis stressing his body, leading to tachycardia leading to tests and a decision to have open heart surgery to repair a valve. My dad has been working double time at the mill to make up for him being gone. We have been thinking that he would have a surgery in a day or two for a long time now, so I still have not been up there to see him, every day not going because i keep hearing that I should go up tomorrow. I am getting smart. I will be going soon, regardless.

And my car is still in the body shop, which means I have to drive a gas guzzling truck everywhere I go, which keeps me home more. And Bobby is finally working again, which means he has not been able to take me to Hays. They keep telling me that any day, the parts should come in and we should be getting the car back. I am ready. Even though the inside of it smells like tomcat from the unfortunate effects of Marv's surgery in which his little Marvs were removed, leaving him without feeling or muscle control (including bladder control) in his back half until his anesthesia wore off- tomcat urine mixed with cleaning solution makes it smell a little like pine sap, only without the sweet tang to it, just pungent. I miss the little car even though it's not exactly a luxury liner. I miss it and it's ability to take me places on the cheap.

But there's nothing like realizing how good you have it to help you realize how good you have it. I only lost someone I hadn't yet met this weekend. Others lost someone thay had built history with. And I had another reminder this morning of how great my life is, and how insignificant my losses really are. In the last three months in southern Somalia, 30,000 people, many of them perfect, beautiful kids, have starved to death. We are talking kids who were carried to full term, who's parents were overwhelmed by poverty, but cared for them and loved them and watched helplessly as they shrunk inside their skin. If they were even able to be brought to a refugee camp, they were often fed too late for it to make a difference. Kids who survive this latest famine will spend their futures with stunted physical and mental growth. Our baby, lost before it is even born, hardly seems like a tragedy in the shadow of such an enormous waste of healthy, beautiful babies who were already in the world.

I recognize the stages of grief, and know that anger is the one I have been most often returning to these last three days. But it feels good to be able to redirect my anger (made so much worse by the raging hormones of this most recent pregnancy) into rightous anger, anger that while my baby's miscarriage was unavoidable, those deaths aren't. There is enough food in the world to feed them. There is a long and complicated answer to why it can't reach them in time, and why they cannot grow it themselves, but there is enough and it is inexcusable that we can put people into space and crack the human genome and invent particle accelerators and supercomputers before we can put food on every plate in the world.

But thank you for all the support you have given us. I stand by my theory- by keeping you up-to-date with our lives, you know when we need prayers and positive support. Maybe we make ourselves vulnerable, but I like us that way.

We will try again, but not for a while. We are going to test for some of the more obvious reasons I seem to be unable to keep a pregnancy, once my body recovers from this one. In hindsight, this has happened before, more than a few times. There is no reason to think a third one will magically work when the last two confirmed pregnancies did not, nor did any of the suspected ones (obviously). It is time to take a breather and stop putting ourselves through this until we think we have a ghost of a chance of keeping it in there. I can't handle the thought of doing this again right away anyway- the near panic from the moment you find out you are pregnant, fearing you will inevitably lose it, the moment your fears come true, the fallout- it's too much to keep doing.

Until later, faithful few. I'm thankful I have you.

Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where after a few days back at altitude, we are strangely happy to be back down in the low places. I don't know why. It was amazing to be back up in Summit County, perfecting my turns on my skis, in the snow that we apparently took up there with us, as snow seems to follow us wherever we go these days. But now that we are back down where the wind blows a little warmer, where we look out our windows to see the horizon and the sunsets and sunrises, bare tree branches and dry milo stalks, it feels a little more right than looking out our window to see the neighbor's houses, the neighbor's judgment eyes if Andy escapes the house without his leash, a dozen cars, a dozen trash cans, hearing snowplows and sirens and helicopters. Here, we hear the wind. A few times a week, a "neighbor" flies over our house to and from wherever it is he goes in his plane, and sometimes, on quiet mornings when sound carries on crisp air, we hear the neighbor's rooster crow from a mile away, their cows mooing, sometimes a motor revving. The cat Marvin, shortened from Starvin' Marvin, given his state of health when he showed up at our door, now also known as Marvelous Marv, Marvae-larvae, Marv the magnificent, Marv the Large, the Killer of Rugs, Kittymarvie, Marv the Claw, and the Happiest Marv on Earth, sleeps outside on all but the cold, snowy nights. No cars whiz past and endanger his life. We have been told of mountain lion sightings around our house, but he must be a wily sort, to survive as he does outside. We have made him a little more house-friendly by paying the vet to remove his little Marvs, now he has no desire to go a-courting, which makes him lazy and accommodating. He sits on the porch railing and waits for us to come home, waits for us to get out of bed, waits for the endearing names and earmite-scratching and catfood and long naps in the house that are sure to come. Andy explores the yard, dragging things that have no business inside the mouth of any living thing out of hidden places, delightedly showing us his prizes and then sniffing them out again when we take them away. Kansas has been good to us, better than we anticipated. The sturdy old house we live in is a solid shelter, walls permeated with memories that no longer seem surreal.

On Thursday, while B was at work, I packed up all of our ski gear and prepared to be gone for the weekend. B came home in a bit of a bad mood, snapped at me for a few things I felt were not my fault in the least, which led me to pick a raging fight with him, slam several doors, bang dishes around, in general, be a raging hag, which twenty minutes later, I had forgotten about completely and was singing and whistling and cooking dinner while he ducked every time I walked near. Isn't it weird how when you are a hormonal wreck, you never actually realize that your behavior is completely inconsistent until later? One moment, I literally wanted to murder him, and the next, I had completely forgotten to be angry. I fell asleep pondering why I had been in such a blind rage, and decided that hormones or no hormones, I had probably better work on that. The next morning, I awoke early, doing math in my head. I was late. Not really late, just a few days, but still...I got out of bed and dragged myself to the bathroom, squinting in the bright light, and managed to hit the pregnancy test in my stupor. I watched one line turn pink, negative. So I tossed it in the sink, and wondered into the living room. I texted my "pee buddy" (the girlfriend who has agreed to be my accountability buddy to keep me from using home pregnancy tests until absolutely warranted) that it was negative, then wondered back into the bathroom to throw it away...and noticed a faint second line. I still had my phone in my hand, and without thinking, texted- "They weren't kidding about having to wait three minutes. Now there's another line." The second I hit send, the meaning of two lines hit me and I realized I had just told my friend that Bobby was potentially going to be a father before I told him, which seemed a bit unforgivable. So I had to shake him awake him to tell him, and he was massively annoyed, and grunted and told me in a scratchy morning voice "I'm glad you're so happy, 'cause I don't know how we're gonna pay for the dang thing," before pulling the covers back over his head. I sat there, a little crushed, not sure how to respond to this. "I will not be telling your child that the first time you referred to it, you called it "the dang thing". Then the covers came back off, he giggled, woke up enough to realize what I had just said, and the full realization sunk into our sleep-fogged brains that, in our bumbling way, we have another chance at this whole being parents thing. If. If only this one will stay in there about 30 weeks longer than the last one.

We, of course, have known our potential kid's names for quite some time already (when you wait for almost ten years, these things just sort of evolve without you ever really having a discussion about them and you find yourself at an understanding without knowing how you got there), so I am already calling the "thing" by both names indiscriminately, knowing I have a fifty percent chance of being right. If I lose this one, I know it won't be easy. There will be tears. A lot of them. B keeps telling me to not get attached to it, but I am already physically attached to it, so not being mentally attached is just not an option. But I am sticking with my theory- I would rather have people rejoice with me, and then, if I lose it, know what I have lost so they don't just assume my life is exactly how I want it. I want them to know the tests and the tears I have had so they know I will understand theirs. I want them to know that if I seem distracted and sad, it isn't them. It isn't some secret, mysterious pain that they are not allowed to guess at. I will need them if I should lose this baby, and I don't think I can bear telling them I need them, I just need them to know that I do because of what they know has happened to me. And how will they know if I don't tell them- first the good, and, God forbid, the bad, if it should happen? Which is why, at a two days short of five weeks pregnant, I decided that secrets are dumb. There is no way I am taking every one's advice of keeping it a secret until danger of miscarriage is past. I am too deep in feelings already for this tiny bunch of rapidly dividing cells, if I lose it I'm gonna be a wreck, and it's best if the world is forewarned.

after all that, we got up, packed our suitcases, and drove to Summit County. Skiing was good. It was exactly what we needed after several weeks of cabin fever (me) and spending every day in the cab of a loader (B). With the snow, B has been working hard lately, scraping snow and deep, freezing muck from pens, enabling the cows to reach their feed bunks and giving them small places to stand where they are not knee-to-hip-deep in icy sludge. I have been doing...well, not a lot. Keeping the house halfway clean. Doing laundry. Watching movies on streaming Netflix. Walking the dog, when the ground has been frozen enough for us to leave the yard. Digging trenches and attempting to drain the small lake that is our driveway and yard. The house and a small grassy patch sit elevated, and are well drained, but the yard itself has been a bottomless pit of western Kansas muck, which is to say, half glue, half slimy clay that sticks to one's shoes until it pulls shoes off one's feet. The only way to remove the clay slime that dries into concrete is to soak it off of tennis shoes that used to look nice. The tires on B's truck have an enormous radius by the time he gets to the garage, from all the mud layers stuck to them.

As we are forced to take to the groomed ski runs in Colorado for lack of snow this year, I have been soliciting skiing advice from every available source. Last year, as you can tell from various videos, we had the time of our lives in the deep powder...but I sucked at it. I survival skied. I flailed. I spazzed. I face-planted. In the forgiving softness of bottomless fluff that was last winter, that was okay, I did not risk injury as I tumbled and had to dig myself out of snowdrifts higher than my head, out of breath and sweating, with snow inside my clothes, only to make a few more turns and do it again. (by the way, I am fully aware, and fully horrified, that I misspelled a word in my last video. But I did that in a hurry, did not proof it well, and then it took like three hours to publish, so I haven't had the time to fix and republish. Never mind. I choose looking like an idiot over having to do that all again.)

So this year, with dismal snow conditions and skiing off-piste not an option if one values life, limb, or gear, I have become obsessed with finding the perfect turn. I have all sorts of advice coming through my brain now as I ski- a more complete turn. Lead with my ski tips. Sideways extension. Focus on upper body stillness. Lean forward. Flick poles. Hold poles and firmly plant. Pole plants are a thing of the past. Focus on where I want to go and keep it between my shoulders. Shins against my boot tongues.

They tell me I am improving. And I can feel it- a more fluid line. My friend laughed when she saw me ski this time. "Well, you're not twisting like a beginner...you're skiing exactly like Susan K. Fast, energetic and spastic, like you're too impatient to slow down and finish out your turns." I started laughing. "It's true, every time I start to feel resistance, I am over that turn and ready for the next one. I blame the ADD." The rest of our time out, B kept coaching me on how to ski less like Susan K and more like Ingrid Backstrom, who's fluid, effortless, slinky-like turns I so want to have for my own. To Bobby's credit, his turns are also some of the smoothest ones seen on a normal day at a ski resort. He looks relaxed, just hanging out above skis that never stop their side to side arc under him, almost as if they are pulling his feet, and not vice versa. So I make him coach me. This is a win-win for us. I will never be better than him at skiing. Willing to jump off higher rocks and cornices with less experience under my belt, maybe. But I won't have the ease that comes from having learned to ski on skinny, long skis and then transitioned to short, fat, shaped skis. Therefore, we will never come to that awkward place we came to on our snowboards where suddenly the student finds herself attempting to teach the teacher, then the teacher feels emasculated and demoralized and stops wanting to ride with the student. In his defense, by that time, I had caught up with and passed the total amount of time he had spent on his board.

After a few runs in the 4 degree morning nip, we spent a good while sitting inside and warming our toes before going out again. It felt absolutely wonderful spending guilt-free hours up on the hill, never wondering how we were going to pay in future stress for our stolen fun, never worrying that we had missed a phone call and a guest was now furious with us. Nothing to worry about but our icy, numb toes in our unforgiving ski boots, and making each turn a little more fluid and graceful than the last. Unfortunately, the first unhandy pregnancy symptoms manifested about mid-morning in the form of something that felt like low blood sugar and high altitude shakies- I was bone-tired, shaky, faint, headachy, queasy, and my chest burned with the worst heartburn I had ever experienced. As hard as I tried to ski through it, I flat couldn't help but bonk. At 11:00, I finally told B I was done. If he wanted to ski more, that was fine, but I would be inside by the fire. He looked at me like I had lost my marbles, mocked me a bit for not being more die-hard, knowing this would be my last run before we returned to Kansas. But he took me home, back to the friend's house who's loft we commandeered, and I spent the afternoon trying to sleep sitting up, since lying down wasn't an option with the heartburn, while he watched the Bronco's game with a group of friends. We went out for dinner and I managed a few bites from B's plate, then home, where I spent the night propped up and sleeping fitfully.

The next morning we drove home, and the lower the altitude got, the better I felt. The friend we stayed with had predicted this, since she had been sick during her entire pregnancy, except for the Arizona river trip they had taken at fourteen weeks, during which she felt fine. By the time we hit 3,500 feet, our high plains elevation, I was feeling normal. Perhaps that is part of the reason I am so happy to be back home in Kansas. My brain and body really like being dependant on thick air. I still feel a bit crappy, but at manageable proportions.

Plus, I sit here with a Andy's head lying heavily on my arm as he gazes into my face, telepathically beaming to me his sheer adoration and his thinking that while he loves spending time with Grandpa Kevin, he hopes we do not leave him again for a while. Marv lies in the curve of his body, cleaning his own face with a luxuriously curled paw, occasionally stopping to also look up at me, letting me know how much he appreciates the fact that we did not abandon him like the last people he trusted. The sun streams through my south-facing windows and puddles on their matching yellow fur, warming the bottoms of my feet as they are propped on the coffee table in front of me, the only sound is Andy's wheezing, Marv's snorting as he licks himself,the tap of my keyboard and the ticking clock. I think it's going to be a good day. Of course, my house is trashed now, all of our gear dumped just inside the door, the bathroom the scene of a plumbing fix, but I have until four o'clock to fix all that. Then I have to drive to where B is working today, up by Sharon Springs, to pick him up and bring him home. In the meantime, I plan to fill the crock pot with food for dinner. It's a good life, this is. I wonder every day how I became one of the lucky ones, how we became so normal (by the gender role standards with which we were raised). I never saw myself enjoying being a woman in a patriarchal farm community, a stay at home wife, but right now, it seems oddly natural. Well, I would choose an ocean outside my door if I could, but it's still a pretty good life, considering. I have been able to be many things, and have enjoyed being those women, but at this point in my life, it doesn't really feel like I've sold out to enjoy being this one.