In my LiveJournal blogging, I never mentioned my “Sifu-of-Sorts”, whom I met online through the Camarilla. I call him “Sifu-of-Sorts” because he balked to be called a sifu or a sensei, but, he was my Meeting of the Mentor (stage four of the Hero’s Journey, per se Vogler) regardless, and that was the name, “Sifu-of-Sorts”, that he reluctantly approved.
In the Mage venue, I was playing a member of The Akashic Brotherhood (which refers to the akashic record in Eastern reckoning). I had some interest in Eastern paths, so my Sifu-of-Sorts recommended that I read the Bhagavad Gita and the Tao Te Ching.
I did not get too deep into the Gita, but I read the Tao Te Ching like a man dying of thirst.
You know, oddly enough, Julie is dealing with the loss pretty well. I haven’t been handling it so well though.
Many tears were shed; I had really wanted this after all. They say it’s good therapy to try again but a part of me is reluctant. The doctor said after four weeks was okay.
I try to keep remembering that the child will come when the time is right; we do have a feeling this next one is very patient. But I still feel so much.
We knew that we would have another child after our daughter. Both of them made their presence known a long time before they were born, somehow: there was excitement, anticipation, near impatience with our daughter, and more patience and gentle love with our son.
Perhaps Boy needed that patience, because he didn’t come right away.
We waited a while. I wasn’t sure we were ready– we were in that crummy fourplex and things were difficult. I remember my father coming to visit to help Cimmorene break the news to me that she was pregnant. “She really needs your support,” he said.
But it wasn’t to be, yet. My memory is hazy, but I remember Cimmy saying something was wrong, that she was bleeding for some reason. She rushed to the toilet, and miscarried– and I saw the process in all its ugly, gory horror, blood and all.
This was The Ordeal. I was devastated.
I blamed myself. I thought that because I wasn’t supportive enough, that I hadn’t wanted the pregnancy at the time, that I was to blame for her miscarrying. I cut myself, many times, scoring the inside of my forearm with a razor blade. I wept. I brooded and stewed as I often do.
I e-mailed my Sifu-of-Sorts about it. He was so sanguine, as he often is. He explained that miscarrying was the body’s natural way of dealing with a faulty pregnancy. I already knew that was true, but I had an emotional dissonance, as I often do. I may know something logically, but emotionally– it’s often a different story.
But Boy did come, two years and a few months later. That, of course, is the subject for a future post.