It’s already June 12. Time is moving at the speed of light. In Oregon that means less days of rain, more days of spotty sunshine. Less thinking about waterproof shoes and hats with wide brims, more color in your wardrobe and sunglasses.

This beautiful adopted state of mine smiles in the summertime. And, with it, everyone smiles more. Passersby, my coworkers, Ryan… me.

The other day I heard Ryan talking on the phone to someone and I could tell he was answering the question, “How is Jasmine?” He told them about my jewelry hobby, my writing, my work, our recent visit with his family.

It startled me to hear someone outside of me talk about … me, and all I could think of was, “Gee, that woman is really moving on.”

That night we slept in seperate rooms (in an attempt to get up at 5:30am and go to the gym!), and I lay in the center of the bed in the quiet darkness. Alone. Which so rarely happens anymore. And, I could feel the anguish, the sadness, that deep and overwhelming beast of grief coming in to settle on my chest, to stare me square in the face.

For that night, I was on my island. That desperate place where my babies are dead and no one seems to remember it but me. It is a place that I keep thinking I will eventually forget the directions to. That somehow by making the motions of life I will just meander my way to somewhere better.

I realized, too, that I’ve been counting on the idea that I’ll just magically get pregnant again and stay that way. And, thus, my sorrow and rage will dissipate. But, what if that doesn’t happen? What happens then?

I am not really comforted by the platitudes: “It will happen when it’s meant to.” “God is waiting for the right time.” “What will be, will be.”

The last one is true, though not so comforting. The dose of cold water I’ve endeared reminds me that there are people out there who were also lovingly told it would eventually happen and had to face the facts when it didn’t. I am able to abstractly grasp the idea that it really might not happen, that some people truly cannot have children. The part I can’t really accept is that it may happen to me.

“Serenity comes when you stop expecting and start accepting.”

This saying is taped to my computer screen. I put it there in February before we lost them. I knew even then that acceptance would be the key to getting through the impossible. Surrending to what is, instead of fighting it, instead of wallowing in the unfairness, the indignation, the most unbelievable blinding pain of it all.

• I have a friend who just found out the gender of her baby.
• I have a friend who gave birth to a baby on my birthday.
• I have a friend who gave birth to a beautiful baby girl with terrifying birth defects.

None of these things happened to me. The first two, I long for. The last, I fear. And, no amount of wishing for or fearing it will change that these were not my stories. Thinking of anything more than what is will only bring more anguish. There is already enough.

“Comparison is the death of happiness.”

This is the other quote pasted to my computer screen, and it is the reminder that gets me through the day. When something wonderful happens to someone else, even if it is everything I have wanted my entire life, I need to remember that it still doesn’t take away from me. More joy in the world is what we need.

Still, I have my moments where I realize that maybe it is unfair that if I do manage to get and stay pregnant again, I will think so very carefully before I tell someone. I will consider so carefully what I say, how I announce, and who I announce it to. My pregnancy innocence is gone forever. Some people have it always, but that’s not my story. This is what is. And, it isn’t right to be angry with the world for that. Whether all this is fair or not doesn’t really matter. Nobody promised us fair.

It is what is.

It is what is.

It is what is.