Given that it’s Art Everyday Month around here, you have probably noticed that several of my works focus on maternity and fertility, or they feature mothers and babies. I have claimed it is because my thoughts and energies are focused on trying to get pregnant.

The first time I got pregnant, I told all my family and friends (but not the Whole World) because I was incredibly, joyfully excited. Hey, I got pregnant, at age 42! It reassured me.

Then in July, at eight weeks, I lost the pregnancy. I had to share this news with my community. I decided to tell the world, too, on my blog, because it was a sorrow I just couldn’t omit from my writing. My husband and I decided that next time around, as a way of protecting ourselves, of moderating our hopes (with a nod to superstition wanting to avoid “jinxing” ourselves), we would wait to announce the good news until we were 12-16 weeks along. It’s a burden to have to un-tell good news.

But I’m not one for keeping secrets about myself. I’m a writer. My life is my fodder. What isn’t getting said in words is communicated by images. As my brother teased me affectionately, I am as subtle as a billboard.

I was pregnant. It was very early on, only six weeks and a few days. Now I am in the process of becoming unpregnant. Oh, maybe it will work out. The doctor tells me lots of women have spotting and successfully carry a pregnancy. Yes, okay. But cramps? Clots? Bright red blood? Continually? I don’t think this is a good sign. Blood tests were done, more will be done on Saturday for comparison of hormone levels. I’ll have a consultation on Tuesday. We’ll see.

It is so easy for people to say “better luck next time,” or “third time’s a charm,” or “at least it was early.” Because it’s hard to know what to say. Because they want to say something. Your silent witness and willingness to hold us in your heart for a moment is more than enough. I just needed to tell. There are no words that adequately respond to my sorrow, my sense of loss, my feeling of failure, my fear that it is too late, my uncertainty that I can continue trying and coping with the risk. There are no words to cover the fact that my life is ambiguous, that I left my career by moving here, that I don’t know what I’m here for, what to do with myself, how I am to fulfill my life purpose or mission, or how I am to earn a paycheck.

Oh, please just read and nod in empathy. The answers will come, they always do. I just need to continue seeking. Or waiting patiently. Or both.