Last night after therapy I went to a nearby lake and walked around for a bit. When it’s nice out I go to the lake after therapy, when it’s cold or dark, I take a drive. I like to decompress and think and just have a little buffer before I go home and have dinner and do my evening things. I’ve been having a hard few days and have been in a rotten mood and last night I was feeling especially sorry for myself, frustrated and sad.
Since it was such a nice evening, the lake was packed with joggers, strollers (both kinds), families, bicycles, scooters – you name it. When I was just about back to my car I passed a woman in the mix who was about my age. She was crying – walking and crying. She turned her head away and wiped her tears. She was quiet and looked self-conscious and so, so sad. And while I wasn’t crying my way around the lake last night, I could have been and I have done just that in the past. I just wanted to reach out and put my arm around her. In fact, I very nearly did even though that would have broken social barriers that I’m usually quite fond of. I was so drawn to her, though, and so much wanted to help fix her. When I was back to my car, I even thought about going to find her to say a comforting word. I wanted to let her know that even at the lake in the sun and warmth with flowers blooming and children playing, I was having a hard time too and I know what it feels like to walk those very steps and shed tears. But I kept driving.
I wonder so much what she was dealing with and what brought her there and if she had a loving person to hug her later. Was she a temporary visitor to Crying At The Lake, or a long time member like me? I wanted to comfort her. I wanted to comfort myself through her. I wanted her to know she wasn’t alone. Or maybe I just wanted assurance that I wasn’t. Whoever she was, she was me and she was you – vulnerable, sad and stuck even if it was just for that moment – and it felt wrong to just walk on by.
But I don’t regret not stopping – it would have felt too intrusive. I do wish, though, that there had been a way to connect with her like I connect with all of you. To hold her up for a minute instead of pretending like I couldn’t see her. A way to be kind. It’s what I want for me in this world too. I want a way to be held when it’s hard and feels like absolutely nothing is going my way or spoken to gently when I’m run down. I want a way to feel less alone with this secret of our infertility.
Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry. I know exactly what you mean. I’ve seen her (you, me, all of us) and felt the same way. It’s hard to breech that social barrier with a stranger in person though. I always think it is strange too how everyone at the RE’s office keeps to themselves, diverts their eyes, etc. and we are all there for the same thing!
Lots of love and hope, that someday soon you will push your little one around that lake. xo
Oh my friend, another beautiful post. Connection is so important as we struggle through the hard parts but I am sure you made the right decision inthe moment. Someday you will go back to that spot filled joy because you have a little one on the way.
I’m sending you a big cyber-hug. And I’m with Cindyhoo2…one day you’re going to return there and reminisce about Crying at the Lake while you’re Smiling at the Lake.
Beautiful post.
It is sad how those social barriers keep us from reaching out to one another…
You are so amazing, do you know that? I feel lucky to have you as my friend. And why, for the love of everything holy, can’t you live on the damn east coast!!!
Beautiful – both you and your post.
You’re special, Olive – and you say things that are so eloquent. I secretly hope you’ll see her again and next smile gently at each other and hold each other up, even if it’s in a gesture or a look.
Woman, you have the most beautiful soul!
Whether you have talked to her or not, she surely must have felt your energy, empathic and soothing. Communication can be wordless and still have a huge impact on other ppl, we do not even have to know them.
Just you being there, recognizing her pain and sadness and reacting in sending loving thoughts and hugs is huge. Witnessing her sadness without wanting to escape is huge. Just being there and knowing is huge. So are you.
xoxo, Moni
“this secret of our infertility” – it’s so painful – would love to talk with you sometime about this. i, too, kept my infertility secret. kind of regret it. i know why i did, and would do it again, didn’t want the intrusions, felt so inadequate, etc. i’d do it again. but it is crippling. with the adoption, i’m shouting from the rooftops that we’re in the adoption process. telling taxi drivers, my mother, and the guy at the grocery store. it may wear thin if our wait goes on, and on, and on. but for now it feels so liberating. i think the silence is a double whammy on the infertility. i love you, i’m glad you have fern and this blog, and i hope the lady at the lake has her equivalent to reach out to. xo
tears… mine, yours, hers, ours… thank you for this post, like tbean, i wish you were on the east coast (though i know the babypants girls would never forgive me for saying so!)
So, so beautiful. This used to be me at the beach. There’s something about water that makes for a good place to cry, to contemplate, to let it all out. I’m glad you have this lake, that the woman you encountered has this lake.
I will have to disagree with tbean and mulberry, though. We’d like you over here on the west coast please.
xo
What a sweet post. I would’ve felt the same urge, to put my arms around her. But I’m glad too that you had that shared experience with her, and probably she with you, in some unseen way.
beautiful post… xx
In the middle of one of our rounds of IVF I was waiting for the elevator after some blood draw or another. A woman walked up to the elevator wracked with tears, just completely in pieces. I had that same urge to reach out to her, to tell her that the intensity would ebb, even if I could not promise the pain would go away completely. I didn’t, but it was really hard to stand there with her sobbing and not intrude. It still haunts me a little, seeing this woman in such pain.
Mostly I just wish you didn’t have to feel sad.
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xoxoxox