When it comes to sisterhood, I've never really been much of a subscriber.
I have always been more of a tomboy, my best friends usually guys (or girls who didn't fit into the girlie girl stereotype). I wanted to play football in high school, not cheer. I preferred Converse to "girl shoes". I was infinitely more comfortable having a beer with the guys, commiserating in the "what's the deal with women?" conversations.
Twice in college, I remember sorority girls bouncing up to me, their lovely locks flipping and flapping around their heads, asking if I was going to rush. Needless to say, the answer was a resounding "no", but I never really used those words precisely.
The first incident was at University of Tennessee, Knoxville. It was an incoming freshman orientation thingamajig, where you spend a couple days on campus, spend the night in a dorm, mingle with the college world, experience the lure of an awesome college education. My friend Raj and I sat on a campus fountain after lunch, waiting for our next seminars. Yippa Kippa Blippa sorority army approached from the east and the lead ENTHUSIASTICALLY asked me if I was going to RUSH. I swear, there were birds tying ribbons in her hair when she talked. Raj and I looked at each other and started laughing. The surreality of the question was a shock in itself, and therefore hilarious. They walked away.
The second incident was years later. I transferred to University of Texas at Arlington, in the Architecture program. One of my basic requirements was Psychology 101 and I just wanted to get in, get out, without being noticed much beyond getting the credit for the class. So, as per my usual self, I sat on the back row of the stacked classroom. Day one: Goopa Klappa Crappa girls surrounded me. I had nowhere to go--I was in the bloody BACK of the room. "Hi! Rush! Yeah? Ohmahgod? Yeah? Totally?" or something like that. It was Psychology class, so I thought maybe get a little early practice. I let them talk about the super awesomeness of Greek life for about 20 minutes or so before I broke in. I told them that was I was excited to be a part of a NORMAL human group after what I'd been through over the summer. Mock concern, interested faces, puzzlement... I told them I'd been abducted by aliens the prior July and showed them the chicken pox scar behind my ear. "That's where the implant went." I managed to keep a straight face through the "oh you're so funny"s long enough to convince them that I was either not interested in their sorority or I was frootloops. Either way, they went away.
So the point here is that when the miscarriages and crap started happening, I was wholly unprepared for how to deal. Men go through their own psychology and can never understand exactly what it means to the woman, as much as it's impossible for a woman to understand what it means to a man. Initially, I made jokes. The first couple losses, I actually joked about it. Lighten the mood, try to make it seem less horrific than it really was. The first one was easy. We weren't quite ready, it was unintended. The second was harder. By the third, I was losing my grip on everything, and it was unfair to expect Brad to be able to really help because I'd joked my way out of the first and second.
That was when I found The Board--a recurrent miscarriage board where I could commiserate with other women going through the same mosaic of emotions that I was going through. Because it wasn't just women hanging out with women for the sake of women hanging out with women, I felt very comfortable and made some friends (who are still some of the closest friends I've had in my life.) When so many of the other board members gained what we all hoped to gain--a successful pregnancy--I knew it was time to move on. Eventually I made the switch to blogging, at the nudging of an uncommon rockstar named Julia. I will always thank her for that nudge because without it, I was a duck sitting in a nearly-empty puddle feeling sorry for myself.
Blogging was a whole new world to me. I met an entire universe of women who were feeling the same way I felt, though they got there from different paths. Different kinds of women, different age groups, different lifestyles, different approaches to their feelings. A big part of myself was enthusiastically joining a sisterhood that I never realized before. And now, with Facebook, I'm getting to personally know a lot of you, which I am eternally grateful for. Not to say I'm grateful for my miscarriages, because honestly I'd have rather gotten to know you all under better circumstances. However, I am grateful to know you.
Just wanted to tell you that.
