The art of losing

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

— Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

          — Elizabeth Bishop

March 19, 2002. I'd had a Clomid IUI on St. Patrick's Day. In February the doctor had left a note on my chart directing future spelunkers that the catheter must be "bent like a hockey stick" to fit my labyrinthine contours. March's was the first IUI that didn't hurt. I was sure that meant something. I was hopeful and fresh. At that time we weren't even considering IVF, but that would be the next fertility procedure we tried.

March 19, 2003. I was pregnant, but after a stall in the rise of my hCG levels, we knew it was failing. We were awaiting an ultrasound to confirm the end, unaware that it wouldn't be truly over for quite some time to come. In the next few days I would have long, vivid, impossible dreams of a baby girl named Lucy, an infant who slept against my breast and smiled in her sleep when I touched her cheek.

March 19, 2004. This would have been the due date of my second pregnancy.

Like Jo, I talked to Dawn yesterday. I told Dawn about a trick my mother taught me that has helped me get through difficult stages of my life: "Pretend you're gathering material for a book." We talked a bit about what happens next — what happens once I know how the story ends.

Some people say infertility doesn't end, even once you've moved on, with a child or without. I need to believe it will — while the losses still seem fresh, all I have is faith. I would like to believe I'll be able to turn my back on this phase of my life. It is, after all, a phase: a sad one, but one that will certainly pass (as phases tautologically do), and one I hope I won't dwell on for a single spare moment once I'm no longer in the thick of it.

I'm unhappy with my current need to look backward on what's been lost. I am hopeful that even if that urge remains, it will be modulated someday by the temptation of sweeter memories. Five years ago today I lost the baby. Three years ago this month another would have come. And also: A year ago we brought the baby home. Yesterday our toddler learned to walk. Last night our daughter smiled in her sleep.

Edited to add: Some of you have written about not being able to leave comments on this entry. I've turned off comments on purpose. While I'm unspeakably grateful to know I'm in your thoughts, I'd like this post to stand on its own without elaboration.