Polishing a Lost Smile

     I went to the dentist for my biannual cleaning.  The last time I had been, my overly friendly hygienist noticed my protruding belly and asked me a barrage of questions about my six month gestated baby.  "What are you having?" "Is this your first?" "Have you thought about names?"  The excitement of others about my pregnancy always had the ability to rub off on me and I smiled a proud and ecstatic smile.  A smile I have since lost.  She told me stories of her first pregnancy and shared musings of when.  When you have your baby...

     The days leading up to this dental appointment, were filled with an awful dread that someone, most likely my jolly and friendly hygienist, would ask me about the baby.  When I mentioned this dread to friends, most of them would reassure me.  "Well," they'd protest, "they probably won't remember.  I mean, they see a lot of people."  I tried to adopt their order of thinking.  Regardless, I still felt uncomfortable and tentative when I walked into the office.

     I signed in and sat down in the waiting room as usual.  I could feel my nervousness begin to take root.  Trying to calm myself, I took out a book and pretended to read.  I had tried to read this particular book on infant loss several times.  I had even gotten a few chapters in, however, if someone asked me to tell them what the pages of the book explained, all I could tell them was that it was a book on infant loss.  I could recall no further details.  I stared at the words on the page and even flipped pages to avoid another waiting room patient from decoding my facade.  Finally my name was called.   I could feel my dread grow as I was led into the patient room.
     "How are you?" the hygienist blurted out from behind me as I gingerly hung my purse and coat on the provided hook.  I didn't quite know how to respond.  In the months after my daughter died I have been very careful when responding to the How are you? question.  I am careful to not say things like "I'm fine." or "well" or even "okay,"  because none of those things are true.  I don't want to recite some seemingly prerecorded response in the interest of saving everyone from  an uncomfortable moment.  But, I was suddenly dumbfounded.  My usual "I'm breathing" response may raise some suspicion from the hygienist and her overly perky assistant who otherwise, according to my friends, didn't remember that I was ever pregnant.
     "Okay," I responded tentatively.  I felt slightly sickened by my generic and dishonest reply.  My hygienist glared at me as if she knew I were not telling her the truth.  She knew I was a fraud.  I was sure that she remembered the x-rays I was supposed to have received at my last visit were postponed due to my pregnancy.  I could feel my stomach contract and the heat of the blood rushing to my ears.  I knew she was going to ask it. The dreaded question about the baby.
     "So...what did you have? A boy or a girl?" She asked.  She stood there glaring at me with an open mouth grin on her face much like a child would appear when she were about to receive a lollipop.  There is was, the question.  It seemed to linger in the air like a dissonant out of tune chord and in that moment it felt as if time were standing still.
     "A girl, she died." I spit out the words as quickly as I could.  It was almost as if the words had come from someone else's mouth.  Perhaps it was my sub conscience attempt to state a fact unattached from emotion.  When in reality this fact was one that stabbed me like a twisting knife that reached into the core of my being.
     I could tell she felt ambushed by this news.  She and her assistant exchanged uncomfortable and horrified glances before she cautiously responded with "I'm sorry."
     "It's okay,"  I countered.  The response from me was automatic as if the hygienist had pulled the I'm sorry lever on a conversation machine and the words its okay printed out of my mouth.  Its okay?  What?  Really, its not okay.  I tried to rationalize that perhaps I was letting her know that it was okay that she had asked the question.  After all, how could she have known.  This must have been it, because, of course, it was not okay that my daughter had died.
     "Oh...why don't you just go ahead and take a seat.  We'll, uh, we'll get you going on those x-rays."  She frantically blurted out.  She seemed to feel an urgency to move away from the awkward moment that had just formed. "Just sit tight..." and with that she left the room.
     I pushed back the tears I could feel forming in the ducts of my eyes and the bridge of my nose as I slowly sat on the dental procedure char.   The once perky assistant hurried to prepare all the films for the x-rays.  "I really like your earrings," she chattered.  "I have never seen earrings like that before."  I was wearing the same earrings I had been wearing the day my daughter died, other than for the surgeries I received, I had not removed those earrings since that day and even a few days prior.  They are copper brushed spirals that incorporate the post as the end of the spiral.  I had almost forgotten that they were even there.  Normally I would respond with a polite "thank you" and even offer explanation as to where she could get herself a pair.  But, on that day, I knew she was merely looking for things to talk about that didn't involve my dead child.  I silently nodded and then obeyed as she recited commands as to how I should open or bite the x-ray films.
     When the hygienist returned to the room, she laid out all her instruments, lowered the back of the chair and examined my teeth and gums.  "Looks good in there, seems like you've been doing a good job with the brushing and flossing."  This must be something she recites to most of her patients.  I certainly was not doing a good job with anything.  In fact, on several occasions, I had forgotten to brush or floss my teeth at all.  The latter may surprise many of my close friends and especially past roommates as they would be aware of my odd affinity for flossing.  However, now, none of that seems necessary.   As she cleaned my teeth she would inform me that there was some bleeding or plaque build up or even pocketing (though I am not sure what pocketing means).  Every time she would inform me of such things I would furrow my brow in confusion.  Didn't she know I didn't care?  In fact, being at the dentist's office at all seemed superfluous to begin with.  Why did the appearance of my teeth matter at all now? Now that I had lost my smile.
     After the appointment ended I went through the motions of scheduling my next cleaning.  In six months my child will still be dead and I may still not have found my smile.  But in six months, I will return to the dentist's office and get my teeth cleaned and polished, smile or not.  

Remarkably Unremarkable

     I am a remarkably unremarkable person.  I don't win awards or leap tall buildings in a single bound.  My story won't show up on the top of the google search page or win best seller titles.  I don't break records or turn heads on the street.  And finally, I don't ovulate and therefore don't get pregnant.  So, it seems, this unremarkable woman created a remarkable situation.

     Back on November 5, 2012, daylight savings, a reluctant self accompanied a friend to another friend's birthday party.   The party was at Boogie Fever in Ferndale, a night club with a mixed crowd ranging from the newly legal to the night on the town senior adult.  The light up elevated disco dance floor overflows with bachelorettes, men on the prowl, and aging co-eds. Boogie Fever's music focuses on the nostalgia of the 70's and 80's with the occasional '90's and beyond selection.  The patrons seem to revel in the novelty of each song played.  "Dude, I haven't heard this song in like forever!" or "I f-ing love this song!"  can be heard after the start of every title played. 

     I silently and not so silently mocked the other patrons of the club.  I mocked the way they were dressed, the way the men used what they thought was their A game to attempt to pick up women, and I especially mocked the man we dubbed the "stone urban cowboy" because he stood creepily still in his cowboy boots and hat on the side of the dance floor and observed as though he was watching a performance.  However, my cynicism quickly gave way to my desire to dance and though my attendance began as hesitant, I quickly warmed up to the light up disco dance floor and all its inhabitants.  

    As you do when you are at a club, I stayed close to the birthday party group.  There is strength in numbers at these places.  One such member of the group, the birthday girl's brother-in-law seemed to stay particularly close.  He awkwardly, but happily danced near me.  He took breaks when I did, and offered to get me fresh cups of water when I was thirsty.  I had a feeling he was interested in me, but thought perhaps it was a classic case of beer goggles.  Regardless of the reason, as we danced, he stayed as close as he could trying not to seem presumptuous or creepy.  I remember the first thing he said to me when he leaned in on the dance floor.  "You have nice hair," he praised with an insecurity in his voice.
     I recall wearing my hair down that night.  Often when I dance, I pull my hair back so I don't have to feel the sweat on the back of my neck.  But this night, I allowed my auburn curls to flow freely. My hair was just growing out from a short cut I had received over the summer and had just reached my shoulders.  "I did have nice hair," I thought.  It was not the smoothest or most romantic pick up line I have heard, but it was honest and sweet.  I smiled, probably blushed a bit and thanked him.
     "Pat," (we'll call him for the purposes of this story) he announced as he raised his hand to his chest.  "I'm Pat."  His eyes focused on my face, I could feel my features filling up with the heat of embarrassment.  The expression in his face seemed to plead for a response.
     "Lisa," I responded.  He smiled a sort of half smile from the right corner of his mouth revealing a dimple on that side of his face.  When I shared my name with him, it seemed to relax him a touch and throughout the remainder of the night he continued to stay close.  When the friend I came with no longer wished to dance Pat continued to dance with me.  Time passed quickly.  When the first 2:00 AM of the evening arrived, it struck me that I was to teach religious school in the morning and it was time to leave.  Pat begged me to stay and dance, but I insisted that I leave for the evening.
     "Can I get your number?" He pleaded.  I have never been the kind of girl who gives, or rather I should say, is asked for her number at a bar.  But I was not surprised by his plea, rather I was nervous, embarrassed, excited, and even moderately confidant.  I took a large gulp as if I was trying to swallow the cocktail of emotions I was feeling.
     "Sure," I responded.  I watched his eyes light up and he franticly pulled his phone from his pocket.  I waited until he gave me the signal that he was ready and I recited my phone number.
     "Can I call you later?"  He eagerly asked.
     I must have appeared confused.  I imagine, I most likely cocked my head to the side, much like my dogs do when they hear a concerning noise and I probably furrowed my brow.  I paused expecting him to clarify his question.  He did not.  "Later? Tonight?"  I felt silly responding in this manner.  He could not have possibly meant this evening, it was already the first of two 2 AM's and I had already mentioned once that I was to teach in the morning.
     "Yes," he revealed.  I was slightly stunned.  I again explained that I was to teach in the morning and was planning on going to sleep as soon as I arrived home.  "Okay, then tomorrow?" he eagerly countered.  I agreed and, with my friend, left the club.
     It is entirely possible that his eagerness to call me that same evening should have been the first of what became a collection of red flags.  At the very least it probably should've been, what my friends refer to as, a questionable decorative banner.  At the time I rather enjoyed the idea that I was so enchanting that a man had to hear my voice as soon as he possibly could.
     That evening was the spark that ignited a remarkably romantic and agonizing relationship.   A relationship that would transcend medical warnings.   The kind of medical warnings that advise an unremarkable woman, such as myself, that to create a child would not come without the assistance of many costly and potentially painful interventions, and even then may not come at all.  
     The following day he called just as he had insisted he would.  I listened to the message he left on my voicemail.  He audibly inhaled deeply before beginning to speak "Hey Lisa," He seemed to hold the hey as if he were obeying a fermata on a piece of sheet music.  "This is Pat frommm last night."  He had the kind of voice one would expect to hear from a late night radio host; a strong resonant baritone.  Despite the strength of his voice, each sentence he uttered was lead in by a tentative um.  "Um,  I was just giving you a call to see if maybe we could talk for a little bit.  Um My number is...well obviously you got my number,"  He then listed his number anyway.  "Um give me a call if you'd like.  Um I hope you're having a good day.  Bye"
     You may wonder how today, a year and a little over a month later, I can still remember his first message word for word and nuance for nuance.  Stated simply, I kept this message.  To this day I refuse to erase it from my voicemail.  Every so often the voicemail is cycled through and the recorded woman's voice precludes it by stating "The following message will be deleted from your mailbox. Message from..." I allow the message to play in its entirety and then when the recorded woman informs me that the message is complete, I press the 9 button on my phone to save the message again.  Why do I do this?  This is a question I am not entirely sure how to answer.  When I listen to the message I sometimes think of that moment as the inception of dream.  A dream that would later allow another dream to be imbedded within.  A dream where an unremarkable woman could have a remarkable romance that lead to a remarkable conception.  

The Happy Little Blue Bird

     It was the evening of Wednesday, January 25th, 2012.  I stood in the cozy nail and make-up boutique surrounded by women, most of whom I hardly knew.  We had been lured there by the owners of said boutique, two sisters who believe that anything is possible.  They had a dream, the two of them, to one day stand on the stage of the legendary Cliff Bells in Detroit and sing.  They therefore, set into motion events leading up to this evening and the performance that would soon come to be.  There we all stood with one thing in common, we loved to sing.
     As we were led through a series of vocal warm ups I felt a little off balance, a little light headed perhaps.  This didn't concern me at all, because I knew what was causing these sensations.  I was harboring a dream of my own, you see.  I was in the beginning stages of growing a new human being.  This was confirmed by a medical professional only a few hours prior to our first group rehearsal.  We women who had been chosen, some would say coerced, into participating were to chose a torch song.  A song that had traditionally been sung by a woman during the 1930's or so.  A song that was heart wrenching, a tale of love lost or never meant to be.
     That evening, many of the women  in attendance sang their songs.  Songs to the tune of Cry Me a River, Black Coffee, Come Rain, or Come Shine and Crazy were all chosen.  I hadn't yet chosen my song.  I thumbed trough a list of songs that had been complied by our vocal coach, some of them caught my eye, but none more than Somewhere Over the Rainbow. I thought of what a wonderful lullaby it would make for my happy little blue bird that was growing inside me.  When I mentioned the song, Cheryl gasped "Oh I was hoping someone would pick that song!"  She looked at me as only Cheryl could.  It was a look that seemed to say, "You are just innocent and sweet enough to pull this off...do it, do it, please."
     I wondered exactly how that song could be considered a torch song.  After all it came from the classic movie The Wizard of Oz, a movie I understood as a starry eyed childhood realization that dreams really do come true and the power to change dream to reality was already inside of you.  I lacked, at that time, the true understanding of the song.  It was an understanding I would only come to much later.  October 2nd, 2012 to be exact.
     Despite my naivety with regards to how the song fit into the theme, I chose this as my torch song anthem.  I stepped up in front of the group to sing...
     "Somewhere over the rainbow," I sang with a nervous vibrato, "way up high. 
     There's a land that I've heard of once in a lullaby."  
I remember, though I felt nervous to be singing in font of this new group of people, I felt warmed knowing that I was singing to my baby.  A baby only three people on earth knew was in existence.  I thought about what a strong connection this child would have to this song and my voice.
     "Somewhere over the rainbow," I continued, "skies are blue.
      And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true."
That line is one that would come to haunt me.
     I sit here now, exactly eleven weeks after the dream that I dared to dream was due to come true.  You see, my happy little blue bird flew away from me as quickly as she came earth side.   Perhaps it was the dare.  I dared to dream that I would get to hold on to my little blue bird.  I dared to dream that I would hold her in my arms, kiss her head, watch her as I lovingly nursed her at my breast.  I dared to dream that I would feel her hot breath and tender skin against my chest, that I would hear her laugh, see her smile, and watch her grow into a beautiful person.  I dared to dream that the two of us would make so many beautiful memories together.  Perhaps I should have know better than to dare.  It was a tempt for fate I suppose.  The superstitions of my ancestors should have taught me better than to dare.
     I now understand how Somewhere Over the Rainbow fits into the torch song category.  You see, dreams don't really get to come true.  Not, at least, the way you dare them to.  That place over the rainbow where troubles melt like lemon drops is not a place I get to go or know.