A week ago a tore my calf muscle while walking into my house.
For the sake of drama and excitement and just plan lack-of-suck I wish I could tell you I tore my calf muscle while rock climbing or chasing down a purse snatcher or something, but no, I tore it walking from my car to my house.
Around my ‘tween years, my dad became involved in the planning, building, and birth of a housing co-op. I spent summers here until I was 11, when my sister and I moved in with him full time. My dad was an aging hippy, and many of the other co-op board members were too. The co-op was filled with an eclectic mix of creative types: musicians, artists, photographers, crusaders. There was drama, and at times it was a bit too close-knit of a community, but for the most part, it was a pretty cool place to live.
I haven’t talked about my miscarriage very often, or with very many people. There’s a perception that these things need to be kept hidden, that they are private. Maybe we join a pregnancy loss forum where we discuss it with other women going through the same thing, maybe we talk it over with our partners or therapists, but we don’t talk about it publicly.