When I was a kid I used to visit my family in New York almost every summer. Hana and I would stay with my Aunt Roberta, Uncle Ethan and cousin Zach in Brooklyn and then the kids would head out to Jericho, Long Island to visit Grandma and Grandpa where we’d catch fireflies and listen to my Grandpa tell the same story of Jack and the Beanstalk while the room fan buzzed behind his head, because it was the only children’s story he knew.
And every year we made the same pilgrimage to Coney Island, where we’d get a Nathan’s hotdog and ice cream cone, pay $2 to walk through the freak show where strange fetuses floated in formaldehyde jars and women with beards read tarot cards. Then we’d get in line to ride the Cyclone roller coaster where I’d start breaking out into a sweat and my aunt would tell me to “relax.” Hana got lucky. She was too short to ride. Aunt Roberta and Zach tried to convince me that the Cyclone was the best part of Coney Island. That it was an awesome thrill and that I’d regret it if I stayed behind like a baby.
I hated the Cyclone. In fact, I hated Coney Island. It took a really long time to get there on the subway, it was dirty and I was always afraid someone would kidnap me while my aunt was distracted taking pictures. I was a very practical, slightly curmudgeonly, highly anxious child. For me, the Cyclone was the absolute worst, and the fact that my older cousin Zach LOVED it and could ride it ten times in a row made it that much worse for me.
The Cyclone was built in 1927 and though it hardly compares to some of the newer, sleeker, faster rides at Disneyland or Magic Mountain, it is definitely one of the scariest. Its age makes it more terrifying as the old carts speed along over a rickety wooden track. Up and down, up and down, crack, crack, crack. You’re up in the air one moment, anticipating a plummeting death, then you’re zooming down listening to the sound of wood splintering and giving way beneath you.
I don’t understand why people like to be scared. Why the feeling of a hollow stomach and butterflies with tourettes in the pit of your soul brings some children pleasure. I just don’t relate.
Now, over 20 years later, I’ve been thinking of The Cyclone. I’ve been thinking about how this adventure through infertility is like an emotional roller coaster, but not just any roller coaster. It’s The Cyclone.
There are some moments where I’m feeling brave, and ready to take on whatever lies ahead of me. I can remind myself that this is my process and whatever happens will happen and the baby that’s meant to be mine will be mine. I’m not scared by a rickety old track and I have confidence that wherever I go, whatever happens, I will be ok. I feel like that little kid, standing just over 4’ 7” in line at Coney Island, about to make her cousin proud by facing her fears. And then once I’m strapped in and I know it’s too late to turn back, I feel trapped. Trapped by my life, by my decisions and by things I cannot make decisions about. I’m angry and resentful and want to blame someone for my current predicament. I’m out of control, I have no choice, I have to go along for the ride. And then we are up, high in the sky looking out towards the beach. Everything seems small and for a moment there is a pause and it’s almost exciting and freeing. There are so many possibilities and not knowing isn’t scary. Just for that moment. Then, within a split second, I am crashing, gritting my teeth, closing my eyes, and pushing with my feet into the cart in front of me to try and calm the butterflies. I want to cry. I want out. I hate the depths that I go to and how unfair it feels that I am strapped into this awful ride. I feel a flooding of fear that I may die here. I may fly out from the safety bars and go crashing to my death below. Or my heart may explode. I have the urge to stand up and get decapitated just so I don’t have to spend another second on this stupid thing. In this stupid place. And then it evens out for a second and there is calm and clarity. I can remind myself this too shall pass and what doesn’t kill me will make me stronger and braver and whatever other clichés you want to jam into one sentence. I know if I just let go and close my eyes and concentrate on the wind in my hair and the way my cheeks are vibrating, the ease of slower curves of the track, knowing the end is near, I can feel tranquil and at peace.
I feel like I’ve been riding The Cyclone for three years. That every time there’s a chance to jump off, to just stop trying, to give up on a trying to create a family, something tells me I need to just hang in there. Something tells me to sit my ass back down and prepare however I can for the ups and downs. My ride isn’t over yet. I have to hang in there and be present. When it feels crappy, it’s just going to feel crappy, but it will pass. And when it feels exciting and light and fun, it’s a fleeting moment, I can’t get too attached to it. The ups and downs are normal. And though I can anticipate them, I’m never fully prepared. I’m constantly caught off guard by the intensity of my feelings, and then I’m pleasantly surprised at how I handle a specific challenging situation.
I get nervous when I feel okay now. Like I'm at a good point, and then I'm going to come crashing down. But I think I feel okay because I've learned to just ride it. I have confidence in the end result, and after all we've been through already I also have confidence that we can survive knowing one day this ride will be over.
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