It was the biggest adventure I’d had yet — to spend my senior year at a British university that I’d randomly selected from a catalog. The point was that I’d be overseas in a foreign country — one that conveniently did not require that I have an aptitude for learning a foreign language.

Really it didn’t matter what the school was, I remember thinking as I boarded my flight to London Gatwick on the afternoon of Sept. 10, 2001. It was the first overseas flight I’d taken on my own. And as I bid my parents goodbye at the gate (yes, airport security had gotten that lax), my heart ached thinking I wouldn’t see them for nearly a year.

The flight itself was uneventful. ‘Score!’ I thought to myself as the customs agent gave my passport the first of many international travel stamps I would accumulate that year. And hilarity ensued when I asked to purchase a ‘TH-ames-link’ ticket for the Thameslink commuter train to take me into London. And then there were the five pieces of luggage I had hauled with me all the way into the city.

The last stretch of travel required that I hail a classic London taxi, and it was thrilling to sit in one. As I busied myself figuring out how British currency worked and how much to pay my driver, he addressed me and asked where I was from.

‘The States,’ I replied.

‘Ah,’ he said with an accent that was still foreign to me. ‘Did you hear about the plane that just flew into the World Trade Center?’

I swore I thought I’d missed something. ‘Excuse me?’

‘They’re saying these blokes flew a plane into the World Trade Center in New York. They just closed all the airports here. You must have been one of the last ones in.’

A small part of me still thought I was missing something in what he said and maybe it was just a small private plane flown by someone who accidentally flew into the middle of Manhattan.

Exiting the cab and making my way into the hostel where I was to meet my party from California was a blur. I must have paid the driver 10 pounds for a 4-pound cab ride.

I checked in at the desk and saw some of the other students who’d arrived ahead of me were glued to a television in the

commons room. BBC blared loudly, and as I watched the live footage, the first tower crumbled right in front of my eyes.

Everyone in the room gasped. It was unreal. Like a movie. But not.

*****

There were only two payphones in that entire hostel, and you couldn’t wedge your way to them in the narrow hallway – everyone was understandably trying to reach home. Most were not getting through. I vaguely remember agreeing to all sorts of long-distance credit card charges before being able to reach my parents later that evening, long after the second tower collapsed but the prospect of other hijacked planes still gripping me tight in the chest. Our conversation was short.

‘Are you safe?’

‘Yes, I think so. There are a lot of other students here. We’re meeting the program organizers tomorrow.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want to come back?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. But the airports are all shut down. I can’t do anything right now.’

‘OK, well try to get some rest. Oh my gosh, I’m so worried about you!’

‘I love you too, mom. Goodnight.’

Truth was I did want to head home the first chance I had. This was supposed to be a year in which I could test my wings. Even have my comfort zone extended beyond what I knew.

I didn’t expect to have it completely demolished.

The night passed and I as expected didn’t sleep much. The sounds of city life never ceased, and the backfiring of cars was enough to catapult my heart back to my throat.

The next day, I tagged along with other students to an Internet cafe nearby. Again, the line to use the computers snaked out the door. It felt like every American in a 10-block radius was at this cafe, hoping to connect with home. We chatted with each other without the kind of awkwardness that affects most inane conversations between strangers. This event bonded not only the Yanks in the queue but every person who heard our accent and stopped to wish us well in spite of what happened.

We spent a few more days in orientation before embarking on our respective universities across the country. During that time, we visited the sites and felt humbled by the show of American flags waving in public squares. I recall trying to act like a tourist and even taking in an obligatory Changing of the Guard ceremony at Buckingham Palace. It was packed. And the neatest thing was that the marching band added a song to their usual repertoire:

The Star Spangled Banner.

When we finally departed London — I was headed to Norwich, we came across a stockbroker from Merrill Lynch (his office was in lower Manhattan) who was headed to Ipswich for a wedding. Our conversation began easy enough, and he told us of his colleagues back in New York. A friendly British couple within earshot heard our conversation and politely interjected: “Are you all Americans? I’m so terribly sorry about what’s happened. It’s completely unfathomable to me. So many people killed…”

We smiled our thanks and I noted his eyes growing damp with tears as he nodded his appreciation to them as well.

* * * * *

They had tried to put the North Americans at ease during orientation at my university by separating the international students by continents of origin and orienting us separately. As expected, we were the loudest of the group. But the campus’ support was appreciated.

Classes soon began and so did ample opportunities for socializing with students from all over the world, including places I was not all that familiar with. I entered this world of foreign academia tentatively, declining to talk about my country of origin unless absolutely necessary. There had been advice from our administrators in California to keep a low profile, so we did.

The American accent always gave it away, though.

With time, I was beginning to feel better. I joined a basketball club — by default, a way to surround myself with more Americans and a surprisingly large number of Greeks. A feisty French woman, a Luxembourgian, a Spaniard with mad ball-handling skills, and a great group of roudy Brits. After practice socializing always wound up at the student bar. It was at this time my drinking threshold was at its finest.

Things felt better.

Then one day, someone burned a message with acid into the student lawn: Damn Your War.

My defenses again went up.

It never ended. The fear and sometimes embarrassment to be known as an American was eating at me. But the low profile was meant for safety, I told myself. You never know who you can trust — best to be careful.

*****

Christmas came, and I made plans to spend most of it traveling the continent with an American friend and staying with numerous European friends along the way.

We stayed with two different German families through Christmas: one in geographic west Germany, and one who lived a long time in east Germany before the fall of the Berlin Wall. The west Germans were surprisingly well, American. We managed long dinner conversations using our friends as translators, but they were so eager to interact with us, ask us about our families, and learn about us. It made me ashamed to be so distrustful.

The east Germans also inspired another feeling: guilt. Mom, dad, and two sisters survived east Germany and made good with an apartment across the street from Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin. They endured so much and yet were still willing to open their homes to us. We sampled homemade cherry wine, rabbit with red sauerkraut, and great hospitality.

In fact, a lot of the rest of the year was this way. I learned that I have many preconceived notions about people, cultures, and things I didn’t really know or understand. And I knew that I absolutely LOVED having those notions demolished. I loved being proven wrong because my preconceived notions were so rooted in generalizations, stereotypes, and fear.

*****

Towards the end of my adventure in England, I was sad to go. I loved the version of me and the perception of the world I discovered during this tumultuous year and was afraid I’d lose her upon my return to all things easy, convenient, and comfortable in the U.S.

Nine years later, I can’t say I haven’t lost some of her. She was idealistic and able to find a silver lining in even the worst tragedy on American soil. Nine years later, we’re still arguing about a Muslim community center. We’re still threatening to burn another’s holy book. The silver has dulled to grey, and I wish I could find that 22-year-old version of myself again.

I’m disappointed and anxious.

My luteal phase, which typically hovers around 11 days, was 16 days this month. And my post-ovulatory temps were noticeably higher.

4 pregnancy tests — all negative.

I wonder what happened? Was this a miscarriage or did my luteal phase suddenly decided to lengthen?

When will it be my turn?

J and I had decided we could start again in these last few weeks. Too soon to tell anything, really, but my stumbling on this image this week made my heart flutter.

I am hopeful — cautiously so. I can now bring myself to go back and actually flip through some of my peers’ pictures of their children and their musings and find my heart aching with want…

In any event, he wanted to go up into the mountains to take one last gander at the winter snow before it all melted off. I was noncommittal about it until I checked into Facebook Sunday and saw all the insufferable Happy Mother’s Day messages for new moms, old moms, and moms-to-be. With the exception of a beautiful entry written by one of my favorite actresses, Nia Vardalos, on the topic of the unintended heartache this manufactured holiday can cause, I was ready to shut off the computer and go hide in the mountains.

So that’s what we did. We spent a beautiful afternoon snowshoeing up alongside Mt. Rainier, enjoying the vistas and not having to hear a single person say Happy Mother’s Day.

After a quick dinner on the way back home, we pulled into our driveway and noticed our front lawn had been mowed — and not by us. J and I didn’t see the need to invest in a motorized lawn motor and have been subsisting on a push mower, which really couldn’t cut grass as short as it was yesterday when we got home.

We figured it was our neighbor, who was meticulous about his grass, but we were worried that he might have been trying to tell us something about the state of our front lawn…so we went over to thank him.

“It’s not a problem,” he said. “Consider it a happy mother’s day present.”

Gesturing to me, he continued, “I heard that you were with child…”

J looked nervous and I think I looked blank.

“No, not right now,” we both said.

“Oh, well Michelle who is friends with that neighbor over there who sells Avon said…well, maybe they heard wrong…”

To his credit, our kind neighbor quickly changed the subject.

On the way back, I mulled it over…our neighbors were talking about us. No one knew about the pregnancy and miscarriage except for R&B…those gossip mongers!

But I was far from upset or angry. I wish we could have confirmed our kind neighbor’s comment, but there was no baby to speak of.

Still, they were talking about us. It felt strangely nice, like we were actually becoming part of the neighborhood.

It’s such a cliche — A Chariots of Fire moment. But really, it did.

People often talk about internal mantras or other self-sustaining thoughts that cycle through their heads as they are in the depths of a long distance race.

“This is easy — you can do it.”

“Keep running, fat ass.”

“6 miles down — 7 more to go.”

“Last hill. Last hill. Last hill…”

Stuff of that sort.

For me, it was, “You wouldn’t be doing this if you had not lost your baby. Make it good.”

It was what I said to myself at every point I wanted to let my running form go and walk. Every time I hit a new hill. Every time someone passed me. Every time my left shoulder cramped up and I wanted to walk and shake it off.

I had worked a good four months to get to this point where the idea of running 13.1 miles was not only doable but actually seemed like an appealing challenge.

Because I otherwise would be about eight months pregnant by now. Rather than scouting stores out for throw-away gloves and ponchos, I’d be stocking up on baby supplies, enjoying the attention at baby showers and my mother arriving to fuss over me before my due date — which would have been in June.

I had wanted that so badly. Instead, here I was, willing myself to push through to the very end. On a road that just wouldn’t end.

I needed this. I needed a beyond lofty goal to put my back up against after learning in early December that the baby I thought I was nurturing inside me had died.

I needed a clear and present reason not to jump back on the conception wagon immediately with my husband because I knew if I did, my life would degenerate into regular cycles of foolish hope and manic depression. My body needed time to heal. There was no scientific study out there telling me this was the case — I knew my body wasn’t ready for the physical and emotional upheaval of trying to conceive again.

I needed for 2010 to have some kind of meaning — if I wasn’t going to be a mother this year, what was I?

I would make this year count. I would make it memorable. I would run a half marathon.

At last, the route veered left. It was the last turn. The finish line was within sight. My body and my physical heart ached but continued to pound heavily, making every stride count as I flew towards the finish.

Yet my tender heart wanted to savor this. Four months of hard work. Four months of putting on a brave face each time I saw another Facebook update that someone else from high school was pregnant. Four months of ignoring the hen-like chatter outside my cubicle about all the expectant mothers at work. Four months of feigning happiness and glad tidings to my cousins who were of course, pregnant.

This was my time. I was here — less than 200m from the finish line — and I didn’t want it to end.

“You wouldn’t be doing this if you had not lost your baby. Make it good.”

The sound of a runner’s heavy breathing on my right and the steady pad-pad-pad of his footfalls stubbornly at my side helped snap time back to its normal speed of passage. He apparently decided he did not want to relent the narrow lead he had on me as we both approached the final few meters to finish line.

And so with a final desperate burst, he leapt out in front, throwing both arms up for that obligatory victorious finish line photo op — which only later did I realize probably ruined my own photo op as there was a big meaty arm in front of my face when I finally stepped over the blue mat.

The clock registered something like 2:41:xx. My heart sank. In spite of my original goal, which was just to complete a half marathon, I had wanted to run the race in under 2 hours and 15 minutes — what was prescribed for me on my training plan.

My more pressing concern though, was in finding my husband. Prior to the race, we agreed that he’d head over to the finish line at about 2.5 hours past the start, as in my practice runs, that was about the time it took me to finish 13 miles.

Wrapped in a noisy, silver cellophane-like warmer, I ambled through the crowd and finally thought I spotted him near the winner’s tent. Only when I made the decision to head down there did I hear a voice next to me:

“Hey!”

He was standing off to the right of the finish area. He looked disappointed.

“When did you come through?”

“Like 5 minutes ago…”

His eyes grew big. “I totally missed you coming through! You weren’t supposed to be here yet…”

“Yeah well, the clock says 2:40-something…I was slower than my goal time…”

“That’s the marathon clock. Remember, they started a half hour earlier than you.”

Oh.

So that means….I came in at 2:11:xx. Under 2:15.

“Yeah, I didn’t even have my camera ready…I was fiddling with it when you came in!”

The disappointment on his face was adorable. It only made it that much more difficult to wipe the grin from my face. I beat my goal time by a good 4 minutes.

More significantly, I set out to do something for myself this year. And I followed through. I met my goal. I ran a half marathon. And it was awesome.

All the rest of the day, my heart was so full of gratitude. I was grateful that I had the opportunity to do this for myself.

I was grateful to a great group of people I met in January who helped train and nurture aspiring runners and racers toward their personal running goals and who never spoke a negative word to anyone.

I was grateful to the few friends I shared my sad secret with, whose text messages, e-mails, and phone calls meant so much.

I was grateful to my husband for not ridiculing me when I first brought up running a half marathon as therapy to help me get past the miscarriage. For coming with me each weekend during my long training runs. For bragging about me. And for believing in me.

There were many adorable children milling about afterwards, cheering their parents on or just toddling about. Until now, I had never envisioned myself being one of those people who ran for fun. But given this experience, I hope one day soon, I’ll be one of those parents at the finish line, celebrating with my family.

Please…stop talking about it in front of me.

I can’t give my parents four — almost five — grandchildren right now. I failed the first time. Please stop sending your silly family pictures to the rest of us. I know it bothers my mother, and it sure has hell bothers me.

Please stop telling us about all your whirlwind adventures now in your retirement years, when I don’t think you’ve held a real fulltime job in your entire life. How fortunate for you to have married a man whose father was a smart, savvy businessman — who set his family up for life long before he passed! My parents can’t jet off to Asia or the Mediterranean every few weeks. They don’t have the money.

Stop it. Stop your gloating. You probably don’t even realize you’re doing it. You’re offended if we don’t respond to your e-mails or Facebook postings. Well, really…can you blame us?

Make no mistake — I love you and love the role you play in our family now, especially since grandma and grandpa have passed. But please, give it a rest.