The Sensitivity Chip

I'm about to complain about something that's been irritating me that most of you probably won't get. Its a problem I've not often heard about from other women, who in fact often complain of the opposite problem. While most men seem to be lacking in this department, my husband's sensitivity chip seems be of the, well, overly-sensitive variety.

I don't mean that he's a sissy, or that he cries at sappy movies. Mo is very much a "guy's guy" -- he's into sports and women and all the other stereotypical "man" stuff (not meaning to offend any of you sports-loving women, but you know what I mean). But he's also a sentimental fool, and often gets his feelings hurt over seemingly innocuous comments that people make.

Particularly me.

It seems I can piss my husband off without even trying. (It's a rare talent, and one that I'm trying to cultivate. :-D)

Yesterday, as we were getting ready to head to the beach with my parents, he was telling me about the football game he went to the night before. Specifically, he was complaining about how his phone died early in the evening and he had forgotten the charger.

"Oh, sure," I said casually. "You just didn't want me harassing you all night." I smiled to show I was simply kidding, a light-hearted ribbing among spouses.

Only, it hurt his feelings. Apparently, he has really been trying lately to keep the lines of communication open. And here I was, knocking his efforts. Without meaning to, but still.

Now don't get me wrong. I love my husband, despite the ups and downs of the last several years. Usually I find his sentimentality and sensitivity to be endearing. It's what sets him apart from other men. I mean, he's the one that reminds my mom every year that we decorate our house at Christmas in white, gold, and red because those were the colors we used in our wedding. He regularly posts videos of his favorite 80's bands on FB, along with comments about what each song reminds him of and how much his friends from then mean to him. He is at heart, despite what I've shown on this blog, a great big marshmallow.

But sometimes, mind you, it gets on my ever-loving last nerve. Sometimes, his inability to let an offhand comment just SLIDE is what causes an even bigger argument. Sometimes, I want to look at him, roll my eyes, and say "Oh, please." Every once in a while, I start wishing that he could be just a bit more obtuse when it comes to these things.

But then I realize that there are probably women out there wishing for a husband who will remember not only their wedding anniversary but the anniversaries of the day they met, and the date of their first kiss. There are probably women who would appreciate a sappy card for no reason and a man who actually WANTS to hold their hand in public. A man who, despite his inability to articulate a satisfactory response, actually LISTENS when we fight and is able, in the midst of his anger, to declare his wife "the best damn thing that ever happened to [him]."

He's far from perfect, as my regular readers know. But this Thanksgiving, despite my complaints, I'm glad that this is the kind of problem we're facing these days.

It could be worse.

Ouch

I was reading a new blog this week, a new face with the familiar problems. She wrote about the pain of fertile ignorance and the frustration that accompanies their innocent assumptions that life will go according to plan. As I wrote a comment to commiserate, I noticed the captcha at the bottom of the screen: "Outch."

Spelling aside, I thought it quite fitting for an IF blog. If any one word could sum up this journey, "ouch" would be it. Such a simple word, one we learn early in life, and yet one that has over the years has acquired many different nuances.

First came the disappointing ouch of the continued arrival of AF, month after month.

Then came the more heartbreaking ouch of the negative pregnancy tests.

Next, the embarrassing ouch of invasive doctors and the angry ouch of diagnosis (or lack thereof). The financial ouch of treatments, followed by the physical ouch of injecting yourself on a daily basis. The varied ouches of side effects, coupled with the indignant ouch of repeated examinations and blood draws. And then there's the ouch of our fertile friends and family moving forward, while we seem unable to get ourselves unmired from the muck. The ouch of holding a newborn infant that isn't yours, the ouch of envy, jealousy, and guilt. The ouch of marital strain, of becoming distant or angry or inaccessible to your spouse. For some, there's also the debilitating ouch that comes when a life is given, when hope rises, and then is snatched away.

Each ouch cuts in different ways, and each leaves its own kind of scar. But all of us, somehow, find a way to endure, and to lend support to others in the trenches. It's only to an IF sister that I can say "ouch" -- and know that she knows exactly what I mean.

A Day In The Life of an IF-er

6:00 a.m. -- Alarm goes off.

6:01 a.m. -- Cursing, roll over and hit snooze. Yelp when you accidentally smoosh your left breast.

6:09 a.m. -- Alarm goes off again.

6:10 a.m. -- Decide it's too cold to get out of bed. Hit snooze again.

6:11 a.m. -- Realize your spouse has stolen all the covers. Punch him/her in the arm and forcibly steal them back.

6:18 a.m. -- Alarm goes off for the third time.

6:20 a.m. -- Discover that your T-shirt is drenched in sweat. Kick off all your covers and relish the breeze.

6:21 a.m. -- Stumble into the kitchen and pour yourself a cup of coffee.

6:22 a.m. -- Get pissed off all over again when you realize it's decaf.

6:23 a.m. -- Assemble daily medications and supplies.

6:25 a.m. -- Poke stomach and look for a spot that is less tender than the others.

6:26 a.m. -- Give up and pick the least purple spot.

6:27 a.m. -- Briefly consider the benefits of a heroin addict, given how often you are shooting up anyway.

6:28 a.m. -- Decide the negatives outweigh the benefits. Determine to stick to Lupron, Gonal-F, and Menopur only.

6:30 a.m. -- Return to the bedroom to get dressed.

6:45 a.m. -- Sit on the floor of your closet crying because not a single pair of pants you own will button.

6:50 a.m. -- Pull on the same pair of black, elastic-waist pants you have worn for the past five days.

6:55 a.m. -- Decide that every single shirt you put on makes you look bloated.

6:56 a.m. -- Realize that it's not the shirt. You ARE bloated.

7:00 a.m. -- Brush hair and teeth.

7:01 a.m. -- Dab spot treatments across the sudden flare-up of acne on your nose and chin. Think, "Aren't I too old for this?"

7:03 a.m. -- Apply base, concealer, and powder to said acne.

7:10 a.m. -- Head out the door for your morning doctor's appointment.

7:30 a.m. -- Arrive at the RE. Greet each nurse by name. Ask about their children, whom you seem to know intimately.

7:35 a.m. -- Put down TIME magazine. Give into guilty pleasures as you peruse Parenting instead.

7:45 a.m. -- Empty bladder.

7:46 a.m. -- Get undressed. Neatly fold your clothes on a chair, being careful to discreetly cover up your panties. Smile to
yourself at the irony of this action.

7:48 a.m. -- Put on flimsy paper robe and sit delicately on the table.

7:50 a.m. -- Review chart of the stages of pregnancy. Realize that you have it memorized.

7:59 a.m. -- The nurse arrives!

8:00 a.m. -- Lay back on the table, exposing your goodies to whomever is in the room.

8:01 a.m. -- Make idle chit-chat with the RE, ultrasound tech, and new nurse intern as they all examine your goodies.

8:02 a.m. -- Realize you forgot to shave your legs last night. Consider apologizing. Decide instead to ignore it.

8:03 a.m. -- Turn your attention to the ultrasound monitor. Try to count follicles.

8:04 a.m. -- Realize that you have no idea what you're looking for. Ask the tech how things are "shaping up in there."

8:05 a.m. -- Nurse is noncommittal. Wonder if that means you're going to have to cancel.

8:07 a.m. -- Nurse hands you a pink slip and tells you that you can get dressed.

8:08 a.m. -- Wipe.

8:09 a.m. -- Pull back on despised elastic-waist pants and blouse.

8:10 a.m. -- Cheerfully wave goodbye to nurses on your way out. Promise you'll see them again soon!

8:30 a.m. -- Arrive at work.

10:00 a.m. -- Pretend to be working on your computer. Instead, read infertility blogs using Google reader.

12:00 p.m. -- Ditch your Lean Cuisine and opt instead for a cheeseburger. You'll have reason soon enough to gain weight, right?

12:30 p.m. -- Feel guilty about eating fast food. Decide to take a brisk walk.

12:35 p.m. -- Realize you have a raging headache. Debate the necessity of taking anything for it.

12:40 p.m. -- Return to work.

1:00 - 3:00 p.m. -- Pretend to work while you wait patienty for your cell phone to ring.

3:00 p.m. -- Decide you can't wait any longer. Take a bathroom break.

3:05 p.m. -- Return to your desk. Check cell for missed calls.

3:06 p.m. -- See that you missed a call from your RE.

3:07 p.m. -- Return call to RE. Get voicemail.

3:08 p.m. -- Leave long-winded. rambling message. Forget to mention your name or chart number.

3:15 p.m. -- Realize you forgot to give your name or chart number.

3:16 p.m. -- Call RE back.

3:17 p.m. -- Get answering service. Leave a message.

4: 00 p.m. -- Call RE again.

4:30 p.m. -- Call RE again.

4:45 p.m. -- Call RE again.

4:59 p.m. -- Call RE for the last time, you swear.

5:00 p.m. -- Head home.

5:15 p.m. -- Blare your horn at the person in front of you who is driving too slow. Flip the bird.

5:30 p.m. -- Arrive home. Change into baggy sweats.

5:35 p.m. -- Consider preparing a healthy, well-balanced meal.

5:36 p.m. -- Grab the Ben & Jerry's instead.

5:45 p.m. -- Hear cell phone ringing in the next room. Leap over furniture and step on the dog as you race for it.

5:46 p.m. -- Breathily answer the telephone. Try not to cry when you realize its your sister.

5:52 p.m. -- Hang up with sister. Glare at the telephone.

5:58 p.m. -- See the RE's phone number flashing on the cell phone. Take a deep breath, and answer.

5:58 p.m. and 30 seconds -- Hang up the phone. Head back to your stash of drugs.

6:00 p.m. -- Turn the dial on your Follistim pen to increase your dose. Realize you've dialed too much.

6:01 p.m. -- Cursing, try to dial it back. Start crying when liquid gold spurts out of your pen.

6:02 p.m. -- Hand your Follistim pen to your husband for disassembly.

6:12 p.m. -- FINALLY stick yourself with your evening dose. Ignore your husband's ogling of your bruised, swollen stomach.

6:15 p.m. -- Turn on the evening news.

6:18 p.m. -- Cry at the story about the abandoned kitten.

6:25 p.m. -- Bawl at the story about the woman who just gave birth to quintuplets.

6:30 p.m. -- Peruse TV guide to weed out any potential pregnancy, babies, or child-related story lines on your favorite prime-
time shows.

6:45 p.m. -- Realize that the only thing "safe" are cartoons.

7:00 p.m. -- Flip to the Disney channel.

7:03 p.m. -- Turn off the television when you realize they are playing "Muppet Babies."

7:05 p.m. -- Take your laptop to bed with you, deciding to catch up on your favorite blogs.

7:45 p.m. -- Slam your laptop closed in disgust after enviously reading the excited "I'm PREGNANT!" postings of your former-IF internet-friends.

8:00 p.m. -- Lie in bed counting days until potential transfer, and then resulting due dates. Avoid allowing yourself to consider names, however.

8:00 to 10:00 p.m. -- Fall into a fitful, restless sleep, from which you will undoubtedly wake several times before morning.

**Repeat as many times as necessary until a satisfactory result is achieved. In the event that the desired outcome remains elusive, DO NOT use hormonal imbalance as a defense for murdering well-meaning (yet insensitive, ignorant, or just plain STUPID) friends or family members.

Momma MoJo

I'm lucky.

Didn't think you'd ever hear me say that, did you?

I am, in a very specific way. And I know it.

One of my favorite sarcastic-turned-happily-pregnant people posted a great question on her blog the other day: are you "in" or "out" of the fertility closet? The comments that this post sparked were varied and thoughtful. As I read through them, I was struck by how often women just like me expressed disappointment or hurt over the lack of support that their families had been able to provide.

I'm lucky.

Momma MoJo is the single most supportive person I know.

She has stood by me my entire life. She has never once questioned the decisions I've made, even when they've clearly been on the wrong side of stupid.

When, at age 16, I started dating a boy who was in college, she didn't try to stop me, even though I KNOW she had reservations.

When I wanted to move 600 miles away with my boyfriend at the tender age of 18, she paid for a moving van and co-signed the lease on my apartment, despite the fact that she was probably broken-hearted to see her oldest child go so far away.

When I announced at age 19 that the boyfriend and I were getting married, she gave me tips on how to do so on a budget.

Six months later, when we broke up, she listened without judgement as I cried.

Three months later, when I moved in with a man ten years older than me, she held her tongue. She even drove down to meet him -- and told me that she approved of my choice.

Less than a year later, when I told her we were getting married, she didn't tell me that it was too soon, although she thought it was. All she told me was that she wanted me to be happy. She helped me plan the wedding, altered my dress, made dresses for the flower girls, and cooked for 100+ people.

In the seven years since, she has withheld judgement time and time again, despite issues that would have had many, many women running for the hills.

My momma's mother (my grandmother) is the exact opposite. She's the type of woman who passes judgement (loudly) on everyone and everything. It's nearly impossible to meet her standards. And so, my momma determined years ago that she would do her best to be the opposite.

And she has. My mother has taught me, through example, what unconditional love is all about. She has taught me that loving someone through their faults often results in a stronger bond than trying to "fix" whatever is broken. She has shown me, time and time again, what being a mother is all about.

This Thanksgiving, I'm grateful that I get a chance to be with my momma. I can hug her, and talk to her, share stories and wine. I can bask in her love as we cook, and clean, and go through all the rituals associated with an otherwise painful holiday. I relish the fact that I GET to spend time with her, instead of enduring it. I really am incredibly lucky.

I love you, Momma MoJo. And I hope that, one day, I can do as good by my own children as you have done by me.

My Apologies -- Only, Not Really

While it makes for boring posting, things in the MoJo household continue to run smoothly. Quite clearly, Mo's depression is receding (for now). I asked him last night if he would consider taking something for it. He said "Maybe." He then tried to give me a little insight into it -- but was only willing to divulge so much. The thing is, I know what he's been through. He's had a hard life. I don't need the details -- I know what has happened, and that's enough. It doesn't excuse his behavior, but it does help explain it.

I also told him last night how I was scared that his depression would come back. Looking back over the past seven years, I can see the cyclical aspects of it. I'm even coming to believe, in my layman's lack of professional insight, that he may even be a bit manic-depressive.

The question I have now, then, is how do I help my husband -- while saving myself at the same time?

Big Decisions

As many of you who have already been through this know, IVF requires some big decisions. Not simply about going through with the procedure, but also whether or not to use donor eggs, donor sperm, or donor embryos. Whether or not you want to freeze any leftover embryos. How many to eggs to fertilize, how many to transfer. And then, there's the REALLY big questions.

What do you do with your leftover embryos if one of you passes? If both of you die? Or, in the event of divorce or separation?

It should not surprise any of you that I had some definite feelings about these things.

Signing these consent forms requires some heartfelt discussion with your significant other. After all, their stake in the embryos you are making is equal to yours. Given the turmoil of my marriage as of late, I was particularly concerned about how Mo felt about keeping embryos after separation/divorce.

He was very gracious, understanding, and magnanimous. He was, in short, the man I married again.

Our ultimate decisions are personal, and I'm sure you'll understand why I don't feel like sharing them here. The bottom line, though, is that Mo and I agreed about two fundamental things: 1) This is an extremely important thing for both of us. It may very well be the only shot either of us have at having children. and 2) Given how much we love each other, we would not want to deny the other the opportunity to be happy, despite the state of our marriage.

All in all, our day yesterday was excellent. Mo's depression is lifting, and he is more like his old self. He kept the embryologist and I in stiches, which helped the day pass more quickly. We enjoyed a nice lunch at a new restaurant, and had dinner with a couple of friends before heading home. On the way back, Mo told me how much he enjoyed spending the day with me. He also told me how much he has missed me.

As I have missed him.

I know that nothing is solved at this point. The depression, and the accompanying issues, are bound to make an appearance again if nothing is done to prevent it. Mo needs counseling, perhaps even medication. I'm working on it. But we're still taking things one day at a time, and right now, each day is better than the one before.

Because You're All On The Edge Of Your Seats. . . .

Mo DID make it to our appointment today. 12 hours later, we are home and exhausted. Will update tomorrow, I promise. For now, it's a hot shower and off to bed.

Reason To Believe

On Sunday, Mo and I were driving across town, post-argument, post-apology. He was up early, dressed, and had done laundry for the second day in a row. Out of the blue, he asked me "Why did you bring up the Issue the other day?"

Not wanting another fight, and yet not wanting to continue to lie to either Mo or myself, I told him that certain behaviors indicate certain things to me. Whether they are true or not, I have no way of knowing. In fact, over time, I've grown to not trust my own judgment. I want to believe that everything is fine, even when its clear that everything is not.

Without coming right out and saying it, (Mo is as good at using euphemisms as I am), he confirmed my suspicions of weeks past. "You're not stupid," he told me. "Or crazy."

Aren't I, though?

Later that afternoon, we are at Wall.y Wor.ld, browsing CD's and doing some shopping. Mo starts humming and asks me "What's that song?" I didn't know, but I knew the words. We both stood there in the aisle, foolishly singing more and more of the lyrics as we skimmed the backs of the CD cases and waited for the "aha!" moment to come.

When it did, our eyes met briefly. "Oh, yeah. That's it." Mo put it into the cart and we moved on.

In the car on the way home, we played the CD. Listening to the lyrics, I once again thought to myself, "Yes. That's it, exactly."

If I listened, long enough to you,
I´d find a way to believe that it´s all true.
Knowing that you lied, straight-faced, while I cried.
Still I look to find a reason to believe.

If I gave you time to change my mind
I´d try to leave all the past behind.
Knowing that you lied, straight-faced, while I cried.
Still I look to find a reason to believe.

(one more time)
Still I look to find a reason to believe.

-- Rod Stewart, "Reason To Believe"

Lovely, Lovely Lupron

So I'm on my fourth day of a long-Lupron protocol. 15 units each morning, which will decrease to 10 on Wednesday. So far, it's difficult to categorize the effects of this medication, as moving my classroom (and the accompanying physical labor involved) may have also contributed to the general aches and pains that I'm experiencing. I've got most of the listed "common" side effects - breast tenderness, hot flashes, difficulty sleeping, sore throat. Funnily enough, I mentioned to Mo that I wasn't feeling well last night. When I explained the sore throat and general aches and pains, he told me that I should rest, or that soon I would be sick.

"And then we won't be able to do this cycle. And that would be --" He stopped. We both knew what he meant. I grinned, but inside I was thinking, You don't get off that easy, buddy.

After researching what Lupron does (temporarily flood your estrogen levels, then stops estrogen production), I stood under a hot shower last night trying to work out the kinks in my back and shoulders. I realized that, indeed, the emotional side of me seems to be on hold -- the weeping woman of this weekend replaced by a general feeling of "Huh. Ok."

So, I wonder, is this what it feels like to be a man?

Waffles, Freud, and Dr. Mom

You may as well slather me with butter and drizzle Mrs. Butterworth's all over me.

I am such a waffle.

Mo, apologetic and sick, continues to swear that he wants to do this. That he will take the time off from work. The clinic says "we still have time!" and is willing to reschedule for next week.

I just injected myself with Lupron.

I am such an idiot.

* * * * * * * * *

My mom, on the other hand, is the most amazing person I've ever known. Just as she was willing to swoop me back into the nest yesterday morning, she's also supportive of my indecisiveness. "Take your time, be sure, don't rush. We're here today, tomorrow, next month. We love you and will always be here, no matter what you decide."

If it wasn't for my mom, I don't know how I could cope.

We had a long phone conversation last night in which we both cried. I just love her so much. It has to be hard for her, to listen to me go through all of this and be unable to do a damn thing about it. And yet, no matter what I throw at her, she has remained supportive of me 100%. I want to leave my husband? Ok. I want to stay and have a baby with him? If that's what will make me happy. Keep taking fertility meds while at the same time continuing to look at apartments back home, just in case? The most natural thing in the world.

I know I get a lot of my codependency tendencies from my mom. Her marriage to my father, which lasted nearly 20 years, mirrored in many ways my own. So she gets me, where I'm coming from. She, however, has also spent a tremendous amount of time getting healthy and breaking her previous bad habits. She's found genuine happiness with my stepfather, a man who has loved me more unconditionally than my biological father will ever be capable of doing. She is encouraging me to do whatever I need to do to keep my own sanity.

She isn't judging me.


* * * * * * * * *

I'm taking things one day at a time. I applied for three teaching positions back home yesterday (yes, they still have openings at this point in the school year). I found some rental homes (and discovered that the apartments my mom lives in will allow me to rent a one-bedroom AND keep my pups). I dis-enrolled from all of our automatic bill-paying services so that, if need be, I can utilize my full paycheck for whatever I need.

I'm not being unrealistic. I know that making it through this cycle is a long-shot. Mo still has plenty of opportunities to cause havoc. But, sucker that I am, I am choosing to take him at his word. I am choosing to trust him, knowing full well he doesn't deserve it.

You see, he knows it too, and though not at the heart of his depression (which clearly he suffers from), it certainly doesn't help. He KNOWS how fucked up his life has become. He KNOWS he isn't doing all that he promised, all that he wants to do. He KNOWS that this isn't what I want, nor what he wants. He is just so entangled in it that I don't believe he knows a way out.

As he said the other day, we're gonna take it one day at a time.






P.S. Comments are closed for this post. Not because I think you'll judge me -- okay, that's a lie. It's because I totally fear you'll judge me. And I may change my mind tomorrow. So I think it will be easier -- for me-- if I just don't open myself up to that right now. I hope that you all understand.

My Options

I still have them, I guess, despite the overwhelming feeling that I've been backed into a corner with nowhere to turn.

I woke Mo up no less than 5 times this morning, starting an hour before we were supposed to leave.

At five minutes until 8, he pulled the covers over his head.

I begged, I pleaded.

"Just reschedule," he said.

I tried to explain that we can't. That I am supposed to start Lupron TOMORROW and this stuff needs to be knocked out NOW. That next week is a bunch of other stuff that has to get done. That I bent over backwards to get him an appointment on his day off so that he wouldn't have to miss work. That the next IVF run we'd qualify for would be in January.

That I wasn't willing to reschedule, again.

That if he backed out on me again, we were through with treatments.

That my heart, my spirit couldn't take this any longer.

He remained in bed.

The message he's sending is pretty clear, isn't it? Of course, he's going to play the "I'm sick" card. Only he's ALWAYS sick when it matters, and it's because of the choices HE makes. He chose last night to stay up until three in the morning, knowing we had this appointment. He chose to stay in bed, despite my tears and my practically begging him not to.

He made his choice.

Now, it's time for me to make mine.

* * * * * * * * * *

Option #1: Call in sick tomorrow. And Friday. Head home to my mom's (12 hours away) with less than $2000 in my pocket. Leave behind my precious furbabies and try to sort this out from there.

Option #2: Wait until my mom arrives for Thanksgiving. Have her and my stepdad help me pack, and go back home with them. This option still leaves me next to no money (although I'll get paid on the 30th) and forces me to leave behind Fat Girl and Big Boy, as my parents' apartment is not big enough for them.

Option #3 Make it until Christmas break. Try, try, to negotiate a settlement of some kind with Mo. Hope that he recognizes how much he's hurt me already and doesn't try to make me miserable for the next six weeks. The benefit of this option is that I will have more money to take, since we get paid on the 30th and will receive December's check before we leave for the holidays. An additional $4000 in your pocket is nothing to sneeze at when you are starting over from scratch. This also allows me some time to try to find a small house to rent back home, so that I can take at least Fat Girl with me. I can't imagine for the life of me falling asleep alone, without at least one of them to cuddle me as I sob over the brokenness of my marriage. If I choose this route, I may take the Thanksgiving holiday and head home (instead of my mom coming here), which will allow me to house-hunt in person.

None, and I repeat NONE, of these options is what I really want. What I really want is for my husband -- who is buried somewhere, hidden underneath this stranger I no longer know -- to emerge, to take me in his arms, to tell me that this has all been a bad dream. That we are going to be fine, that we are going to have the family I've always dreamed of.

It's taken me a long time to get here, but I finally realize this is never going to happen. No matter how hard I work at it, no matter how much space or time I give him, Mo is never going to be the man I thought he was, the man I want him to be. Our differences are too pronounced, even if our ultimate goal is the same. I can continue to spin my wheels for the next six months, a year or two. But the only result is going to be me older, and still unhappy.

Already, I feel myself wavering. I called my mom this morning, told her what happened, how I thought it was over. I went to the bookstore to pick up the "Do-It-Yourself" divorce kit. While there, I encountered a hundred books about sticking it out, making it work, not giving up. I could feel how easy it would be to do so. How easy to come back home, pretend it's no big deal. Pretend that Mo and I are still okay.

Even as I type this, I'm having a crisis of faith. Am I overreacting? Reading too much into his behavior/motivations? Could we possibly salvage this marriage and make it work?

My head knows better. It's just that my heart, as broken and shattered as it is, just doesn't want to listen.

Who's Surprised?

Come on, ya'll, a show of hands!

What? Just me?

Am I really the only one surprised at this turn of events? The only one who actually believed Mo was going to get his ass out of bed and make it to our appointment this morning?

Just me?

Wow.

It Figures

As soon as I give him brownie points, Mo returns to his usual tricks.

He slept all day yesterday.

He stayed up all night last night.

He slept again all day today.

He finally emerges from his cave, dressed and ready to go, at 6:45 this evening.

"I'll be home in an hour, hour and a half," he tells me.

Since aside from my meltdown this morning we've hardly spoken today, I'm curious. "Where are you going?"

To a friend's, he tells me. His phone has been ringing off the hook. Which is true. But I want to scream, "So freakin' what?" I've been home, basically alone, for two days. I've cleaned the house, done a million loads of laundry, played online, read two books. All while he slept. Now that he's awake, I'm not entertaining enough and he's out the door.

Tomorrow is our all-day appointment with the RE. We've got injection class, blood work, consent forms, and an embryology class planned.

Part of me wonders if I'm being unreasonable. He's got a right to have friends, I know this. But we've spent next to no time together during our mini-vacation, and I can't believe the first thing he does upon waking is head out the goddamned door. Did I mention that I was finishing dinner as he was leaving?

It won't do any good to get pissed off at him, as he's going to do whatever the hell he wants to do anyway. And so I'm bitching to you lovely ladies, who are all probably wondering why I'm even trying to have a baby with this man anyway.

Major Meltdown #1

You didn't think we'd make it through this IVF madness without a few of these, did you?

I have to say, Mo took it like a man.

In the throes of my absolute fury this morning about something quite trivial, he first attempted to hide himself in the covers, not un-ostrich-like. But when I melted into a puddle of sobs on the floor, he managed to be both soothing and comforting. "It's going to be okay," he murmured as he stroked my back.

"But. . . .but. . . .what if it's NOT?" I wailed. "What if this doesn't work? What if I never get to be a mother? What if I never get to hold my babies and kiss their faces and. . . ." I choked out.

"It's going to work."

"But. . .what if. . . ." (as I wiped copious amounts of snot on his T-shirt).

"Give it a chance, babe. It's going to be okay."

(sniffle, snort, wiiiiipe)

"Let's just take it one day at a time."

Huh.

For once, I think he may be on to something.

My Hurricane(s)

Having moved to the Gulf Coast from the Midwest, I've always claimed to prefer hurricanes over tornadoes. Though both leave devastation in their wake, the advance warning you get from a hurricane allows time to prepare, time that I desperately crave. I love to plan, to organize, to get ready.

IVF is, in its own way, a hurricane of sorts. You've had time to plan, to prepare. You know what's coming. And yet, when it arrives, no one knows exactly what kind of damage it's going to do. Will the side effects be minimal, a minor "rain" of discomfort? Or will the winds of Lupron and Menopur destroy what's left of your fragile emotions? As you flood your body with injections and your mind and heart with hope, who can imagine what the fallout may be?

Hurricanes, like IVF, are unpredictable. No matter how many you've experienced, you can never know just exactly what to expect when the next one blows through. How many days of stims? Will you respond well, or not at all? Perhaps you'll overstim, and be forced to cancel. Or maybe, just maybe, you'll be a textbook case and make it all the way to retrieval, to transfer, to the day in which you finally see those two pink lines of legend.

My joint hurricanes, Ida and IVF, seem to be bumping into one another. My medications are scheduled to arrive tomorrow, just as Ida makes landfall. Should the fallout from the storm allow it, our injection classes and bloodwork are scheduled for Wednesday morning.

The whirlwind has begun, and I can't help but feel that, though I know exactly what to expect, I really have no idea what's in store.

My Mondrian(s)

Several months ago, before my birthday, a few bloggers I know posted about this site.

It's a simple concept: enter your demographics, behold your personalized art. One blogger even posted about how her art really "fit" her personality.

So, of course, I had to try it.

My pre-birthday Mondrian looked like this:



Just for fun, and considering I was about to change demographics, I did a post-birthday one, too.

It looked like this:



What struck me at the time, and what I keep coming back to in the months since, is the shift in balance. If I was red, and Mo was brown, then the first picture demonstrates the inequality found in our relationship prior to this summer. Without meaning to, or perhaps simply because I let him, Mo's wants and needs dominated our relationship. Somehow, in my codependent fog, I let him take the lead, and I began to shrink.

Not long after I did the Mondrians, and celebrated my birthday, I started to work on changing this imbalance. The second picture, I believe, reflects this. I've begun to stand up for myself, to defend my choices, and to demand a more equal partnership. In this process, I've begun to once again take up the same amount of space as he does in our relationship.

Is this a case of art imitating life? Or life imitating art? You can judge for yourself. For me, the creation of this piece has forever altered the way I view this particular year of my life. It's the year of ME, the year that I once again take charge of my own destiny and rediscover who "I" am.


* * * * * * * * * * * * *


And, because I can't leave well enough alone, I did a hypothetical Mondrian for my next birthday, too.



I'm going to try not to read too much into that one.

Here We Go Again. . . .

We've been here before, last August.

The appointments have been set.

The schedule has been created.

The meds have been ordered from the pharmacy (just over $400 worth, due to the insane generosity of my clinic that still sits in my fridge).

This is the point where Mo backed out last time.


This is the point where the ball (once again) rests in his court.

HE has to call the pharmacy with his credit-card info to authorize the shipment.

HE has to go get his bloodwork done next week.

HE has to follow through on his promises.


Will he? Won't he?


Like I said, we've been here before.

Reaching Out

It seems as though I'm not the only one feeling the need to do so lately. I came home this afternoon to find Mo (who has been home sick with an ear infection the past two days) on the phone with "our" pastor -- yes, the one we haven't spoken to or seen since July. Mo had called him, reached out to old friends whom we haven't touched base with in some time. There was no specific reason for our falling out -- it just sort of happened. I left for "home" in July. . .and upon my return, spent some time with Mo and skipped church. And then skipped again. And then football started and we got busy and . . . .

Excuses.

I stopped going to church because I felt like a fraud. Standing there, praising God, telling people that I believed He had some sort of "plan" for me. It felt fake, artificial. One Sunday I found myself completely unable to even mouth the words, let alone sing along. And so I stopped going.

In the past few months, Mo has made some comments about how he misses church, misses the people and the positivity. I let those comments slide, occasionally hinting that I didn't feel quite the same way, but never quite verbalizing exactly how confused/angry/alone I felt.

One day, we had an argument. Mo mentioned that I wasn't behaving in a very "Christian" way. I retorted that that was all well and good because I didn't know if I was even a Christian anyway. "Oh, my, God. We've got some serious issues!" he responded.

You think?

The funny thing is that for a very long time, it was my belief in God and in His "master" plan that kept me and Mo together, that kept me staying when most wouldn't. I believed in marriage, in the sanctity of it, believed that God was using it to mold and shape me. I even believed that our infertility served a greater purpose -- one that someday we would come to appreciate.

I don't believe that anymore -- but I'm still here. Granted things are better now than they were then (although some of you may find that hard to believe), but there are times when I wonder what exactly keeps me here. Is it love? Loyalty? Desperation? A combination of the three? Or some other reason altogether?

I know we're not the first couple to face what we're facing. Some people choose not to fight, or choose to finally stop fighting. Others choose to battle it out, hoping to emerge victorious. For those of you who have chosen to stay in a difficult marriage, what keeps you there? How, exactly, do you keep a marriage going through its darkest days?

And most importantly, what do you have faith in, when you no longer have faith in God?

More Decisions

I'm opening up again, it seems. I love my bloggy internet circle, but lately I've felt as though I could use some more outsider opinions. So that necessitates a few changes around here, some welcome, some not. Among my decisions:

1. I've re-opened my blog to the general public. Whether or not that serves to bite me in the ass later remains to be seen. While the issues I'm blogging about remain uncomfortable and a definite source of agitation for my beloved Mo, I'm getting to the point where I. DON'T. CARE. (Gawd, that sounds bitchy!) What I mean to say is that MY need for support is outweighing my fear that he will find this blog, connect it to him somehow, and be so angry/hurt/mortified that he up and leaves me.

2. I've signed up for both IComLeavWe again (it's been a while) and NaBloPoMo (for the first time). By doing so, I hope to find some new blogs (my Google-Reader has shrunk almost as much as my own blog readership has since July), some new sources of support/advice, and some new bloggy friends. You, my internet "inner circle" have been amazing, and I need MORE of that these days. I also hope that by blogging daily I will gain some new insights/perspectives on this crazy life of mine and begin to put things in their proper perspective.

3. I'm still debating (read: putting off making a decision about) being 100% honest about all Issues around here. Now, don't freak out, I'm not a crazy TSA blogger or anything -- I simply have avoided actually TYPING THE WORDS because, somehow, that makes it more real. Naming it and all of that. What do I fear? Judgement, pure and simple. Why do I fear that from people whom I've never met? Well, friends, if I knew the answer to that then I'd market it and make millions. I don't know WHY -- I just know that I do. And I'd rather live in denial (I'm not crazy, I'm not, I'm not!) for just a wee bit longer, thank you very much.

4. I think I've reached a decision about IVF as well. It's probably not a popular decision, especially for my favored commenters. But (bad idea #1) I talked to my MIL for almost an hour on Sunday over coffee, and broke down about some issues (most of which she already knew about) and my general concerns. She gave me her opinions, and (bad idea #2) I listened. I know she's INSANE and all of that, but she made some points that have been rattling in my brain for ages, and for some obscure and unknown reason, I left the conversation feeling better about myself. Go figure.

It boils down to this: my marriage is rocky, yes. Mo and I have issues that may never get resolved. Having a child will NOT fix these issues. I KNOW THIS. But, I want children. I do not want to wait until I'm in my thirties to have them. I have the opportunity, the finances, and a willing spouse. No matter how it turns out, I'm not going to be able to move on until I've given it a try.

A year from now I may be typing this blog from an apartment near my parents, alone except for Fat Girl and Big Boy. Or I may be updating you with pictures of my ever-expanding belly or even (dare I say it? think it? jinx myself?) a newborn. I simply have no way of knowing -- I just know that I have to try.

I am putting it here, in writing, though -- and I expect Nina and Rebecca to hold me to this: if Mo backs out on me again, I'm done.

D.O.N.E. = DONE.

I simply can't stay in limbo any longer.