We made an appointment today.
It's just a consult, another chance to sit down with a different doctor. We aren't at ALL happy with the ONLY fertility clinic in our state, so we have decided to travel to a nearby state for our next cycle. I don't really have any questions for him, as our last protocol worked fairly well and I assume we'll do something similar again. Our diagnosis hasn't changed, but with Mo's major lifestyle changes over the past year, I am hoping we will have better results.
We will be traveling to Dallas for this appointment, which apparently is the infertility capital of the world. Or, you would think anyway, given that there are no less than 6 IVF clinics in the Dallas area alone. SIX!!!! There might be something in the water there -- I counted no less than 30 IVF clinics in Texas altogether (according to the SART website). And our state can only muster one? Really?
Anyway, I'd like to hear if anyone out in blogland (helloooo?) has used this particular clinic in the past. Their success rates are phenomenal, and they offer the Att.ain program, which we are hoping to qualify for. I am very excited to go down there, see our fellow IF friends, and meet this guy.
So, what are your thoughts/opinions on Dallas IVF / Dr. Barnett? Anyone?
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
Role Reversal
Mo has really gotten on the baby bandwagon as of late. He is spending most of his afternoons and evenings researching clinics, IVF financing, procedures, success rates, you name it.
He even found us an insurance policy that will (eventually) cover at least two rounds of IVF. It's part of a maternity rider that has a 12-month waiting period, so we will have to spend about $3000 on it before it kicks in. Then there's a $1000 deductible. But, all said, if we use it within 24 months of purchasing it, it will be like getting $15,000 worth of coverage for $6000. WAY AWESOME.
Because of the waiting period, we are shelving it temporarily and plan on using it either as A) a back-up plan if this summer's attempts are unsuccessful or B) for a sibling if we get so lucky as to conceive and carry to term.
I hesitate to even write our "plans" as the universe often seems to laugh in my face when presented with such notions.
Still, it's nice to think about.
Which is about all I can do. Mo is busy as a bee, making phone calls, emailing people, applying for Att.ain and A.R.C. and anyone else who offers IVF financing or refund programs. I haven't done a thing.
Except, of course, bemoan my childless existence and the unfairness of the universe.
When did this happen? When did Mo become the productive one and I became the one unable to put one foot in front of the other? When did I become "too busy" to make a phone call or schedule an appointment? When did TTC and IVF become persona non grata -- words I luuurve (in theory) and yet avoid with startling regularity?
While I have a lot of (contained) excitement for another attempt, I am also filled with trepidation. With anxiety, and fear. With....panic?
I told Mo that it was so much easier two years ago. Two years ago, I had no idea how much it would hurt to be unsuccessful. Or half-successful, if you will. I had no idea how much it would hurt to learn that my baby -- our baby -- had died within my womb. I mean, I thought I knew. But I didn't know.
Now, I know. I know exactly what we are risking. And it scares me beyond words.
ART is, always, a gamble. We risk our money, our hearts, on a 50-50 chance at happiness. We blindly close our eyes and leap, hoping that we soar instead of sink. Praying that there's some sort of pillow to cushion our fall.
Before, I had no idea how much it would hurt to go crashing into the cement sidewalk. Now, a year after our second loss, I'm still bruised, still broken. And still wanting -- desperately wanting -- to take that leap again.
It's just much, much harder than I ever thought it would be.
He even found us an insurance policy that will (eventually) cover at least two rounds of IVF. It's part of a maternity rider that has a 12-month waiting period, so we will have to spend about $3000 on it before it kicks in. Then there's a $1000 deductible. But, all said, if we use it within 24 months of purchasing it, it will be like getting $15,000 worth of coverage for $6000. WAY AWESOME.
Because of the waiting period, we are shelving it temporarily and plan on using it either as A) a back-up plan if this summer's attempts are unsuccessful or B) for a sibling if we get so lucky as to conceive and carry to term.
I hesitate to even write our "plans" as the universe often seems to laugh in my face when presented with such notions.
Still, it's nice to think about.
Which is about all I can do. Mo is busy as a bee, making phone calls, emailing people, applying for Att.ain and A.R.C. and anyone else who offers IVF financing or refund programs. I haven't done a thing.
Except, of course, bemoan my childless existence and the unfairness of the universe.
When did this happen? When did Mo become the productive one and I became the one unable to put one foot in front of the other? When did I become "too busy" to make a phone call or schedule an appointment? When did TTC and IVF become persona non grata -- words I luuurve (in theory) and yet avoid with startling regularity?
While I have a lot of (contained) excitement for another attempt, I am also filled with trepidation. With anxiety, and fear. With....panic?
I told Mo that it was so much easier two years ago. Two years ago, I had no idea how much it would hurt to be unsuccessful. Or half-successful, if you will. I had no idea how much it would hurt to learn that my baby -- our baby -- had died within my womb. I mean, I thought I knew. But I didn't know.
Now, I know. I know exactly what we are risking. And it scares me beyond words.
ART is, always, a gamble. We risk our money, our hearts, on a 50-50 chance at happiness. We blindly close our eyes and leap, hoping that we soar instead of sink. Praying that there's some sort of pillow to cushion our fall.
Before, I had no idea how much it would hurt to go crashing into the cement sidewalk. Now, a year after our second loss, I'm still bruised, still broken. And still wanting -- desperately wanting -- to take that leap again.
It's just much, much harder than I ever thought it would be.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Hope
Last night, Mo found a comrade in arms.
He was so filled with awe to find an old friend who also is experiencing infertility. Who understands the pain and frustration of IVF. Whose wife also bursts into tears over apparently nothing and whose raging hormones often leave him feeling bewildered, powerless, and frustrated.
He was sharing a phone conversation he had with this friend when he said the WRONG THING.
"They know exactly what we're going through!"
Gently (or so I thought), I disagreed.
"No." I said. "They do not."
An argument followed, in which Mo told me that I built up walls (true), that I lacked sincerity (not true), and that I was determined to feel alone in this journey (somewhat true).
I tried to explain it to him, but we're in such different places. I read a quote somewhere that men are about three years behind us women on this whole IF emotional rollercoaster, and I find that to be true. Two years ago, Mo was still thinking it might still happen naturally and was in no hurry to move forward. Now, he is researching clinics and insurance plans and anxious to get the ball rolling as soon as possible.
I think his feelings were hurt, because he said at one point, "This thing hurts me, too, you know." And I know it does. He is just as childless as I am. He has had to endure just as many annoying fertiles and pretend happiness at just as many (if not more) surprise pregnancy announcements. When I say that no one gets it, I don't mean HIM.
I do mean that very, very few people do. I know this is an unpopular belief in our circles, and I'm not trying for the pain Olympics here. Some women who have been trying much less time have endured much more heartache. I tried to explain to Mo last night that what it boiled down to was a matter of hope.
I know quite well how frustrating ANY length of infertility is. I also know how it feels to be two years into the process. While hope is greatly diminished at that point, there still remains a flicker that someday, somehow, you will cross to the other side. By five years, your flicker is much less bright. At five years TTC, often with failed interventions under your belt, your hope at conceiving and carrying a child to term seems much less of a reality.
And by ten years? Its virtually non-existent.
That's not to say I don't have my moments. I do. I have moments where I think that maybe, just maybe, my miracle is waiting.
But most of the time, I'm quite skeptical. I don't believe that God has been "withholding" my blessing until the "perfect moment." I believe that, biologically, our chances at conception are small, and it will take great medical interventions to make it happen.
I don't believe that, after ten years, I will magically get pregnant all on my own.
At two years in, that's still a possibility for many.
At five, it's less so.
By ten? It's just not realistic.
Now, I know everyone has an infertility urban legend that can prove me wrong. I'm not looking for those, so please don't post them here. I'm simply trying to explain (to Mo, to myself), my inability to feel like any other IF veteran TRULY gets my experience. That's not to say they don't understand almost all of what I feel. I know that you, especially, do understand the heartache, the frustration, the anger. Anyone who has undergone IVF, had a miscarriage, or spent any length of time TTC gets all of that.
What someone who has only been trying for two years, or even five, doesn't completely get is where my head is, after ten years at this game. Only someone who has spent just as much time on THIS side, waiting, can get that.
And, in all reality, that number of people is very small. Most people will try interventions much sooner than we did. Most people will not wait five years to see a specialist, nor another two to start treatments. Most people don't take year-long breaks in the midst of treatments. I know that our story is not the norm. And, in all honesty, I'm as okay with that as I can be.
Just don't try to tell me that you know EXACTLY how I feel. Because you don't, and your friends don't, and the fact is that they CAN'T. They can understand most of it, they can be a support system, and someone to lean on and commiserate with. They can sympathize (or is it empathize? I always get those confused).
They can do and say all the right things, and they can be a wonderful source of comfort.
But they will never understand, until they've been there.
He was so filled with awe to find an old friend who also is experiencing infertility. Who understands the pain and frustration of IVF. Whose wife also bursts into tears over apparently nothing and whose raging hormones often leave him feeling bewildered, powerless, and frustrated.
He was sharing a phone conversation he had with this friend when he said the WRONG THING.
"They know exactly what we're going through!"
Gently (or so I thought), I disagreed.
"No." I said. "They do not."
An argument followed, in which Mo told me that I built up walls (true), that I lacked sincerity (not true), and that I was determined to feel alone in this journey (somewhat true).
I tried to explain it to him, but we're in such different places. I read a quote somewhere that men are about three years behind us women on this whole IF emotional rollercoaster, and I find that to be true. Two years ago, Mo was still thinking it might still happen naturally and was in no hurry to move forward. Now, he is researching clinics and insurance plans and anxious to get the ball rolling as soon as possible.
I think his feelings were hurt, because he said at one point, "This thing hurts me, too, you know." And I know it does. He is just as childless as I am. He has had to endure just as many annoying fertiles and pretend happiness at just as many (if not more) surprise pregnancy announcements. When I say that no one gets it, I don't mean HIM.
I do mean that very, very few people do. I know this is an unpopular belief in our circles, and I'm not trying for the pain Olympics here. Some women who have been trying much less time have endured much more heartache. I tried to explain to Mo last night that what it boiled down to was a matter of hope.
I know quite well how frustrating ANY length of infertility is. I also know how it feels to be two years into the process. While hope is greatly diminished at that point, there still remains a flicker that someday, somehow, you will cross to the other side. By five years, your flicker is much less bright. At five years TTC, often with failed interventions under your belt, your hope at conceiving and carrying a child to term seems much less of a reality.
And by ten years? Its virtually non-existent.
That's not to say I don't have my moments. I do. I have moments where I think that maybe, just maybe, my miracle is waiting.
But most of the time, I'm quite skeptical. I don't believe that God has been "withholding" my blessing until the "perfect moment." I believe that, biologically, our chances at conception are small, and it will take great medical interventions to make it happen.
I don't believe that, after ten years, I will magically get pregnant all on my own.
At two years in, that's still a possibility for many.
At five, it's less so.
By ten? It's just not realistic.
Now, I know everyone has an infertility urban legend that can prove me wrong. I'm not looking for those, so please don't post them here. I'm simply trying to explain (to Mo, to myself), my inability to feel like any other IF veteran TRULY gets my experience. That's not to say they don't understand almost all of what I feel. I know that you, especially, do understand the heartache, the frustration, the anger. Anyone who has undergone IVF, had a miscarriage, or spent any length of time TTC gets all of that.
What someone who has only been trying for two years, or even five, doesn't completely get is where my head is, after ten years at this game. Only someone who has spent just as much time on THIS side, waiting, can get that.
And, in all reality, that number of people is very small. Most people will try interventions much sooner than we did. Most people will not wait five years to see a specialist, nor another two to start treatments. Most people don't take year-long breaks in the midst of treatments. I know that our story is not the norm. And, in all honesty, I'm as okay with that as I can be.
Just don't try to tell me that you know EXACTLY how I feel. Because you don't, and your friends don't, and the fact is that they CAN'T. They can understand most of it, they can be a support system, and someone to lean on and commiserate with. They can sympathize (or is it empathize? I always get those confused).
They can do and say all the right things, and they can be a wonderful source of comfort.
But they will never understand, until they've been there.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
F*cking Perfect
So, once again, my picture-perfect plans have not turned out so picture-perfect after all. We were slightly derailed by some bad storms in our neck of the woods (which hindered some posting), and, to be honest, I was a little offput by the reaction (or lack thereof) that I received when I posted on FB. Now, I know that FB is a social utility, and a pretty surface-level one at that. But, still. I had hopes that I might “educate” a few fertiles by sharing my thoughts on NIAW. Instead, I get the feeling that I am engendering a lot of eye-rolling and a not-so-subtle turning away in an if we ignore it it will go away sort of fashion.
Which, after all this time, shouldn’t hurt. And yet it does.
Anyway, today is a particularly angsty day for me as it is, being the anniversary of our last transfer which (as we all know) resulted in my second pregnancy and, soon after, my second miscarriage. That, on top of my BIG birthday being just 5 days away, and Mot.her’s Day right after that -- well, let’s just say I am feeling particularly useless and frustrated these days. And, perhaps a little sensitive to the reactions (or non-reactions) of others. So, in an effort to get my feelings on paper and make ME feel better, I’m continuing my NIAW post series with my second song selection: F*ing Perfect by Pink.
You know how sometimes it takes seeing yourself in a photograph to really SEE yourself? That song is like that for me. My sister, whom I love dearly, told me that this song made her think of me. When I listened to the lyrics, I started bawling, for so many reasons. Knowing that, deep down, my sister loves me. Knowing that someone gets what I’m feeling, even when I don’t feel like I’m able to express it very clearly. This song, like my previous post, reminds me that I am still a whole person, despite feeling like an utter failure in the reproductive department.
So many of us know that feeling. So many of us are hit with it, over and over again, in our daily lives. And so many of us need to be reminded that we are NOT defined by our “girlie” parts, or our ability to produce miniature versions of ourselves. Our internal dialogues are “filled with hate” instead of appreciation for what we CAN do, for the strength that is imminent in every one of us. We face critics every day -- not only internally, but externally in the forms of friends, family, and co-workers who think that they know the solution to our problems.
What we need to remember is that we are JUST FINE the way we are, thank you very much. It’s so easy to hate our bodies for failing us, over and over again. It’s so easy to believe that we are somehow LESS THAN because we cannot achieve a successful pregnancy. It’s so much harder to accept that we are perfect, despite our bodies’ imperfections.
I am making a concerted effort to do things lately that make me feel GOOD about myself. I am trying to focus on what my body CAN do, instead of what it can’t. I am reminding myself (daily? hourly?) of the many accomplishments I have achieved and the myriad ways I am successful in life. I am being kind to myself, in as many small ways as possible, in an effort to change the voices in my head. It is my hope that, someday, all IF veterans can do the same.
So, for all my IF friends, IRL and in blogland -- here’s to you. YOU ARE PERFECT -- just the way you are.
F*ing Perfect by Pink
Made a wrong turn, once or twice
Dug my way out, blood and fire
Bad decisions, that's alright
Welcome to my silly life
Mistreated, misplaced, misunderstood
Miss 'No way, it's all good', it didn't slow me down
Mistaken, always second guessing, underestimated
Look, I'm still around
Pretty pretty please, don't you ever ever feel
Like you're less than f*ckin' perfect
Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel like you're nothing
You're f*ckin' perfect to me!
You're so mean, when you talk about yourself, you were wrong
Change the voices in your head, make them like you instead
So complicated, look happy, you'll make it!
Filled with so much hatred... such a tired game
It's enough! I've done all I can think of
Chased down all my demons, I've seen you do the same
Oh, pretty pretty please, don't you ever ever feel
Like you're less than f*ckin' perfect
Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel like you're nothing
You're f*ckin' perfect to me
The whole world's scared so I swallow the fear
The only thing I should be drinking is an ice cold beer
So cool in line, and we try try try, but we try too hard and it's a waste of my time
Done looking for the critics, cause they're everywhere
They don't like my jeans, they don't get my hair
Exchange ourselves, and we do it all the time
Why do we do that? Why do I do that?
Why do I do that... ?
Yeah, oh, oh baby, pretty baby... !
Pretty pretty please, don't you ever ever feel
Like you're less than f*ckin' perfect
Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel
Like you're nothing, you're fucking perfect to me
You're perfect, you're perfect!
Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel like you're nothing
You're fuckin' perfect to me...
Which, after all this time, shouldn’t hurt. And yet it does.
Anyway, today is a particularly angsty day for me as it is, being the anniversary of our last transfer which (as we all know) resulted in my second pregnancy and, soon after, my second miscarriage. That, on top of my BIG birthday being just 5 days away, and Mot.her’s Day right after that -- well, let’s just say I am feeling particularly useless and frustrated these days. And, perhaps a little sensitive to the reactions (or non-reactions) of others. So, in an effort to get my feelings on paper and make ME feel better, I’m continuing my NIAW post series with my second song selection: F*ing Perfect by Pink.
You know how sometimes it takes seeing yourself in a photograph to really SEE yourself? That song is like that for me. My sister, whom I love dearly, told me that this song made her think of me. When I listened to the lyrics, I started bawling, for so many reasons. Knowing that, deep down, my sister loves me. Knowing that someone gets what I’m feeling, even when I don’t feel like I’m able to express it very clearly. This song, like my previous post, reminds me that I am still a whole person, despite feeling like an utter failure in the reproductive department.
So many of us know that feeling. So many of us are hit with it, over and over again, in our daily lives. And so many of us need to be reminded that we are NOT defined by our “girlie” parts, or our ability to produce miniature versions of ourselves. Our internal dialogues are “filled with hate” instead of appreciation for what we CAN do, for the strength that is imminent in every one of us. We face critics every day -- not only internally, but externally in the forms of friends, family, and co-workers who think that they know the solution to our problems.
What we need to remember is that we are JUST FINE the way we are, thank you very much. It’s so easy to hate our bodies for failing us, over and over again. It’s so easy to believe that we are somehow LESS THAN because we cannot achieve a successful pregnancy. It’s so much harder to accept that we are perfect, despite our bodies’ imperfections.
I am making a concerted effort to do things lately that make me feel GOOD about myself. I am trying to focus on what my body CAN do, instead of what it can’t. I am reminding myself (daily? hourly?) of the many accomplishments I have achieved and the myriad ways I am successful in life. I am being kind to myself, in as many small ways as possible, in an effort to change the voices in my head. It is my hope that, someday, all IF veterans can do the same.
So, for all my IF friends, IRL and in blogland -- here’s to you. YOU ARE PERFECT -- just the way you are.
F*ing Perfect by Pink
Made a wrong turn, once or twice
Dug my way out, blood and fire
Bad decisions, that's alright
Welcome to my silly life
Mistreated, misplaced, misunderstood
Miss 'No way, it's all good', it didn't slow me down
Mistaken, always second guessing, underestimated
Look, I'm still around
Pretty pretty please, don't you ever ever feel
Like you're less than f*ckin' perfect
Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel like you're nothing
You're f*ckin' perfect to me!
You're so mean, when you talk about yourself, you were wrong
Change the voices in your head, make them like you instead
So complicated, look happy, you'll make it!
Filled with so much hatred... such a tired game
It's enough! I've done all I can think of
Chased down all my demons, I've seen you do the same
Oh, pretty pretty please, don't you ever ever feel
Like you're less than f*ckin' perfect
Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel like you're nothing
You're f*ckin' perfect to me
The whole world's scared so I swallow the fear
The only thing I should be drinking is an ice cold beer
So cool in line, and we try try try, but we try too hard and it's a waste of my time
Done looking for the critics, cause they're everywhere
They don't like my jeans, they don't get my hair
Exchange ourselves, and we do it all the time
Why do we do that? Why do I do that?
Why do I do that... ?
Yeah, oh, oh baby, pretty baby... !
Pretty pretty please, don't you ever ever feel
Like you're less than f*ckin' perfect
Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel
Like you're nothing, you're fucking perfect to me
You're perfect, you're perfect!
Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel like you're nothing
You're fuckin' perfect to me...
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Birthday Ramblings
Today is my sister's daughter's 2nd birthday party. I remember all too clearly her birthday two years ago, which I spent 600 miles away, crying on the couch, alone as I so often was. Things looked so much more promising for her first birthday, early last spring, when Mo and I had just returned "home." Today, like so many other days, is another day in limbo, another day spent wondering if this is really what I want, or if the grass really is greener on the other side.
Mo is, you guessed it, out of town. He will miss this party, a fact that neither he nor my sister seem to care too much about. I am the only one left wondering if things will always be like this, if I will live in a continual state of disappointment and wishing that things were different.
We had a good week, Mo and I, the first spring break I can recall where I knew exactly where he was and what he was doing. We slept in, ate out, and drove around exploring the Big City near where we live. I had fun, and I thought he did, too. But, apparently, it's not the right kind of fun, because he felt the need to travel to another town and meet up with his friend, Mr. Bad Influence, for a boys' weekend of gambling and binge drinking. Because, at age 40, Mo still believes that he is 21. Or something like that.
I am so done fighting about this. The man is 40 years old. He is a master at manipulating my feelings and justifying his actions, to himself and to me. If he wants to leave town, so be it. I'm not going to ask him to stay. I told him I was disappointed he would miss the birthday party, and then I watched him leave. No tears, no evidence that this matters one bit. But, oh, it does.
Beneath the surface I am filled with rage, with frustration and desperation. Not all of it is directed at Mo -- there is a fair amount of fury for general circumstances and things beyond our control -- wonky insurance, crappy doctors, infertility, loss, financial barriers to building a family. But, mixed into that, so intertwined I couldn't tell you where one began and the other ended, is a bitterness that rests squarely on his shoulders.
I don't want to mislead you -- things are better now, as a whole, than they ever were before the move. Mo is 100 times the man he was. It takes being out of a situation for some time for you to realize how bad it really was...and that's how I feel about my life until about a year ago. There is no way that I would tolerate the behaviors I put up with for so long now. Things ARE different, in many tangible, wonderful, ways.
And yet, as they tend to do, the more things change, the more they stay the same. I am still left wondering whenever he leaves if this is really what I want. Do I want a husband who feels the need to go out of town and gamble and drink every few months? Does it matter as much as I make it matter? Lots of women have husbands who go out hunting, or fishing, or what-have-you for many weekends out of the year. Is what Mo is doing all that different? He has made so many life-altering changes this past year -- should I focus on that, or on the aspects that I still wish were different? No one is perfect, least of all me. Mo tolerates my insecurities and my meltdowns and my foibles and accepts me as is. Don't I owe him the same?
And then there's the biggest question, the one that keeps me from making any real decisions: would I really be any happier without him?
I know that may seem ridiculous to many of you. You've seen the worst Mo has to offer, and I tend to keep quiet about the good. But there IS good there. I wouldn't still be here if there wasn't. I was trying to explain it to my sister at lunch a few weeks ago: 90% of the time, Mo is great. While she qualified it as maybe 80%, my point is still that the majority of the time things work. But when they don't -- well, they don't in a major way.
Coloring all of this is, of course, my own impending birthday. I will be 30 in just over a month. While I know that many of you have already survived this milestone, I am having a really hard time with it. I just never thought I would spend 10 years of my life -- my entire 20's -- chasing a dream and still come up empty-handed. Walking out on my life now, and trying to start again, is so daunting to me. I spent 10 years building this -- to give up now? When the finish line is staring me in the face? How could I possibly?
My sister (who is wiser than her years) tells me that Mo is simply dangling the carrot he knows I so desperately want in front of me, as he has for years. I don't know if it is that simple, though at times I wonder. We are, currently, on the same page for Plan Baby. As in, we are both okay with waiting until August to start any treatments, and we will pursue another IVF with my eggs and his sperm. Beyond that, we have no plan -- though I suspect that at that point, should it not work, our plans will diverge again.* But, yes, as terrible as it sounds, I keep thinking about August and how much I'm willing to endure to get there. I'VE BEEN THROUGH SO MUCH WORSE. This, this is nothing in the grand scheme of things.
I know that many of you read this, and while you try not to, you pity me. Or judge me. But its all so much more complicated than I am ever able to put into words. That's one thing that my marriage has taught me -- things are so rarely what they seem. And that in itself seems an argument to stay -- for who knows if marriage to anyone else would be any better? Or if marriage would ever even be in the cards again? How many seemingly happy couples have demons I never would guess at?
This post is jumpy, and rambling, and a bit incoherent because that's how my thoughts are these days. I've avoided blogging because I can't make sense of my own head. The truth of the matter is that I don't know what I want. No, that's not true. I know exactly what I want -- what I don't know is the best way to go about getting it. One of the horrible side effects of infertility and codependency is that you lose all ability to trust yourself -- your body, your judgment, your decisions.
I am so afraid of making the wrong decision, that I just don't make any at all. And yet, in the back of my head, I'm formulating Plan B**. And Plan C.
I just wonder what I will take for me to put those into action. Because, really, I'm not all that sure that I can take much more.
When is enough, enough?
* I've started a savings account that can be utilized in a variety of ways -- including pursing SMBC if the need arose, or adoption if Mo ever came around to it.
**In an ideal world, no one would have kids in a less-than-stable relationship. Everyone would be happily monogamous, and remain so for the life of their offspring. This isn't an ideal world, and so many people make less-than-ideal situations work every day. My stepbrother and his wife are just one example -- poor, living with their parents, about to have a baby while living on welfare. I teach kids from every type of home you can imagine -- single mothers, two-parent homes, stepfamilies, grandparents, even aunts and uncles. I refuse to put off my dream of being a mother until I find "Mr. Perfect." No matter what happens with Mo and I, I will be a fantastic mother. Period.
Mo is, you guessed it, out of town. He will miss this party, a fact that neither he nor my sister seem to care too much about. I am the only one left wondering if things will always be like this, if I will live in a continual state of disappointment and wishing that things were different.
We had a good week, Mo and I, the first spring break I can recall where I knew exactly where he was and what he was doing. We slept in, ate out, and drove around exploring the Big City near where we live. I had fun, and I thought he did, too. But, apparently, it's not the right kind of fun, because he felt the need to travel to another town and meet up with his friend, Mr. Bad Influence, for a boys' weekend of gambling and binge drinking. Because, at age 40, Mo still believes that he is 21. Or something like that.
I am so done fighting about this. The man is 40 years old. He is a master at manipulating my feelings and justifying his actions, to himself and to me. If he wants to leave town, so be it. I'm not going to ask him to stay. I told him I was disappointed he would miss the birthday party, and then I watched him leave. No tears, no evidence that this matters one bit. But, oh, it does.
Beneath the surface I am filled with rage, with frustration and desperation. Not all of it is directed at Mo -- there is a fair amount of fury for general circumstances and things beyond our control -- wonky insurance, crappy doctors, infertility, loss, financial barriers to building a family. But, mixed into that, so intertwined I couldn't tell you where one began and the other ended, is a bitterness that rests squarely on his shoulders.
I don't want to mislead you -- things are better now, as a whole, than they ever were before the move. Mo is 100 times the man he was. It takes being out of a situation for some time for you to realize how bad it really was...and that's how I feel about my life until about a year ago. There is no way that I would tolerate the behaviors I put up with for so long now. Things ARE different, in many tangible, wonderful, ways.
And yet, as they tend to do, the more things change, the more they stay the same. I am still left wondering whenever he leaves if this is really what I want. Do I want a husband who feels the need to go out of town and gamble and drink every few months? Does it matter as much as I make it matter? Lots of women have husbands who go out hunting, or fishing, or what-have-you for many weekends out of the year. Is what Mo is doing all that different? He has made so many life-altering changes this past year -- should I focus on that, or on the aspects that I still wish were different? No one is perfect, least of all me. Mo tolerates my insecurities and my meltdowns and my foibles and accepts me as is. Don't I owe him the same?
And then there's the biggest question, the one that keeps me from making any real decisions: would I really be any happier without him?
I know that may seem ridiculous to many of you. You've seen the worst Mo has to offer, and I tend to keep quiet about the good. But there IS good there. I wouldn't still be here if there wasn't. I was trying to explain it to my sister at lunch a few weeks ago: 90% of the time, Mo is great. While she qualified it as maybe 80%, my point is still that the majority of the time things work. But when they don't -- well, they don't in a major way.
Coloring all of this is, of course, my own impending birthday. I will be 30 in just over a month. While I know that many of you have already survived this milestone, I am having a really hard time with it. I just never thought I would spend 10 years of my life -- my entire 20's -- chasing a dream and still come up empty-handed. Walking out on my life now, and trying to start again, is so daunting to me. I spent 10 years building this -- to give up now? When the finish line is staring me in the face? How could I possibly?
My sister (who is wiser than her years) tells me that Mo is simply dangling the carrot he knows I so desperately want in front of me, as he has for years. I don't know if it is that simple, though at times I wonder. We are, currently, on the same page for Plan Baby. As in, we are both okay with waiting until August to start any treatments, and we will pursue another IVF with my eggs and his sperm. Beyond that, we have no plan -- though I suspect that at that point, should it not work, our plans will diverge again.* But, yes, as terrible as it sounds, I keep thinking about August and how much I'm willing to endure to get there. I'VE BEEN THROUGH SO MUCH WORSE. This, this is nothing in the grand scheme of things.
I know that many of you read this, and while you try not to, you pity me. Or judge me. But its all so much more complicated than I am ever able to put into words. That's one thing that my marriage has taught me -- things are so rarely what they seem. And that in itself seems an argument to stay -- for who knows if marriage to anyone else would be any better? Or if marriage would ever even be in the cards again? How many seemingly happy couples have demons I never would guess at?
This post is jumpy, and rambling, and a bit incoherent because that's how my thoughts are these days. I've avoided blogging because I can't make sense of my own head. The truth of the matter is that I don't know what I want. No, that's not true. I know exactly what I want -- what I don't know is the best way to go about getting it. One of the horrible side effects of infertility and codependency is that you lose all ability to trust yourself -- your body, your judgment, your decisions.
I am so afraid of making the wrong decision, that I just don't make any at all. And yet, in the back of my head, I'm formulating Plan B**. And Plan C.
I just wonder what I will take for me to put those into action. Because, really, I'm not all that sure that I can take much more.
When is enough, enough?
* I've started a savings account that can be utilized in a variety of ways -- including pursing SMBC if the need arose, or adoption if Mo ever came around to it.
**In an ideal world, no one would have kids in a less-than-stable relationship. Everyone would be happily monogamous, and remain so for the life of their offspring. This isn't an ideal world, and so many people make less-than-ideal situations work every day. My stepbrother and his wife are just one example -- poor, living with their parents, about to have a baby while living on welfare. I teach kids from every type of home you can imagine -- single mothers, two-parent homes, stepfamilies, grandparents, even aunts and uncles. I refuse to put off my dream of being a mother until I find "Mr. Perfect." No matter what happens with Mo and I, I will be a fantastic mother. Period.
Friday, January 7, 2011
The Gift
I have struggled with the right words to express how I am feeling today. There are so many complex emotions at play: grief, relief, fear, joy, trepidation, sorrow, gratitude. So many half-formed and subconscious thoughts swirling beneath the surface. So many questions still left unasked, unanswered.
I was talking to Mo tonight, and trying to put into words both the intense weight and the joyous freedom in my heart today. Yes, I am broken. My heart has not healed, nor do I believe it ever will. I didn't simply lose a baby last year...I lost the remaining fragments of my innocence. I lost my sense of justice, of any sort of karmic fairness in the world. I lost my faith in my body, my marriage, myself, and my God.
But I also received a great gift that day, born out of desperation and the complete absence of hope. You see, our worlds literally fell apart when we lost that dream. Mo had, of course, begun crumbling long before. But I, I was the rock, the glue, the one who kept us sane...and I found myself no longer able to do that. I fell into the deepest, darkest hole I had ever experienced. I couldn't work, I couldn't function. And I could certainly no longer hold my husband together, because I myself was no longer whole.
And so we fled. Back home, back to the one person who could always kiss my boo-boos and make everything better. It's something that Mo and I agree never would have happened if we hadn't experienced that loss. In one last, desperate attempt to save my husband, my marriage, and my life, I somehow found the courage to leave my old life behind. To start again, in a new state, far away from everything I had spent the last ten years building. And, for all intents and purposes, it worked.
With his or her brief stay, and too-soon exit from this world, my baby gave me the greatest gift he or she possibly could. He gave me my family, and he gave me my husband back.
I realize that it may seem incongruent, for someone like me, someone who professes to no longer believe in the existence of God, to speak about the purpose, the reason for any other being's existence. I can't make sense of it myself. I only know that it comforts me to think that my baby came to me for a reason, that his or her short life had meaning.
That any of this has some sort of meaning.
I am happier today than I expected. I was able to see my whole family tonight. I hugged my momma and tickled my niece. I baked brownies with my sister and licked the beaters. I cried on my husband's shoulder, then curled up with him in bed, secure in the knowledge that he is here, solid, reassuring, and sober.
I didn't have any of that last year.
Everything I have today -- the comfort of my parents, the support of my sister, the love of my niece -- hell, even my marriage -- was a gift of the most remarkable proportions. Had I not experienced the misery and pain of losing the one thing I wanted more than anything, I wouldn't have any of those things, at least not in my day-to-day life.
So thank you, little one. Thank you for coming, although you could not stay.
Thank you for finding a way to bring me home.
Thank you for saving my life, and your father's.
Thank you for giving me hope.
I was talking to Mo tonight, and trying to put into words both the intense weight and the joyous freedom in my heart today. Yes, I am broken. My heart has not healed, nor do I believe it ever will. I didn't simply lose a baby last year...I lost the remaining fragments of my innocence. I lost my sense of justice, of any sort of karmic fairness in the world. I lost my faith in my body, my marriage, myself, and my God.
But I also received a great gift that day, born out of desperation and the complete absence of hope. You see, our worlds literally fell apart when we lost that dream. Mo had, of course, begun crumbling long before. But I, I was the rock, the glue, the one who kept us sane...and I found myself no longer able to do that. I fell into the deepest, darkest hole I had ever experienced. I couldn't work, I couldn't function. And I could certainly no longer hold my husband together, because I myself was no longer whole.
And so we fled. Back home, back to the one person who could always kiss my boo-boos and make everything better. It's something that Mo and I agree never would have happened if we hadn't experienced that loss. In one last, desperate attempt to save my husband, my marriage, and my life, I somehow found the courage to leave my old life behind. To start again, in a new state, far away from everything I had spent the last ten years building. And, for all intents and purposes, it worked.
With his or her brief stay, and too-soon exit from this world, my baby gave me the greatest gift he or she possibly could. He gave me my family, and he gave me my husband back.
I realize that it may seem incongruent, for someone like me, someone who professes to no longer believe in the existence of God, to speak about the purpose, the reason for any other being's existence. I can't make sense of it myself. I only know that it comforts me to think that my baby came to me for a reason, that his or her short life had meaning.
That any of this has some sort of meaning.
I am happier today than I expected. I was able to see my whole family tonight. I hugged my momma and tickled my niece. I baked brownies with my sister and licked the beaters. I cried on my husband's shoulder, then curled up with him in bed, secure in the knowledge that he is here, solid, reassuring, and sober.
I didn't have any of that last year.
Everything I have today -- the comfort of my parents, the support of my sister, the love of my niece -- hell, even my marriage -- was a gift of the most remarkable proportions. Had I not experienced the misery and pain of losing the one thing I wanted more than anything, I wouldn't have any of those things, at least not in my day-to-day life.
So thank you, little one. Thank you for coming, although you could not stay.
Thank you for finding a way to bring me home.
Thank you for saving my life, and your father's.
Thank you for giving me hope.
Friday, December 31, 2010
2010
Adios.
Bon voyage.
Goodbye.
And good riddance.
2010 began with what I thought (at the time) was the worst possible thing that could happen. Clearly, it wasn't, and things soon spiraled into even deeper depths of misery and sorrow.
2010 has been a year of incredible highs (we're moving! we got a house! we're pregnant!) and incredible lows (I'm leaving. We're gonna lose the house. We've lost the baby -- again.)
I'm thinking that, above all else, I'd like 2011 to bring me some NORMALCY for a change. Is that too much to ask? Less drama, more calm?
It may be. Christmas was far from perfect (though Mo did his best to make it so. He did arrive home (though late) in time to wrap a gazillion presents, all of which were carefully thought out and, well, perfect. It's the most care and attention he's paid to gift-giving in, well, ever.) My sister made it clear (in her judgemental fashion) that Mo wasn't welcome at her house (even going so far as refusing to buy him a gift, even BEFORE the Christmas Eve drama occured)...so, he skipped the family Christmas, which was both weird and awkward. But our Christmas was actually very nice, and very grown-up, with presents and dinner and our trying our damndest not to compare THIS Christmas to the last one.
I have a lot to be thankful for. I do. I'm home, with family close by, who love and care about me. I've gotten to watch my niece grow from a plump little infant to a walking, talking, real-live little person. My husband, while he's fallen a time or two, continues to make major efforts to repair the damage from the last eight years. I no longer wake up at night to an empty bed and wonder where he is -- he is always there. While for many of you that seems like a "duh!" statement -- for us, it's huge.
He is trying.
And so, for now, so am I.
I know so many of you can't understand that.
I don't know if I understand it completely.
What I do know is that my hopes for 2011 are very different than my hopes for 2010. I'm wishing for peace, for quiet, for a calm that I can sense is just on the horizon. I don't know if/when a baby fits into that plan. For the first time in, well, EVER, it's not the most pressing thing. Sure, it's there -- there's that big birthday looming after all. But, for the first time in ten years, I feel like it just may not be the death sentence (of my fertility anyway) that I once feared. I am trying oh-so-hard to just BREATHE, and to focus on the things that are going RIGHT.
A year ago, I couldn't imagine being where I am right now. But here I am -- forever changed, in ways I never expected.
2010-- you were a harsh mistress. May your successor be just a wee bit more kind.
Bon voyage.
Goodbye.
And good riddance.
2010 began with what I thought (at the time) was the worst possible thing that could happen. Clearly, it wasn't, and things soon spiraled into even deeper depths of misery and sorrow.
2010 has been a year of incredible highs (we're moving! we got a house! we're pregnant!) and incredible lows (I'm leaving. We're gonna lose the house. We've lost the baby -- again.)
I'm thinking that, above all else, I'd like 2011 to bring me some NORMALCY for a change. Is that too much to ask? Less drama, more calm?
It may be. Christmas was far from perfect (though Mo did his best to make it so. He did arrive home (though late) in time to wrap a gazillion presents, all of which were carefully thought out and, well, perfect. It's the most care and attention he's paid to gift-giving in, well, ever.) My sister made it clear (in her judgemental fashion) that Mo wasn't welcome at her house (even going so far as refusing to buy him a gift, even BEFORE the Christmas Eve drama occured)...so, he skipped the family Christmas, which was both weird and awkward. But our Christmas was actually very nice, and very grown-up, with presents and dinner and our trying our damndest not to compare THIS Christmas to the last one.
I have a lot to be thankful for. I do. I'm home, with family close by, who love and care about me. I've gotten to watch my niece grow from a plump little infant to a walking, talking, real-live little person. My husband, while he's fallen a time or two, continues to make major efforts to repair the damage from the last eight years. I no longer wake up at night to an empty bed and wonder where he is -- he is always there. While for many of you that seems like a "duh!" statement -- for us, it's huge.
He is trying.
And so, for now, so am I.
I know so many of you can't understand that.
I don't know if I understand it completely.
What I do know is that my hopes for 2011 are very different than my hopes for 2010. I'm wishing for peace, for quiet, for a calm that I can sense is just on the horizon. I don't know if/when a baby fits into that plan. For the first time in, well, EVER, it's not the most pressing thing. Sure, it's there -- there's that big birthday looming after all. But, for the first time in ten years, I feel like it just may not be the death sentence (of my fertility anyway) that I once feared. I am trying oh-so-hard to just BREATHE, and to focus on the things that are going RIGHT.
A year ago, I couldn't imagine being where I am right now. But here I am -- forever changed, in ways I never expected.
2010-- you were a harsh mistress. May your successor be just a wee bit more kind.
Friday, December 24, 2010
My Husband Is Missing (UPDATED)
..and I don't mean that in a cutesy, look-what-amazing-thing-he-just-did-for-me way. He is, quite literally, off the grid. He left late on Monday night to go visit a very close friend of his in another state, and to meet this guy's son (long story there, of which I don't really wish to rehash right now).
ANYWAY.
So, he promised to be home in time for Christmas Eve. I spoke with him Wednesday and he said he was coming home in the morning.
I spoke to him Thursday afternoon and he said he was coming home after Friend and Son got out of the movie they were currently watching.
I spoke to him Thursday night after he "woke up" from his nap at 11:30 p.m. We argued (duh!), but he said he was getting in the car and coming home (Friend lives 6 hours away).
It is now just after 2 p.m. on Friday, and neither Mo nor Friend will answer the phone or return my calls or texts. Clearly, Mo will not be making it home in time for the festivities of Christmas Eve (which begin in just a few short hours). The question remains: will he make it home for Christmas at all? Will he even bother to call?
I don't know -- and that, in itself, speaks volumes, doesn't it?
Merry Fuckin' Christmas, ya'll.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the way that posting about it makes things happen, Mo texted me shortly after this went up and let me know he was alive. He told me he drove halfway last night, got tired, and stopped and got a room. He was supposedly going to get on the road and head home.
I say "supposedly" because I really don't know what to believe. I have no way of knowing where he is or if he's telling me the truth. He refuses to talk to me on the phone because "he doesn't want to fight." He texted me to ask me to go pick up the ring he got me for Christmas (which he won't make it home in time to pick up). When I refused, he stopped responding to my texts. So, now at least I know he's okay...but I have no idea if he's heading home, or still with Friend, or if he even cares to make it home at all.
I have such a bad, bad feeling about this. I mean, how do you recover from this kind of fight -- on Christmas, no less? I've told him that if he misses Christmas, that's it. There's no way to come back from that.
And then, in the midst of my tears, I asked my mom what kind of a man does this.
One who wants out, she replies.
Ouch.
Yeah.
It's been that kind of year.
ANYWAY.
So, he promised to be home in time for Christmas Eve. I spoke with him Wednesday and he said he was coming home in the morning.
I spoke to him Thursday afternoon and he said he was coming home after Friend and Son got out of the movie they were currently watching.
I spoke to him Thursday night after he "woke up" from his nap at 11:30 p.m. We argued (duh!), but he said he was getting in the car and coming home (Friend lives 6 hours away).
It is now just after 2 p.m. on Friday, and neither Mo nor Friend will answer the phone or return my calls or texts. Clearly, Mo will not be making it home in time for the festivities of Christmas Eve (which begin in just a few short hours). The question remains: will he make it home for Christmas at all? Will he even bother to call?
I don't know -- and that, in itself, speaks volumes, doesn't it?
Merry Fuckin' Christmas, ya'll.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the way that posting about it makes things happen, Mo texted me shortly after this went up and let me know he was alive. He told me he drove halfway last night, got tired, and stopped and got a room. He was supposedly going to get on the road and head home.
I say "supposedly" because I really don't know what to believe. I have no way of knowing where he is or if he's telling me the truth. He refuses to talk to me on the phone because "he doesn't want to fight." He texted me to ask me to go pick up the ring he got me for Christmas (which he won't make it home in time to pick up). When I refused, he stopped responding to my texts. So, now at least I know he's okay...but I have no idea if he's heading home, or still with Friend, or if he even cares to make it home at all.
I have such a bad, bad feeling about this. I mean, how do you recover from this kind of fight -- on Christmas, no less? I've told him that if he misses Christmas, that's it. There's no way to come back from that.
And then, in the midst of my tears, I asked my mom what kind of a man does this.
One who wants out, she replies.
Ouch.
Yeah.
It's been that kind of year.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Staying Busy
Retail therapy, thou art wonderful. I've been keeping myself busy, busy, busy buying out the stores -- and if I could, I'd buy a baby to fill this hole in my heart.
As it is, I'm just going to have to put on my happy face, try my damndest to ignore the plethora of insensitive fertile word vomit that seems to be spewing from people's mouths these days, and try to forget that on this day last year I was the happiest woman on earth.
I'd pour myself a nice, tall glass of eggnog in remembrance of what wasn't to be -- but I'm trying to set a good example.
Sigh.
Infertile AND sober. What a helluva way to spend Christmas.
As it is, I'm just going to have to put on my happy face, try my damndest to ignore the plethora of insensitive fertile word vomit that seems to be spewing from people's mouths these days, and try to forget that on this day last year I was the happiest woman on earth.
I'd pour myself a nice, tall glass of eggnog in remembrance of what wasn't to be -- but I'm trying to set a good example.
Sigh.
Infertile AND sober. What a helluva way to spend Christmas.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Limbo
I haven't been posting much because, really, I just don't know what to say. Everything remains in a sort of limbo of the worst possible kind. Am I happily married or seeking divorce? It depends on the day, and sometimes the hour. The only thing I am sure of these days is that my quest for a family just seems farther and farther out of reach.
We've made it through some dreaded dates already this month -- passing both our IVF retrieval and transfer anniversaries. I only cried a little -- but that doesn't mean that it hurt any less. I was just SO SURE that this Christmas was going to be different. And it is -- just not in the way I had hoped.
I've still got about a month to go, with three more major milestones to pass: the day we found out we were pregnant for the first time (after 7 years!), the day I lost that pregnancy, and the EDD for pregnancy #2. All within a three-week time frame.
We've also passed the one-year anniversary of Mo's grandfather's passing. And our own 8-year wedding anniversary. What do you get for someone who alternately demands a divorce and then swears they'll do anything to make it work?
We've been too busy to schedule a meeting with a therapist just yet, but it's a top to do next week when I'm off. And, though I know you all mean well, please don't flood me with comments about how that's essential. I know it is. But that doesn't mean I'm looking forward to it, or that I want to be reminded that my marriage is in shambles AND I'm unable to have children. Only one whammy at a time, okay? And December/January remain the months to mourn my babies. I can only handle so much grief at once.
And I AM handling it. I'm working, I'm spending time with my family, I'm going on as though life is normal. I've made huge strides from the early months of 2010. And maybe, just maybe, after January 14th I'll be able to put some of this behind me.
Or not. That's the hardest part, I think -- being unable to decide what it is that is going to make me happy. Is it building a family with Mo? Is that even a possiblity? Is it striking out on my own and pursuing single parenthood? Will that net me what I really want -- or just create more heartbreak?
I've got so many regrets already (and I'm not even 30!). I think that I am so terrified of making more mistakes that I'm finding it impossible to do much of anything, for fear that I will regret it later. I feel immobilized, stuck. It's as though all possible doors have been slammed shut in my face (and locked from the outside)! Where's that damn window, already? The one that's supposed to open when all the doors have been shut?
I had such high hopes for 2010 -- and look how that turned out for me. Perhaps the secret is to have no expectations whatsoever? If that's the case, then maybe 2011 will turn out to be a banner year.
A girl can dream, can't she?
We've made it through some dreaded dates already this month -- passing both our IVF retrieval and transfer anniversaries. I only cried a little -- but that doesn't mean that it hurt any less. I was just SO SURE that this Christmas was going to be different. And it is -- just not in the way I had hoped.
I've still got about a month to go, with three more major milestones to pass: the day we found out we were pregnant for the first time (after 7 years!), the day I lost that pregnancy, and the EDD for pregnancy #2. All within a three-week time frame.
We've also passed the one-year anniversary of Mo's grandfather's passing. And our own 8-year wedding anniversary. What do you get for someone who alternately demands a divorce and then swears they'll do anything to make it work?
We've been too busy to schedule a meeting with a therapist just yet, but it's a top to do next week when I'm off. And, though I know you all mean well, please don't flood me with comments about how that's essential. I know it is. But that doesn't mean I'm looking forward to it, or that I want to be reminded that my marriage is in shambles AND I'm unable to have children. Only one whammy at a time, okay? And December/January remain the months to mourn my babies. I can only handle so much grief at once.
And I AM handling it. I'm working, I'm spending time with my family, I'm going on as though life is normal. I've made huge strides from the early months of 2010. And maybe, just maybe, after January 14th I'll be able to put some of this behind me.
Or not. That's the hardest part, I think -- being unable to decide what it is that is going to make me happy. Is it building a family with Mo? Is that even a possiblity? Is it striking out on my own and pursuing single parenthood? Will that net me what I really want -- or just create more heartbreak?
I've got so many regrets already (and I'm not even 30!). I think that I am so terrified of making more mistakes that I'm finding it impossible to do much of anything, for fear that I will regret it later. I feel immobilized, stuck. It's as though all possible doors have been slammed shut in my face (and locked from the outside)! Where's that damn window, already? The one that's supposed to open when all the doors have been shut?
I had such high hopes for 2010 -- and look how that turned out for me. Perhaps the secret is to have no expectations whatsoever? If that's the case, then maybe 2011 will turn out to be a banner year.
A girl can dream, can't she?
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