I’m sick of feeling so damned sad and depressed all the time!  I’m not crying every day anymore, but I can’t fall asleep at a normal time and I’m sleeping all day. I’m not completely hopeless about our future, but I have zero motivation to get out and start living again… in fact, the idea still terrifies me.  I need this medicine to start working and take away the cloud that’s in and around my head so that I can start giving a better go at my life. I’d rather be numb and functional than completely miserable and incapable of facing anything more socially or intellectually grueling than a trip to the grocery store. 

This weekend was an opportunity for me to prove to myself (and Riggo) that I am healing, and I’m capable of getting our life back… of getting us back.  And I failed. Or… as I like to look at it… I succeeded at being incapable of that.

Some friends of ours (not great friends, but people we have hung out with in the past who usually have a party once or twice a year to which we are invited) recently moved into a new house with an in ground pool.  They had a big Memorial Day party yesterday. We’ve known about it for weeks and had decided that we were going to go. It was going to be our “reentry” into our social life. Only a few of our friends that were going to be there (including the hosts) know about our situation, but I haven’t seen any of them since before Thanksgiving, when this nightmare started for us.

I’m not a big party kind of girl. My social anxiety has generally overridden any real enjoyment at those sorts of large get togethers where I don’t know lots of the people.  So even before we boarded the IF train to hell, this would be the sort of event I’d look forward to with trepidation, and would need a glass or two of wine beforehand in order to feel relaxed and at my social best.  Now, all I could think about was walking into this big party full of families, everyone all happy and grilling out, the kids running around everywhere, and most of the conversations inevitably leading back to children (as we all know they always do).

Here’s what I envision:

We walk into the room and, as we are greeting the hosts, two other couples who know our situation but haven’t seen us in months spot us and say to each other, under their breath:

Couple 1: Oh look, there’s K and R!  They did end up coming, the poor things. 

Couple 2. Oh yeah, that’s right. They had a failed IVF didn’t they? They can’t have a baby of their own. It’s so sad. 

Couple 1: Wow. I almost didn’t recognize K, she’s gained so much weight. I feel sorry for R…he’s not the one with the problem, and now they have to deal with her infertility.  And at their ages.  I had all 3 of my kids before I was even her age.  (shakes head, solemnly).

Couple 2: I know… poor thing.  I wonder why they don’t just adopt.  Wait, didn’t she give away a baby once?

Couple 1: Oh yeah, that’s right, she did… so she should be fine with adopting a kid now!  I know someone who just adopted from Indonesia… let’s go over there so I can tell her about that.    

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Needless to say, this conversation may not have happened exactly like this, or even at all, but I couldn’t stand the thought of being gawked at, talked about, or pitied.    But I knew I needed to go and prove to myself (and everyone else… but mostly myself) that I am moving on. I’m going to be ok. I’m back. And a big part of me does miss our social life, but in a weird, detached sort of way. We’ve socialized with a few “safe” friends (including my BFFs and my family) in the past few months (and Riggo has had a few ”guys nights”), but it’s been too long since we’ve been somewhere with the whole gang together. So I told him I wanted to go. We got ready for the party and went out to Taco Mac for a couple of beers (you know, that liquid courage that was part of the pre-party deal we made). And I crumbled. 

Riggo was actually not angry with me, which was a relief. He validated my feelings, suggesting this particular party might not have been the best reintroduction to society, so to speak, and took me straight home.  En route to our house, I was so disappointed in myself, I misunderstood and overreacted at something he said and we got into it. Once home, we spent the rest of the day and most of the evening “giving each other space.”  We ended up talking it out later on, but we were both left with that horribly bitter taste in our mouths that I can’t help but blame on this bitch that is infertility. 

We stayed up til 3 am watching a Game of Thrones marathon, and I slept til almost 2 this afternoon.  That’s too much.  I need to get this depression under control, but I am struggling.  I’m still hanging a lot of hope on this medicine kicking in and giving me some relief soon. That, and us winning the HGTV Green Home Sweepstakes next week.  Serenbe, GA, here we come. 

One quick disclaimer, of sorts, before I start.  As I stated above, I am going to write about how I became a birthmother (for the first time on my blog). Obviously, a decision to make an adoption plan when faced with an unplanned pregnancy is a very difficult and personal one. And it’s not for everyone. I know and respect the fact that people have very different and often very strong opinions about the two pregnancy options that do not involve parenting. To each their own. However, on my blog, I am not interested in hearing from anyone who wants to express their disagreement with or disdain for the decisions that I made. They are mine, and if you don’t agree with them, I don’t care.  I have not had any negative commenting experiences on my blog to date, and I’d like to keep it like that. I am not here to justify my decisions to anyone.  I only want to recount some things I went through in the hopes of providing some perspective to myself and possibly something more helpful to someone out there. 

So… here’s my story:

It was 1995. I was a Sophomore at Clemson University, still trying (unsuccessfully) to figure out where my interests lay, academically and romantically. Looking back, I was ill-equipped at that age (19) to be making those sorts of huge, life-altering choices (as evidenced by the unchecked partying, the eminent unplanned pregnancy and the ill-fated career path decisions).  I took lots of general courses, experimented with a few drugs, and broke some undeserving hearts in those days, all with an age appropriate, but heightened and unhealthy sense of my own maturity and invincibility.  Then I got depressed, hit a sort of “rock bottom,” and begged my dad to let me come home and transfer to the College of Charleston.   “You never get stronger by lifting the lighter weight,” he said in an effort to try to convince me to stick it out. Wise words, but in the end he relented, and home I came, with my tail tucked between my legs. 

I did not move back in with my dad and stepmother (their rules and lifestyle were not conducive to my philosophy at the time, which was to sleep as late as possible, have an afternoon class or two, and stay out most of the night.)  My brave Mom and her oh so patient partner took me in, in all of my angsty glory.  I think my plans were to get a summer job and be enrolled to start classes in the fall semester of ’96 at the CofC.  And so I did.  When the old flame relationship that I shamelessly allowed to influence my homecoming in the middle of a spring semester promptly fell apart, I wasted no time exploring new and better romantic frontiers. I landed my first waitressing job at Applebees that spring/summer, and took up with the cutie Italian line cook, post-haste. 

Enter Baby Daddy*.  Oooohhh, and was he ever easy on the eyes!  A line cook by night, yes, but a beautiful surfer boy (fresh from Huntington Beach California) by day. The dark and handsome was easy to see… the deeper issues, not so much.  It was not love at first sight, exactly, but there was certainly an attraction there. And D was a sweet guy, too. Not just arm candy. 

We dated (and partied) pretty hard-core that summer and through the next year.  It took a while for me to find out that the ghosts D and his family had left California in order to escape had followed him East.  As I was slowly starting to grow up, take my studies more seriously, and begin thinking about my future, D was succumbing to his addictions. I didn’t know the extent of it until much, much later, despite my declared Psychology major and the fact that I fancied myself a pretty intuitive judge of character.  I blame immaturity and the sizable blinders I was wearing in the interest of maintaining my relationship, such as it was. 

At some point in the spring/summer of ’97, I moved out of my moms’ house and into a small place on the beach with D and another couple.  The partying, food and beverage lifestyle prevailed. I somehow maintained my B average in school, waited tables most nights (at a restaurant where I would work, off and on, for almost 8 years), and generally lived it up. On August 20, 1997, I celebrated my 21st birthday at the same beach bar that had been serving me my drinks for the past year. (No, they were not pleased.)  It was not my shining moment. Two months later, it would all come to a screeching halt when I discovered that, despite being on the pill, I was pregnant. Apparently I was super-fertile back then. 

Ok. I just had a singularly unique and depressing realization:  I am actually feeling jealous of myself right now. When I just typed that last sentence about being super-fertile girl in my early 20s, I felt sick with envy. Who envies themself?! But I can’t help it… I’m coveting my own fertile body of the past.  Yikes.  

On October 13, 1997, I took a pregnancy test after a morning bout of dry heaving in the shower reminded me, to my horror, that my usually prompt period was a few days late. (Later that day, I would also get a speeding ticket and find out that my cat, Ethan, had been hit by a car and died… yeah, not a day I will ever forget).. 

What ensued were a lot of sleepless nights, tearful conversations with family, and tons and tons of “research” on a brand new, amazing resource called the World Wide Web.  While I had recently discovered email via the intranet at my school’s computer lab, my introduction to the internet was there, on the dinosaur desktop with a dial-up connection to America Online (think “You’ve Got Mail!”) in my moms’ office.  I remember staying up til all hours (waiting for pages to load), reading information on single parenting and adoption, lurking and sometimes asking questions in chat rooms, and becoming more and more convinced that I was in NO way ready to be a mother. The fact that D was not ready to be a father was clear as day to anyone, except maybe him. 

I will not pretend that abortion was not an option, but I’ll just say that I had some experience with that in high school, and so I already knew that was not going to be my path. I felt that I was too old at 21 not to take responsibility for my situation and do the right thing.  For me, that meant giving my baby life, and not just any life. I agonized over the possibilities for weeks, spending hours at a time talking through all of my tears and fears. No, I wasn’t 16 and pregnant. But I knew myself as well as any 21-year-old can, and I knew I was no better prepared than a 16-year-old to be a mother at that point in my life. 

It was impossible for me to fathom how I could live my life with or without this baby.  I was not operating under any naive notion of extra familial (financial) support if I chose to parent… no, my moms and dad were not going to swoop in with any extra support for me if I made the decision to raise this child. I knew them well, too, and what I could expect from them was love and moral support, but that was about it (and that’s as it should be, in my opinion). I was barely making it on my own with my tip-dependent income and small stipend from my father as long as I was in college.  If I chose to raise this child, I would be doing it essentially on my own, and as naive and immature as I was at the time, I was smart enough to know that I was not capable of giving my child the kind of life he/she deserved. My love and “the best I could do” were not enough, in my opinion. 

I was also not idealizing or romanticizing my relationship and future with D… I think I knew deep down where it, and where he, were both headed.  That meant I knew I’d be a single mother, possibly struggling to justify his rightful presence in the baby’s life against my duty to protect the child from exposure to his unhealthy lifestyle. D would argue that he would get a job and support us… how could I have possibly counted on that promise when the guy couldn’t hold down a job for more than a few months at a time for as long as I had known him? He was a really sweet guy, but not father material at that point… not even now, I’m afraid.**

During one of our many, long talks at the kitchen table, my mom’s partner (who was/is a mental health professional) started telling me about open adoption. Those talks, along with hours and hours of (paid) time surfing AOL sites on adoption and reading profiles of potential adoptive parents led to the first meeting with my attorney.  

Here’s where I will make a suggestion to anyone out there who is pursuing adoption, either as birthparent(s) or as adoptive parent(s).  If you choose to go through an attorney vs. an agency, make sure that there is someone with some degree of compassion (and I mean an academic degree, too, like counseling, social work, etc) there to talk with you before you get down to the details. There are many differences between attorney and agency adoptions (I am very familiar with both, on a personal and professional level) and I believe there are pros and cons involved with each choice.  

My first experience with this attorney was not ideal… it was pretty cold, to be honest. It felt like I was meeting with an attorney… not someone who wanted to show me empathy, but someone who was in a hurry to show me a stack of adoptive family profile books and tell me to make my decision within a few nights.  I needed empathy that day. I needed the soft voice and the proffered box of tissues on my first trip to that office. It’s a miracle that I didn’t run screaming out of the building for the lack of warmth I felt that day. 

Instead, I unsuccessfully fought back tears, held my mother’s hand, and did the best I could to remember all the questions I knew I had in my foggy brain. Fortunately, once I made my decision to choose adoption for sure, I didn’t have to have much contact with that attorney for the rest of my pregnancy.  With the help of my family, and a strong gut feeling I had upon reading the heartfelt letter from J to me at the end of their colorful and well-organized profile book, I chose my baby’s parents by the end of that week.

 I started therapy not long after. One of the conditions of the adoption was that I would be able to see a therapist of my choice on a weekly basis throughout my pregnancy and for a month after.  This was crucial to my emotional health, and to my eventual ability to follow through with the adoption plan. Prospective adoptive parents out there… make sure that your future child’s birthmother (and father if he’s involved) get plenty of good therapy before the baby comes, even if you have to pay for it (though most adoption agencies and attorneys should include the services of a therapist in their fees nowadays).  It can make the difference between a follow through and a failure. 

So yes, although my attorney was empathy-challenged at best, I was referred to a great therapist who saw me through the next 6 months, through E’s birth, adoption, and beyond. I had seen my OB soon after my positive test, and continued to get good prenatal care.  I guess I was lucky in terms of pregnancy symptoms.  I had about 2 weeks worth of manageable morning sickness (or really anytime I didn’t eat enough). And then it was relatively smooth sailing until my third trimester, when the constipation descended upon me without mercy. I was in excruciating pain after a week without moving anything, but too scared to do an enema.  (Oh, how times have changed:) 

It has been 14 years, mind you, so the time and my current longing to be pregnant may be clouding my memory a bit in terms of the bad stuff I went through during my pregnancy.  Honestly, I believe that I recall it all pretty well, and the bad parts were mostly due to the sadness and grief I was already dealing with over the loss of my child.  I had to get used to the idea ahead of time that this baby was not mine. I was simply carrying her for this wonderful couple (whom I had met by then, and was really excited about) that couldn’t have a baby on their own.  I was going to bless their lives immeasurably, and I was confident that they would bless my child’s life in return… by loving her and giving her the life and stability that she needs and deserves (which they have done, and then some). 

But trying to see myself as a surrogate was not easy.  The bonding that happens during pregnancy happens automatically, regardless of a mother’s best intentions for that child at birth. You cannot help but fall in love with that little life when you feel them move and kick and hiccup their way through the days and nights of many miraculous months. She was mine during that time, no matter what was to come. And I marvelled (yes, sometimes begrudgingly) at the way my body changed to accommodate her every need.  I talked to her and played her soothing music each night at bedtime (I wonder how she’d react if she heard Enya’s Watermark album today;). I steered clear of the party house/crowd on the beach where she would be subjected to all kinds of second-hand smoke, and I stayed ravenous, but healthy for 9 and a half months. During that time, I worked on several hand-made gifts…a quilt that my mom and I designed and sewed together, and a Birthmother’s Book of Memories… that I fantasized about giving to her as a little girl.      

The pregnancy was easy, the preparing to let my daughter go was not.  Meeting her parents, I was a nervous wreck. How often do you go to meet your baby’s future parents? It felt like a very important interview for everyone involved, but with much higher stakes than just a good job. We met in the parking lot behind my father’s house (where I grew up) in downtown Charleston and walked to a nice restaurant called Magnolia’s for lunch. My mother and my sister MH both came with me, and we had a very nice time getting to know J and D, despite the nerves and butterflies all around. 

I’ll never forget that first lunch, and the time we spent getting to know them in the few remaining months to come (before E’s birth).  The more we got to know them, the better I felt about my decision… it was a great feeling. They had struggled for many years with infertility, and my child was going to be their first little blessing.  She actually turned out to be their second blessing, because they got another call from their attorney 4 months before E was born that a baby boy had been born and that the birthmother had chosen them, but wanted no contact with them at all.  That was hard for me because I had wanted my baby to be the adoptive parents’ first blessing, but it turned out to be a great thing… E and her brother are very close, and only 4 months apart in age:) 

After being sent home from the hospital in false labor at least once during the two long weeks after my due date, my doctor finally had mercy on me and scheduled induction.  E was born on June 26, 2008, after 12 hours of relatively uneventful labor and delivery, complete with epidural and at least 2 nurses who I swear were angels. My mother and D were in the room and watched her come into the world. The rest of my family, including sisters, grandmother, and E’s parents-to-be, were in the hall right outside the door (this was before hospitals had rules against that sort of hall traffic on L&D wards). As soon as E came out, took her first breath, and bellowed her first little scream, the entire posse in the hall erupted in loud cheering and applause.  It was an amazing moment, to say the least. 

Just so all of you know… this may seem like a sad story, but I have relived the moments I had with E in the hospital a million times. It is not painful for me anymore. The only part of thinking about that amazing day that is sad for me now, is how badly I want to be able to do it again right now, but with a different ending. 

I had decided beforehand that I would make the decision in the moment about whether to hold and spend time with her in the hospital. I knew somehow (and I’ve seen it play out this way many times over, as an adoption professional) that I would need to make that decision at the time. One look at that tiny head full of dark hair, and I demanded to have her put her in my arms as soon as she was cleaned, weighed, measured, and swaddled. And oh my sweet lord was she ever beautiful!  Eight pounds 21 inches of perfect.  I fell immediately, deeply, and irrevocably in love before I had brought her soft little newborn face up to meet mine for the first time.

Still dry-eyed here, I promise.  It makes me smile to remember that time. 

There were many kisses, and yes, many tears in the days that followed.  I had her with me in my room as often as I could, and held her most of that time. Because the staff knew of my choice and respected it, I believe the nurses allowed me to keep her with me vs. in the nursery more than the hospital normally allowed. Yes, I did get to place her in J’s arms for the first time, and be there as she gave her that first bottle. J and D got some alone time for bonding, too, of course, but they were respectful of the fact that it was my time… my only time with her as her mother, and they left the hospital after that first day so that I could be with her and with my family.  

It must have been such a scary situation for J and D! (A fact that was not lost on me, even then, and I did my best to reassure them that I was not considering changing my mind, despite all of the tears and time I had with her). I knew I could have. I knew that was my window. I could have called my attorney, said I changed my mind and never seen J and D again. But E was already theirs. In my heart she will always be mine, but I would not take her home with me that day and cheat her (and J and D) out of the promises I made to them. 

Two days later D and I signed our relinquishment paperwork, together, in front of our attorney and two witnesses. E went home with her new parents that afternoon.  Leaving the hospital empty-handed was the most painful part of it all. No amount of preparing for that moment could keep my heart from breaking. There are no words for the emptiness I felt.  Time was the only thing that could (and did) heal me then, and it’s the only thing that can heal me now.  Besides a baby, of course.    

So there it is, in a nutshell. The story of my first time.  The journey that has followed has been difficult, but beautiful. I am so lucky to be a part of E’s life the way that I am. She knows me, who I am, and what it means…and she thinks I’m cool (at least for now;) She has a wonderful, close, loving family who cherishes her. Her life is richly blessed.  I would love a closer relationship with her at some point, and I know that will come in time, too. 

I may complain about my lack of contact with her, and the rules regarding my communication with her now that she is a teenager, but I am just venting frustrations. Her parents are driving this boat, and they always will be (until she is an adult).  I respect them and their rules, and have always known that this journey would throw us all for a loop, now and then.  And it has.  Things change as time passes in an open adoption journey… as the child grows and has questions, expresses interests, wants to “friend” her “young, cool” birthmother on FB, etc. There’s no easy answer and there will be hurt feelings all around from time to time.  It’s all about what’s best for E.  She is truly a gift and always has been. A gift to me, to her parents, and to everyone who knows her. 

I just hope I’ll get to be that lucky again.  E was a gift that came into my life too soon. Now that my turn is finally here to give my husband one of his own, I pray it’s not too late.   

Thanks for listening.  Every time I get to tell my story, it’s like I’m getting and giving that precious gift all over again.  I promise you, it was worth it. 

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* I am not someone who would ever refer to her child’s biological father as “Baby Daddy” under pretty much any circumstances. But, since he needs a nickname for privacy purposes on my blog, and that’s a pretty informative and, to me, hilarious way to refer to him, that’s what I chose.  The same is true for my “Baby Mama” (my child’s adoptive mother, J, is a wonderful woman, and so much more than a “Baby Mama.” Just for the record.)

** D, or Baby Daddy, was/is a very sweet guy.  He always meant well and wanted to do right by us.  He was (and still is) struggling with some pretty nasty demons, and has had a tough time of it.  I will write more about him another time, as he was an important part of my story. I just wanted to clarify that, despite his problems, he was/is a good person, and he did have a part in the decision to choose adoption for E.  (And E should consider herself very lucky to have gotten his genes in the hair and skin department, by the way! Not to mention the sweet dispositions they both have.) Yes, D contributed some of his best qualities to our little angel, and I hope he is as proud of her as I am. 

Unfortunately, things aren’t so cheery in my neck of the woods, either. I am still actively grieving the loss of my fertility… my chance to conceive with my own eggs.  I have “Borderline Ovarian Reserve” and no insurance coverage for IVF.  My name is Kate, and more of my story can be found on my Secondary Infertility Timeline and in these two posts: The Rundown on Me and What’s In A Loss.

Besides my current battle with infertility, I am birthmother to E, a bright and beautiful girl for whom I made an open adoption plan at birth, almost 14 years ago.  While I have boundless love for my living child and know I am lucky to have had the time with her that I did (and look forward to more in the future), I long for another chance to create a life and bring it safely into the world… this time with Riggo, the world’s best husband, and this time for keeps.

My blog is my refuge in this storm. I come here to cry, vent, scream, and laugh bitterly at the crap that life seems determined to dole out to me and so many of my friends (IRL..in real life… and bloggy ones). I welcome your comments, suggestions, words of wisdom and compassion.   I’m not sure I’d be getting through this trial in my life quite so gracefully (Ha!) without all of you. Thanks for listening.

I’ve always had mixed feelings about Birthmother’s Day… celebrated (by some adoptive/birth families) on the Saturday before Mother’s Day every year.  When I was younger, or when my daughter was a baby, and I used to get pictures of her several times per year, I would look forward to the day for that reason.  Nowadays, the most I’ll get is an ecard from her parents thanking me for my gift and telling me that they are thinking of me.  Because Birthmother’s Day is not exactly a Hallmark record-breaker in terms of card sales (not many people know about it), I hear from a very small handful of people on that day… my own mother(s), my husband, my Baby Mama (J), and maybe one or two of my sisters.

My mixed feelings about BM day are complex. While I do appreciate being recognized and honored by my loved ones (for the life I brought into the world) on a day that is separate from Mother’s Day (because, after all, I’m a different kind of mother and saying Happy Mother’s Day to me would not be right), on the other hand it’s really just a reminder to me of what I don’t have… of what I lost.  More so now than ever before. What would mean the most to me would be to get a really thick envelope from E’s mother, including tons of new pics, a letter from her to me, and a card from her parents.  That would make me feel happy and appreciated. All I feel now on that day is the growing ache that comes from the empty place in my heart. But I’m sure I’d feel worse if the weekend passed without my receiving any recognition at all for being the special kind of mother that I am. I don’t know. It’s a double-edged sword. All I know right now is that it used to feel good to be remembered on Birthmother’s Day. I don’t know if that’s going to be the case anymore… now that things are… different.

This year was harder than any other year ever has been.  As I’ve said in another post (What’s in a Loss), if, 13 years ago when I let go of my daughter, I gave up my only shot at raising a biological child of my own, then that changes my outlook on things a bit.  Because of my infertility, my birthmotherhood is slowly evolving from a status I am proud of, to one that fills me with sadness and regret.  I have never regretted my decision to make an adoption plan for E, and deep down, I still don’t… it’s just that things are different now. I may not get my chance to conceive and carry my own take home baby. Somehow that realization made Birthmother’s Day this year seem less like an honor and more like a taunting slap in the face.  I’m supposed to celebrate the fact that I brought a life into the world before I was ready and able to care for it, chose to give the gift of that precious life to a loving, infertile couple, and now… almost 14 years later, I am facing the prospect of childlessness due to biological and financial barriers? Sorry if I don’t feel much like celebrating (or being celebrated) on that day.

And Mother’s Day?  If it weren’t for the fact that I have 2 very amazing mothers that deserve a celebration every day of the year, I don’t think I could have left my bed that day.  Mother’s Day felt like another slap in the face, on the same cheek that got slapped good and hard the day before.  It stung. It stung because I lay awake on my sister’s couch the night before… all night… without a wink of sleep, trying (and failing) to talk myself out of hoping that the pregnancy test 2 days earlier was a false negative and that my 5 day late period really did mean I was going to get my miracle… it stung because the day started at first light with a sleepy little 4-year-old padding her way into the living room to crawl into my arms and chat with me until her baby sister cried to be gotten from her crib… it stung because that same, sweet little niece spent the day alternating between saying, “Happy Mother’s Day, Kate” and “I Love You”…it stung because I was too tired (and, yes, too terrified of breaking down publicly) to go to church and out to lunch with my mothers and everyone, which would have made them happy… it stung because my period arrived that afternoon, along with a record-breaking case of cramps… it stung because I can’t shake this feeling that I will be wished a Happy Mother’s Day for the rest of my life by unwitting strangers who assume I’m a mother, or small children who think you just say that to all adult women… it stung because my window to join that exclusive club is closing, or being closed for me, and I am powerless to do anything about it.

{Huge sigh}  Here we are…the weekend is over. (Birth) Mother’s Day has mercifully passed us by for another year.  But the reality is that the sting is still there.  It’s everywhere.  It’s deep within me all day long, only sometimes numbed by the power of sleep or a glass of wine.  It’s in the little venomous barbs that come flying at me from every angle in this baby-crazed society and all of its fecundity.

I don’t feel like my mind and body are toughening up, or building an immunity to this particular poison.. on the contrary, it feels like I’m absorbing each blow and I become more and more bitter with every assault on my heart.  It’s no wonder many of us begin to lead anti-social lives as infertility erodes the “normalcy” down, leaving us feeling like we are walking around with our nerves exposed. It hurts too much to see and be seen. I want to feel safe and protected from all of the painful people, places, and things out there. But I know that is not possible. I have to learn to live with it and accept my own reality. I just don’t know how to do that. I’m so scared of how that will feel I can’t think about it without crying.

I’m not in a good place right now. I can’t seem to pull myself together enough to summon the courage, will or strength to keep going.  I’ve never been so sad and angry (at the same time) in my life.  I’m on the verge of giving up praying for a break, as it seems that God clearly has better things to do. All I can do right now is hope the anti-depressant I just started back on begins to clear the clouds a little for me. Because I have no choice but to keep moving forward.

Still here? Ok, well, you were warned, so here goes: I’m going to split this update into two posts… one about what happened last week and one about this past weekend (including the mothers days).

Part 1:  Last week: The Scary-Looking Old Man

Most of you know that Riggo and I have recently been forced into taking a break from all kinds of baby making via Assisted Reproductive Technologies (aka, our only hope of conceiving, according to more than one doctor). This break was necessitated by a lack of insurance coverage (for IVF) and the obvious and painfully large gap between how much money we have in savings and how much we need to move forward with our next step (DE). I did not welcome this ”break,” and I see it more as a forced, indefinite waiting period. I was not ready to stop trying. I was not at the end of my physical or emotional rope in this process.  My racing biological clock has not slowed down or temporarily stopped so that we could enjoy a period of respite… no, it’s still moving at that same unnaturally fast pace towards its final tic-toc, while laughing maniacally as it watches my few remaining eggs start acting on their plans for early retirement.

One of the things that Riggo and I were pinning a lot of our hopes on in our quest for the holy grail (the money to move forward with DE) was the sale of a family heirloom. We have been working with a family friend/antiques appraiser in order to make that happen since around January.  My father and step mother gave me this “valuable” piece of family art a few years ago (it’s a portrait of an ancestor done in the early 1800s of a somewhat prominent historical figure from SC).  It was given to us prior to my father’s death (my father is still alive), presumably because they no longer had an appropriate place to display it in their home (after having moved out of the rectory when my dad retired). I don’t blame them for getting rid of it, because, in my opinion, the thing has always been scary to look at… it’s a very stern looking man with white hair, a hell-fire and brim-stone demeanor, and well, not a friendly face to have staring back at you from above your mantle (where it was for most of my adolescence).

Was I sad and ashamed and guilt-ridden over my decision to sell it? A little. The scary man was my grandfather’s great grandfather or something like that…he was a pioneering Baptist minister in SC, and an ardent patriot during the Revolutionary War. It was passed down from that time all the way to my father, and then to me. My dad would not be pleased to learn of my plan to let it go (out of the family). But I was hoping that he’d understand and be supportive of us when I reminded him that we are selling it in order to get the money to have a baby one day. But we didn’t get that far.  We found out last week from our friend, the appraiser who has been brokering the deal with the university in SC that was named for this man in the portrait, that they are no longer interested in buying it from us.  In a nutshell, they wanted us to donate it to them. There was no counter offer… just a “we are no longer interested because we feel that we will eventually be given the only other existing portrait of the man via a donation when the other ancestor that has it finally croaks.”

I had already been put through the most horrendous guilt trip over the fact that I was trying to sell it to the university (instead of donating it)… when I went to drop it off in their special collections department for appraisal by their people, the staff woman was extremely rude to me and made me feel like a piece of shit for making the poor, private University (poor my ass!) contact board members to ask for donations to pay for the portrait. I did not feel like the reason for our having to sell was any of that woman’s business (in fact, I thought it was very rude and unprofessional of her to ask me), and all I said was something about unexpected and large medical bills. It was all I could do not to tell the bitch exactly why we are having to sell it…  “Listen, librarian lady, this is not something I want to be doing right now. But I’m a 35-year-old infertile, see, and so I need a very large sum of money, quick-like, before my baby factory shuts down completely. OK?! So please just buy the damn portrait for your University archives now and stop making me feel like a tiny piece of ant shit!?”

No go.  There went months of hoping… not to mention toting that big-ass scary-looking framed man all over GA and SC. But most importantly, there went almost $10,000.  It was the only thing of any real substantial value (we thought) that we had.

I will never be putting that portrait up anywhere in our home. It will sit in our crawl space under the stairs, wrapped in some old blanket, and be a constant reminder of how close we came to getting the money for our DE cycle. I can hear that scary old man from down there right now… like the tell-tale heart beating its way into my brain….saying, “Hahahahahhahah!  You will never get the money, you will never have a baby, you will never get the money. Aaaahhhaaaahhahhhhaaaaaaahhhhaa!”  I hate him.  I hate that University.  I hate that I got my hopes up and went through all of that with that stupid, ugly portrait, and once again, we’re back at square one.

So that happened at the end of last week… another huge blow. Without a very generous donation or loan, we are looking at two years before we will realistically come up with the money for a DE IVF cycle on our own. I’ll be 38 by then. Which means my ovaries and uterus will think we are 48.

It’s about time for a very serious talk with my father, which I already know will involve my complete and utter inability to form coherent sentences through the sobbing mess I’ll become upon sitting down and looking at him.  Whether or not he chooses to give (or loan) us the money we need to get our donor eggs is something I cannot even think about.  It makes me weak in the knees just allowing those sorts of thoughts into my psyche for the briefest of moments.  I’m not ready to see him.  He just got back from his 5 month missionary time in Cairo, followed by their 2 week African safari which wrapped things up before they headed home.  I can’t even call him to welcome him back. Besides the fact that he hasn’t bothered to call me to check on me (he knows from one email communication what we’ve been going through and what happened with our cancelled IVF last month) since he’s been home, I’m just not ready to accept that he might not be willing (cause I know he’s able) to help his youngest daughter have a family of her own.

I will probably be posting more about my father in relation to our infertility journey at some point.  It’s a sore spot for me, obviously.  And since my dad is the only (immediate) family member who does not currently read or at least have access to my blog on occasion, I feel comfortable being honest here. BTW, the reason my father does not read my blog is not because I don’t want him to, or I haven’t told him about it, or I haven’t given him the web address. It’s because when I told him about it and offered to send him the web address, he never responded.  Maybe it’s a good thing he’s not interested in what I have to say about what we’re going through. Because if he were, then I couldn’t (wouldn’t?) be so open here about how much he hurts me.

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PS:  Hey, by the way… if anyone out there knows anyone that might be interested in obtaining (via a quick sale and a bargain price) a groovy, ornately framed portrait of an old 19th c. Baptist minister, please contact me ASAP!

Speaking of strong, another lady who can write a mean blog post is Sass over at (In)Fertility Unexplained.  Sass is in the early, somewhat uncertain but oh so exciting days of her first pregnancy!  She got her BFP on May 6, after her second IVF. She’s dealing with some cramping and spotting, a pesky virus, and valid thoughts/fears around what’s normal and what’s not for this early stage.  She could use some encouragement, so stop on by and check out her amazing story!  I am so very happy for her and I can’t wait to continue to follow her inspiring (and often hilarious) journey.

Here are the guidelines for this award.

• Share who gave you the award with a link back to their blog. (Check)
• Write down 7 random facts about yourself. (Check)
• Give the award to 15 other bloggers. (15!? Yikes)
• Let them know you’ve won.
• Pop the award on your blog. (Check)

Thank you for understanding and caring. And thank you for saying so when you do.

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Because today was no exception to the rule of raging crap that seems to be my lot in life, I’m feeling the need to laugh… even if it does taste sort of bitter on the way out.  Since the raunchy British sitcom Riggo has chosen to watch tonight isn’t cutting it, I thought I’d take this opportunity to share a little bit about some of the only things that can really make me smile these days: specifically, my nieces and nephews. If you are not in the mood for some humorous anecdotes about someone else’s adorable kids, then read no further (though I highly recommend at least checking out the pictures of the cutelings that are my sisters’ children. And if the stories don’t make you laugh, then I don’t know what will!)

The younger ones range in ages from 2 to 13 and are all equally precious, but unique in the sweetest of ways.  I could go on all day about them, but for now I will just share some of the best of the best “isms” (insert their name, then “ism”).  Kids say the darndest things?  Just wait til you hear some of the gems my sisters’ spawn have shared with us over the years!  Sorry if this isn’t as interesting or funny to others as it is to me… I do hope you will all enjoy a few laughs (if you’re up for kid-related-humor… and I completely understand if you are not), but this is really for me… because I need to laugh. And these little ones get me there better than anyone else.

I’ll start with the youngest and work my way up.

Elza (Age 2) Elza (Elizabeth) is a little chatterbox. When she’s not talking, singing or dancing for someone in the room, she’s doing it for herself.  Pretty much everything she says these days is priceless.

Elza

* ”I like your pretty shoes, Mom.”   “How do you like my  (pause to look down at herself)…… diaper?”  (19 months old)

* Elza falls down while playing, and her mom says “Oops! Lost your balance?” She gets up and says, triumphantly, “Here it is!” (19 months)

* “Elza walks in wearing pink polka dotted footy pajamas, with tap shoes over the footies, a yellow striped ski cap, and holding a wand. She announces, “I’m Einstien!” (2 years)

* Elza sings:  ”A tisket a tasket a peanut butter casket” (2 years)

* While taking a bath Elza looks down at herself and says to her mom with a very concerned look on her face, “I don’t have any nipples!” Her mom points them out and says, “Yes you do, see… there they are.” Elza covers them with her hands and says, “I gotta keep my nipples safe!!” (2 years)

* In the bathtub with a bunch of floating toys, Elza leans back so her tummy is poking out above the water and says to one of her animal toys, “Do you want to go to Belly Button Island?”

Burns (Age 3) - This is the happiest little boy you’ve ever seen.  He is full of energy and so incredibly sweet.  And even at 3, he’s always happy to chat with me on the phone when I call and give me a huuuuuuge hug when I see him.

* While running at top speed through the kitchen where his mother is making pancakes, he says “Put chocolate on that, I’ll be right back!” (3 years)

*Burns is overheard whispering something under his breath as he was running up the stairs. His mother figures out what he was saying just as he rushes into the bathroom:  “I can make it, I can make it, I can make it…”  (3 years)

*Burns says to his parents whenever he catches them in an embrace:  “Let Burnsie in the love.”  (3 years)

* Burns was overheard singing this:  “I’m Mr. Wet pants, I’m Mr. Wet pants, I’m Mr. Wet Boy, who wants to hug me?” (2 years)

Celie (Age 4) - Cecilia was an early talker, and amazed us with some of the things she said at such an early age. She’s a bit precocious and very imaginative.  She cracks me up.  (Here she is as one of my flower girls…)

*After entering a Walmart with her mother, Celie immediately sees some balloons at the service desk and, pointing to them, declares: “I see balloons! I want it. I want it. I need it. Hand it to me!”  (18 months)

*Celie holds up a marker and says to her mother, “Someone left the top off this one!” Her mother says, “Yes, I wonder who could have done that?” She says, “It could have been nobody.”  (20 months)

*After being asked if she would like to go to the park, Celie is extremely excited and immediately takes off to go put on her socks and shoes. As she passes Mom along the way, Mom scoops her up and begins to wipe dried peanut butter and jelly from her face. Celie screams, “My face! My face! Don’t worry about my face!”  (22 months)

*Celie walks into the kitchen where her mother is cooking dinner and says, “I like your oven, Mommy.”  (25 months)

*When asked if she needs to go tee-tee, Celie responds, “Not quite.”  (25 months)

* “I’m a bumblebee. I’m not a dead bumblebee.”  (26 months)

*When she witnesses her father giving her little sister a good morning kiss, Celie says to him, “Don’t crowd her, Daddy!”  (26 months)

*Celie:  “That bubble went way over there!”  Mom: “Yes, the wind took it.” Celie: “That was nice of the wind to take it.”  (26 months)

*In reference to a dead insect she sees: ”He’s relaxin’”  (28 months)

*”When this kitty gets bigger, she’s gonna have a tiny nose and a huge toenail!” (28 months)

* While watching Aladin, her mother asks her “If you could have 3 wishes, what would they be?” Her answer: “A swan, a sucker, and two suckers.” (28 months)

“I’ve always been Celie.”  (29 months)

* Upon discovering her mother’s little tattoo, Celie says, “Mom! Is that a stamp?” Her mom says, “No, it’s a tattoo.” Celie says, “Mom, what can I DO with you?”  (30 months)

* Celie is playing dress up and her mother says, “You look so cute!” She says, “I’m not cute enough yet.  I need a cowboy hat.”  (30 months)

* “Elza can’t play with me, Mama!  Can you put her away?”  (31 months)

* “I seem to like marshmellows, Mom.”  (32 months)

*Celie says to her Nana (who has just arrived): “Come in my room and play with me, Nana!”  Nana says, “No, I’m gonna stay out here and help Mom.” Celie says, “I want her to do it by herself and you can come with me, does that sound great?” (33 months).

* “I would like a pinkish violin for my birthday.”  (34 months)

* Her mother was eating some wings and Celie asked her, “Can I have one of your flies, Mom?” 3 years

* “I’m different from my (Little) Ponies, Mommy. Just look at my eyes!” (3 years)

*”That cat is positively silly!” (3 years)

* “Mommy, you’re the warmest.” (3 years)

* “Do you like my new bathing suit? It’s beautiful, and when it gets smaller, Elza will love it!” (3 years)

*Mom: “Whatcha doing?” Celie: “I’m sure I don’t know.” (3 years)

* Celie and Elza come in wearing old lady style hats. Celie:  “Elza is a pikerit.” Mom: “A pirate?” Celie: “No! A Pike-rit!” Mom: “Ok, well, what is a pikerit?” Celie: “It’s a baby with that hat on.”  (3 years)

* On a walk, just about to pass a lady with really short hair and a toddler on one of those baby leashes, Celie yells loudly ”Hey Mom! That man is walking that baby like a dog!!” (3 years)

* “The Earth is quite packed… with stuff.”  (3 years)

* Celie wakes up in her parents bed one morning, sits up, and says, “I smell something.” Her mom asks what. She says, “Cat throw up.” (3 years)

* “I’m just having a little mess party.” (3 years)

* “I wanna see what’s in that box! That brown box. The one with the brownness all over it!” (3 years)

* During a nightly, pre-bedtime ritual of going outside to look at the moon, Celie stares at the sky in wonder for a few minutes, gazing at the full moon, and then very solomnly, as if the thought has just occured to her and she’s making sense of it… she quietly says (while still staring upward), “I can’t have it. It’s not for me.”  (Age 3)

* Celie says to a caterpillar:  “Don’t be afraid little guy. Get up on the human.”  (4 years)

* Celie is excited about the prospect of going through the drive through at McDonalds because they might have My Little Ponies in the Happy Meals, and she says: “I want to get a pony! And I want to be delighted by it!” (4 years)

Anna Lawton (that’s her first name)  (Age almost 7)- Anna Lawton  (another one of my flower girls) is such a dear sweet girl.  She is creative and funny and full of stories that you’d be lucky to hear her tell.

Anna Lawton at a Hollywood themed party our family had a couple of years ago.

* Anna Lawton said:  ”I think Love is a key word. It unlocks everything.”  (age 6)

(More to come from AL, her older brother, Heyward, and my oldest sister’s 3 kids-Anna, Peter, and Gracie… My sisters need to consult their “archives” for the older kids.) But here are pics of the other 4…)  In order from youngest to oldest, top to bottom:  Heyward (10), Gracie (13), Peter (23), Anna (25). The last one is of Anna after her most recent hair cut;)

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I can’t help but laugh and marvel over the things my sisters’ kids say!  How smart are they? I mean really?! And beautiful? Pshaw.  Ya think?

Keeping a “Precious Things They Say Journal” is one of the parts of parenting that I’m looking forward to the most. As sad and as broken as I am these days, any conversation with any one of those kids is guaranteed to make me smile.   The little ones have these creative minds that are always working and wondering! When they try to express themselves, it can be humiliating (“Mommy, look at that man walking his kid like a dog!”) fall on the floor hilarious, unfortunately self-absorbed, eerilly profound (like the “It’s not for me” moon and Love being a key word comments!) or just as loving and sweet as can be.

What are some of the best quotes from the kids in your life?  Or, if other people’s kid-related humor is not your cup-O-tea right now, how bout any funny story of something you said or did as a kid that went down in your family’s history?

Thinking about all of these kids in my life only makes me sad sometimes. Usually (like tonight) they bring me joy and make me laugh.  I am blessed to call all of them family.

Thanks to my sisters for sharing the best of the best “isms” from our sweet angels. Can’t wait to see all of you (and the kids) again soon!

Goodnight!   I’m off to take my sleepytime pills and pray I don’t have another pregnancy dream.

As I’ve mentioned before, Riggo and I may have one more shot at growing our family (our <5% chance of conceiving naturally notwithstanding).  If we can come up with an obscene (but not impossible) amount of money, say by next spring, then we will be able to introduce a new (not ideal but still beautiful) flower to our garden… one that involves donor eggs. And with the right conditions and a bit of luck, the seed could germinate and give us the little miracle that we so desperately want.  So I have plenty of time to get my shit act together, stop letting the anger and the crazy turn me into a potty mouth, and spend as much time in my Hope Garden as I please. 

Maybe this is not such a great analogy for me to adopt…. I’m a lover of plants and flowers, but I’m also a killer of them.  Not on purpose, of course, but I don’t seem to have a green thumb. I’ll have to boost my horticultural confidence a bit if I’m going to have any lasting faith in my ability to care for the fragile seed that will be my baby. Very different kinds of nurturing, yes. But this unanswered longing I have to grow our baby inside of me seems to be manifesting itself in a desire to plant things and watch them grow.  I guess I am intrigued by the idea of taking up gardening as a new hobby… but also terrified of extracting hidden meanings in my eminent failure at it.  It’s like I have something to prove. My body may not be willing or able to give me a (second) chance to prove how well it can nurture human life, but I am certainly capable of planting a seed and helping it to grow to be just as strong, healthy, beautiful, and sweet-smelling as my child would be (most of the time). But that’s silly, because if my plants die, it does not mean that my hope has to die too.  An unsuccessful crop of azaleas does not equal a failed DE IVF cycle.  If I need a distraction and can get over my fear of bees, then gardening might be a rewarding way to pass my time, while still nurturing my hope.  It’ll be a healthier outlet than my love of all things gourmet, right!?  We’ll see.  I’m a lot of talk and not a lot of action these days. 

I’ve gotta go get out of the house for a bit… maybe I’ll have an exploratory mission at the Lowes garden department to see if I feel inspired by or angry at all of the fertile stuff everywhere.  But first, I’d like to thank Sass and Eighteenyears for my One Lovely Blog Awards:)  I need to figure out how to post the award, but until I do, I wanted to let them know that I appreciate their support of me and their recognition of my blog.  I’ll do my part and pass it on soon. I promise. 

Also, can we have a community wide squeal of joy for Sass?  A nice little second pink line appeared (even darker) on her peestick this morning:)  This is great news, and it should be celebrated.  I’m off to celebrate with a cinnamon roll in her honor:)

The weekend was perfect (see pics below, but mentally insert skinny margaritas, sparkling white wine sunsets, tasty munchies, and best friends relaxing poolside and soaking up the last warm and sunny days of April in an idyllic setting). Yes, it was nice. And I didn’t even have any breakdowns (well, maybe one time while sitting in the bathroom reading an email from my father… but any communication with him makes me cry, so that’s nothing new). I’m glad I went.  It was good.

The coming home was bittersweet.  I missed Riggo so much and could hardly wait to get home on Monday night so I could see him. But despite that happy moment, it was hard to come home. Because coming home meant facing reality again.  And my reality sort of sucks right now. I was right last week when I predicted that I’d bottle up my feelings all weekend (I was sealed up pretty tight), but I was fortunately able to make it home before falling apart again.  The tears were back with a vengeance on Tuesday and stayed til some time on Thursday. Riggo and I had a happy reunion, but then wrecked it all by starting the day on Wed with a gigantic fight. Welcome home. And hey, here’s all the shit you thought you could escape by fleeing the state for three days and living vicariously in someone else’s paradise.

Besides the two pregnant friends who popped by over the weekend (one of whom was in a bathing suit that showed off her 7(ish) month along tummy, in which she is carrying child number 3), I was spared a whole lot of pregnancy and baby talk. We did have dinner with a big group of girls on Saturday night, and one of them asked me from across the table how many children I have.  Really?  I should have asked her how many lovers she had before she married her current husband, or some equally inappropriate question.  But wait!  When I smiled sweetly and explained that I didn’t, in fact, have any children yet, but that we were “trying,”  wanna guess what she said?  Oh, this is the best… she said, “Ohhhh, just take your time and enjoy each other for as long as you can!”  (Insert loud, obnoxious scream punctuated by choice profanity). Ok, now I’m supposed to say something about how she didn’t mean to be insensitive, etc.

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On another note… I’m cycling pretty regularly through the 5 stages of grief these days.  As we all know, every month of TTC when you have IF involves its own mini grief cycle.  You can’t ever completely escape the cycle until you either get pregnant or give up and choose to live child-free.  I’ve been doing some hard-core grieving for the past few weeks. My pain is real, it’s raw, and it’s life-altering.  If there are truly stages to this process, then I guess I am performing on all of them, though some more briefly than others (ie, acceptance).  Here’s my take on cycling my way through these hideous stages:

The 5 Stages of Grief (according to Elisabeth Kubler-Ross)

1.  Shock/Denial-  What?  There’s nothing wrong with me.  I’m serious, this is not happening to me.  I am not infertile. My ovaries are perfectly fine, and I did not just fail at the only IVF I will ever be able to afford. Even if that’s what they told me, I am still fine… In fact, I’m probably pregnant right this very minute!  I don’t have to feel any pain, NOoooo.  I’m numb, but still just fine.  I’m way too young to be premenapausal.  That’s just ridiculous!  Pshaw… get out.  I’m going to have a baby….

2. Anger/Guilt-  Fuck this!  Oh no, I cannot, no I WILL NOT deal with this. Why me, damn it!!!!!!? How can this have happened to me!!!??  I do NOT deserve this kind of punishment, no matter what I ever did!  I hate infertility! I hate my stupid, oldass fucking ovaries. I hate my worthless, barren body and it’s a miracle if my husband doesn’t just bail out now and find a “real” woman.  No. Nooooo!  No No No No No!!!!  Fuck this shit.  I hate myself and anyone that comes near me.

3. Bargaining- Ok God, if you would just let there be two blue lines this month, I will become a nun. No? Ok, well we’ll become missionaries and bring our children all over the world evangelizing and helping the needy.  I’ll never swear or pass gas in front of my husband again.  I’ll be the perfect wife and mother and I’ll never ever be ungrateful for anything.  I will be the happiest, most devout Christian you’ve ever seen.  If this cycle is the one, I’ll floss 3x per day, tithe 50% of my salary, stop drinking alcohol, volunteer every weekend, and go vegan. I’ll do anything for this to be our month. I’ll give up everything to have my baby.

4. Depression- I am so sad right now, what’s the point of doing anything?  Why bother even trying this month… it’s never going to happen. We may as well give up and accept that we’re not going to be parents.  I don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to do anything or see anyone.  Nothing feels, tastes, smells, sounds, or looks good to me.  I just want to lie here under my covers and cry all day.  That’s all I’m good at anyway. I am alone. No one understands. I am infertile and it hurts to my core.

5. Acceptance (I’m guessing here, cause I don’t really have any idea what this feels like. I assume it would sound something like this:)  Ok… so I’m infertile.  I may or may not ever have a baby on my own or via ART.  And, either way, I’m going to be ok.  My husband loves me and he will be right by my side all the way.  We will make it through this time, and no matter what happens, we will have each other and will be happy again.  I do not need to have a baby to be happy in my life. Infertility does not define me any more than being a mother will.  I am going to make it through this in one piece.

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You know how I know I’m not ok yet?  Because that last paragraph (acceptance) sounded nice and healthy, but I’m not there.  I feel various forms of anger/guilt, bargaining, and depression pretty much all the time, with the occasional fleeting glimpse at acceptance (usually suggested by someone else).  None of it feels good. There is no win/win situation here.  I can’t live in denial because that would be a fantasy world.  I can’t stay angry because that would be miserable for me (and everyone around me).  I can’t ever strike a winning bargain… there’s nothing I can do or change that will influence the outcome of my struggle with infertility. I can’t get stuck in depression because that would be the same as drowning myself in sadness.  But I’m too afraid to come to the place of acceptance and embrace it fully, because that feels too much like giving up hope.  So I bounce back and forth between all of these stages, breathing my way through the anger (and the crazy), trying to pray in a way that doesn’t sound like begging or bargaining, literally dragging myself out of bed in the morning to start another fruitless day, and dancing obstinately around the idea of letting go and accepting my loss for what it is.

“They” say the only way around my pain is through it.  Well I say that just sucks.  I don’t want to go through this pain.  I’m tired of feeling it and I damn well don’t want to just accept it.

Oh, just face it…It is what it is. My infertility is a cruel fact of my life. Why me? Well why not me?  I have no power and no control over this.  I cannot change it or do anything to lessen its death grip on my heart.  So… what? I have to learn to live with that?  What kind of life is that?  How do I accept that my heart will ache this way forever (and anyone who tries to tell me that it won’t hurt for the rest of my childless life can bite me.)  “Oh, but you’ll get used to the emptiness in time” (First of all, did I say bite me? Oh no, I meant fuck you! Secondly: Oh great, where do I sign up for that life?), or “you’ll fill that empty space in your heart with other things”  Like what?  Pets?  Plants? A nonexistent career? I doubt it.  Nothing could be a suitable substitute for my child. What if your kids suddenly disappeared and I told you that you would fill the space they left in your heart with other things?  Don’t tell me that acceptance will feel better than this pain.  I cannot accept this.

I am happier in Denial.  I can enjoy my happy places better when I’m letting denial run the show.  I was a champ at it this weekend… didn’t let reality ruin my good time at all.  Check out these pics and tell me that place is not a perfect escape. Then tell me how to accept a reality that hurts so much it triggers a fight or flight response in me every day. I don’t know how much longer I can fight this fight. Must. Keep. Running. 

In short, I’m a basket case. But people (including my therapist) keep telling me I’m doing it right (grieving), so I guess all this mess is just inevitable… it just seems excessive to me.  Does anyone else feel like all they do is cry?

So what am I getting at? Well, I suppose the grieving is going well.  How’s that for an oxymoron?  But relatively speaking, I guess I’m doing ok, because I haven’t completely given up hope.  I might suck at life right now, but I’m not going to stop trying to live.

Here are a few ways that I have been and intend to Keep On Living (in the Face of All This Shit):

1. Riggo and I decided we would, and so we did have a nice weekend. On Saturday, we wandered aimlessly (and pointlessly) through our local, monthly antiques show, dreaming big and laughing surprisingly often.  And I’m pretty sure we ate out for at least two meals that day, but I can’t remember it (this should not come as a surprise to anyone who knows about the restaurant options in our little rural town).  On Sunday we drove downtown (Atlanta) to the Dogwood Festival that was going on in the big park down there in honor of Earth Day. We walked around for hours looking at overpriced art, cute dogs in a frisbee catching contest, people watching, and eating and drinking foodtruck food and beverages.  It was such a nice day. And we felt normal, even though I think every child and baby in the entire city of Atlanta was at that festival.  I guess their parents were there too… I didn’t notice them.

2. Today I went by myself (with my audio book, of course) to a park near our house and deposited myself on a blanket in the middle of a sunny field.  I hiked up my shorts, destrapped my shoulders, and lay there soaking up the 72 degree sunshine for as long as I pleased. Besides the trip to the bathroom that ended in my walking out from behind the building and surprising a maybe 6-year-old boy who had chosen that particular spot to drop his pants below his little bum and pee (much to his shock and terror), it was a pleasantly stress free hour and a half. And given the scary state of my face (see above) and body (see me) right now, I don’t care if the suns rays are bad and guaranteed to make me look wrinkly… I look better with a little color, so color I shall have.  Just right now.  (I seem to be saying a lot of that sort of thing these days… Hmmmm. Note to self: do not develop new and unhealthy habits just because you got dealt a shitty hand this month and feel you deserve it).

3. This weekend, I will be road trippin it (solo) back to my hometown (Charleston, SC- yes, you should be jealous;) for a girls weekend with my two BFFs (L and A) and 2 other amazing girls.  This weekend has been planned since the beginning of the year, and since we had been going on the assumption that I would be in a TWW by now (after the hypothetical/imaginary successful IVF transfer #1), I was not expecting to be willing/able to attend.  I had been majorly bummed out that the timing was so exquisitely awful to result in that weekend coinciding with this time in our cycle.  But, as it turns out, cycle schmycle! I’m not any #$@ days post transfer. I’m not waiting for anything…oh wait… except for a miracle.  But miracle waiting does not preclude a trip to the beach with my girls. (Though I made L promise me I would not be expected to don anything resembling a bathing suit during our inevitable pool/beach time… I don’t think I have any that still fit anyway).    So if anyone needs me this weekend, I’ll be sitting pool side (in a pretty little sundress from Target) on Wild Dunes (a resorty island off of Charleston/Isle of Palms), drinking margaritas (or whatever I please) with an awesome group of women (all in our 30s, one single and searching for love in Boston, one divorcee newly engaged in NC, and one fellow infertile/now mom to b/g twins after medicated IUI last year… and me… infertile and still waiting for that mini-miracle).   (Sorry for all the parentheses in that sentence… but if you are a regular reader, then you know I’m a fan of the parentheses… and the …).

Now, as amazing as this weekend sounds and will inevitably be… I’m not so sold on my readiness to subject myself to that kind of awesome.  I’m still very sad and tearful, and as I’ve mentioned, not at my best physically, emotionally, financially, spiritually, and so on… you get the picture.  But L all but threatened to hunt me down if I didn’t agree to come, insisting (as a BFF can be counted on to do) that it will be good for me, etc.  L is our fellow infertile, and she has had her share of losses and knows the pain I’m in first hand. She promised me that she and the girls would be gentle with me, would give me my space if needed, would not force me to go out “clubbing” if I’m not up for it (or, as the case may be, if I can no longer squeeze myself into any of my LBDs- sorry, that’s probably not a common IF acronym- I’m referring to the all holy Little Black Dress, of course).  Anyway, L made it clear that this weekend was more about some best friends bonding and enjoying good company, food, and wine… not really so much about the clubbing and whatnot. Not anymore:)  So I’m going. And I fully expect to have a great time, eat some amazing Charleston food (Ohhhh how I miss real seafood), and enjoy the compassionate and nonjudgemental company of my dearest lady friends. Whether I bottle up my always-under-the-surface emotions and then cry the entire 5 hour trip back home on Monday remains to be seen. Probable?  Yes.  A deal-breaker? Not a chance.

4. L (BFF) and I are planning to begin talks about possibly considering having some potential future discussions about maybe joining Weight Watchers and dropping the poundage together.  The implied procrastination there is not really fair, though… because we are serious and we will do it, and soon.  She has like 5 pounds to lose after her twin pregnancy (they turn 1 next month and she already looks great), but I have quite a few more than that, with significantly fewer excuses.  Nothing trumps a twin pregnancy as an excuse to be carrying a few extra pounds.  I sometimes wish I could wear a sign that says “Coming off of antidepressants+infertility+oral hormones+injectable hormones+self-pity+a healthy love of and respect for all things Food = inevitable 10-15 pound weight gain.”  But who wants to wear that sign?  Or read that sign?  Ok, so it’s not a good sign.   Weight Watchers will work though.  L and I have a history of busting ass together and losing weight (back before either one of us really needed to… but one of us was a bride to be or something, so there ya go).  I WILL get my body back.  Mark my words.  If I can’t have my baby, then I can damn well have my body.

5. Speaking of my body… I’m regaining my mastery of all things Yoga.  It’s been a while since I’ve been on the mat regular-like, but here I am… and it feels really really good.

6. Given the fact that I still visibly cringe at the thought of job hunting, I won’t go into too much detail about my determination to find a job that makes me a decent income while NOT making me completely miserable.  But I have that determination. It’s just stuck somewhere underneath my broken heart right now. But I’ll find it again. And then Riggo will not be the sole breadwinner in our home anymore.  I’m sure he will grieve that honor.  (Ha!)

7. Riggo and I have decided that now that our ART-related-baby-making plans are on the shelf for an indefinite amount of time (not by choice) we want/need to reconnect with the family and friends we have gradually lost touch with over the past year.  We haven’t been extremely social of late.  Our friends all know the deal and are supportive, but it’ll be nice (won’t it?) to get back in touch and start hanging out with everyone again on a more regular basis.  We’ve just decided that our friend Cash, who we all know and love, does not always have to be invited to the party for it to be a good time.  Not really sure what that’s gonna look like yet, but we shall see.  The point is, we’re talking about making our way back to the party.  And by party I mean Life.  In the face of all this shit…we will keep on living.  We have no choice, really.  Might as well make the best of it, right?

Before I go, I want to send big, huge congrats out to Belle (at Scrambled Eggs) on her BFP!  Soooo very happy for she and Mr. Husband! Head over and spread the love, if you like.

Goodnight bloggy friends.  I hope you’re all out there just living it up, in one way or another:)

K

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