That's gonna leave a mark.
Big. Really big.
That's how big the screaming match I just had with my mom was. Mega.
As big as when I confronted her about not sharing my birth papers with me.
As big as when I finally exploded about her not remembering my husband's name at my wedding (it was a joke!! No. It really wasn't)
As big as when she caught me "consummating my relationship" with my first love and then promptly marched me over to HIS parent's house to tell them. (for real? yeah. for real)
This was weeks and months of resentment and obligation bubbling up and over and into her ears and then her back and me and hey, did I mention I am good at this, so, right back at her.
Unnecessary things were said. I don't need to catalog them here because then I'll need to look at them.
Here's the thing - I would rather scream and yell and have it out then continue with a charade of niceties and fakeries. What she sees as a "relationship" and "everything is fine" I consider the opposite. If I love you enough to tell you how I really feel, you should know that is love. Not the opposite.
But I did what I resent so much when she does it - I dredged things up from the past. And she was shocked. Speechless at a reality she thought was and one that I dismissed tonight. And I am feeling a little bad about that.
You've changed so much. We used to be so close....
When? Tell me when exactly you thought that was? (there have been varying answers to this in the past so I was curious to see what she said tonight)
When you left for college. That's when everything changed.....
Then that confirms how medicated you were through my high school career. Did you ever wonder why I was at the guidance counselors office every day? Did you ever wonder why I wanted to get to university so badly?
Did you ever wonder why I moved so far away?
**
Yes, friends. I went there. Not unprovoked, but I should know better. I am, allegedly, "the smart one" here. That's another one of her favorite arrows.
I think we should probably not talk for a while. Let her cool off. Let me stop shaking. But I'm sorry, in the Lifetime-movie-watching-mind of my mother, mothers and daughters call each other every day. They share secrets. They plot and scheme and take on the world together. And she is heartbroken that I don't share my deepest, darkest thoughts with her.
That ain't me.
And that never WAS me, but somehow, in her memory, it was. And she is mourning the loss of that, apparently, for decades. That ain't me because in the Lifetime-movie-watching-mind of my mother best friends sit on the porch together and drink mimosas and gossip and kvetch about their woes and their families and hey, my deepest darkest thoughts are seen as fair game. I don't tell her shit because I never know who or when or in what circumstance my words will be repeated back to me.
No! I never do that with personal things!
ALL of my shit is personal to me.
But how do I know the difference?
You don't. Which is why I don't tell you shit.
**
Wow.
And now I just got a baffled and confused call from my dad who picked up the phone when it rang and was on the receiving end of my mom screaming at HIM. Which is kind of what I was yelling at her for in the first place.
**
UPDATE: called my mom and calmly asked why she couldn't wait for me to call my dad to arrange this week of doctor's visits. She says he called her. She didn't even raise her voice and she has witnesses to prove it and he dropped the F bomb on HER. Then hung up.
**
Madness. Madness I tell you.
This getting old shit - its a sonofabitch.
Showing posts with label anger. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anger. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
More on Tyra
So funny her name was just mentioned. I just received an alert that someone left a new comment on this old post which kind of summarizes why the tall one had my dander up (pre-ANTM marathon).
Sorry. Someone needs to feel my wraith. Ms. Banks will have to do.
Sorry. Someone needs to feel my wraith. Ms. Banks will have to do.
Monday, October 12, 2009
On Awareness
I've been thinking a lot about "awareness" lately.
Maybe its because there is a sea of pink all around me. Pink ribbons. Pink sneakers on football players. Pink baseballs bats (phallic, no?). It seems that everything and anything that can be mutated into something pink, is. All in honor of what? Breast cancer "awareness"? And this is where the sour taste comes up in my mouth and makes me make that face. You know, the one with the eye rolling and the "oh really" and the "give me a fucking break."
Not because I discount the hundreds of thousands of women (and men!) who have had to contend with this particular brand of cancer. Or the pain they have suffered. Or the disruption of their lives that continues well into remission that can be blamed squarely on the disease.
As a cancer survivor and someone rendered infertile because of it, I get it. I so get it. Cancer sucks. Of this I am aware.
But what's WRONG with that first sentence of the previous paragraph? WHY are there hundreds of thousands of people who have to deal with this? WHY is it enough that we are aware of the situation? Because if breast cancer is predicted to take down, what is the stat now, one out of every eight of our sisters, is there anyone out there un-aware of the dangers? Yes, I know, don't smoke, don't drink too much, be good little girls, but guess what, breast cancer strikes goody two shoeses, too. Is anyone, anyone questioning other root cause(s) here? Or is it enough to blow pink balloons out of our asses?
I used to think I was the only one that made that RUFKM face with the pink. But then I ran across this amazing article by Barbara Ehrenreich in an old Harper's magazine. And yes I know its long and I'm usually not one for multiple pages, but I remember reading this for the first time years ago and shouting, YES! Fucking right on! Shaking my fists in balls of rage and wanting to go set something on fire.
Warning: she doesn't mince words. And if the following statement pisses you off, you should probably skip the link:
But here's the thing, kids: I never felt bad before my cancer was diagnosed. I never suffered until my treatments began. And when I look down at the 10-inch scar running in a crooked line down my belly (thank you, med student who was allowed into surgery) more than just a little part of me wonders if anyone really knew what the fuck they were doing. And that wonder is intensified every time an ultrasound picks up those little surgical clips where my ovaries should be and the current med student goes, oh hmmm, that's interesting...
Ok. Now I realize this post has drifted to a place that probably makes some folks uncomfortable. I'm sorry. That really wasn't my point. Well, actually, it is. What I had started to write about was the question that I always have in my mind, "where is the line between "Awareness" and simply "being an asshole?"
This is something I've been thinking about and trying to vocalize ever since I googled my own name the other day and found (yet another) blog post by Cheryl Miller quoting me. (funny how a few phone conversations with a couple of us has given here quite a bit of material, no? Infertility! It's a gift that keeps giving!) Here's a passage:
And you tell me, would you feel a need to stop the copy machine, turn around, dramatic pause, and proceed to make every single one of those young women, some of whom you supervise, feel like utter and absolute shit because the fact of the matter is you want more than anything the situation they think would be hilarious to see you in? Do you ruin their lunches? Do you become that person that can't take a joke and what's more, is the break room really the place you want to talk about missing ovaries and the anguish they cause you?
At that point, I chose no. But that doesn't me I always do.
Back to cancer. Back in my cancer days, me and my cancer buddies would go to this free summer camp up in the mountains. It was a blast. One day out of the week was "media day." It was the one day that local press, papers, TV stations were allowed to come bug us and get their feel good human interest, you know, "Awareness" stories.
And dudes, we ran with it. We'd place bets to see which one of us could make the pretty anchor lady cry first. We'd see how graphic we'd need to be before the camera man squirmed and looked away. And no, we were not above removing prosthetics, tricks with stumps, making broviac-hickman ports squirt, showing scars, some fresh, and pulling out hair and taking off wigs right there on camera.
Now you tell me. Was that awareness, or were we just being assholes?
These days, I see that I am not the only kukd chick that struggles with this sometimes fine line. Monica over at Knocked Up Knocked Down talks about it a little in her most recent post:
and here's more full disclosure: after this long and exhausting rant on awareness (what you get when I don't post for a while), some of you may recall that that really cool thing that M and I did several years back was supposedly all for Childhood Cancer Awareness. Ironic? Hypocritical? No dudes, simply a fall back. The original intent was to get a boatload of actual cash for cancer research and one local charity, but that fell through when our primary sponsor became a publicly traded company right before we set off (thus complicating and eventually nullifying the really cool plan that we had for fundraising).
So maybe that's another piece of my anti-awareness-ness. Maybe I just see it as a fallback plan, and not a plan in itself.
Maybe its because there is a sea of pink all around me. Pink ribbons. Pink sneakers on football players. Pink baseballs bats (phallic, no?). It seems that everything and anything that can be mutated into something pink, is. All in honor of what? Breast cancer "awareness"? And this is where the sour taste comes up in my mouth and makes me make that face. You know, the one with the eye rolling and the "oh really" and the "give me a fucking break."
Not because I discount the hundreds of thousands of women (and men!) who have had to contend with this particular brand of cancer. Or the pain they have suffered. Or the disruption of their lives that continues well into remission that can be blamed squarely on the disease.
As a cancer survivor and someone rendered infertile because of it, I get it. I so get it. Cancer sucks. Of this I am aware.
But what's WRONG with that first sentence of the previous paragraph? WHY are there hundreds of thousands of people who have to deal with this? WHY is it enough that we are aware of the situation? Because if breast cancer is predicted to take down, what is the stat now, one out of every eight of our sisters, is there anyone out there un-aware of the dangers? Yes, I know, don't smoke, don't drink too much, be good little girls, but guess what, breast cancer strikes goody two shoeses, too. Is anyone, anyone questioning other root cause(s) here? Or is it enough to blow pink balloons out of our asses?
I used to think I was the only one that made that RUFKM face with the pink. But then I ran across this amazing article by Barbara Ehrenreich in an old Harper's magazine. And yes I know its long and I'm usually not one for multiple pages, but I remember reading this for the first time years ago and shouting, YES! Fucking right on! Shaking my fists in balls of rage and wanting to go set something on fire.
Warning: she doesn't mince words. And if the following statement pisses you off, you should probably skip the link:
In the harshest judgment, the breast-cancer cult serves as an accomplice in global poisoning-normalizing cancer, prettying it up, even presenting it, perversely, as a positive and enviable experience.But seriously, I am getting worked the fuck up reading it again right now. No, listen, I changed my mind, you NEED to go read this. And then tell me if you find any similarities to other situations you are dealing with right now at this moment in your lives.
To the extent that current methods of detection and treatment fail or fall short, America's breast-cancer cult can be judged as an outbreak of mass delusion, celebrating survivorhood by downplaying mortality and promoting obedience to medical protocols known to have limited efficacy. And although we may imagine ourselves to be well past the era of patriarchal medicine, obedience is the message behind the infantilizing theme in breast-cancer culture, as represented by the teddy bears, the crayons, and the prevailing pinkness. You are encouraged to regress to a little-girl state, to suspend critical judgment, and to accept whatever measures the doctors, as parent surrogates, choose to impose.And yes I know I should be thankful to be alive. And yes, I have been told to believe that chemotherapy and radiation were my saviors. And sure, I saw the tumor shrink on the fancy X-ray machine.
But here's the thing, kids: I never felt bad before my cancer was diagnosed. I never suffered until my treatments began. And when I look down at the 10-inch scar running in a crooked line down my belly (thank you, med student who was allowed into surgery) more than just a little part of me wonders if anyone really knew what the fuck they were doing. And that wonder is intensified every time an ultrasound picks up those little surgical clips where my ovaries should be and the current med student goes, oh hmmm, that's interesting...
Ok. Now I realize this post has drifted to a place that probably makes some folks uncomfortable. I'm sorry. That really wasn't my point. Well, actually, it is. What I had started to write about was the question that I always have in my mind, "where is the line between "Awareness" and simply "being an asshole?"
This is something I've been thinking about and trying to vocalize ever since I googled my own name the other day and found (yet another) blog post by Cheryl Miller quoting me. (funny how a few phone conversations with a couple of us has given here quite a bit of material, no? Infertility! It's a gift that keeps giving!) Here's a passage:
Like most of the time when you read about yourself in print, its like, yes, sort of, but not really. Here's what really went down: break room yes. Three younger co-workers, yes. Teasing, not really. More like gentle ribbing of me and my no-nonsense at work persona and how I would be with kids. This was pre-pregnancy, pre any knowledge whatsoever that we were trying.This conflict between privacy and exposure was something that fascinated me while interviewing the bloggers. When I first went in, I was a little skeptical about all the talk of raising awareness from these (mostly) anonymous bloggers. Many hadn't even told their families or friends. If you can’t even talk openly with the people closest to you, I thought, how are you going to educate the public at large?
After talking with bloggers, I changed my mind. For one thing, my interviews made clear how difficult it is to be "out" 24/7 about your infertility. Who — and what — to tell is a question the infertile have to struggle with on a daily basis. Do you use every awkward exchange as a “teachable moment,” an opportunity to educate others about the 6.1 million people struggling with infertility? And who is appropriate to "educate": relatives you see once a year, co-workers, neighbors, total strangers who just happened to ask an innocent, but painful, question? During an interview, [m.] told me about how she was teased by co-workers who were unaware of her infertility. “Do you go into the whole story right there in the break room?” she asked me. “Or do you just let it slide?”
And you tell me, would you feel a need to stop the copy machine, turn around, dramatic pause, and proceed to make every single one of those young women, some of whom you supervise, feel like utter and absolute shit because the fact of the matter is you want more than anything the situation they think would be hilarious to see you in? Do you ruin their lunches? Do you become that person that can't take a joke and what's more, is the break room really the place you want to talk about missing ovaries and the anguish they cause you?
At that point, I chose no. But that doesn't me I always do.
Back to cancer. Back in my cancer days, me and my cancer buddies would go to this free summer camp up in the mountains. It was a blast. One day out of the week was "media day." It was the one day that local press, papers, TV stations were allowed to come bug us and get their feel good human interest, you know, "Awareness" stories.
And dudes, we ran with it. We'd place bets to see which one of us could make the pretty anchor lady cry first. We'd see how graphic we'd need to be before the camera man squirmed and looked away. And no, we were not above removing prosthetics, tricks with stumps, making broviac-hickman ports squirt, showing scars, some fresh, and pulling out hair and taking off wigs right there on camera.
Now you tell me. Was that awareness, or were we just being assholes?
These days, I see that I am not the only kukd chick that struggles with this sometimes fine line. Monica over at Knocked Up Knocked Down talks about it a little in her most recent post:
a buddy at work whose wife is 12 weeks pregnant e-mailed to see if Kev and I had talked about baby names yet. I could've just said "no" like a normal, sober, clear-minded human being. But I just had to gussy up my reply with more dramatic than that, something like this:"No, we haven't started thinking about names, since this is our fourth pregnancy. There's a 50% chance this won't work out anyway since it's a boy, so we're just keeping our fingers crossed and hoping a living baby will come out of it. Then we'll name him."
Immediately after hitting "send," I felt bad. I wished I could have taken it back. It was like this old-me coming through all of a sudden, the gloom-n-doom me who was high on pain for a year-and-a-half, dredging it up and wearing it boldly, daring anyone to challenge it.
Why couldn't I give this guy just a simple, friendly response without bringing up that whole bitter truth? Why not just let him have his innocent and happy little e-mail exchange with a fellow expecting parent? What was I hoping for - some kind of sympathetic response? I felt like one of those people I've always been afraid to become: putting it out there all the time - I'M A DEAD-BABY MOMMA AND DON'T YOU FORGET IT! - to the point where the world grows tired of the subject, and, even worse, to the point where I'm really just clinging to this pain-crutch as an excuse to not engage in normal discourse with another human.
And like most times when I read Monica, I sit there an think, yes. Damn. I do this too. Not always. At least I try. But then I remembered an exchange on FB that just happened. Recently I took a leap and invited several of my work colleages on to my FB page. And I got this response from one of my friend requests:
i'll confirm you, but please know that i am an almost 45 year old gay jewish man. my posts are not always g-rated. i wanted you to know that from the start. i always give folks that info so that they know.Not one to be outdone, what do I do? Do I say, hey, no problem! Thanks for the heads up. I'm sorry that some of our colleagues aren't as open minded as they claim? Oh ho no! Here's me:
don't sweat it. I am a 35 yr old married atheist with two dead babies. I don't think I would qualify for a G-rating either.So, hmm. Awareness? Asshole? I honestly still haven't decided.
and here's more full disclosure: after this long and exhausting rant on awareness (what you get when I don't post for a while), some of you may recall that that really cool thing that M and I did several years back was supposedly all for Childhood Cancer Awareness. Ironic? Hypocritical? No dudes, simply a fall back. The original intent was to get a boatload of actual cash for cancer research and one local charity, but that fell through when our primary sponsor became a publicly traded company right before we set off (thus complicating and eventually nullifying the really cool plan that we had for fundraising).
So maybe that's another piece of my anti-awareness-ness. Maybe I just see it as a fallback plan, and not a plan in itself.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
I Don't Need a "Walk" to "Remember"
Dear ________ Hospital,
So please take your invitation and shove it up your ass. I really did not need to remember the moments leading up to the death of my children. But now they are playing in a continuous loop in my brain. Nonstop. I would rather not have been reminded that you ignored our pleas, stuck us in an observation cubicle for HOURS after the midwife said don't WORRY, failed to contact ANY doctor until my husband screamed that he refused to have his babies born in a hallway.
I didn't need to recall that the care we received didn't begin until death was a foregone conclusion.
Did you really want me to Remember that we blame you? But not as much as I blame myself.
The coup de grace was the handwritten note from the hospital's grief counselor. Did you know she's been "thinking of" us and our family? Really? That's so interesting. I never would have known since this is your first contact with us in almost a year. Tell you what, don't even worry about it.
I am so filled with hate and anger this morning, I am not sure how I am going to function. But I have to. I made M promise to call me when he gets into the office because I don't trust he can either. But he has to.
And this is how we live these days.
So please take your invitation and shove it up your ass. I really did not need to remember the moments leading up to the death of my children. But now they are playing in a continuous loop in my brain. Nonstop. I would rather not have been reminded that you ignored our pleas, stuck us in an observation cubicle for HOURS after the midwife said don't WORRY, failed to contact ANY doctor until my husband screamed that he refused to have his babies born in a hallway.
I didn't need to recall that the care we received didn't begin until death was a foregone conclusion.
Did you really want me to Remember that we blame you? But not as much as I blame myself.
The coup de grace was the handwritten note from the hospital's grief counselor. Did you know she's been "thinking of" us and our family? Really? That's so interesting. I never would have known since this is your first contact with us in almost a year. Tell you what, don't even worry about it.
I am so filled with hate and anger this morning, I am not sure how I am going to function. But I have to. I made M promise to call me when he gets into the office because I don't trust he can either. But he has to.
And this is how we live these days.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Which One Will It Be?
Ok.Have you ever gotten yourself so worked up as a kid that all of a sudden you are sobbing/sniffling/gasping/hiccuping and trying to talk at the same time? Like when your best friend got six cabbage patch dolls from all of her grandparents on her 6th birthday and you didn't have even one and she was a spoiled snot and didn't even deserve them and you were just incensed at the injustice of it all and you ended up getting spanked by your mom because you were being such a brat and embarrassing her and then got yanked out of the house all the time screaming/sobbing:
"Bu-ut (wheeze) it's (gasp) just (SNORT) not (hiccup) FAAAA-IIIIIIII-YERRRRRRRRR......." as you were dragged down the driveway to the car.
Hypothetically, of course.
Well, um, ahem. Maybe I had one of those days yesterday. (insert embarrassed face here).
Yes, I am fairly certain I suffered an anxiety attack of my own making but thankfully the story by S. reminded me that perhaps going to the emergency room is not the best plan of action. So I didn't. But honestly, the panic attack was small peanuts compared to the snot-fest I was when M. finally got home.
Poor M.
He just walked into it.
And after a few moments in his arms and on the couch, he wisely led me OUT of the house. Because he knows I can't stand crying in public (far too vain) and I'm guessing he couldn't figure out another way to get me to stop.
And he listened and he tried to sympathize and then he finally said,
"Look. It is not your grief or your sadness that is consuming you. Because I have that too. It is some kind of raging anger and hate that is eating you up. m., you are hurting yourself with your hate! What is going on here???"
I mean, he said a lot more than that. Some of it nice. Some of it not so much. Some of it that started the tears up all over again. But that is the part I remember.
and then he said,
"You can't hold this kind of hate and be happy at the same time. You need to decide which one you want. You can't have both. So, which one is it going to be?"
And then, we both sat down to watch TV and took a high powered ibuprofin (left over from the last hysteroscopy. holla) because we managed to collide heads when giving the PIO shot last night. (don't ask. I am still shocked M. doesn't need stitches) and promptly fell asleep. Exhausted.
Shit.
This shit wears me out.
And so, today is a new day. And today I am trying, trying, trying to choose happy.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Spring Sucks Ass
How DARE everyone be so fucking happy and cheery. I want to kick your stroller. And your dog. What nerve of the sun to shine NOW, after leaving us wallowing in darkness for months? I needed you weeks ago, not now. The cherry blossoms aren't making me smile. They make me want to weep because they remind me of the trees we planted for my dead girls. My husband broke down into sobs last night for no reason. Yet somehow all you fucking happy people are busy getting giddy over the weather. Fuck you.
And while I'm at it.
Fuck my dirty apartment and the fact it is making me crazy fuck the pile of work in front on me and my filthy kitchen and the fact I can't decide which matter is more pressing fuck the weight on my husband's shoulders which a massage unknowingly dislodged and fuck the raw pain and sadness that was unearthed fuck the sweatpants I still haven't changed out of fuck my still-flabby gut with a hollow inside. Fuck the words I don't have to make M. better. Just fuck it.
And while I'm at it.
Fuck my dirty apartment and the fact it is making me crazy fuck the pile of work in front on me and my filthy kitchen and the fact I can't decide which matter is more pressing fuck the weight on my husband's shoulders which a massage unknowingly dislodged and fuck the raw pain and sadness that was unearthed fuck the sweatpants I still haven't changed out of fuck my still-flabby gut with a hollow inside. Fuck the words I don't have to make M. better. Just fuck it.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Injuries - those self-inflicted and ones I wish I could inflict on one other
I'm not angry because I'm grieving. I am angry because I see her [midwife who first dismissed my panicked call, then took her own sweet time to get to the hospital. time elapsed between call and actual cervical exam:6-7 hours] name as one of the practicioners here today and it is all I can do to not seek her out and do physical harm to her.
Do you hear what I am saying? I wish physical harm on one of the people in your practice. And for that reason, I can't come here anymore. You haven't fired her. You promise disciplinary action. But she is still here. After over a decade at the office, I can't come here again.
Does she see my dead babies in her dreams at night? I hope so. Because I do.
I am not angry because I am grieving. I am angry because I don't think I should have to be grieving. And I blame her. Do you hear me? I blame her. I hate her.
And all of this is met with hugs and hand holdings, and "I understands" and "I see what you are saying" all boiling down to, "there, there, sobbing woman who is obviously not in her right mind, please don't freak the fuck out on us. There are pregnant women and children here."
Sigh.
This morning postpartum exam was much, much harder than anticipated. I honestly was fine until I saw the midwife's name. Tears. Unstoppable. They left me in the waiting room too long because by the time I got back to the room my blood pressure was sky high (you think?) Barely made it through the nurse's questions (also done with the hushed "I understand" tone) and got to the doc. And that's when the above conversation happened.
I wished her husband (my favorite ob in the practice) were there. Because I honestly do think he understands. He was there. Called too late. And was angry he was called too late. I wish my husband were there, because I honestly think he would have gone ape shit after the 2nd or 3rd condescending tone. He was mad enough after the fact when I told him.
Could those 6 hours have made a difference? We've already been through this. We will never know. We will never know.
**
And here you might ask, what about legal action? Malpractice? Negligence? Look, I doubt we could prove the first, perhaps the latter. But have you participated in a medical lawsuit? They are awful. And take years. And force you to dredge up statements and facts that hurt the first time you say them, let alone the hundredth. They force you to put a price on lives. Or loss of live. I don't think I want to go there. I don't want fucking money. I want my daughters. And I want that cunt fired.
**
So the visit ended after my exam (I mean, I still needed one) with a I am so sorry to see you go. I am sorry it came to this but you have to be someplace where you are comfortable. I won't take it personally....
Which, frankly, irked me. But by then, I was spent. I told you, crying just wears me down. It's not something I am used to and it exhausts me. So, if any of my friends in real life have an ob/gyn to recommend, all ears over here (email me privately).
**
Fast forward to phase 2 of my day - MRI for the knee that I bothered after about a week of what I thought was a very, very sensible beginning to a running program. My expectation? Insurance covered it. Doc suggested it. Why the heck not. I was expecting an "oh, it's nothing, probably just a strain. Go home and keep icing and doing what you're doing. Good luck and have a good life. Bye."
No such luck.
Spent my 20 minutes in the tube listening to Led Zeppelin on the headphones in between beeps and buzzes (nice one, mr. tech! thank you!). Got pulled out and saw the concerned smirk on mr. tech's face. What? Whaaaat?
"Well, I'm not supposed to say anything. The radiologist has to look at everything first, but from what I can see, boy, you did a job on your knee. blah blah miniscus...blah blah
MCL...ACL...I might have even seen a hairline fracture...You'll probably be seeing an ortho guy soon...."
And at this point, I laugh. A big belly laugh. Because frankly, it was funny. And I hadn't smiled all day and it felt good to stretch those other muscles.
UPDATE: my doctor's office just called. Looks like the primary injury is "non-displaced fracture of my tibia." The ortho dudes are calling me tomorrow.
Well there you have it.
In better news, hubby thought the knee injury was equally funny. You dumb ass. We are celebrating my dumb ass-ness by eating steaks (good for my yin, right?) and getting tipsy on good red wine.
Even better news: we are going to a rock concert in a city that isn't ours tomorrow night. Because we want to. And because we're feeling bold, we turned it into a mini-trip. Leaving work early (me), staying in a fancy 4-star hotel (priceline, holla!) and doing dinner out too. If we're lucky, a friend who works in said city may even join us. We are both so excited for this little, little break.
So there, I wasn't all gloom and doom today. In fact, none of my days this week had been gloomy. Just the first part of this one. But now it's over. And it's past 5 pm. So it is totally legit to crack the (first) bottle of wine.
Do you hear what I am saying? I wish physical harm on one of the people in your practice. And for that reason, I can't come here anymore. You haven't fired her. You promise disciplinary action. But she is still here. After over a decade at the office, I can't come here again.
Does she see my dead babies in her dreams at night? I hope so. Because I do.
I am not angry because I am grieving. I am angry because I don't think I should have to be grieving. And I blame her. Do you hear me? I blame her. I hate her.
And all of this is met with hugs and hand holdings, and "I understands" and "I see what you are saying" all boiling down to, "there, there, sobbing woman who is obviously not in her right mind, please don't freak the fuck out on us. There are pregnant women and children here."
Sigh.
This morning postpartum exam was much, much harder than anticipated. I honestly was fine until I saw the midwife's name. Tears. Unstoppable. They left me in the waiting room too long because by the time I got back to the room my blood pressure was sky high (you think?) Barely made it through the nurse's questions (also done with the hushed "I understand" tone) and got to the doc. And that's when the above conversation happened.
I wished her husband (my favorite ob in the practice) were there. Because I honestly do think he understands. He was there. Called too late. And was angry he was called too late. I wish my husband were there, because I honestly think he would have gone ape shit after the 2nd or 3rd condescending tone. He was mad enough after the fact when I told him.
Could those 6 hours have made a difference? We've already been through this. We will never know. We will never know.
**
And here you might ask, what about legal action? Malpractice? Negligence? Look, I doubt we could prove the first, perhaps the latter. But have you participated in a medical lawsuit? They are awful. And take years. And force you to dredge up statements and facts that hurt the first time you say them, let alone the hundredth. They force you to put a price on lives. Or loss of live. I don't think I want to go there. I don't want fucking money. I want my daughters. And I want that cunt fired.
**
So the visit ended after my exam (I mean, I still needed one) with a I am so sorry to see you go. I am sorry it came to this but you have to be someplace where you are comfortable. I won't take it personally....
Which, frankly, irked me. But by then, I was spent. I told you, crying just wears me down. It's not something I am used to and it exhausts me. So, if any of my friends in real life have an ob/gyn to recommend, all ears over here (email me privately).
**
Fast forward to phase 2 of my day - MRI for the knee that I bothered after about a week of what I thought was a very, very sensible beginning to a running program. My expectation? Insurance covered it. Doc suggested it. Why the heck not. I was expecting an "oh, it's nothing, probably just a strain. Go home and keep icing and doing what you're doing. Good luck and have a good life. Bye."
No such luck.
Spent my 20 minutes in the tube listening to Led Zeppelin on the headphones in between beeps and buzzes (nice one, mr. tech! thank you!). Got pulled out and saw the concerned smirk on mr. tech's face. What? Whaaaat?
"Well, I'm not supposed to say anything. The radiologist has to look at everything first, but from what I can see, boy, you did a job on your knee. blah blah miniscus...blah blah
MCL...ACL...I might have even seen a hairline fracture...You'll probably be seeing an ortho guy soon...."And at this point, I laugh. A big belly laugh. Because frankly, it was funny. And I hadn't smiled all day and it felt good to stretch those other muscles.
UPDATE: my doctor's office just called. Looks like the primary injury is "non-displaced fracture of my tibia." The ortho dudes are calling me tomorrow.
Well there you have it.
In better news, hubby thought the knee injury was equally funny. You dumb ass. We are celebrating my dumb ass-ness by eating steaks (good for my yin, right?) and getting tipsy on good red wine.
Even better news: we are going to a rock concert in a city that isn't ours tomorrow night. Because we want to. And because we're feeling bold, we turned it into a mini-trip. Leaving work early (me), staying in a fancy 4-star hotel (priceline, holla!) and doing dinner out too. If we're lucky, a friend who works in said city may even join us. We are both so excited for this little, little break.
So there, I wasn't all gloom and doom today. In fact, none of my days this week had been gloomy. Just the first part of this one. But now it's over. And it's past 5 pm. So it is totally legit to crack the (first) bottle of wine.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Where I get my Darlene on...
"You're like Darlene from Roseanne."
That's what my brother said to me when I disagreed with the general consensus that this Xmas eve was the "best ever." Best ever meaning no tears, no fighting, actual civility among parents and our small little circle of relations. We actually got along. Or so it appeared.
Really? Sorry to let you down, folks. Glad you had a blast, but if I never have to do that again, I would be grateful.
After dinner (where it was duly noted that neither M. nor I said grace) that we didn't eat and presents that were craptastic (wow. thanks, mom, for getting M. sweet rose wine he will never drink, my brother a mexican fiesta gift package he will never eat and me a necklace with 2 little girl charms that is so gaudy and so not like anything that I would ever dream of putting on my body that you have guaranteed its return. Nice to know that you have your finger on the pulse of people you allegedly know so well...), M. and I convinced my brother to pull out his Wii and hook it up.
Thank goddess for the g*d damned Wii. Hours and hours of playing this game and getting my parents off the couch and involved apparently counts as the Best Xmas Eve Ever.
M orchestrated the Wii set up, the crafting of the little Miis, the bowling tournament. And it was 100% selfish. Because we knew we would have to linger a bit longer and I honestly couldn't see how I was going to make it without crawling into a corner and going fetal. He could obviously see that too.
In true clueless form, my parents saw nothing, said nothing relevant and were focused solely on themselves: My father's comments directed at all the hours my mom spent in the kitchen and expecting us to lather her with praise, my mom waiting in silent martydom for the praise. A word about the girls? Not a one. A question? A Query about us? No way. Just an acknowledgment that we have arrived and that dinner was ready. Meanwhile, my aunt and cousin were quiet at their seats trying to see through the tension that was obvious to them but apparently no one else. My brother: hungry and just trying to be a good host. His girlfriend: as usual, fairly clueless but sweet. She is usually a welcome respite at these affairs.
Can I just say when I saw the necklace I wanted to punch through a wall? And then I wanted to punch my mom. Wanted to ask, what the f*ck were you thinking when you picked out this piece of shit and is this what the girls are to you? Some tacky charm? Some cheap ass trinket? Is this what you think of your daughter? Do you even know me? Have you ever known me?
I am sure that I am acting like a brat here, but you know what? I think if there were ever a moment when I could, that moment would be now.
It is easy for me to get myself absolutely riled at how awful my parents have been since this all went down. Every moment when they have had an opportunity to show compassion, some love, some empathy, they have managed to avoid it. Every chance that there has been for words, for no words, for acknowledgement, for...for f*ck's sake...something, they have managed to act in the exact opposite way that I would hope for. Every time I see them I feel as if this is something I have done to them. A punishment that they now must bear, a situation that I have created out of spite and because I never really wanted them to be grandparents. You see, it is all about them and I can't help but thinking that somehow an apology, an admission of guilt has been expected from me.
Now, hang on there, m. Are you serious? Is this just an extension of what we already talked about?
Look, all I know is how I feel and I feel like I want to scream every time the phone rings and I see it is their number. I crumple into "Darlene" at the prospect of spending an evening with them. I want to limit any and all interaction with them and this, of course, is obvious and is grounds for more guilt and martyrdom from them.
Ah Eastern European traditions. F*cking great, no?
And here is where I need to pause.
And I need to remind myself that as horrid as xmas eve was, that was how wonderful Xmas day was. I woke up with my husband. Hugged and held. Opened the few presents we bought for ourselves (none of them surprises.) Oh look! A package from vans! oh hey! Santa Matador records came! Oh golly! the elves from Keen shoes must have left this here (rip. rip. tear. tear. hurray!) we do this every year, and you know what, every year we crack ourselves up.
With new pressies on our bodies and bellies full of coffee we went to M's parents' house where we opened (truly fabulous and NOT craptastic presents) and sat around, and ate, and laughed, and talked about the girls and plans for the future and enjoyed each other's company. And simply loved each other. And it was wonderful. I fell asleep on a chair with a book on my chest and a belly full of food. I fell asleep content.
And for as awful as my parents have been, that is how amazingly wonderful relatives like my brother and my aunt have risen to the occassion. I have had shaky relations with both of these folks at various stages in the past and now, dammit, they are my homies. My strongest allies, my biggest supporters. And that is a gift.
And for as thoughtless as mom and dad have been, that is how thoughtful our friends, our good good friends have been. They have surrounded us with love and care, but not smothered. They have asked, but not harped. They have simply reminded us again and again and in so many ways that we are loved and that they are here, as they have been in the past, like they will be in the future.
And that is a gift.
At the end of the day, I am simply thankful that this holiday season (at least the worst of it) is over and that a new year is just a few days away.
That's what my brother said to me when I disagreed with the general consensus that this Xmas eve was the "best ever." Best ever meaning no tears, no fighting, actual civility among parents and our small little circle of relations. We actually got along. Or so it appeared.
Really? Sorry to let you down, folks. Glad you had a blast, but if I never have to do that again, I would be grateful.
After dinner (where it was duly noted that neither M. nor I said grace) that we didn't eat and presents that were craptastic (wow. thanks, mom, for getting M. sweet rose wine he will never drink, my brother a mexican fiesta gift package he will never eat and me a necklace with 2 little girl charms that is so gaudy and so not like anything that I would ever dream of putting on my body that you have guaranteed its return. Nice to know that you have your finger on the pulse of people you allegedly know so well...), M. and I convinced my brother to pull out his Wii and hook it up.
Thank goddess for the g*d damned Wii. Hours and hours of playing this game and getting my parents off the couch and involved apparently counts as the Best Xmas Eve Ever.
M orchestrated the Wii set up, the crafting of the little Miis, the bowling tournament. And it was 100% selfish. Because we knew we would have to linger a bit longer and I honestly couldn't see how I was going to make it without crawling into a corner and going fetal. He could obviously see that too.
In true clueless form, my parents saw nothing, said nothing relevant and were focused solely on themselves: My father's comments directed at all the hours my mom spent in the kitchen and expecting us to lather her with praise, my mom waiting in silent martydom for the praise. A word about the girls? Not a one. A question? A Query about us? No way. Just an acknowledgment that we have arrived and that dinner was ready. Meanwhile, my aunt and cousin were quiet at their seats trying to see through the tension that was obvious to them but apparently no one else. My brother: hungry and just trying to be a good host. His girlfriend: as usual, fairly clueless but sweet. She is usually a welcome respite at these affairs.
Can I just say when I saw the necklace I wanted to punch through a wall? And then I wanted to punch my mom. Wanted to ask, what the f*ck were you thinking when you picked out this piece of shit and is this what the girls are to you? Some tacky charm? Some cheap ass trinket? Is this what you think of your daughter? Do you even know me? Have you ever known me?
I am sure that I am acting like a brat here, but you know what? I think if there were ever a moment when I could, that moment would be now.
It is easy for me to get myself absolutely riled at how awful my parents have been since this all went down. Every moment when they have had an opportunity to show compassion, some love, some empathy, they have managed to avoid it. Every chance that there has been for words, for no words, for acknowledgement, for...for f*ck's sake...something, they have managed to act in the exact opposite way that I would hope for. Every time I see them I feel as if this is something I have done to them. A punishment that they now must bear, a situation that I have created out of spite and because I never really wanted them to be grandparents. You see, it is all about them and I can't help but thinking that somehow an apology, an admission of guilt has been expected from me.
Now, hang on there, m. Are you serious? Is this just an extension of what we already talked about?
Look, all I know is how I feel and I feel like I want to scream every time the phone rings and I see it is their number. I crumple into "Darlene" at the prospect of spending an evening with them. I want to limit any and all interaction with them and this, of course, is obvious and is grounds for more guilt and martyrdom from them.
Ah Eastern European traditions. F*cking great, no?
And here is where I need to pause.
And I need to remind myself that as horrid as xmas eve was, that was how wonderful Xmas day was. I woke up with my husband. Hugged and held. Opened the few presents we bought for ourselves (none of them surprises.) Oh look! A package from vans! oh hey! Santa Matador records came! Oh golly! the elves from Keen shoes must have left this here (rip. rip. tear. tear. hurray!) we do this every year, and you know what, every year we crack ourselves up.
With new pressies on our bodies and bellies full of coffee we went to M's parents' house where we opened (truly fabulous and NOT craptastic presents) and sat around, and ate, and laughed, and talked about the girls and plans for the future and enjoyed each other's company. And simply loved each other. And it was wonderful. I fell asleep on a chair with a book on my chest and a belly full of food. I fell asleep content.
And for as awful as my parents have been, that is how amazingly wonderful relatives like my brother and my aunt have risen to the occassion. I have had shaky relations with both of these folks at various stages in the past and now, dammit, they are my homies. My strongest allies, my biggest supporters. And that is a gift.
And for as thoughtless as mom and dad have been, that is how thoughtful our friends, our good good friends have been. They have surrounded us with love and care, but not smothered. They have asked, but not harped. They have simply reminded us again and again and in so many ways that we are loved and that they are here, as they have been in the past, like they will be in the future.
And that is a gift.
At the end of the day, I am simply thankful that this holiday season (at least the worst of it) is over and that a new year is just a few days away.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
The Rebirth of the Sun. The Return To Light.
So many thoughts and words and activity these last few days. Mostly around our search for my birth parents. Mostly backwards movements. Insults to injury (thanks again, Catholic Charities. For nothing.) Lots of conversations and hard (but good!) discussions around our future path to parenthood, rethinking of previously held ideals, negotiating non-negotiables. To say this has been a growing period for M. and me is an understatement. I never thought we could be closer, more connected than we already are. I was wrong.
In the last 48 hours I have been too angry to write (a rarity. Blame Catholic Charities), too at peace to write, too lazy (too tipsy?) to write. I've contemplated starting up a whole new blog for FN-posts, another one for the birth parent search and numerous other things.
But these are all connected. And all relate, deeply, to our quest to grow a family.
So, I think they will all just stay here.
I will get my act together and give you a glimpse of what's been going on. But for now, you should read this post. Luna reminded me about the winter solstice. And that things must, must get darker and colder before the light re-emerges. Most of all, he reminded me that it doesn't hurt to hope.
We will get through the holidays. And when we do, 2009 will be waiting for us. For us and the family that we will build.
In the last 48 hours I have been too angry to write (a rarity. Blame Catholic Charities), too at peace to write, too lazy (too tipsy?) to write. I've contemplated starting up a whole new blog for FN-posts, another one for the birth parent search and numerous other things.
But these are all connected. And all relate, deeply, to our quest to grow a family.
So, I think they will all just stay here.
I will get my act together and give you a glimpse of what's been going on. But for now, you should read this post. Luna reminded me about the winter solstice. And that things must, must get darker and colder before the light re-emerges. Most of all, he reminded me that it doesn't hurt to hope.
We will get through the holidays. And when we do, 2009 will be waiting for us. For us and the family that we will build.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
More on Old Loveless Men
Ok, I thought I could link and be done. Breathe deep and let it go. But it seems I can't. I just can't.
What pains me is the fact that so many wonderful and beautiful women I know struggle on a daily basis to reconcile their faith and their religion with their desire to create and nurture loving families that would also be a part of that faith. Why must there be a dichotomy? Why must these women feel rejected and refused by a god that they want to love and believe in? I love my friends of faith and admire their commitments to their churches even if that is not a path I feel is open to me. And I HATE that this feels like a kick, literally, in their guts. Tell me, other than being women, what have they done to deserve this disrespect?
What confuses me is a doctrine and a dogma that places motherhood as the highest thing a woman can aspire to, yet seeks to dictate how motherhood is achieved and exactly who is worthy of it. Never mind the challenges and obstacles already placed in these women's path that they have already overcome. What, exactly, needs to be done to prove our worth?
What angers me is the Catholic Church's adamant stance that adoption is the one and only option and alternative for unwed mothers, unwanted pregnancies, abortion and infertility. Yet, for years and years and years ruled those adoptions as unquestionably closed and to this day, controls and limits the information available between birth mothers and their children. Adoption is a gift. Yet why was my birth mother shamed into it? My birth father refused the right to see his own child? What did he have to do to prove his worth?
What hurts me is knowing that my mother prays and prays for us, and that those prayers fall not on deaf ears, because that would be more merciful, but on ears that have no interest in the path that we have available to us. I want to tell her, stop! Don't let them in on our plans! It's better if they don't know. But it is her faith and her comfort and who am I to take that from her.
But where is the comfort? Where is the mercy?
Nowhere to be found.
What pains me is the fact that so many wonderful and beautiful women I know struggle on a daily basis to reconcile their faith and their religion with their desire to create and nurture loving families that would also be a part of that faith. Why must there be a dichotomy? Why must these women feel rejected and refused by a god that they want to love and believe in? I love my friends of faith and admire their commitments to their churches even if that is not a path I feel is open to me. And I HATE that this feels like a kick, literally, in their guts. Tell me, other than being women, what have they done to deserve this disrespect?
What confuses me is a doctrine and a dogma that places motherhood as the highest thing a woman can aspire to, yet seeks to dictate how motherhood is achieved and exactly who is worthy of it. Never mind the challenges and obstacles already placed in these women's path that they have already overcome. What, exactly, needs to be done to prove our worth?
What angers me is the Catholic Church's adamant stance that adoption is the one and only option and alternative for unwed mothers, unwanted pregnancies, abortion and infertility. Yet, for years and years and years ruled those adoptions as unquestionably closed and to this day, controls and limits the information available between birth mothers and their children. Adoption is a gift. Yet why was my birth mother shamed into it? My birth father refused the right to see his own child? What did he have to do to prove his worth?
What hurts me is knowing that my mother prays and prays for us, and that those prayers fall not on deaf ears, because that would be more merciful, but on ears that have no interest in the path that we have available to us. I want to tell her, stop! Don't let them in on our plans! It's better if they don't know. But it is her faith and her comfort and who am I to take that from her.
But where is the comfort? Where is the mercy?
Nowhere to be found.
Yeah, What She Said
Thank goodness for Pamela Jeanne, who is able to put feelings into words when those words escape me.
Once again, a big F*ck You to the religion of my youth that is so, so adept at kicking when one is down. So much for compassion.
I could sit here and fume. I could work myself into a frenzy about the misogyny and hatred that has separated me from a faith, or I could direct you to PJ's post which sums it all up nicely and addresses it with a touch of humor.
You old loveless men make me sad. So, so sad.
Once again, a big F*ck You to the religion of my youth that is so, so adept at kicking when one is down. So much for compassion.
I could sit here and fume. I could work myself into a frenzy about the misogyny and hatred that has separated me from a faith, or I could direct you to PJ's post which sums it all up nicely and addresses it with a touch of humor.
You old loveless men make me sad. So, so sad.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
My Reaction - Too Much or Not Enough?
Today I got a kind of shocking phone call at work that makes me think my boss (whom I shared information with in confidence) has been a little too free in sharing that confidence with others. Yes, we are a tight knit organization. Yes, I have know most of the members of the assoc. for a decade. But I'm thinking not only did my boss (if she did indeed spill the beans) show a serious lapse in judgment here, but on a personal note, shared medical details of mine that were mine to share.
Anyway, here was my email to her today (she's away on a business trip). Told hubby about the incident and of course he is furious and says I should threaten litigation. Come on now. Don't be daft. I am not going to threaten to sue someone who I know in her heart means well and for a decade now has been pretty d*mn supportive of everything I have wanted to do with my life - even when it made things seriously inconvenient for her. Ok, here's the message:
I really appreciate your enthusiasm and support around my pregnancy. It is wonderful to work in an environment where I feel I and my future family will be valued. But I just received some congratulations from an employee at ____ that was a little more detailed than I would have liked. She mentioned that _____ had shared some of the info you had shared with ____ and then went on to tell me about a family member of her own who had cancer, couldn’t have children, used artificial techniques and went on to have children. It was a heartfelt congratulations from this person, but I was very, very shocked and surprised to hear it in the way that I did.
Anyway, here was my email to her today (she's away on a business trip). Told hubby about the incident and of course he is furious and says I should threaten litigation. Come on now. Don't be daft. I am not going to threaten to sue someone who I know in her heart means well and for a decade now has been pretty d*mn supportive of everything I have wanted to do with my life - even when it made things seriously inconvenient for her. Ok, here's the message:
I really appreciate your enthusiasm and support around my pregnancy. It is wonderful to work in an environment where I feel I and my future family will be valued. But I just received some congratulations from an employee at ____ that was a little more detailed than I would have liked. She mentioned that _____ had shared some of the info you had shared with ____ and then went on to tell me about a family member of her own who had cancer, couldn’t have children, used artificial techniques and went on to have children. It was a heartfelt congratulations from this person, but I was very, very shocked and surprised to hear it in the way that I did.
Monday, July 14, 2008
I Think I'm Done Crying
Alright, girl. Public place. Keep your shit together. I know you've spent time bawling at this train station before but that was ages ago and FYI, you didn't just break up with your boyfriend. This time's a little different and no, it's not the end of the world. Just completely baffling...
This is the pep talk I've been giving myself for the last half hour or so. Sitting here at the station since an amazingly packed waiting room and slower than usual lab at the clinic has caused me to miss the 9 am, the 10 am, the 11 am trains back home.
Actually, I can probably place the blame squarely on my crying fit between the clinic and here, which probably amounted to the 5 minutes that would have put me on that 11 o'clock departure.
Sigh.
What's my deal? Here's the deal. After weeks of acupuncture, positive energy, yoga, abstinence from all things caffienated or alcoholic, hell, even a vacation, my lining measured in this morning at a whopping 6. A 6! What the fuck?
Sorry. Sorry. Apologize for the potty mouth. But really. What the fuck?
This is the lowest yet. I'm too bothered to link back to all of my previous posts but they go something like this: first cycle 7.8; first FET 10.1; recent mock cycle 7.1. And now this.
Please note that the mock cycle saw no acupuncture, nor good thoughts, nor abstinence from me. And yet that somehow yielded better results than today.
Text from hubby: Hey, that just means we get a few more days of estrogen and super pretty you, as if that is even possible.
Ok, that made me feel a little better. Until I met with the financial advisor to show her a recent statement from my insurance which said I owed something around the tune of 5 grand to the hospital for the hysteroscopy, biopsy, mock transfer and the anesthesia I so adamantly demanded to go with those procedures.
She gave me some phone numbers. There are still a few options. But here's what threw me: after previously assuring me that they would code creatively and try to get it through my insurance (despite the fact that I have no coverage for infertility), today she says, frankly, I'm surprised that they covered anything. Fertility is fertility no matter how you code it. I tried to tell the doctor...
?????
Really. This is a great frank and open conversation to be having now, miss advisor. Since if I were sitting here with the full $10,000+ bill after your assurances otherwise, it would be a very different, much louder discussion.
She then goes on to assure me that this time will work, she's sure it will. And then gets all sympathetic and kind. Christ, I must be looking bad. On my way out, she mentions what a long and drawn out process this has been for us and that I should be keeping a journal.
At least there's no need to worry about that.
Next text from hubby: Hey, the last time your lining was 10 and that didn't work. Maybe this time it will. Why not try something different, right?
Sure.
Waiting now to get a call about the lab results to see what they say. Not expecting anything terrible but I wasn't expecting a "6" either. I am guessing I will be returning to this spot either Friday or Monday for another ultrasound.
Hey, I am really sorry for the frustration emitting from this post. You know I usually don't spend too much time dwelling on the negative here. But this morning has simply thrown me. And I have time on my hands. And my computer. Think of it this way, writing this has probably saved you from hearing my rant against Oprah, who seemed to be going for a marathon of fertility-themed shows last week. God I hate Oprah.
This is the pep talk I've been giving myself for the last half hour or so. Sitting here at the station since an amazingly packed waiting room and slower than usual lab at the clinic has caused me to miss the 9 am, the 10 am, the 11 am trains back home.
Actually, I can probably place the blame squarely on my crying fit between the clinic and here, which probably amounted to the 5 minutes that would have put me on that 11 o'clock departure.
Sigh.
What's my deal? Here's the deal. After weeks of acupuncture, positive energy, yoga, abstinence from all things caffienated or alcoholic, hell, even a vacation, my lining measured in this morning at a whopping 6. A 6! What the fuck?
Sorry. Sorry. Apologize for the potty mouth. But really. What the fuck?
This is the lowest yet. I'm too bothered to link back to all of my previous posts but they go something like this: first cycle 7.8; first FET 10.1; recent mock cycle 7.1. And now this.
Please note that the mock cycle saw no acupuncture, nor good thoughts, nor abstinence from me. And yet that somehow yielded better results than today.
Text from hubby: Hey, that just means we get a few more days of estrogen and super pretty you, as if that is even possible.
Ok, that made me feel a little better. Until I met with the financial advisor to show her a recent statement from my insurance which said I owed something around the tune of 5 grand to the hospital for the hysteroscopy, biopsy, mock transfer and the anesthesia I so adamantly demanded to go with those procedures.
She gave me some phone numbers. There are still a few options. But here's what threw me: after previously assuring me that they would code creatively and try to get it through my insurance (despite the fact that I have no coverage for infertility), today she says, frankly, I'm surprised that they covered anything. Fertility is fertility no matter how you code it. I tried to tell the doctor...
?????
Really. This is a great frank and open conversation to be having now, miss advisor. Since if I were sitting here with the full $10,000+ bill after your assurances otherwise, it would be a very different, much louder discussion.
She then goes on to assure me that this time will work, she's sure it will. And then gets all sympathetic and kind. Christ, I must be looking bad. On my way out, she mentions what a long and drawn out process this has been for us and that I should be keeping a journal.
At least there's no need to worry about that.
Next text from hubby: Hey, the last time your lining was 10 and that didn't work. Maybe this time it will. Why not try something different, right?
Sure.
Waiting now to get a call about the lab results to see what they say. Not expecting anything terrible but I wasn't expecting a "6" either. I am guessing I will be returning to this spot either Friday or Monday for another ultrasound.
Hey, I am really sorry for the frustration emitting from this post. You know I usually don't spend too much time dwelling on the negative here. But this morning has simply thrown me. And I have time on my hands. And my computer. Think of it this way, writing this has probably saved you from hearing my rant against Oprah, who seemed to be going for a marathon of fertility-themed shows last week. God I hate Oprah.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Am I a Weenie?
If the comments on the NY Times article starring the beautiful and brave Pamela Jeanne make me cry?
Because they do.
Part of me is compelled to speak. To add my voice to the din. The rest of me wants nothing to do with the conversation. Wants nothing to do with this "lifestyle choice" called infertility and the drama and the angst and the anger it creates. Not to mention hostility. Since when was wanting to have a child an offensive and egregious act of selfishness? Since when was adoption this simple, cheap and only morally correct way to build a family? And more importantly, why is medical intervention absolutely applauded in every other aspect of our bodies and our lives.
Except this one?
Look.
I am just trying to make a baby without no drama.
Well, why don't you just adopt?
-I am an adoptee and I don't want to adopt. I just don't want to.
Well, why did you wait so long to try to have a child?
-I didn't wait. I waited until medical technology caught up with and was able to deal with the fact that my ovaries and eggs were destroyed by medical technology 20 years ago. So, unless you wanted me to try to pop some kiddies out at age 12, (which would have brought out a whole different set of condemnations) waiting ain't the issue.
How can you mourn/be sad/bitch about something you never had?
-How can one ask such a ridiculous question? We ALL mourn things that we don't or can't "have." And define "never had." Ask when life begins and you will receive very, very different answers from different individuals. To judge when and how someone should mourn is almost as offensive as judging their desire to be a parent and the path they choose to take.
We could all add to this list. It goes on and on and on. And you know what? For every query or accusation that is thrown my way or in the direction of another woman wanting to conceive, we have answers. A response.
I wish someone would grant us the same courtesy.
Because they do.
Part of me is compelled to speak. To add my voice to the din. The rest of me wants nothing to do with the conversation. Wants nothing to do with this "lifestyle choice" called infertility and the drama and the angst and the anger it creates. Not to mention hostility. Since when was wanting to have a child an offensive and egregious act of selfishness? Since when was adoption this simple, cheap and only morally correct way to build a family? And more importantly, why is medical intervention absolutely applauded in every other aspect of our bodies and our lives.
Except this one?
Look.
I am just trying to make a baby without no drama.
Well, why don't you just adopt?
-I am an adoptee and I don't want to adopt. I just don't want to.
Well, why did you wait so long to try to have a child?
-I didn't wait. I waited until medical technology caught up with and was able to deal with the fact that my ovaries and eggs were destroyed by medical technology 20 years ago. So, unless you wanted me to try to pop some kiddies out at age 12, (which would have brought out a whole different set of condemnations) waiting ain't the issue.
How can you mourn/be sad/bitch about something you never had?
-How can one ask such a ridiculous question? We ALL mourn things that we don't or can't "have." And define "never had." Ask when life begins and you will receive very, very different answers from different individuals. To judge when and how someone should mourn is almost as offensive as judging their desire to be a parent and the path they choose to take.
We could all add to this list. It goes on and on and on. And you know what? For every query or accusation that is thrown my way or in the direction of another woman wanting to conceive, we have answers. A response.
I wish someone would grant us the same courtesy.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Empty
Oh hey, what's there? Oh, I see. It's NOTHING.
Yes friends, it is a BFN which, frankly, took hubby and I a bit by surprise this time. I've been cramping all week which I felt was a sure sign of something, right? Nope. It's nothing.
Angry. Sad. Angry. Resigned. Angry (at whom?). Confused. Relieved? (at what? Finally knowing?) A little Lost. Maybe a lot Lost. What am I going to do with myself today?
While I sift through these thoughts amidst more soul searching which I fear might be coming on, I need you, my friends, to do me a favor.
I need you to tell me the worst joke your know. I mean, the one that makes your friends groan and your husband furrow his brow whenever you try to tell it because it's so bad.
Here's mine:
What's red and invisible??
No tomatoes.
I love that joke. Instead of sympathies, please send me your crappiest, worst joke. God can't be the only one with a f*cked up sense of humor, right?
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Milestones Galore
Two days ago marked 20 years cancer free for me, and I wrote about it a little bit here.
But what isn't apparent in that pretty upbeat post was the deep, deep sadness that consumed me for the entire day. It started creeping up on me as I was writing the post, then just kind of got worse and worse until hubby found me in my office a weepy mess. What the f%^& is wrong with me?? I asked that question, he didn't. I didn't think I had an answer. I just assumed it was a typical malaise that we all encounter every now and again. I was surprised by the words that came out.
20 years later and what do I have to show for it? What have I done with the life that was given to me? How have I helped anyone else besides myself? Who have I lived for beyond me? My life could have ended 20 years ago but it didn't. How have I shown my gratitude?
That was part of it. The other part of was based much more soundly in self-pity. 20 years later and I still have a drawer full of meds I can't afford. What's changed?? 20 years later and I am trying to undo what's been done to pieces of me that were never diseased in the first place.
But hang on a second. That's awfully presumptuous of me. What makes me think that hubby and I would have zero problems conceiving if cancer weren't in the picture? What makes me so sure that we wouldn't be in the same boat as so many of our real and blogging friends - testing, trying, testing again, trying to figure out why what should be so easy sometimes isn't? Cancer is an easy, easy (and deserving) scapegoat for us. But it has saved us from the months and months of diagnostic hells that so many of you go through - Do not pass Go, go directly to Egg Donor Program. We didn't have the unknowns, the unexplained, the maybe this, maybe that diagnoses that I know would have driven me crazy. So, I'm thinking for that I should be thankful.
Yesterday marked the one year anniversary of our first consultation with the RE. One year. That's a long time, but then again, it isn't. One year later and what do we have to show for it? Well, we now have our families and most of our friends fully invested in (and thankfully supportive of) our desire to have a family. It's no longer a secret, something whispered wistfully between us. I have this blog and this one which have turned into vehicles for empowerment, advocacy, and most importantly, have put me in touch with some kick *ss amazing, phenomenal women.
I have two little embryos that I hope are growing inside me as I type. Tune in Thursday for the first Beta.
And for that, I am thankful.
But what isn't apparent in that pretty upbeat post was the deep, deep sadness that consumed me for the entire day. It started creeping up on me as I was writing the post, then just kind of got worse and worse until hubby found me in my office a weepy mess. What the f%^& is wrong with me?? I asked that question, he didn't. I didn't think I had an answer. I just assumed it was a typical malaise that we all encounter every now and again. I was surprised by the words that came out.
20 years later and what do I have to show for it? What have I done with the life that was given to me? How have I helped anyone else besides myself? Who have I lived for beyond me? My life could have ended 20 years ago but it didn't. How have I shown my gratitude?
That was part of it. The other part of was based much more soundly in self-pity. 20 years later and I still have a drawer full of meds I can't afford. What's changed?? 20 years later and I am trying to undo what's been done to pieces of me that were never diseased in the first place.
But hang on a second. That's awfully presumptuous of me. What makes me think that hubby and I would have zero problems conceiving if cancer weren't in the picture? What makes me so sure that we wouldn't be in the same boat as so many of our real and blogging friends - testing, trying, testing again, trying to figure out why what should be so easy sometimes isn't? Cancer is an easy, easy (and deserving) scapegoat for us. But it has saved us from the months and months of diagnostic hells that so many of you go through - Do not pass Go, go directly to Egg Donor Program. We didn't have the unknowns, the unexplained, the maybe this, maybe that diagnoses that I know would have driven me crazy. So, I'm thinking for that I should be thankful.
Yesterday marked the one year anniversary of our first consultation with the RE. One year. That's a long time, but then again, it isn't. One year later and what do we have to show for it? Well, we now have our families and most of our friends fully invested in (and thankfully supportive of) our desire to have a family. It's no longer a secret, something whispered wistfully between us. I have this blog and this one which have turned into vehicles for empowerment, advocacy, and most importantly, have put me in touch with some kick *ss amazing, phenomenal women.
I have two little embryos that I hope are growing inside me as I type. Tune in Thursday for the first Beta.
And for that, I am thankful.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
I said no, no, no.....
Not to going to rehab, but to an endometrial biopsy. Here's how it went down:
Nurse called last week, I thought to start scheduling our next cycle. She was actually calling to relay the advice of a new doctor who has apparently joined the practice. This doctor decided that what we really needed was to do a mock cycle and then an endometrial biopsy to see whether or not I needed to add any additional progesterone to our routine. That means, go through an entire cycle, including weeks of PIO injections, ending not in a transfer, but in this new doc taking a swab of my uterine lining. Based on the results of those weeks of hormones, headaches, shots and that swab we would either: a.) know that the protocol was just fine and start a new cycle or b.) add a little more progesterone to it.
I hung up with nurse, slightly stunned. Thinking first of all, "Who the F*ck is Dr. ____ and what does he/she know about me?" Second thought was, "Yes, my lining was slightly under 8 this time around but THEY CHOSE not to increase my estrace. It was less than 8 the first cancelled cycle and we upped the estrace, which seemed the do the trick. It was less than 8 the second cancelled cycle because I was only on estrace for a few days before the first stripe test...."
The more I thought about things, the angrier I got. I turned to hubby for some reason and rational thought. Perhaps I was overreacting or still upset from the BFN. His anger and indignity only added to mine. He broke it down like this: If an endometrial biopsy was what they wanted to do, they had 2 cancelled cycles which they could have continued to that end, AND the several months we were sitting around doing nothing while we were waiting for our donor to be available. Now, they want to waste our time, money, emotions? Now??
I felt slightly better knowing we were on the same page. From my perspective, I simply couldn't imagine going through the stress of a cycle knowing it was a mock one. Shooting up is hard for me as it is. Would I really go forward with that day after day knowing that all I had to look forward to was a cotton swab up my noonie? It would be different if I or they suspected some serious abnormality. It would be different if increasing estrace hadn't already been proven to work. It would be different if we only had 1 or 2 embies left. It would be different if we had a few thousand dollars to throw around on meds and medical tests that serve our clinic's purposes and stats more so than ours. It would be different if Dr. ___ was the person who had taken us through the process up to this point. It would be different if there weren't ample time and opportunity to address this perceived issues without the pain of additional and fake cycle.
But none of this is the case.
So, confident that hubby had my back, I called nurse the next morning. And we talked about all of this. And much more. We talked about how bothered we were that of the 4 people present for our transfer, we knew none of them (nurse had CPR training and had already told us she couldn't be present). We talked about how upset we were that this new and unknown person (Dr. ___) seemed to be calling the shots on our cycles. We talked about how it felt when we felt the (well-respected and university-affiliated) clinic was more interested in keeping their stats above the national average than they were with us as patients. It was a long and hard conversation.
And it was so worth it.
She totally understood and sympathized and made it seem like she, too, was bothered by the message she had to relay. She explained that the clinic was expanding and that a number of doctors had joined the team, hence Dr. ___, hence the unknown faces between my legs at transfer. She explained who the new docs were and which aspects of the clinic they would be in charge of. We told her that we considered her our lifeline and the one real and human point of contact there. We didn't know what we would do without her. Long pause. She said, "then I am going to keep your file. I'm supposed to turn it over to another nurse now that you are doing FET but I won't and I am going to use this conversation as my justification."
And we told her we were so grateful for that. She has been with us since the day I called almost a year ago and set up an appointment for a consult. She was the one that hugged me when I cried during the needle training. She was the one that held my hand when I got my stitch put in before the first transfer. She was the one that had to call and tell me about the BFN. To go through this without her would be rough.
So, it's day 5 of lupron. So far, so good. I need to get back in the habit of good breakfasts and healthy days. But we are looking forward to our first FET, scheduled tentatively for early March, with nurse by our side.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Oh If Only.....
Good lordessa, if only it were this easy.
I was totally fine with this post full of helpful tips on how to get pregnant (#1 stop birth control) until the last "helpful tip" which reads like this:
5.) Pray, Pray, Pray. Don’t listen to doctors when they tell you that you’re not able to conceive. God is the only person who can determine that. God will give you a baby when he thinks you’re ready for one. He is there to give you all the support you need. Have faith in him and when your time comes you will be blessed with a beautiful baby.
I know that we are all of different faiths and inclinations and I am truly not trying to offend....
But reading that brought my blood to a boil. Because only good and faithful people have babies, right? The world is filled with good and faithful babies who turn into good and faithful leaders and that's why the world is so great, right? And only bad people die from cancer or other diseases or, gasp, can't naturally conceive. It's all about deserving.
Pregnant = blessed. Infertile = cursed and unworthy of a christian god's love, unless of course its in a pitying, charitable way.
Sigh.
We get up bright and early tomorrow a.m. to find out whether or not we are deserving of continuing this cycle. And um, I am probably going to listen to what the doctor tells me.
I was totally fine with this post full of helpful tips on how to get pregnant (#1 stop birth control) until the last "helpful tip" which reads like this:
5.) Pray, Pray, Pray. Don’t listen to doctors when they tell you that you’re not able to conceive. God is the only person who can determine that. God will give you a baby when he thinks you’re ready for one. He is there to give you all the support you need. Have faith in him and when your time comes you will be blessed with a beautiful baby.
I know that we are all of different faiths and inclinations and I am truly not trying to offend....
But reading that brought my blood to a boil. Because only good and faithful people have babies, right? The world is filled with good and faithful babies who turn into good and faithful leaders and that's why the world is so great, right? And only bad people die from cancer or other diseases or, gasp, can't naturally conceive. It's all about deserving.
Pregnant = blessed. Infertile = cursed and unworthy of a christian god's love, unless of course its in a pitying, charitable way.
Sigh.
We get up bright and early tomorrow a.m. to find out whether or not we are deserving of continuing this cycle. And um, I am probably going to listen to what the doctor tells me.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Is it me??
I bet you'd like to know what my schedule will be. Gosh, so do I.
I finally emailed Nurse on Friday since I had been expecting her call since Monday, when the clinic said she would call. I thought I sent a pretty benign email asking the usual questions, hi, how are you, do you have any info on my cycle, and by the way dr. somebody called me last week and said that you would call.
Her curt response surprised me. She said, yeah, ok, I'll get back to you next week. You know her [the donor's] protocol will be different this time. Re the doctor's call she said this:
Yes the doctors want to make sure you want to use this donor because of her lack of response. We don't know if she will do any better with another protocol. You have a great weekend too.
Just me, or were those sentence completely unnecessary?
Just in case the several hour consult with our Doctor and the half hour call from the Other Doctor didn't drill into our head that this new protocol may or may not work, Nurse needed to throw in her two cents as well.
Now, in working with Nurse, we have come to realize that she is a glass half empty as opposed to half full kind of gal. But I have never thought of her as being impatient or insensitive and this email struck me as both. And that hurt my feelings. 'Cause I'm sensitive.
And my glass is half full.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Ohmmmm....
I am in serious need of an attitude adjustment.
My eye has almost completely healed; vision is restored. The scab on my shin from my first (and only) encounter with the treadmill has faded. My outside is returning to normal. My inside is what feels rotten. I am trying for some inner peace here (remember: happy home, happy home...) but EVERYONE ELSE IS MAKING IT VERY HARD.
For example, I just got an email saying that we are celebrating a co-worker's birthday during our already interminably long staff meeting today. Instead of saying to myself, "oh. yay. cake." My first response is a grumble and a groan, thinking, I don't have time for this. I have things to do and this means my afternoon will be totally consumed by this frigging meeting.
What the hell is wrong with me? Every email I open this morning generates some sort of snarl or snarky internal comment from me. And it's not just work-related. And it's not just this morning. I think I have been scowling (in between squints) for at least a week now. If I make this ugly face for much longer, will it stay this way?
Ok, if the phenomenon is so widespread, perhaps its not all of humankind that's the problem here. Maybe, just maybe, it's me.
Sweet, sweet hubby finally laid it out for me last night: "You have got to stop thinking about your parents. Just stop it. They are adults, right? They can make their own choices, right? Have you ever, ever in your life made a decision that they thought was foolhardy and/or ill-advised?"
Well, yes. (friends reading this post can just take a moment and chuckle thinking back to some of my many ill-advised moments. I did.)
Did they let you? Did they trust that you would work it out?
Yes.
Would it be so hard for you to grant them the same respect?
Well, no but.....
And here is where I start pointing out all of the errors in their thinking and how they could be making a huge mistake and here is where hubby says,
Do you even realize how condescending you are being right now?
Ouch. No. I guess I hadn't.
So, as of today, I must be nothing but positive and affirming for them. The decision has been made. The house is sold. The movers are arranged. I have said my peace. But now I have a panicked mother filled with second thoughts. There is nothing for them to do but look forward to their new home (wherever that will be) and try to enjoy their old age. Sure it's sad leaving a home you built 40 years ago and some tears are definitely allowed, but they are not the only people in the world that have sold their house. If I am a semi-decent daughter, I will help them come to these conclusions.
So, that brings me to affirmation #1: I WILL not worry about my parents.
And the rest follows in no specific order:
#2: I WILL get pregnant. My donor will be ok. (she came in a little low for her reading yesterday)
#3: I WILL write at least an hour a day, finish our book and that book WILL get published.
#4: I will be positive in my outlook and my thoughts. I will greet each person with a smile.
And in the case of my co-worker, wish her a very, very happy birthday.
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