Plateau

Oh sigh.

I'm in a bit of a rut. Maybe not a rut, maybe more like a plateau.

Maybe a treadmill. The one where you drip and sweat and curse for what feels like hours only to look down at the numbers and go, What!?!?! Areyoufuckingkiddingme? I went nowhere?


That's where I am this sunny Thursday morning. Running in place. Seemingly going nowhere.

I'm stuck at the office overseeing painters, carpenters and various repairmen. Everyone else is off or working from home. I get to be the grown up in charge. But I donwanna. I'd rather get some work done, sip some tea without worrying whether or not these portly gentlemen are ripping apart the wrong room. But alas. Here I am.

But it's a distraction and distractions are good, because if I were working from home I would probably just obsessively refresh my gmail. Over, and over and over again, waiting for the latest news from our attorney.

This surrogacy shit. People, it's not easy.

Never mind the existential crises that come with it. (oh, and there's plenty.) The contract phase. Jesus, it's a bitch. The entire exercise is masochistic - planning for each and every worst case scenario you can imagine, and then figuring out what to do if it should come true.

Oh, and putting a price on it.

It's ugly. It's frustrating. It treads a very fine line of "oh that sound reasonable and fair," and "areyoufuckingkiddingme?" And it's 100% necessary. There is no way around it.

We've only been back and forth a couple of times with some revisions. And I suppose in the grand scheme of things, that's really quite normal. A contract, after all, should be about negotiation and compromise. A successful negotiation is one in which both sides feel like they've won, maybe not everything, but something substantial. I am really hoping for a win-win situation.

But M and I are both feeling like we are fairly close to walking.

I'm hoping that feeling fades. I'm hoping we're just tired, and ready for motion. I'm hoping that happens soon. I'm hoping this is the hardest part.

I'm trying to keep my eyes on the prize without peering too far into the future. Mel's post reminding me I will get through this couldn't have hit my Reader at a better time.

Taking things day by day, hour by hour, carpet tile by carpet tile (I should really go check on them), push up by push up.

Can we talk about the push ups for a minute?

So, the good news is, I can actually DO one now. I'm feeling stronger, better postured, a tad slimmer, but not nearly as slim as M (damn him!!!) I can't say I don't feel good and fit and strong. I can say that I had hoped for the results of working out an hour + Every. damn. day. And removing beer and pizza and french fries from my life to be a bit more dramatic. This, people, this is where I want the drama in my life to be!

M is a champ - he compliments me every day and cheers me on (when we're not screaming at each other "you're doing it wrong!" "fuck off I can't breathe" "I'm just trying to help!" "then quit looking at me!!") Yeah, I don't really think those are the chants that are supposed to go along with moving asanas....

Anyways, day 25 of P90X. Down between 6-8 lbs depending on the day. My wedding ring is loose. My shoes are loose. Gah, who knew? Chubby hands and feet? I've let cheese slip back into my life as I run between meetings and grab whatever (still no dairy or meat in the house) and I'm thinking this is the next adjustment to make. M is looking seriously fabulous. He's my hero.

Exercise. It's so crazy. You start a routine. You go through the motions. Follow instructions. Wait for results. Every day. Unwavering. Tweaking diets and habits, hoping to get a leg up. Do I get on the scale? No! No! Not yet. How about now? No! Stop! You have to wait until at least 10dpt.

Oh wait. (blush) Sorry. Wrong routine.


photo credit: me.

So Much for "For the People, By the People..."

I'm in serious need of a pep talk.

Shit is getting me down, people. Not so much Life, I can manage that. It's the work part. Not my work as in office, office mates, tasks, etc, It's the usual brand of well-meaning loony there and I can easily handle that. It's - how do I explain this - it's the realization that you are coming up against people in power that are saying pretty bluntly, "oh, you're concerned? Oh ok. Hmm, you're worried that this and this will create irreparable harm to that and these people? Oh, that's interesting and all but WE DON'T REALLY GIVE A SHIT. This is our plan and we're sticking to it. And by the way this is all for your own good. I would say this hurts me more than it hurts you, but I'd be wrong [insert maniacal laugh here]"

And this sentiment appears to be endorsed at the highest levels. Except for the maniacal laugh. I added that.

I've been in several meetings this week that have made me feel helpless, useless, ineffectual, victimized, close to tears. And I was not alone. I looked around the rooms and saw my feelings echoed in faces representing other interests, other people in need. And we looked at each other and our eyes said, "Fucked. We are all totally fucked."

I keep waiting for one of my colleagues to talk me down off the ledge. To tell me, "dude, you are overreacting and being dramatic. Knock it off." But no. They are telling me to scooch over and make some room for them.

And I'm not used to this. In my profession, there is always a push and pull, a give an take. Sometimes you succeed; many times you don't. For the most part, there is at least a little, if even the tiniest, place for reason. Rational thought. Logical arguments. And when those fail, appeals to humanity.

I am finding myself in a place where it feels like there is no fucking humanity and I am feeling too angry and hurt to be effectual. Too stunned to react. I'm not used to being this much of an underdog.

Oh, except in that one other arena:

Our friend and volunteer potential maybe hopeful GC requested her medical records and we're waiting around for that process. Meanwhile, that other iron in the fire has gone cold.

I checked in with our agency this week thinking that our last conversation would have opened up all kinds of options for us. Turns out, no. they can think of NO ONE who might want to be our baby mama.

And now I am at the point where I'm like, you know what? I'm pretty sure it's not me. It's you.

I'm not going to break into a Morrissey croon here, because I know that I am NOT unlovable so you can just stop trying to tell me. If we were, why would three women that know us well have already tried to sign up for this gig? if we were so flipping incompatible with other humans, one would guess the whole damn world would want to walk wide circles around us. But they don't. So....

On to the next one.

Some of you who have used surrogates and gestational carriers have shared your agencies and recommendations with us. Thank you. We will be setting up some exploratory conversations with one or two of these. I jokingly brought up the suggestion to head to Canada to M last night and he was ready to pack our bags. I'm guessing international surrogacy brings about a whole different batch of issues, but I'm not opposed to learning more. So, holla at us any one reading who has crossed national borders in your baby making journey. I would love to know your story.

We joked about creating a FB or webpage last night. Only it's not funny. It's sounding kind of like not that horrible of an idea. I know at least one or two of you have (successfully) taken this route for adoption. Would you be willing to share your experiences with us? Legal ramifications? Not necessarily here if you don't want to, but via email or even (gasp) offline?

And meanwhile, we're finding time to sit down and talk with our friend and hopeful GC to put some meat on the bones of that plan. That is our #1 choice, but we just want to be ready if it seems as if it's not going to work out.

I'm not mad at our agency. It's been a learning experience. And I'm hoping we can take what we've learned and move forward towards a family. At least until some batshit crazy senator decides that third party reproduction should be restricted....

Oh you think that can't happen? Go take a look at your elected officials, friends. Things are getting very, very strange out there.

See? Bitter. I'm getting bitter. Pep talk needed in aisle three! Stat!

All the Married Ladies....

That B*yonce, wow, she rubs me the wrong way.

From her sly musings on taking a break and wanting to have a baby in so many magazines to her public announcement at a music awards show (which ruined M's week) to the smugness in which she bares her voluptuous preggo breasts in one of her latest videos.....

Ooooooohhh it just BURNS me!

Not that she's pregnant. I get that. I understand the world procreates around me. It's the assumption that all is preordained. It is this beautiful woman's destiny (as it were) to become a beautiful glowing mother and gift the world with her offspring. Because this is how it should be. And in her case, she appears to be right.

I'm facing a very similar presumptuousness in my personal life. I volunteer with a young woman who's in the midst of planning her wedding. She's being very careful not to overextend herself in the days leading up to her ceremony (smart) and giving everyone a heads up about when she'll be MIA for her honeymoon (practical), but then it extends into - I can't make any promises to do this or that because we'll be popping out babies.

Just like that: I found my man. We're getting married. Of course, the next logical step is to push out some kids. Of course this will happen. Of course it will happen on our timeline. Because we're smart people. We've worked it all out.

The first time this happened, my jaw dropped, I nearly spit out my coffee. I was tempted to try to turn it into some kind of teachable moment (ugh. that phrases oozes condescension) but I didn't want to be condescending, and I didn't want to rain on her parade. At least not that morning.

But it keeps happening. She makes these statements with such assuredness. Such confidence. Ah youth. It's grating. But it's also misinformed.

Or is it? Is it ME being presumptuous that this won't happen for my colleague? Am I the one being self-centered?

Just because donor eggs, IVF, several frozen embryo transfers, a real pregnancy, and at least three beautiful women offering their own wombs to us in this journey has not resulted in a living, breathing child for us....

Doesn't mean young women around the world shouldn't assume that life is as it should be. Sex will be had. Babies will be made.

So what do you think? What would you do? Would you say anything to a colleague who assumes the world goes 'round, women have babies, and hers will come as soon as she wills it so? What would you say? How would you say it?

What I *thought* I said

You may recall me talking about how we were less then thrilled with the first couple of gestational carrier profiles that we viewed.

After we sent our feedback to our agency, the director scoured their database and came back to us and said, I'm really struggling with finding the right match for you. I have a few new applicants that might work; I'm waiting on all their clearances and such and will get those profiles to you as soon as I can.

Which made me wonder - what is it about us that is such a challenge?

So I asked. And received a really thoughtful and honest response from our agency. First was a suggestion: don't take the written profiles at 100% face value. Invest a half hour and have a phone conversation with one or two of the women and see if that changes your opinion. Don't assume someone can express themselves perfectly on a questionnaire. Go deeper. Those 30 minutes could be well worth your while.

Which is exactly the advice that many of you gave both here, in person and via email. So, thank you. You were and are right.

So we agreed to setting up some phone conversations, only to find that BOTH potential GCs said, "mmm, um, no thanks." to US!

Isn't that a nice kick in the pants?

I spent the weekend being hurt, then angry. No one likes to be rejected. Then I quickly switched to a "how DARE they!" frame of mind. Like it or not, there will be a LOT of money exchanged here - that gives US The right to be selective, not the other way around, right?!?

And then I calmed myself and looked at the profile/questionnaire we submitted and I tried to do it with an eye of a potential gestational carrier. (something we should have done before we even hit SEND in the first place.)

And I can see some things now that I didn't see writing it.

In my quest to appear normal, balanced, undamaged, I think our profile gives the impression that life is GREAT! We hike! We kayak! Look over here. We are TOTALLY well-adjusted. No signs of intense grieving and lack of life purpose over here. Did I mention I knit?

So much so, I, as a GC, might look at it and go, "hunh, I'm not sure they really want a baby. Things seem to be going pretty great for them right now. I bet my help might make more of a difference to someone else right now...."

Or you might look at the part where we talk so much about a certain family member being our first choice as our GC and think, "oh, awesome. I am starting this relationship knowing I am their second choice. That's a great feeling...."

But what is really the kicker, I think. What makes us so damn hard to match: Our answer to this question:

If it were determined during the pregnancy via medical testing that the fetus had physical and/or mental abnormalities would you want to abort the pregnancy?

What I thought we said was something along the lines of: "No matter what happens this would be our choice to make and we would need a GC who understands that."

But the multiple choice item we selected, it seems, was:

Yes,as such we need to be matched with a carrier who is willing to terminate a pregnancy if medically necessary.

And I am seriously just now realizing this as I write this blog post this morning.

This is not the answer that describes us. This is NOT the people we are.

And when I asked weeks ago what made us a challenge, our agency pointed to this question and that it was one that most potential GCs would say no to. At that time, I thought, well there is a difference of philosophy and opinion and one that I am not willing to budge on, even if it takes a little longer to make a connection.

Again, thinking we wrote what I thought we wrote. Which we didn't.

Argh. Argh. Argh.

Here is sat, frustrated that potential GCs haven't expressed themselves adequately, given us a good enough picture of themselves in their words and yet I think we could barely have pictured ourselves worse in the profile we sent in.

I've asked for a "do-over" for our profile. I have a friend or two that have offered to read what we write before we hit SEND this time. And I'm hoping that will make the difference.

I just wish months hadn't gone by before I thought to assess.

Where M Drops the F Bomb in Church

Well, it's International Babylost Mother's Day. How did you get to spend yours? Me, I got to sit through a Christening.

We got through it. Kind of. We're home now anyway - M's playing a mindless video game. Me, I'm staring at the screen trying to sort through what I'm feeling right now.

Mom was in town for the family event. Dad claimed he "wasn't feeling well" and didn't make the trip. Tomorrow starts cancer treatments for him. More on that in a minute. Maybe.

During the ceremony, where they also baptized seven other little ones (is this how they do it these days?), there was, of course, a set of twins.

"Oh look, does she have twins?!"

"I guess mom."

"Oh she DOES. She does have twins. Awwww....."

M's grip tightens on mine.

"Oh do you think they're twins or just siblings?"

M : "Who the F*CK cares. Would you STOP!"

Yes. Yes. You did just witness my husband dropping the F bomb. On my mom. In Church. And she deserved it. Thankfully, no clap of thunder. No lightning-singed spouse. Phew.

"Well, I just thought they were cute that's all."

"STOPPPPPPPP!" (This time it's me. And I think I added a JFC in there too)

And soon its over and we are reminded yet again that my parents speak without thinking. Think without thinking of anyone else, least of whom our daughters. I can't take it personally. Dad is too obsessed with how many sodas he can drink now that "my sugar's the least of my worries. I gots The Cancer..." and mom is far too busy making those martyr eyes and funny faces that show the world oh how much she suffers with this husband of hers. Poor her. Poor poor her.

So, there's all of that. I'm mad at dad at how he's behaving. I'm mad at mom at how she's behaving. None of this is new. Its just got some extra juicy cancer-flavor to it these days. You feel bad for one of them until you yourself are forced to sit with them and you think, "Oh god, no wonder the other one can't stand you." And then you sit with the other one and have the exact same thought. They are not nice people. They are not nice to each other. Being around it is exhausting.

But that's where we spent my birthday.

No, no, don't worry. No need to wince. This post actually has a somewhat happy ending. We decided to make the drive last Friday evening when we got word that dad's cancer has spread. It is not stage 1 as expected; its actually progressed to his brain. Not sure of the prognosis, but they are moving forward with treatments as planned, adding radiation to the brain and anticipating a need for chemo after that. That's the news we got Friday right around dinner time.

Don't worry about dad. He now feels he gets a free pass to tell everyone how he really feels about them, to eat and drink everything he wants, and has a built in excuse to avoid any and all family events and obligations that would displace him from the couch. I think I should note that this is how he has been living for some time now. But now, NOW, he feels like he has a real good reason. Sigh.It's hard for me to be sad when dad acts like this is a dream come true. If someone feels like they have no reason to live, they usually find a way not to.

But still, I'm sad. What should we do? M asks? What can we do? I ask? What would you like to do? He counters. Well, I guess I would like to spend as much time with him as I can while I still can. That makes sense, M says. We'll leave in the a.m.

So we did. And somewhere between state borders, the sun started to shine on the weekend that was predicted to be yet another monsoon. Hey now, we joked. We are being rewarded for our altruism! And we were. The sun shone freely all weekend. We had ample time at the beach and D*gfish Head Brewery - two of our happy places -which is where we escaped whenever the house got too claustrophobic. The weather was honestly so gorgeous, not even my dad refusing to sit on the porch with us (what?!? it's too hot!!), in fact, refusing to do anything with us unless it involved sitting with him watching a show he was watching on TV, or my mom coming home from the neighbor's house totally soused on Saturday night could dampen our spirits.

We had given ourselves a little pep talk on the car on the way down. That helped: We cannot change them. We will not change them. All you (notice how it shifts down to singular here. There is no love lost between M and my parents) can do is love them and be there for them and let them know you care.

So that's what I did. I tried to suspend judgment (but dammit. Dad downing 3 cans of soda one night made some of that seep out.) What??? Not like I'll live any longer if I don't drink it.

My dad is like Shit My Dad Says. But not funny.
My mom is like Raymond's mom from Everybody Loves Raymond. But not funny.

Most of the time we are around one or both of them, M and I usually end up staring at each other, mouthing "did he/she/they just say/do that?" gasping incredulously wondering at the insanity of it all.

And then we go to Dogfish where we can debrief and try to piece together different interpretations of all that we've seen and heard even though it always ends up at the same conclusion: "Your dad, he's senile and ungrateful and has no idea how good of a life he actually has....your mom, well she's crazy and she thinks she's performing on a L*fetime movie and will never not think that the world has shit on her." We shake our heads, and drink wonderful beers and eat cheap hummus and veggie burgers and try more beers and then walk to the beach where I read not only the Economist but also the New Yorker the same week they were issued (which I think has never happened before). And then fall asleep. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. This is our daily Delaware routine for 3 days.

I fall asleep on the beach for my birthday. Now, I tell you, a girl cannot ask for much more than that.

But I left last weekend with that gift that always sneaks into our pockets after a few hours with the crazies, I mean parents. And that is the gift of thankfulness. Thankful for M. Thankful for our lives. Thankful that we don't spend every waking minute cursing our existence or each other. So, SO damn thankful that that is not the house we live in or the relationship we have with each other. After a weekend with the 'rents, we inevitably leave thinking, "Our life isn't so bad. Except for that one really, really, horrific thing that happened to us and our daughters, we have a lot to be thankful for. Let's not forget it."

**

Tonight, we are trying not to forget it.

Vocalization

And finally, he speaks.

"Everything is just so far removed from where it should be."

And I can relate.

I bet you can too.

Oh, the Humility

Dear beautiful and powerful River,

Obviously, you sensed I was not treating you with the respect and admiration you deserve. I should have taken my slip on the rocks while getting into my kayak, the slip that bruised my arm and waterlogged and ruined my Dr*id as your way of saying, "ahem...."

But I didn't.

I should have realized that putting in farther upstream than usual in territory that includes rapids and rocks should have equaled 100% attention. Not, I'll pay attention once I get myself settled in the boat and latch my bag to the lifejacket I never use but carry with me because its the law.

So I suppose it is only fair that you flipped me in the narrows and left me to drift downstream in the swift and cold (and rocky, ouch!) water for a good 20 minutes before allowing M. and two lovely dudes in a canoe to help me get my shit together and back in the boat.

M. told me later they actually came in from the other shore when they saw we needed some help.

Oh the humility! Sure I'm bruised. But my pride. Sweet jesus, it is battered.

So much for our gorgeous day on the river on Saturday. By the time I was right-sided and secured, M. was exhausted and I couldn't stop shaking enough to figure out how I was going to managed my waterlogged self. So we docked at the next opportunity to assess the damage and go in search of a cell phone to call for a ride.

1 hat, 1 smart phone, 2 sets of binoculars - none of which were in my waterproof bag. Why, you ask? Because had we put in where I normally do when I go out alone, the binoculars would be around my neck, the phone would be within easy reach for pictures. But no.

On Saturday I was so brazen, so cavalier, that M. suggested, and I willingly agreed, that trying out the narrows was a good idea. Never mind the water was running fast from rain the day before and 15 mph winds was urging it faster. Not only did it sound like a good idea, it sounded like an awesome idea.

Sigh. Hubris is a bitch.

I am continually shocked and surprised when I find I am not even a fraction of how athletic I envision myself in my mind. Dammit.

So, M's mom came and rescued us, I showered, called my doc to make sure mouthfuls of river water wasn't gonna kill me, and tried to live with my chagrin.

**

Sunday was another glorious day weather-wise. So after a morning on the balcony, I suggested we try an adventure on land this time. We headed towards a "birder's paradise" just an hour down the road for a few hours' hike. What better way to redeem the weekend and reconnect with that guy who saved my ass the day before?

At the trailhead was when we realized that just letting the binoculars dry out overnight did not guarantee they were going to function. At all. Ever.

So, through the woods we went. M. silently fuming ahead of me. Me getting more and more flustered as we heard birds all around us and just had to guess what we were missing. Of course, the previous day's incidents were playing over and over and over again in my little head (Could I have paddled out of my predicament had I been stronger? Did I really think aiming for that 3 foot drop was a good idea? What was I thinking...) M. was probably kicking himself for suggesting the diversion in the first place, for not checking the binoculars before we got in the car, oh the points of blame and self-blame are endless, aren't they?

But we made it out of the woods and somehow managed to salvage the drive home. We were actually in good moods for a few hours Sunday evening.

And that lasted up until I learned from a friend that the pregnant friend I hoped would understand my absence from her life right now does not. And does anything hurt worse than hearing you have hurt another person? But, I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do about that right now. Despite outward appearances, I'm not in a place where I can watch a mirror image of where I would be if my one and long-awaited chance to try again had worked. I cannot muster the strength to fake my way around the pain. And if someone wants to surround themselves with happy and good, I am not the support she wants right now, I promise. There is no room for someone voicing dead baby realities, doubts and fears. I feel my distance is best for her, and for me. At least right now. But the fact that I was questioned about my motives and actions did feel like an affront of sorts (I know you didn't mean it that way, m), at a time when I had little strength to defend myself.

I am wore the fuck out. And now it's Monday. And the week begins.

So then, what have I learned from this weekend? Let's recap:

• the narrows are no joke. If we want to attempt them again, we need to put in even farther upstream to give ourselves the time we need to find the right lines through the rapids and get ourselves there.
• waterproof bags are very handy - but only when valuables are inside them
• I have no upper body strength - daily push-ups are now in the regime. I could muster 5 this morning.
  
• I have no core strength - add sit ups and crunches to that.
• I should probably take a water-safety course as penance, or at least wear my lifejacket on longer floats.
• Dr*ids are not for kayaking
• I can hope for understanding as we continue to grieve, but I cannot count on it.
  

The Long and the Short of It

Is: when I sit down and try to write a new post, to fill you in on what's happening/not happening here, I am also forced to figure out how I'm feeling, how I'm doing. And that's when I start feeling sorry for myself.

Unimaginably, embarrassingly, pathetically sorry for myself. It is beyond pathetic.

And I hate it. Cue in the self-loathing.

I hate writing about that. I hate feeling it. I hate anyone knowing or even sensing that it's happening.

Cuz I ain't looking for pity. From others. Most of all from myself.

Confession: I have a hard time accepting random acts of kindness. Because sometimes I cannot tell the difference between that, and pity. I am still angry about the free ice cream from the cashier at the Ponderosa who knowingly looked at my balding head, my 12-year old face and conspiratorily whispered, "go ahead. You can have it. Don't worry about it..." Angry at her for thinking her fucking soft serve would make things better. Angry at myself for taking it.

See? See how ugly this is? You don't want to read this. I don't want to write it.

I don't even want to mention the shock and joy that M and I felt this morning when someone said, "measuring....7.2"

Because before it even registered, it was followed with a, "oh wait. hang on. I think that was just the angle. No, no, more like 4.8."

But it did. It registered enough. The hope sparked long enough for it for it to really hurt when it was quashed.

Suckers. That's what we are.

And then it all starts again. M and I laughing it off. Playing it cool. In truth, this isn't a bad read. It isn't anything other than what we expected it to be. In fact, it might even be better than what I expected for such a brief time on estrogen compared to the month-long session I had to get to 4.9 for the mock cycle.

Because, you see, our expectations are rock bottom these days. But still.

And then I remember the days when I trudged back to the train station crying to M. about a 6.2 or a 7 mm lining. Crying because we would have to wait a few more days, take another u/s...

Fuck me. Those were the golden days.

And then I remember how god damned hopeful we were back then. How we felt we had a chance. A real chance. And then I acknowledge that we will never. Ever. Feel that way again.

Cue the self-pitying, follow up with self-loathing, And running after it comes the "stop blubbering you stupid fucking baby. are you the only person in the world with problems??" inner voice.

Sigh.

So this is why I haven't been writing. I've been trying to handle all of this. Keep it under wraps. Work it out with yoga, breathing, acupuncture, other things. Anything other than thinking about how good we once had it. If only for a few moments. For the most part, honest to goodness, it has been working. I felt calm getting in the car this morning. I felt ok this week. I have been repeating to my body over and over again, "it's ok. It's cool. I'm not mad at you. We're ok. I love you. Don't worry." Every moment I think about it I whisper to myself, "My heart is open for what comes next. My heart is open...." hoping that I will convince myself.

Something has to be said for persistence, right?

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.

Resignation

I might just have to come to terms with the fact that I will not be able to get pregnant again. Ever.

That our few moments with Isa and Jovi is all we're going to get. Ever.

And dammit. This is pretty hard to bear right now. Especially when, you know, the world doesn't stop while you need to comprehend and process your own little corner of it, does it? (This post is taking me ages to write because I am working, rescheduling, emailing, pretending to be ok.)

21 days of 8 mg of estrogen daily and what do I have to show for it? An endometrium that is a measly 4.7 mm. Entirely too thin for, for anything. Possible reasons? Microscopic scarring. As my RE explained, a pregnant uterus is incredibly sensitive. To remove living tissue from it in that state could easily result in permanent damage.

Pregnant.
Living Tissue.
Permanent Damage.

And just as I thought that clouds had lifted, that we were getting on with our lives, actually quite well lately, it all comes flooding back. Fuck me, I was pregnant. There were babies inside of my belly. Beautiful ones. I had two daughters. And I may never have the opportunity to try again.

The fact that my RE even felt a need for this follow up ultrasound after a second hysteroscopy should have made me wary. And it did. But maybe I was just so pleased that the first hysteroscopy didn't reveal massive scarring, I let myself get hopeful again. To start thinking about new ob/gyns, unearthing maternity clothes, to contemplate how I would be if I were able to get pregnant again.

Fool.

My RE is great. She really is. And at this point, I am pretty sure I am a research paper waiting to be written, or at least a pet project for her. She must have said ten times yesterday, "I don't give up this easily. There is more we can do." Well, great. In the meantime, I am desolate. Sick of the hypocrisy of organic foods and green living while meanwhile super-sizing my hormone levels and forcing my body to deal with all kinds of artificial junk. Inserted. Ingested. Forced. I am sick of being angry and hurt and hating everybody. I am weary of heavy sleeps and strange dreams filled with distorted bodies and fucked up story lines that leave me unsettled for the rest of the day. Really, really tired of it. My misanthropy is just a few layers below skin on a good day. And today is not a good day.

The only things that kept me from throwing myself on the train tracks yesterday were texts from M and, oddly enough, one of my old posts that I reread as I sniffled to myself on the same seat, in the same station, for almost the same reason, almost a year ago.

I wrote this just a week before our (successful) FET, when after weeks of everything you are supposed to do and nothing you are not supposed to do landed me an endometrium measuring 6.0. Not as sucky as 4.7, but not far off. Last time, this strategy worked. I am hoping it will again.

So I spend this week ingesting, and now inserting, estrogen into my body and go back next week for a wand redux and pray that there is a notable improvement. From there, I will probably add progesterone to the mix, just as if I was gearing up for a transfer. After a few days, RE will take a swab of my uterus to see if I am "in phase" (if my body and my RE are on the same page as far as where they think I should be in a cycle.)

If I am, then I do believe we aim for a transfer ASAP.

If I am not, well, that's a conversation I don't want to have with myself right now.

M. is my strength. It seems he has already inflicted this self-torture on himself and has landed on the other side. Not easily, not peacefully, but he is definitely at a place right now where I am not. He says we have more than we ever thought possible, meaning, two daughters. I think that and immediately think, yes, two dead daughters and more heartache, self-doubt and questioning of my sanity than I ever, ever, ever thought possible. Yes, this is true.

I have to keep living. I have to hope for the best. I have to get dressed now and put on a face that completely conceals what we have just been talking about right now. Because the world doesn't stop while you need to comprehend and process your own little corner of it. And what's more, for the most part, I think the rest of the world could really give a shit about it.

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.

Taxed by Taxes and Other Things

Dear IRS:

I appreciate that you are so kind as to let me "claim" my daughters on my income tax this (although, frankly, I think it blows that you don't extend the same courtesy to mothers who children were born still). But I am wondering why you need the social security numbers of Iso.bel and Jo.vita? I am wondering what about that big, all caps "DEAD" where their SS# should be on my eFile (thanks for the auto-fill HR Blo.ck) makes additional information necessary? You must be sticklers for it, because after hours of chronicling my medical receipts and donations, it seems that I can no longer continue any further with my return. At least not with the program I am currently using.

Sigh.

So, off I go to the Social Security office on Monday to inquire nicely where the cards we requested 8 weeks ago today are. Did someone make a decision not to send them, so as not to offend the grieving parents? Goddess forbid someone acknowledge their existence without prompting. Did they somehow get lost therefore explaining why they haven't appeared after the usual 3 week processing period in my state? Or is this more like the situation with the birth certificates where things usually processed automatically require my actually asking for them, you know, to make sure we really, REALLY want them? I guess we'll see.

But the trip to the SS office on Monday will have to wait until after a more pressing issue: first, I need to schedule some surgery to get this chunk of something out of my uterus.

Yesterday's HSG, while far less painful than the first one way back when (something about childbirth loosens things up down there), didn't exactly give me the pictures I wanted. There is a pretty large (think a good 25% size of my uterus) mass in there that could be:

1. scarring from the D&C needed to remove the placentas after the pre-term delivery,
2. "retained tissue" - as in, pieces of placenta that never got removed (my doc's guess), or
3. a combination of the above.

Whatever it is, it can't stick around.

The procedure is minor, the same process (more or less) for any of the options. Outpatient surgery. I get to walk around with an inflated balloon up my cooch for about a week (to maximize healing and give everything space to get better) and then follow everything up with 4 weeks of estrogen. After a flush of that new post-op lining (read: a period to rival all others) and a quick scan to see what's what, if everything is clear, we'll go for IVF#4 (FET#3).

I don't mind prolonging our next attempt if it means taking the time to make sure everything is as good as it can possibly be before we unfreeze any embryos. But this complication does feel a bit like a kick in the gut.

My acupuncturist said to me this morning - don't see this as a delay; see it as giving your body more time to heal. Why do you forget that you only recently gave birth? Give things time to get back into their rightful places. Give you mind more time to be peaceful.

Ok. I will try to be peaceful.

After I give the social security office a piece of my mind.

Oh Wait, I Ordered Blue Eyes...

My pal L. just shared this article with me and wanted to know what I thought.

And this is what I think:

1.) Testing eggs or chromosomal abnormalities and viability seems to make a helluva a lot of sense to me. I mean, why wouldn't you?

2.) Anyone that takes the leap from there to "Both procedures would, in theory, allow embryos to be discarded or pregnancies to be terminated for a matter as trivial as height or eye color" Has never ever ever had a conversation with someone trying to conceive. Never even thought to speak with someone who needs ART to even contemplate being able to conceive.

I think I speak for everyone when I say we want one thing: a live baby that we can take home and love.

[and here's where I mumble, you dumb ass motherfu......]

Mrs. Malcontent

Feeling annoyed at nothing and everything today. And slightly manic. M is in a bad way. Hurting and I can't fix it. No one can. Longing for daughters we had and now don't and never will. So eager to try again; so terrified of failing. All of this on top of mounting worries about work. I don't know if those are even founded, but like me, once M gets something in his head, he'll play it out to the worst case scenario. And then replay that endlessly. What an awful jumble.

I dropped him off at work this afternoon and then found myself wandering the aisles of a local craft store with an arm full of knick knacks and yarn.

What the fuck am I doing here?

I couldn't think of anyplace else to be so I stayed. And, against my better judgment, bought everything in my arms, including a miniature sketch book and a tiny packet of oil pastels. Oil pastels??? Um, yeah, you're as surprised as I am. But for some reason I decided I neeeeeded both items.

Next stop, the wine store, and against my better judgment, I bought everything in my basket. Not that purchasing wine is against my better judgment, but I might have gone overboard. Maybe. But can you ever have too much wine in your home? My answer is emphatically not.

Now I am home, for a minute. I have a few more errands. And I have this nagging thought in my head that it would be very easy (and thoughtful) to stop at some relatives' houses and say hi. To pop in on some friends and do the same. But I don't want to. And I'm bothered at this social obligation that has come from nowhere other than my own head. No one is bugging me. No one has even intimated that I need to pop in on them. So why am I feeling guilty at practicing avoidance? I'm not avoiding anyone if no one is looking for me. Even my usual go-to's - facebook, myspace, twitter, email - all bugging the hell out of me today with their very existence.

I'm overcome with this need to scrub the apartment from top to bottom. Iron some clothes, finish the blanket I'm knitting, vacuum, water the plants. There's a spot on the grout of my bathroom tile that is making me crazy...there's clutter in the living room that seems to be growing...there's Xmas cards, sympathy cards, oh yes, and the live Xmas tree still in my living room. Somehow, I want to clean the whole place yet leave those large pieces still standing. But why? What am I holding on to? That fabulous holiday season? I don't know. I just can't bear to take it down yet.

So many plans for the day and yet I am sitting in the near dark (is the sun setting already?) typing away. Getting none of it done. I'm putting on my coat and leaving for the beer store (because, you see, you can't get beer at the wine store nor can you get wine at the beer store and none of those items are available at your friendly grocery store. Because that would be too easy).

And lordessa knows, nothing seems to be easy today, does it?

Oh man....

Well, I received exactly the email I expected to receive from my mom in response to this one.

In a nutshell: she never said such a thing. She had been misinterpreted; she is the victim here. I have changed so much over the years that she can't talk to me anymore without fear of offending...her pain and how I have inflicted it was mentioned on at least 3 separate occasions, including a mention about the time that I confronted her about information that I had found on my own adoption.

I hurt her feelings.

Never mind that I found out facts I have never known about my life. Never mind that she added additional information in today's email. And then continued on to say she had never hid anything from me. Contradiction, no?

At any rate, I hit reply and put it all out there. Everything. Well, not everything, I didn't tell her to stick her virgin mary up her .....so I didn't put it all out there...everything but that. I won't reprint it here. It's long and tedious and will probably spark quite a, quite a something, but that was my point. Why are you afraid to talk to me? Why do you measure your words when that doesn't help anyway. So we get mad at each other, so what??? So frigging what? Is that the worst thing that could happen? Do you even understand how hurtful you are NOW? Would things really get worse? Do you know how awful your silence was at the hospital? At Xmas eve? Do you know how mean this email is to me right now? Do you have any frigging clue about how I am feeling? No, because you are wrapped up in how I am making you feel.

It can't get worse.

So let's see if it gets better.

**

I AM working today. Minus this 30 minute break here to either mend or sever relations with my mother. But from my recliner. A long, long walk yesterday aggravated an already sore knee and it now seems that I need the assistance of M's dad's walking stick to move. Damn you, exercise.

At any rate, this seems like a transition that makes sense. It feels good to interact with co-workers, but I am also liking the distance. Feels good to get some tasks addressed, but in my own time.

**

Today doesn't feel as shit brown as yesterday, but that could just be because I am still seeing red.

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.

Where I Vent. Just a Little.

mom: how was your week?
me: how was my week? why are you asking me this? what are you wanting me to say?
mom: oh
...
mom: [ten minute monologue on weather forecasts and variations between here and the eastern shore, sprinkled with "you know..." every fourth word. Kids at home: please do not pick up this annoying vocal tic.]
me: [audible huffing. non-audible eye rolling.]
...
mom: what do you think about going out to dinner for Xmas eve?
me: I think what I told you last week when you asked me. I don't care. I don't care where. I don't care.
mom: well, I just thought it would be a good idea since your brother is really the only one that enjoys my cooking and M. never eats what I make anyway...
me: that's right. I forgot. It's all about you.
mom: oh
...
mom: well, we're going shopping for our open house this weekend. You know you and M. and your brother and everybody [everybody meaning my brother's girlfriend of several years whose name they can never remember] are invited.
me: of course I know. Know that it is the last place I want to be and the last way I want to spend my husband's days off.
mom: well, we're not expecting you, I just wanted you to know...
me: I know. Thanks.
mom: well, here's your father...
...
dad: hi. everything ok?
me: NO! NO THEY ARE NOT FUCKING OK. Why are you even asking me this? Why are you wanting me to say everything is ok? And please, please don't tell me its not raining in Delaware. I already got the full report.
dad: ok. fine, m. I'm gonna go.
me: no. stop. no. I'm sorry for yelling. Don't go away mad. It's just...Things are not ok.
dad: I know. I know. I just don't know what to say. Just know I love you.
...
I do. And I know they love me. But conversations with my parents work my last nerve on a good day. This one, filled with small talk, underhanded digs, and flotsam was not one I wanted to have as I am surrounded by blank Xmas cards and birth announcements. Trying to figure out who should get what. Which folks get both? For whom are the announcements appropriate? Just family? Friends and colleagues? Those that already sent their sympathies? Is that too much of a double dose? Are there expectations or perceived expectations around announcements? [I don't want there to be. I just want to share the few images we have of Isob*l and Jov*ta with people who I know would have loved them.]

These are the questions I am struggling with this morning. That and whether or not to bathe (don't worry. I'm thinking yes.) Not where I want to eat on Xmas eve or how to politely decline the xteenth invite to my parents' open house without hurting their feelings.

And I know many of you will tell me that now is not the time to care about other people's feelings; that it is entirely appropriate to take care of me and M. right now. I get that. And 99% of the people around me do too. But somehow I am still stuck with navigating my parents' easily- hurt feelings. I felt this in the hospital when they drove down to see us. I feel it now. I feel it all the fucking time.

At the hospital, I felt bad because we weren't crying in front of them. After 36 hours of tears and hard decisions, we just didn't have any left to pull up on cue for visitors, you know? My mom's response: "it's ok. you're just numb." No. You are wrong. Numb is the last thing that I am. I am so far from the numb that I were I were and wish I would stay that way for a while. I just don't choose to share or display my grief with you right now at this moment.

And of course I didn't say that. I just sat and I fumed. And I let things fester. And I could see M. was festering too.

When we got home, she called almost daily until one night when I finally did cry. After that, she seemed placated. Soothed by the fact that I wasn't in denial. She announced she wouldn't call me for a couple of days. I passed the test.

And now, things are completely in reverse. I am expected to respond to their mundane comments with mundanity of my own (sorry. is that a word?) And I can't. I simply can't. I know they have no idea what to say. Most people don't. And I know there are times when I am so relieved, joyful even, to have a normal conversation with friends and others who stop by, call, write, etc. But it just feels like there has been no transition, no gray area with my parents. Nothing to move it beyond. Either we mourn dead babies or we pretend like they don't exist. One or the other.

And I just can't do that. My world is not that black or white.

You might say, hey, m. Why don't you talk to your parents about all this? Why not just put it all out there? Maybe this will all bring you closer.

Hmm. Well, yes. Nice idea. And one I have given some thought to. But based on previous attempts, I don't see it panning out all that way. You see, I tried that a few times before. Once when I thought my mother was being an absolute ass to M., once when I located documents and letters revealing more than I had even known (or been told) about my adoption. And these all ended as hysterical, hyperventilating, who-can-scream-louder-harder-faster-before passing-out-for-lack of oxygen fights. I finally cave because it all just wears me out and I know the end result. My mother crumples in sobs and poor me's and "you always talk down to me"'s and "I never know what to say to you"s and a few weeks later, we are back to talking about the weather.

So, no good.

Sigh.

I think it's time for my daily walk. I can't wait to go to the doctor's tomorrow to hear that I probably should not have been walking this soon. "Light activity only" for the first two weeks my papers say. No exercise for at least six weeks, it also says.

Sigh.

So, the one time I have time on my hand, the time where I really, really need some constructive distractions, and my options are incredibly limited. Like I said, we see two sets of doctors tomorrow, and hopefully walk away with some answers (if possible) and some (hopefully) revised postpartum timelines and instructions.