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?

Back

We are back.

From a vacation that was everything a vacation should be. We are relaxed. Renewed. Reminded that yes, life can be ok. Reminded that hell yes, sometimes you just laugh because you want to. And it is ok. Not a snarky, self-depreciating gallows humor type hah, but a Laugh. A full-bellied, eyes-tearing, did I just snort? kind of laugh.

We remembered that life can be fun. And that we are fun. And that we are most fun when we are together. I was sad to see M go to work this morning. Not because I know we're both in for a doozy of a day, but because I wouldn't be spending the day with him.

Besides a quick check at the doppler radar to plan our days and a 5 minute morning scan of work email to make sure nothing too too crazy was happening, this morning will be the first action our computers have seen in over a week. I am beyond pleased with myself that I didn't twitter, blog or email my break away. Which has been known to happen.

Today is a new day. Lots of work to do - both professionally and personally. But I feel ready.

So ready.

Howdy y'all. I'm back.

Mercy

11 years ago yesterday, I reluctantly went to meet a stranger at the Wroclaw train station, fully equipped with an excuse to bow out early and a "chance" encounter from a friend to "save" me should the task be too awful.

Two days later, M moved in (much to the chagrin of my Polish landlady. That is putting it kindly). 11 years later, multiple countries, many many adventures later, here we are.

I can still remember what I was wearing, what he was wearing, the flower he held (bird of paradise. what?) which made me assume he wasn't the American I was supposed to show around town. What American thinks to bring flowers? I can remember that by mid evening, I was interested enough to get slightly ruffled when he called my friend Jowi (yes, the first one) "baby" even though we were all more than tipsy and he was promptly and sweetly rebuffed.

I remember the strangest feeling of inevitability I have ever felt. I wasn't quite sure whether I even liked this dude, but I KNEW that this was the person I would be spending the rest of my life with.

Never mind it took us 4 more years to get married and that was done, really, on a whim because we both assumed I was going to get a foreign service gig that I didn't. We joke that I totally scammed him into it.

Sorry dude. Dinner was nice though, wasn't it? The honeymoon too.

Our relationship is a wonderful one. But, as Angie said so well about a different (but related) topic: "It is not fucking easy. And it is not fucking luck." We work hard every day to love and be loved. And actually, it was the latter that I had a hard time with in the beginning of our bond. "That guy that hurt you? That's not me." Was nearly a daily mantra for M.

And now, we work hard every day to keep each other from falling into the abyss. Because it is right there. Right. There. Sometimes it feels as if our toes are slipping and the other person's shirt is sliding out of our sweaty hands and perhaps in trying to save one of us both of us are going to fall, but so far, we are ok.

And here is some mercy:

Yesterday, we finally received a call with the results from the endometrial biopsy.

Shockingly, I was in phase.

Which doesn't erase the fact that my lining is thinner than they would like and its not the trilaminar beauty you want to see before going into a transfer. It does not take away the fact that my odds of miscarriage or pre-term labor and delivery are high, IF we even reach a BFP. It does not give us more than the 3 embryos we have. It does not make things all better.

But it sure as hell helps.

We now have the green light to move forward with an FET.

Which we will do. Right after a spur of the moment vacation.

Called It

My GTalk is filled with words from a man who is now doubting his self-worth, his value and the meaning of everything.

Thanks, fates. Thanks a fucking lot. Could you at least point me towards the words to soothe?

Where is the mercy?

Dear Powers That Be

Dear powers that be:

Today is M's birthday. Please let it be a good one. Some surprise presents this morning softened the start but I can sense he's apprehensive. Slightly unsettled. Putting on a brave face.

The first words out of his mouth this morning were, "I'm sorry I don't make so much money."

He is finally in a place where he enjoys what he does, is invested in the things he creates on a daily basis and somehow that's not enough? Now somehow funds are an issue, when they have never been? Ever? We are in a far better fiscal place (still not great but at least we have a plan) than ever before and cash is his concern?

I seriously doubt it.

But with fatherhood on hold, Father's Day looming and ESPN playing that fucking wiffleball-kids and dads in the backyard-these are priceless moments-reminding men to play with their kids promo Every Fucking Minute when the remote is nowhere to be found, well, I am guessing an existential crisis could be brewing.

Dear ESPN: Please stop acting like you care, you Disney shills.

Dear powers that be: Please cut my honey some slack.

Please.

Searching: Jersey Girl

Dooooooods, I am from NEW JERSEY.

Did you know that? I didn't. But now I do. I am a North Jersey girl through and through (ok, the north part is pure speculation at this point, but we are pretty good at geography and ethnic communities and by process of elimination we are pretty certain its north Jersey.)

Wait. Stop. Let me back up.

I received my first little packet of info from CSS today. The one that contains my non-identifying information. Most of which I already had, but some that I didn't. So, a lot of good news there: 1. nothing was inconsistent with the birth story I have always been told (parents = super young, family = super Catholic) 2. I now know more about my birth grandparents and aunts (2) and uncles (2) and WHERE I AM FROM.

Can you imagine what this means to me?

I have been on cloud 9 since I ripped open the envelope yesterday after work. I have been composing this blog post in my head since then (although its all coming out in a jumble now). I went to bed and woke up this morning HAPPY. Can you believe that? Happy. The happiest I have been in over six months. My soul feels lighter. I feel physically lighter. Because I know where I am from.

This could not have come at a better time. Our infertility and loss and continued bad news on the future fertility front has all been culminating into a pretty substantial identity crisis for me over here. Who am I again? What did I do before trying to trick my body into things it doesn't do on its own? What will I do with my life if it is one that doesn't include children? What was the focus of my life all those years before we even thought children were a possibility? Who am I again? Surely I am more than my lady parts, but what is that more?

Dudes, I am a Jersey girl. That is a start.

Now, I know there is still a loooong road ahead. One that may or may not lead to communication with my birth parents. And based on what I am reading, my prediction is that my birth mother and father will probably want to talk with me (I hope), my birth families, not so much. Now more than ever I am fairly certain that my birth parents had little say over my adoption. My birth mom was shipped off to her grandparents until I was born.

Which is how I ended up here.

So much more to say about all of this, but its going to have to wait. The work emails and skypes have started, two of my co-workers are out of state and freaking out about various things (M! L! Relax!) so I should probably begin my day.

Just know that I am starting it with a smile on my face and a peace that is entirely new.

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.