Brain Dump

I am so unbelievably ready for fall. I want cool breezes. I want to plant pansies and rake big piles of leaves to burn. I want to drink apple cider and carve pumpkins. I want to dig out my sweaters and decorate the house so it looks like autumn exploded in our den. (Okay, okay . . . so I did that a couple of days ago. It’s a tradition each year that when my husband plays in his country club’s golf tournament, I decorate the house for fall. Never mind that it’s currently 90 degrees outside.)

My happiness about our choice to walk away from fertility treatments continues to grow day by day. I can’t explain the weight that was lifted from my shoulders as I got rid of all things IF-related.

Goodbye Follis*tim! You sat in my fridge and taunted me for seven months. Off you go to someone who will actually make good use of you.

Au Revoir big bag of unused needles! Never again will you fall out of my medicine cabinet in the middle of the night and clatter all over the floor.

Adios huge binder of brochures, articles, test results, and treatment plans! You were enormous wastes of paper.

Ta ta online calendar where I tracked periods (or lack thereof), medication, and appointment dates! Hate you.

Ciao ovulation predictor and pregnancy tests! Hate you too.

And finally, a big GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE to months of hoping that I’m pregnant, only to have my heart broken every time! I’ll miss you least of all.

(Insert the dance of joy here.)

Life has been busy recently. O’s dad had hip replacement surgery a couple of weeks ago and for a while it seemed that one or both of us were either at the hospital or on our way to or from it. Happily, my FIL has done well in rehab and will be headed home tomorrow.

I went to our most recent IF support group meeting last week and was able to meet up with K., who I’d been e-mailing and talking with for a while. We’d hit it off immediately so I was excited at the prospect of finally getting together. She was wonderful – really generous in sharing all of the research she’d done on adoption. I liked her right away and knew we were kindred spirits the moment she pulled out a huge, beautifully organized binder just chock full of information. (I am a girl who LOVES a good binder with color-coordinated divider tabs. Makes me happy!) Anyway, I feel like I made a good friend that night and can’t help but be reminded that every once in a while, being infertile has brought some wonderful things into my life.

Our first step towards become parents through the foster-to-adopt program is complete. We filled out our initial paperwork and returned it to our social worker last week. We are so excited!

I’ve already talked to our social worked a couple of times. I’d been warned that I would probably have to chase her down for information but she’s been great so far – quick to return calls and to get our paperwork to us. An inside source told me that this is a very political process (HI inside source!!), and that kids are often placed based on who the social workers like most rather than who has been waiting the longest. So I am doing my darndest to be charming and competent, serious yet light-hearted, and as little trouble as I can possibly be. Can’t hurt – might help!

Plans are already underway for turning one of our guest rooms into a child’s room. I’ve chosen a paint color (always subject to change) – a pale yellow which should work for either a boy or girl, no matter the age. I’m in the process of sanding a bed that my MIL had made for her when she was three. It’s been out in one of our barns for decades, and she's excited that we’re cleaning it up and putting it to good us. It’s finish is pretty beat up, so I think I’m going to paint it a crisp white, along with a chest of drawers that was my grandmother’s. Usually I would throw a fit about someone painting over the original finish on an almost-antique piece of furniture, but I really love the sentimentality of our someday child using its’ grandmother’s bed and its’ great grandmother’s chest of drawers.

On top of that, I’m hard at work on a patchwork quilt to go on the bed. I chose patterns in red, royal blue, bright & pale yellows, and pale green. I want it to be warm and welcoming and happy. I am pouring a lot of love into it.

I sent an e-mail to our close friends and family last week letting them know that we were changing course on our quest to become parents. The responses were so loving and supportive. They didn’t have the mournful undercurrent that people seemed to have re: our IF treatments. I’m sure part of that is simply that people are mirroring back our own excitement about becoming parents in this way.

Gosh, there is so much to look forward to these days . . . the first college football game of the season on Saturday with our brand new coach, a visit from my dear friend K from New Orleans next weekend, cooler temperatures, our foster/adopt classes, a trip to Virginia & Pennsylvania in early October, getting a child's room ready, high school football games on Friday nights, and of course the holidays are just around the corner. Tra la la! Love this time of year!

Well, better scoot. I have to go water our pumpkin patch which, by the way, is actually producing PUMPKINS! I am a punkin' farmer. Who knew?!?!

Waiting For the Stars to Fall

Since last we “met” my fingers have been burning up the keyboard as I’ve scoured the Internet looking for everything I can find on the foster-to-adopt process. There’s certainly a lot of information out there which makes a overly-researching, overly-organized girl like me very happy. But I’m sure you can guess the first thing I went in search of . . . foster-to-adopt blogs. There are plenty to be found. In fact, I plan to spend this sweltering afternoon digging in to read some of them from the beginning, following these women from where I am now to that elusive and magical place called “motherhood”.

The main thing I learned this weekend is that we have A LOT to learn, but I already feel more knowledgeable on the topic and am eager to find out more.

Yes, I definitely read some horror stories but there were so many more that had happy endings. I truly believe that we are finally on the right path to our own “happy ending”.

O and I have had several conversations over the weekend about what types of children we feel would fit best into our family. He’s having a hard time with the concept of narrowing it down. He said it feels cold – like deciding what features you want on your new car. I agree, but ultimately we have to make the call. There are definitely certain situations we would be unwilling/unable to accept, so we’re thinking and talking and trying to work it out in our own minds.

I’ve already received our introductory paperwork from the state and have it filled out. The next orientation for the 10-week GPS (Group Preparation and Selection) classes in our county is mid-September. I called the county next to ours and theirs start next Monday, so I left a message hoping that it’s not too late to join that class. I am so ready to get started. As I’ve said in previous posts, I have felt that my life has been on hold for the past year. I am ready, ready, ready to get on with it.

We had such a lovely weekend. My FIL is having his hip replaced tomorrow so I thought it would be fun to get the extended family together for a barbecue on Saturday, since he won’t feel up to a big gathering like that for a while. I turned up the radio in my kitchen and cooked all day, making all sorts of fun things. (Triple Decker Strawberry Cake with Strawberry Buttercream Frosting anyone?!?! Mmmmmm!) We had a great time. I just love when our cute little house is packed to the gills with family and friends, people wandering around visiting, kids racing in and out the back door, and me taking care of all of them.

Then last night, O and I threw a bunch of pillows and blankets into the back of his pickup and drove into one of the pastures behind our house to watch the Perseid meteor shower. It’s so beautiful back there with the heavens spread out above us and the crickets and frogs singing up a storm. As we laid there holding hands, searching the skies and talking, I couldn’t help wondering if next year when the Perseids return, we’ll have a little one tucked safely between us, waiting for the stars to fall.

For the first time in years, I can honestly say that I believe the answer to that question is “yes”, and that makes me smile.

Pretty Damned Awesome

Oh what a difference a few days can make.

This time last week I was heartbroken at the prospect of sending away my little orphaned kitty, bemoaning the fact that I had nowhere to pour out all of my nurturing, mothering energy. Even as I wrote last Friday’s post, I was absolutely dreading the prospect of starting another round of pro*metrium and visiting the RE a couple of weeks later only to hear that I was unable to cycle yet again.

I got over the sadness pretty quickly. I’m not someone who can wallow around in unhappiness for long. I used to be a master at that some years back, but I found it tiring and draining and for the most part, a waste of time. It’s not that I don’t feel supremely unhappy sometimes. I do. It’s not that I don’t rage at the universe for the unfairness of infertility. I do. But I try to work through those things as quickly as possible and get on with my life. It’s a good life.

So by the time O (my SAINTED husband) left for Kentucky early Saturday morning with a SUV full of kitty paraphernalia and one bewildered cat, I was really happy that Bella was going to such a great home and was also relieved that I no longer had to wash up and change clothes several times a day to avoid my allergies.(For those who are interested, Bella made it safely to KY and has spent the week charming her new mom, exploring her new home, and trying to make friends with her 13-year-old “brother” who would just as soon hiss and swat at her as look at her. He seems to be warming up day by day, though.)

Although I was no longer “blue”, my head was still spinning with thoughts of motherhood and all the love that O and I have to give a child.

And you know what?

In all my thinking-thinking-thinking, I finally admitted something to myself that I’ve known for a long time . . .

From the beginning, doing IF treatments has never felt “right” to me. I can’t explain it – it doesn’t have to do with being upset that I needed the intervention of an RE or with the often-embarrassing tests and procedures we have to endure. It’s not even about the fact that we’ve had cycle after cycle shut down even before they could begin. It’s simply that I’ve never felt like, “Yes, THIS path is right for us. This is what we’re supposed to be doing.”

Once I realized that, I almost immediately knew what I wanted to do. After a couple of long conversations with O yesterday I contacted our county’s D*C*F*S to get set up with the foster-to-adopt program. In my heart, it feels absolutely, 100% “right”.

I know there’s a world of information that we have yet to learn about the process. I know that many of the kids available for foster care and adoption come with serious baggage. I know that the potential for heartbreak is all too real. (You saw how attached I got to a kitten I’d had for a week. Can you imagine me falling in love with a child only to have it removed from my home and sent back to its’ biological family?!?!? “Devastation” wouldn’t begin to describe it!)

But both O and I are on board and excited at the prospect of providing a loving home to a child who so desperately needs and deserves it. Of course, it’s possible that as we get further into the process, we might change our minds and realize this isn’t the path for us. I may very well take a few months off from IF treatments and return to the RE determined to give it 100% again.

However, I am delighted to tell you that this week I have:

1. cancelled my consult appointment with a new RE.

2. arranged to pack up and Fed*Ex the 7 vials of follis*tim that have been in my fridge taunting me for months to a darling fellow blogger who will put it to good use

3. stuffed the 3-ring binder filled with all things IF (brochures, test results, articles, business cards, etc.) into a desk drawer where I don't have to look at it again for a long, long time

4. felt as if I’ve been able to exhale for the first time in almost a year.

Most importantly, I truly feel as if we are exactly where we're supposed to be on our path to becoming a mommy and daddy . . . and that is pretty damned awesome.

Possum Tears

I’ve been wondering for the past couple of days just why it is that God doesn’t want me to have a little one (of any species) in my life to love and nurture.

Our struggle to have a child has been well documented and probably doesn’t need further comment at this point, but what you may not know is that I am a life-long animal lover. My mom had two Shetland Sheepdogs when she met and married my dad, so I was born into a home with pets. My first dog was a crazy (and probably mentally handicapped) poodle named Peggy who came to us when I was four. Sure, she would occasionally corner me on the patio and growl if I moved, but mostly she was sweet and loving. I could fill pages with names and stories of all the animals that brightened our lives and ultimately broke our hearts along the way.

Our family was one of those that considered their pets a true part of the family. They lived in the house with us. They shared our sofas, our beds, our lives. They were never allowed to run loose. Their needs were factored into the decisions we made. It wasn’t unheard of for us to stay up tending to a sick dog rather than leave it at the vet alone overnight. A bit extreme, perhaps, but that’s the way we were.

When I graduated and moved out on my own, I purposely didn’t get a pet. I was often gone, working and traveling and just being a young. I knew that I didn’t have time to devote to properly caring for a pet.

Somewhere along the way, the allergies I’d had as a child returned with a vengeance. When I had testing done, I was found to be severely allergic to cats and moderately allergic to dogs. I’d suspected it, but it was hard to hear because I’d hoped to get a pet once O and I got married.

About a year later, a young mama cat had four kittens in one of our barns and they decided to call our place home, so we’ve been caring for them ever since. But because of my allergies, I have to wear a mask to pet them, and then immediately wash up once I come inside. I love them, but I can love “on” them like I want to. Plus, they are roamers, returning home mostly to eat, so they don’t really need me.

Last month we tried to get an outside dog – a 3-year-old boxer mix named Bo. Bo went back to his owners a couple of days later because my asthma was acting up.

Then last Saturday afternoon, I walked around the side of our house and there was a tiny black and white kitten sound asleep on our back steps. It took one look at me and raced into the woods. I couldn’t find it so I went inside, hoping it would return because it was clearly too small to be on its’ own in such a big world. Sure enough, when O got home from the golf course a few minutes later, we peeked out the kitchen door and we could see crazy kitty fur poking up over one of the steps. O said, “Are you sure it’s a cat? It looks like a dead possum?” and Possum was born. We tried to corral her and O ultimately grabbed her by the tail as she was squeezing into our heating/ air conditioning unit. She was terrified and starving and I fell in love. Our vet said to give her kitten milk replacement and pedia*lite until he could see her on Monday, so I sprung into mommy mode. I can’t even tell you how malnourished she was. You could feel all of her bones and she was lethargic and couldn’t even meow. Poor little one.

We made her a “home” in our large pet carrier and put her on the porch under a ceiling fan. I held her off and on all weekend, and fed her the milk replacement and some canned cat food which she ate like a little pig. Almost immediately I noticed a difference. She was more aware of her surroundings, meowing a little bit, and grooming herself. And affectionate?!?!?! She would butt me with her head and flop over onto her back to have her tummy rubbed.

The vet told us on Monday that she was about six weeks old, and weighed one pound two ounces.

It was immediately clear that we were going to have to find a home for her. She’s just too small to be turned loose outside right now. A raccoon, a coyote, or even a large bird could easily have her and be gone with her in a second. But if we keep her caged until she’s larger, she’ll be completely unprepared to live outdoors and take care of herself. There’s also the matter of how our outdoor kitties will react to her. They are pretty territorial. And of course, with my allergies she can’t come inside to live with us.

Happily, one of my dearest friends has agreed to take her. She already has a 13-year-old cat whose kidneys were damaged during the pet food recall of several months ago. She thinks it will be nice to give him a companion, and has named her new kitty “Bella” – very fitting. My sainted husband will be spending his Saturday taking Bella to her new mom in Kentucky, about an 11-hour round trip drive. I, of course, can’t go. Damned allergies!

Though I am thrilled that Bella will have a wonderful home, I am so sad to have to send her away. She has been such a bright spot in my life. I’ve loved spending time with her, sitting in our rocking chairs with her, playing with bits of ribbon, rubbing her tummy as she looks up at me with big green eyes. I’ve even enjoyed giving her medicine to her and getting up to check on her early in the morning. For the past week, I’ve had a little creature to love, to care for, to nurture. And tomorrow morning she will leave and my heart will break . . . again.

So here I sit feeling like a failure. My body won't create a baby to love and nurture and care for. That same body refuses to allow me to even properly love and nurture and care for the little creatures that come my way. My mothering instincts are so strong, yet for some reason God doesn’t seem to want me to use them. Sure, I get fleeting opportunities now and then, but they never stay. They never ever stay. I don’t know why.

Some days it doesn’t matter as much. I throw myself into caring for myself, my friends and family, and especially my husband. But really, there is only so much nurturing that a 46-year-old man needs.

As O pointed out a few days ago, I’m doing everything I can to change this situation. I’m seeing an RE. I’ve also just started shots in hopes that eventually my allergies will be cured. That’s all well and good, but I am so tired of hoping for SOMEDAY.

Oh, and to add insult to injury I just got a call from my gyn. My period is 7+ weeks late so I went in for a beta HGC yesterday to confirm that I wasn’t pregnant before starting my next round of meds. I’d peed on countless sticks and knew my body was just screwing around with me once again, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a tiny bit of hope. Silly silly me, to have hope.

Another negative. Another dream gone.

Today I feel barren. I’ve never been able to say that before, but I do.

Oh well, I guess I'll go hold tiny Bella before she goes away too.