Taking Stock

I’ve spent some time taking stock of my life recently. Perhaps it’s the approach of my 39th birthday that has me thinking. Perhaps it’s the flood of emotion that was finally released when we were forced to give away one of our cats last weekend. Perhaps it’s simply waiting for my ever-elusive period in hopes of finally starting an injectables cycle.

I don’t really know.

What I do know is that I can’t keep living my life the way I have been the past few months.

I’d just turned 35 when my husband and I went on our first date. By that time, I was pretty well convinced that I would never marry – that I simply wasn’t meant to find someone to spend my life with. That wasn’t necessarily a devastating prospect. I’d fought hard to build a rich and full life with a career and wonderful friendships, and I’d grown to actually enjoy my own company and like who I was.

But I have to tell you, deep down my heart ached at the thought of never having someone to love and to be loved by. There were reminders everywhere of what I didn’t have. Silly little things got to me the most:

Christmas cards signed with an “and”. “Becky AND Larry” “Mary AND Alex.” I so desperately wanted to be a part of an “and”.

Valentine’s Day when all the world was in loving, committed, passionate relationships – except for me

watching a woman search through the racks of men’s clothes looking for the perfect shirt for her husband

glancing at the rows of “husband” cards at Hallmark wishing I had someone to buy them for

listening to couples bickering at the nursery about how to landscape their yards and wondering if they realized how lucky they were to actually have someone to bicker WITH

walking up the steps of my apartment night after night wishing there was someone on the other side of the door who’d been waiting to hear the sound of my key in the lock

Although my head was resigned to being alone, my heart refused to give up the dream of my husband. After all, I’d “known” him for a long time – as long as I’d cared about such things as love and marriage.

He would be a big ol’ teddy bear with a Southern accent that would make my toes curl.

He would be sweet and gentle and kind.

He would make me throw back my head and laugh every day.

My heart would flip-flop just looking at him across a room.

In his arms I would feel safe and protected from the world.

He would respect my father and get a kick out of my mother. They’d love him like a son.

Time spent together wouldn’t have to be a big production. We would be happy simply being with each other.

He’d listen – really listen to me and value what I had to say, even if he didn’t agree.

He’d teach me things he knew and want to learn from me the things I knew.

He’d think I was beautiful, even when I was wandering around the house in his old sweatshirt with scary hair and no makeup.

And then on April 26, 2003, there he was. When he walked into my apartment for the first time, it was like looking at the sun. I could only glance at him for a moment and then I had to look away. I’ve never experienced anything like it.

Four months later we were engaged and just over seven months later we were married.

I truly don’t have the words to tell you how much I love my husband except to say that he is the living breathing embodiment of all those things my heart knew he would be. He is not a perfect man but he is perfect for me. He is the answer to my most heartfelt prayer.

So in looking back at the past few months as I’ve stepped further into the world of infertility, I can see that I have once again allowed my focus to shift to what I DON’T have. I don’t have a baby. How can anything be okay in my world?

Yes, it’s only human to feel scared, sad, frustrated, and upset about being infertile. I don’t fault myself for that. The problem is that I gave myself to it. I allowed it to rule my life, to dictate how each day would go, to define me.

In doing that, I missed out on so much beauty, happiness, and love. There were family events when all I would think of was “Get me away from these children.” There were beautiful spring days when all I would do was sit inside and stare out the window. There were moments when my husband playfully reached out to tease me and I pulled further into myself and resented that he wasn’t paralyzed with sadness too.

I believe that one day I will look back on these years as the sweetest of our lives. We are both healthy. We still have each of our parents and they are healthy. We are ridiculously in love. We have built a beautiful home that is often filled with our wonderful friends and family. I refuse – I REFUSE to miss a moment of it because of infertility.

Yes, I want to have a baby. I want to see my husband hold our child in his arms. I think he would be a pretty spectacular daddy. But that’s either going to happen or it isn’t. Either medical science will help us create a life or it won’t. There is very little I can do about that - get the best medical care I can find, do what the doctors tell me to do, take care of myself, and pray. That’s it. The rest is up to God.

From there I have two choices.

I can continue to live my life from a place of resenting what I don’t have and letting it cloud and taint and define everything else or . . .

In the face of infertility, I can try really hard to remember that the struggle to have a baby is only one part of what is a really blessed and sweet life - a life that I don’t want to miss a moment of, whether we become parents or not.

Because after all, my most heartfelt prayer has already been answered.

Sigh

(Cue the freakin' Jeopardy music once again)


Yes, it’s now been over two weeks since I took my last pro*metrium and there’s no sign of a period. I checked online yesterday and found that the steroid shot I had to clear up my poison oak may be the culprit. It can delay or even prevent a period so I suspect that’s what has happened. It’s frustrating to be derailed for yet another month but it was totally and completely worth it. That poison oak was a nightmare.

I guess I’ll call the RE next week to see what’s next. I suspect there's more pro*metrium in my immediate future.


Sigh.

Goodbye Floyd

***UPDATE***

Thank you all for your kind words re: having to send Floyd to a new home. O. took her over there yesterday morning and I was heartened to hear that she seemed pretty unfazed by it all, happily eating and getting scratched and settling in. Her new owner is going to keep her in his garage for a couple of days until she gets used to things, and he’d already moved his car out, opened the windows to get a good breeze blowing through, and brought her a bowl of ice water. I think he’ll be good to her. I’ll always miss her but hope that we’ve done the right thing for her and that she’ll live a long and happy life. At least now she has a chance.

For the first time in months, I cried last night.

I don’t know what’s been wrong with me. No one would describe me as weepy or overly-emotional, but I’m a pretty aware of how I’m feeling and (usually) have no problem expressing it. I believe in the healing power of tears and that sometimes a girl just needs a good cry to let it all out.

But for the past few months, nothing . Not a single drop.

Believe me, there have been plenty of times when I’ve wanted to cry. Hell, if anyone would understand that, it would be y’all. You know just how often life presents us the opportunity to cry because of failed cycles, unkind words, pregnancy and birth announcements, massive dosages of hormones, feelings of hopelessness, or just at the frustration and pain of living in a body that feels broken . . . and those are just the IF-related things. There have been other moments along the way when I’ve been hurt or upset and just wanted to cry. Each time though, the tears seemed to gather and stick in my throat, refusing to budge.

That changed last night. O. and I were driving home from a movie and the tears just came. Slightly inconvenient that I was behind the wheel, but I didn’t let that deter me. Was I crying about the fact that my period still hasn’t arrived nine days after taking my last pro*metrium? Nope. Was I crying because we’ve been trying to have a baby for almost a year now without success? Nope. Was I crying because my 39th birthday is fast approaching and I feel like we’re running out of time to be parents? Nope.

I was crying because of a cat named Floyd.

Floyd, along with his brothers Andy, Barney, and Opie (sensing a theme there?) were born in our barn almost three years ago. Their mama was a stray, probably dumped out here in the country when she turned up pregnant. She somehow found her way to our little ‘manger’ for her blessed event. O and I are not cat people, so we were honestly hoping that Mama Kitty would take her babies and scram, but she did not, so they became ours. I am highly allergic to cats so they had to live outside, but we love and care for them, feeding and petting and taking them to the vet. They add so much to our lives.

Last summer Floyd, our little girl cat (named before we knew she was a girl) started climbing trees. Not so bad, except that she goes up and can’t get back down. Luckily up to this point we’ve been able to find her and get her down with the help of bucket trucks and on one occasion, a chainsaw. In the past two weeks, Floyd has been rescued three times.

We have at least sixty massive trees just in our yard and our house borders the woods. Although she never strays far from home, our concern is that she’s either going to go up so high that a bucket truck can’t reach her or that we won’t be able to find her once the leaves bud out, and she’ll die of dehydration stuck up in some tree. The vet says de-clawing her won’t help.

So we’ve found a home for her. The golf pro at O’s country club loves cats and though she’ll still have to be an outside cat because of his allergies, the only trees anywhere near his home are scraggly pines with branches all the way to the ground. It’s a very quiet neighborhood across the street from the golf course, with no traffic and no roaming animals. He’ll leave his garage open for her to come and go as she pleases.

I've had pets all of my life and this is the first one I’ve ever had to give away. I take pet ownership seriously. An animal isn’t an object to be given away when it becomes inconvenient. It’s a lifetime commitment. Yet I know it’s for the best – I pray it’s for the best. I hope she’s not too scared at her new home. I hope the other cat that he feeds from time to time isn’t mean to her. She’s such a sweet little girl. All she wants is love and I can’t give it to her.

Know why?

Cause my fucking body has let me down again. My fucking allergies prevent me from taking care of her, from bringing her into the house to live with us like I want to – like she deserves.

I can’t even be a proper mother to a cat.

I’m scared for her. My heart is breaking. I fucking hate this. O is taking her to the vet in the morning to get her shots and to make sure she’s A-okay, and then she’ll be gone. I can’t even bear to go out and say goodbye. I will become a hysterical mess. Not only am I broken, but I’m also weak.

But one good thing, at least I’m crying again, a lot.

Put Me In Coach

I have a wonderful group of girlfriends whom I met while living in Atlanta a few years ago. We were all taking a series of personal development classes and came together to form an unlikely union. We’re very different from each other but our friendship just works.

We’ve been through a lot together – career changes, moves, marriages, babies, broken hearts – a lot of joy and happiness and tears. I talk to some of them more often than others, but when we’re back together it’s as if we we’ve never been apart. Periodically we send each other e-mailed updates on our lives so that even if we’re not in constant communication, each one knows where the others are and how they are doing.

I received such an e-mail yesterday. One of my girlfriends wanted to let us all know that she was just laid off from her job in New Orleans and wanted to find something and return to the Atlanta area. News like this invariably starts a flurry of e-mails. We’ll all reach out with words of support and then touch base with the news in our own lives. I’m great with the support but when it comes to explaining how I’m currently feeling about where we are (or more specifically, where we aren’t) in this baby-making process, all I come up with is a flashing cursor.

So I’ve tried to put it into words. As strange as the following analogy may be, it sums it up pretty well.

It’s as if I was going along merrily living my life, my dreams just within my grasp when someone came up, tapped me on the shoulder, and told me that to have those dreams become a reality I would have to join a football team; a team that one that no one wants to be a member of.

I was sure there must be some mistake. Me? No, I’m not a football player. Sure, I know a little bit about football, but my dreams – they’re right there. I’m this close! I don’t have time for this football nonsense.

But it soon became apparent that there was no other way, so I threw myself into it.

I researched the sport. I met the coach and went over a game plan. I endlessly studied my playbook and gathered all of the expensive equipment I’d need.

I met the other players, most of them equally shocked to have been plucked from their own lives and placed on this team. Those who had played the game before generously shared their knowledge with the rest of us. We practiced together, went through drills, and learned from each other. We dusted each other off when we got knocked down. We formed bonds and became teammates.

Finally - FINALLY it was game day. I was scared to death and a little bit excited as I suited up and made my way to the stadium. But just as it was time to put on my helmet and burst onto the field with my team my coach yelled, “Hey you  – on the bench!”

I couldn’t believe it. I’d done everything that was asked of me. I’d worked so hard yet there I was, left to find my way to the sidelines to join a few others seated there.

The game got underway. I busied myself keeping an eye on the action while waiting for any sign from the coach that it was my turn. My teammates dug in and played their hearts out. They hit and were hit. Some were knocked down and carried off the field, making me glad for a moment that I wasn’t out there. Others got their hands on the ball for a moment only to have it stolen away. Still others grabbed the ball and sprinted for the end zone to score a touchdown. I cheered for them – for my teammates - but couldn’t help feeling scared as I watched the time on the game clock ticking down second by second.

I tried to find things to distract myself from all the action on the field. I wandered down to the concession stand for a snack (okay, several snacks), I sat up in the stands and people-watched, I even went and helped the grounds crew for a while. Through it all I was acutely aware of the action on the field and of the fact that I was not a part of it.

The coach approached me a couple of times, gave me some new plays to memorize, but when the time came she always walked on past me to call someone else's number.

So here I still sit, benched.

As my 39th birthday approaches, I feel as if this game is now entering the fourth quarter and I just wonder if I’ll ever get a chance – just a CHANCE to strap on my helmet and get in the game.

Put me in, coach. At this point all I want is a chance.

Spring "Springs" Today

"Expect to have hope rekindled. Expect your prayers to be answered in wonderous ways. The dry seasons of life do not last. The spring rains will come again." ~ Sarah Ban Breathnach

May all of our prayers be answered in wonderous ways.

This Itch is a Bitch

FYI - poison oak is Satan's houseplant. And yes, I need to do my nails. 'nuff said.

Kiss Me, I'm Itchy

I’ve been fantasizing this morning.

Not about being a mommy.

Not about warm tropical sun-kissed beaches.

Not even about warm tropical sun-kissed Matthew McConaughey showing up at my front door carrying pizzas. (Lord I do miss me some pizza.)

Instead, I have been fantasizing about various methods of scratching the poison-oak-covered skin from my arms. I have a fairly high tolerance for pain and discomfort. I’ve even had 2 doctors comment on it. But this poison oak is kicking my butt. The itching is so intense that I can feel my heartbeat in the itch. Oh, and have I mentioned that it’s also on my stomach and brea*sts? How did THAT happen? Kill me now. Really, just someone come over here and smother me with a pillow.

Coll*odial oatmeal, Cala*dryl, Bena*dryl cream, ice, scalding hot water, you name it, I’ve tried it. Several people have recommend Clo*rox, but said “be prepared to be scarred”. Umm no, YOU prepare to be scarred. Clo*rox eats holes in my towels. I am not going to willingly apply it to my skin. Thanks anyway. O has made a pharmacy run this morning in hopes that some magic cure lies in the “itching and scratching” aisle. He’s a good man.

My pharmacist cousin recommended using some medication that O has for eczema so I’m giving that a shot. That’s supposed to dry it up, but it doesn’t address the itching. All I need is five minutes . . . just five short minutes with some sandpaper.

Oh well, on to other topics. My “out of my head, out of my house” plan continues. Yesterday I “planted” 18 fieldstones and made a pathway from our back patio out to our storage shed. It took all day and was heavy dirty work, but there’s something about having your hands in the soil that’s good for the soul. Today, mulching! So very glamorous.

I took my last pro*metrium a couple of days ago so now all that’s left to do is replenish the food supplies that seriously dwindled whilst I was taking it and wait for the arrival of AF.

And last but not least, Happy St. Patrick’s Day. I’m raising a virtual glass of green beer (which is the only way I'd get near the nasty stuff) to my Irish g-g-g-g-g-g-grandfather who came to America with his two brothers (there are always 3 Irish brothers in every early American Irish family) and fought in the Revolutionary War. Little could he have guessed that some 250 years later he’d have a g-g-g-g-g-g-granddaughter who was an infertile, poison-oak-covered, landscaping maniac.

Erin Go Bragh! Now pass me the cala*mine lotion!