Stick a fork in me

Puerto Rico was not what I expected. The hotel was not what I expected. The beach was not what I expected. Sooo, Carpe Diem and screw expectations, we had a ball anyway. A ball, I tell you. For the record, Puerto Ricans have the right attitude.

The first day on the beach we were carefully encased in our fluffy lounges with a perfectly tilted sunbrella. I moved my book down a few inches from my face (my daily exercise) and noticed a woman walking toward the water. Not skinny, definately pudgy, more than pudgy actually and in a two piece bathing suit. My first thought, of course, was you've got to be kidding me. She surely cannot believe that that suit is weight appropriate. Please, no, that is not a good look. Book creeps down farther, more exercise. Heavens, it's been 15 years since I've even picked up a two piece at the store and she's got 50 lbs on me. Hrrmpf, what is she thinking?

I never found out what she was thinking, but I slowly realized that she wouldn't give two shits what I was thinking because she was having a good time. She was comfortable in her own skin, enjoying the beach, catching some rays and carrying the right attitude. And she wasn't the only one. I saw many, many women shakin' what their mamas gave them who in the U.S. wouldn't be caught dead without full cover pantaloons. Freeing actually. That's not to say that I skivvied down to a g string and nipple tassles, but it did cause me to think about how we Americans are so image obsessed. More than image obsessed, I think. We tend to define one standard of beauty, which is always skinny, skinny and impossibly young.

And speaking of skinny, I did some fine eatin. If you're ever in San Juan, ever I say, immediately exit the airport, head straight for Old San Juan and immediately go to Marmalades. http://www.marmaladepr.com/index.htm If the restaurant is closed, just sit patiently on the front stoop until dinnertime. My dinner consisted of three appetizers: (1) grilled peaches with lemon mascarpone and proscuitto; (2) paella bites and (3) gnocchi with braised beef ribs...don't know that I ever would have typed those two together in the same appetizer, but such is life's little blessings. I also got a little sample of love...the white bean soup. With thin scallions. Crispy pancetta. Black truffle oil.


Next week I'm off to Newport, Rhode Island for a company meeting. I've never been to Newport, so let me know if there's a sight I absolutely shouldn't miss. If it involves food I assure you I'll find it. My return should be greeted with a very large, expensive box of medicines. Sigh.


Did I tell you about the paella bites?

Oh Bother.

Ah, a full pot of honey. Cool, summer day. Flower-filled meadow. Good friends. Melanie the Pooh. Or maybe Ee-yore without the "woe is me". I will admit this only to you, blog land, but I'm a girl without much drive this summer. Today for example I find myself longing for Friday because then Saturday will be the next day. And Saturday brings a good float in the pool, a nice spy trash novel, and later, a cocktail. I call it the Just Coastin' Cocktail, vodka, fresca and a splash of cranberry. Ahhh.

I haven't enjoyed summer this much in a long time.

E and I are going to San Juan, Puerto Rico next Wed. for a long weekend. It's his birthday and we wanted to get away somewhere relatively easy to get to. The place we're staying has a casino and a spa. And a bar. I doubt that I will lose the ten pounds I planned to lose before next Wed., so I go with a light heart and a slightly chubby physique. No worries. Those ten pounds will be around to lose after San Juan. And it's true, tan flab looks a lot better than pale flab.

And on the infertility front, I ordered my meds today. $2,800. Not quite the same event it was the first time around, but that's ok. Start sometime mid-August, so I've got a few weekends to go.

I'm going back to my meadow now.

It seems like ages, dahling...

Goodness me, it's hard for a girl to escape the topic of infertility these days. I've counted no less than five articles on infertility issues online in the last week. For example, who knew that fertility in men decreases after age 40? (She types with a straight face.) And that's not counting the omnipresent pregnant celebrity, which I wouldn't know about anyway because I'm entirely too cultured to read about such things. Ahem.

I've very much enjoyed my fertility vacation. I've been keeping up with all of you, though I haven't been commenting as often. Sort of makes me a cad, I guess, like an "I meant to call, really" kind of blogger. In my defense, I've just needed to be away from it all. Dramatic sigh, back of hand to forehead.

I dipped back into the infertility pool this morning. Ordinarily, my RE's office is fairly empty. I show up, get wanded and get the flock out. This morning it was packed. With couples. Dear God in heaven, it was "results" day. First couple walks in, holding hands, anxious, I hear her tell the nurse at the reception area that the nerves are killing her. Another couple comes in, nervous smiles, gentle pats. And there I sit. Wondering. Trying not to make eye contact. Giving them their private hopes. Clearly, this is the first try for the first and second couples. The third couple that walks in looks a bit more road weary and time tested. I eventually learn that of the three couples, one is pregnant, the others are not. Could it be, finally, for couple #3?

There's always an easy familiarity at the RE's office. Jokes and smiles and hugs. My favorite nurse crashed her grocery cart into mine at the local Kroger. Crappy driver. I didn't stop to wonder until later if the couples noticed, hoping they would never have occassion to build that kind of rapport.

The appointment went well. Everything looks good, is where it should be, nothing where it shouldn't be. I have to take their word for it; I continue to believe that my uterus looks more like a rutabaga than a uterus on the dildocam. Hmm, maybe that's the ...? Anyway, everyone feels really good about this next cycle. Me, too. I feel good and strong and resolved. I really do.

Movin On.

I was raped when I was 22 years old. Just home from college, living with my parents, stymied about my future. I was walking through the neighborhood on the street next to the railroad tracks. I had my headphones on, listening to Soul ll Soul, Keep on Movin. Time to lose the freshman 15. A sunny, hot July day. Not a soul in sight. A man came up behind me and put a plastic bag over my head. I had just walked under the highway overpass. We struggled across the road and, talk about things going downhill from there, fell into a drop on the side of the road. Deep brush hid it from the road. It was where the drainage tunnel ran under that street and the two roads on the other side of the railroad tracks.

I remember four things very clearly. One, that I couldn't believe this was how it was going to end. So much life to live and it's over, like this? In a drop on the side of the road? I didn't see angels. I didn't feel the presence of the spirit, any spirit. No fear anymore, just blinding carnal anger that it would end like this. I remember clearly the musty smell of damp earth; damp smells bothered me for many years after. I remember my ear bleeding from the impact of my ear and headphones hitting the ground and, strangely, the rapist expressing concern. Asking if it hurt. But my clearest memory is after the rape. Right after. He told me to crawl through the drainage tunnel and not to look back. He wouldn't kill me if I didn't look back. I didn't look back. The light at the end of the tunnel was, blessedly, just that.

The police caught the man who raped me. They told me that when he was arrested he looked like shit, bruises and scratches and scrapes. They told me that he looked worse than me. I think they were just being kind, but it made me smile. Take that! His lawyer (damn lawyers!) said it was consensual, then quickly dropped that claim. He pleaded guilty. He was 18 years old and ended up spending the maximum in prison for 1st degree rape, 15 years. Registered sex offender for life. I fought my demons and my anger for a couple of years after the rape, but got over it with help. And time. I rarely think about it anymore. Truly. Even on the anniversary, July 2. Today.

I've been thinking about it, please not for sympathy, but in the context of Movin On. Life moving on, people moving on, even though you're not ready to or you just can't, for whatever reason. My low point after the rape was after the trial, after the "My God, you're so strong's", after the "what can I/we do to make it better, safer, easier, more comfortable's for you." At the point when the world goes about its business, as it does, as it must, but you haven't. How can everyone go on living, happily living, when my world is falling apart and the anger is making me toxic, I thought? Ok, fine. Then stop the world and let me off. Just for a little while.

What does this have to do with infertility? Absolutely nothing. Everything. Infertility, like any major life event, has the power to knock you to the ground, fixate you, obsess you, tie you in knots, cause you to fling open your arms and scream to the world "Are you kidding me, why ME?" Indeed, I've found myself perilously close at times to doing just that and then collapsing on the floor in a self-induced puddle of pity, soft underbelly exposed to the world. Life can really, really be a bitch.

At 22 I learned that shitty things can and do happen to good people. Lesson: Life's not fair by any means. I was older when I learned that you can deal with anything, violence, sadness, divorce, joy, disappointment, uncertainty, anything...given time and acceptance. Sometimes you deal by letting the world spin for a while without you until you're ready to get back on gracefully. Othertimes you just fight it out. Take that world! But the key, I think, is Movin On. Keep on Movin.

One more cycle and I'll take the outcome, whatever it is. For sure, I won't be immune from sadness or disappointment or joy, whatever the case may be. But I am going to keep Movin On.

Tai Chai and Vitrification

Experts in any field must feel the same exasperation when lay people try to be experts. Today, for example, the gossip website I was not reading during the workday reported in all caps that the celebrity defendant to a lawsuit "promptly filed an answer and counterclaim" to the plaintiff's complaint. Of course he did. The law requires one who's had their pants sued off to respond promptly, sometimes in 20 days. Silly. And today, when talking to the computer help desk attendant, "Why the hell isn't my wireless working?" "You want me to type what? Backslash, semicolon what? Yes, you have my permission to take over my computer by remote. (*&%$." Said help desk attendant, before taking over my computer remotely, was speaking to me in slow articulations, better for my mentally disabled, learning impaired self to understand I guess.

Same can be said for fertility "advice." This article, for instance, tickled me. http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/24777998/ Without question the article is written for women in their 20s who won't be reading it anyway because they're in their 20s and doing everything from modern science to voodoo chants not to get pregnant. That aside, I couldn't help but cringe while eye rolling through some of it.


1. "Luckily, fertility isn't a total crapshoot. And though you can't put off pregnancy indefinitely (despite exceptions like Marcia Cross, your odds of conceiving drop substantially after age 35), there's plenty you can do to help keep your body in peak baby-making form."


Eye rolling. Indeed, Marcia Cross would be a great example if she hadn't had in vitro. In vitro with donor eggs. The article should have cited Jennifer "twins run in my family and I knew it would happen in time" Lopez.


2. "Don't worry, be happy. Stress interferes with the brain's bulletins that tell your ovaries to do their monthly job of rolling out an egg, says Sarah L. Berga, M.D., chair of the ob-gyn department at Emory University in Atlanta. If you're a type A (for anxiety and angst), figure out a calm-down solution that works for you, whether it's practicing tai chi or thrashing around to the Foo Fighters, before you get ready to pee on the stick."


Eureeka! Smack head. You wily stress bastard! Had I but known, I would have built a yurt with meditation altar in my backyard years ago. Just think of all the little hippie children I would be tie-dying today. Certainly, I will practice tai chi or thrashing prior to peeing on a stick in the future. And I call myself educated.


3. "Freeze your assets. If sperm are the tough Gap T-shirts of the reproductive world, your ova are like gauzy couture dresses. Until recently, this meant that freezing your eggs was mostly out of the question (the ice crystals that form during the slow-freezing process used on embryos damages eggs). But a new method, called vitrification, involves very rapid icing that safely solidifies the eggs. It's pricey — $6K and up for a single procedure (and the number of good eggs you'll get varies), plus annual storage fees — and it tends to be most successful when you and your ova are young (in your 20s). Though there are no long-term data on the procedure, it's worth investigating if you know your antral count is low or if you're about to undergo a fertility-zapping procedure like chemotherapy."


Interesting, but ridiculous. Assuming that a 20 something would even read this article and isn't trying desperately not to get pregnant and isn't convinced that she'll meet her true love soon and isn't trying to develop her fledgling post college career and isn't paying off student loans and living in a studio apartment and trying to afford a social life and isn't living on ramen noodles and doesn't believe that getting pregnant is a snap anyway, this is great advice.

Sigh.

I recognize that I'm sensitive to these issues. In the interest of full disclosure, yes I did listen to much assvice in the beginning. Cut out caffeine, check. Monitor ovulation, check. Watch the alcohol intake, you betcha. And even got to the point of acupuncture, raspberry leaf tea, avoiding hot baths, baby aspirin. You name it. So it pains me now to read the silliness. In fairness, this particular article does impart some good advice, but the silly advice overshadows the good.

Sigh.

Falling out of Trees

Growing up, I lived in a big old house surrounded by several acres. Lots of trees with soaring limbs...the kind meant for climbing. I gag at the thought today, but back then I could climb to dizzying heights. And when I had climbed as high as I possibly could, I would nestle back against the trunk, sap in my hair, and think this is the view I'd have if I could fly.

I didn't always make it to the dizzying heights. I remember once setting upon my usual climb but slipping; my foot stuck in a "Y" branch, dangling like a rhesus monkey. I was only about a foot off the earth, but I panicked and cried and screamed for someone to help me. No one came. I laugh now to picture myself, dangling from a tree, a victim of my own carelessness, pissed off at the world, pissed off at the tree. Stupid tree. Eventually, the tears dried up and I set about trying to free myself. I don't know how long it took (though I'm positive I couldn't do it today) but I twisted and contorted and, after what seemed forever, I dropped to the ground. Dusted myself off and set off to find some more trouble. And, yes, climb more trees.

How like life it is. You get in a pinch. Sometimes of your own making, sometimes not. You scream and cry and blame and accuse. Paralyzed by your situation, the utter unfairness of it all. Why me? Your plight certainly is worse than anyone else's. Why isn't someone making this better? Fixing it? Then the quiet and the soul searching. The tears dry up, the resolve sets in and you deal. One way or another, you deal. You climb more trees. Sometimes you make it to the top and soar with the birds. Other times, well you dangle like a rhesus monkey. But you always disentangle and get back up.

So I say, gently to myself: Honey, you're way more than your infertility. I spent a good many months yelling and screaming and sulking and crying and blaming and dangling time and time again and I find myself now changed somewhat. More than somewhat. I find that I like, like, like my life. I find that I like who I am and how far I've come, am thrilled to pieces with my husband, think my marriage is the cat's meow (It's two years today, by the way), have the wonderful good fortune of having good people in my life, have a job that challenges me, pisses me off, gives me an identity and also lets me enjoy nice footwear. And as to that baby thing, pardon the really bad pun, but it's not the only egg in my basket.

This next IVF will be my last. I will go into it with positivity and hope, but also with the understanding that I will have reached the end. Either it produces a live child or a new life path. I'm ready for either. My new marriage counselor mentioned a Harvard study showing that the three most stressful events a person can face are cancer, divorce and infertility. I've had two of the three. My goal is to skip the third and put the other two to bed. And keep climbing.

In the Summertime II

I love, love, LOVE me some summertime. Last weekend, for example, was simply gorgeous. Sunny, hot, gentle breeze, all kinds of blooming things in the backyard, farmer's market on Saturday morning, plenty of food to be eaten (not sure that that changes too much season to season in my world but year round satiation is a good thing), cold adult beverages a plenty. I streamlined my weekend to-do list such that it would only contain the most critical tasks. Said tasks: (1) grocery to provide food for my family; and (2) pedicure. (I would take and post a picture of my poor pitiful feet but that could change our relationship.)

I accomplished: Neither.

What did I do instead? Went to Target (Oh, Mecca) and bought new summer rafts and floated in the pool all weekend. All Weekend Long. With plenty of sunscreen, but again, I floated all weekend long. I accomplished nothing substantive. Didn't even purchase some shoes.

I love me some summertime.

I did go to a new counselor recommended by my RE (my "marriage" counselor according to E). There was nothing wrong with my old one except that I wasn't feeling it. I don't want to talk about my childhood or what kind of mothering I received or who I resent or my anger issues (all provoked I must add), I just wanted help on "the" topic. My new marriage counselor had 8 IVFs, so I think she may know a thing or two about the "the topic."

I liked her. We got right to business. No foreplay in this relationship, which at $2 a minute I don't need to be held or caressed. Why do I want a child? Why do I not? How does E feel about it? What's my relationship like with my mother? Kidding. She did interrupt me at one point to tell me how refreshing it was to talk to someone going through infertility who has such a strong marriage. I assured her that E realizes he could never do better than me and behaves himself accordingly. Overall, it helped. She asked good questions that got right to the issue. At least I think she did, I was shlumped in awe over the 8 IVFs.

That's my weekly report. I'm still infertile. I'm still planning on one more try in the fall. I must go now and prepare my float for the weekend.

Love me some summertime.