Drowning In A Sea Of Memories

This evening I decided to tackle the enormous chore of cleaning out my bedroom.  It has gotten to near-hoarder status and I knew it would be no small task.  But generally, when I am clearing away old things and cleaning a space, I feel my mood lift as I go.  It’s as if the emotional baggage, attached to the things I own, leaves when the items leave.  But not tonight.

Tonight, as I came across one thing after another, reminding me of the past few years and what I’ve been through, it was as if it got harder to move…harder to breath.  I felt like I was in emotional quicksand and each new forgotten thing I discovered was another weight attached to my feet, pulling me under.  I eventually had to stop cleaning because I became (and still am) so emotionally spent that I just can’t take any more right now. 

Here are a few of the things I came across, in no particular order:

• A letter from a cousin, dated four months after my wedding, asking how I was doing and if I was pregnant yet?
• An article on how to keep a marriage alive during infertility
• Two years worth of Pregnancy & Newborn, and Fit Pregnancy magazines
• Four baby name books, multiple lists of my favorite baby names and my family tree- to use to find “family baby names”
• The box that my engagement ring was in when my husband proposed…before we knew how rough the next few years would be
• The multitude of spreadsheets I made to evaluate egg donors
• An old “vision board” made during a workshop at my infertility center (it was fun to make but it clearly didn’t work)
• All of the paperwork ever given to me by doctors about endometriosis, infertility, IUI’s, IVF’s, my husband’s semen analysis, surgical instructions and discharge sheets, and pictures of my insides during the last few surgeries (when stacked, these papers literally go up to my hip…and I’m 5’7”).
• Three journals that I have kept at various times through my infertility journey (looking over some entries, I realize that it might be best to destroy the journals because it hurts me to read the depths of despair I’ve found myself in, in the past…and The Prince and I have been in some tough times, that I’d forgotten about and would prefer to forget about again.)
• Four different types of lubricants that are supposed to be “baby making friendly,” from back in the day when I believed that there was an off chance that we would get pregnant naturally between IVF cycles
• And…the pictures of my embryos from the couple of IVF cycles that actually made it to transfer.  I look at those pictures and it feels like I am looking at pictures of my children who died.  I know that is terrible and I certainly do not mean to belittle the pain of anyone who has had a miscarriage, still birth, or has had a child die at a young age.  I can’t imagine that pain…but I know that I wouldn’t be strong enough to survive it because looking at the embryo pictures makes me break down in tears.  And yet, I can’t bring myself to throw them away.

The truth is, I didn’t throw away anything in this list, except for the email from my cousin and the article on marriage.  I feel like I need to let some of the other things go…like the mountain of fertility paperwork or the journals.  But the idea of throwing these things out makes me panic.  Like I’m giving up on having a baby if I let that stuff go.  Or like the pain isn’t real or wasn’t as bad if I don’t have “mementos” to remind me of how awful it was.  That’s ridiculous of course…there isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t remember how much IF has hurt…but the irrational fear is there, anyways. And it is the same with all of the extra medications and needles I have.  I need to donate them back to the clinic, for people who can’t afford them…but if I let them go, then it is official that I am not trying ever again with my eggs.  I know that is the decision we’ve made, but for some reason, giving away the medication makes it too real.  Now I know why I’ve buried myself with this crap in my bedroom…the alternative is facing down demons I’m not ready to deal with yet.  But if not now, when?

Positive Polly's Cousin - Grateful Greta - Saves The Prince's Royal Rump

I keep trying to be positive.  I know I need to be positive this cycle.  But I’m struggling.  There is so much I don’t have done.  There are so many frustrating things going on in my life that are completely out of my control.  There are so many fun activities that I have had to bail on…again.  There is so much to be grumpy about, and boy am I letting myself be grumpy about those things.  I may even be looking for things to be grumpy about at this point.

For example, the last few days I have wanted to kick The Prince right in his buttocks.  He is being his usual distant self now that injections of Lupron have started and the cycle has become “real.”  He spends more time looking at himself in the mirror and talking about his muscles and how his clothing doesn’t fit right because of his giant muscles than he spends doing anything else…including paying attention to me (what happened to the sweet little science geek I married?).  He refuses to help with spring cleaning.  He is moody and sensitive (I know…Pot meet Kettle).  This morning, he decided to watch a movie with horses in it (our girl dog is obsessed with horses on the TV).  Josephine barked and barked all morning until finally, at 6:30, I got up and asked him why he was just letting her bark…and why he was watching a horse movie knowing she would bark while I was sleeping.  His response “it’s not all about you.”  Really?!?  Is it all about you, two year old in a grown man’s body?  If I hear the phrase “But I don’t want to” come out of his mouth one more time…I swear I’m going to punch him in the nose (not really…but a girl can dream).

I am well aware that the Lupron is probably partially to blame for my irritation with The Prince.  It’s not like this stuff is particularly out of the ordinary for him, but it has only recently bothered me to the point of actual anger…so hormones must be at least a little bit of a factor.  But I can remember a cycle, not so long ago, when he was doing the same exact things…except I was in this “zen” place emotionally, and just let it all roll off of me, like water off a duck’s back.  I had been meditating and I think I had just finished reading Eat, Pray, Love.  I realized that being upset about his behavior would not change his behavior and that if I was getting upset with him, it was because I was choosing to allow myself to be upset…not because he was “making” me upset.  No one has that power unless you give it to them. 

In an effort to jump-start a more positive frame of mind, I am going to follow the lead of New Year Mum, in her Happy List Saturdays.  It’s not Saturday…but I am going to take a baby step towards more positive thinking by listing a few things I am grateful for. 

1. I am grateful that The Prince got me roses last weekend, and that they are still looking and smelling beautiful.  They make me smile every time I look at them.
2. I am grateful that The Prince is funny and that he sprinkles little bits of humor into our household, even during the grumpy times.
3. I am grateful that I got the dining room clean.
4. I am grateful that the donor egg cycle has started and I am not waiting any more.
5. I am grateful that my infertility veteran friend had a healthy baby boy yesterday.  She deserves to be a mother and I know she will be a great one.
6. I am grateful that my two furry babies are happy and healthy.
7. I am grateful that I have lost a couple of pounds this week without feeling deprived or starved.
8. I am grateful that my belly pain, even after house cleaning, is so much better than it was just one week ago.
9. I am grateful that The Prince has to do campus tours this weekend, which gets him out of the house for a couple of hours, so that I can get some housework done.
10. I am grateful for the sunshine and warm breeze (well…relatively warm breeze).
11. I am grateful for the possibility that I may be pregnant at this time next month.
12. I am grateful for this blog, which allows me to get out all of my thoughts and feelings, and I am thankful for all of the readers of this blog, who are so kind and so supportive every single day.

Ahhh.  I do feel a little better.  Perhaps The Prince will not get a kick in the rump after all. 

The Portly Princess...

This morning, as I woke up thinking “Do I take the pugs for a walk, or do I curl up on the couch,” I realized that I am twice the woman I used to be…literally!  When I was doing pageants and modeling as a teen, I weighed slightly less than half of what I weigh now.  I have doubled in size.  The guilt and self-shame came washing in with that realization but…holding firmly to my recently found sunny outlook…I decided to examine the positives associated with where I was and where I am now.

I am twice the size I used to be and that is undeniable.  But…I am also twice the age I was when I was a little twig.  I also am twice the person I used to be in terms of experience.  Since age 16, I have lived through a physically abusive relationship, a break-up with my first true love, completing a four year psychology degree in three years, putting myself through law school, taking custody of my teenage sister, raising my teenage sister, keeping my mentally ill mother from ending up on the streets, moving to a new part of the state (three times), dating causally for a few months, meeting my husband and getting married, buying a home, working in a private law firm, working for the state, undergoing a appendectomy, undergoing a gall bladder removal, beating bulimia and anorexia, undergoing 6 failed IUI’s, undergoing 6 failed IVF’s, undergoing 6 laparoscopies, undergoing 1 laparotomy, enduring the loss of one ovary and one fallopian tube, the loss of my grandmother and aunt, and the loss of my naivety.  Because of these experiences, I now know that I am more than twice as strong as I ever would have thought I could be.

Even the doubling of my weight has been “helpful” in developing my personality.  When I was a tiny teen, I really believed that my best assets were my hair, eyes and legs.  I thought the best way to get what you wanted in life was to flirt, relentlessly.  I knew I had a genius IQ but, while I always got good grades, I worked hard to play stupid so that people wouldn’t expect too much from me.  I didn’t want people to know I was smart because that meant that guys wouldn’t like me as much…which was all I really cared about back then.  Being fat, you learn to find friends and boyfriends who actually like you for who you are…not how you look and what you do.  You learn that it is helpful to be pretty, but in the adult world, you can overcome any deficiencies in your attractiveness by being smart and a hard worker.  The converse is not true…employers will only put up with the pretty but incompetent girl for so long.  Being fat forces you to find self-worth in accomplishments, rather than compliments.  Being fat also forced me to stop being the superficial, judgmental brat that I used to be.  The girls I picked on in high school are skinnier than I am now (thank you Facebook).  No one seems to remember how mean I was about weight.  Old high school classmates say “You were always so nice!”  But I remember at least thinking nasty things about people, solely based on their looks.  And I am so glad that I am not that person anymore.

I am not saying that I wouldn’t give up a toe (maybe not a big toe) to lose all of the weight I’ve put on and go back to the pleasantries that go along with being thin and attractive…but only because I believe that I would never lose the lessons that I’ve learned as a fat person.  It has not been easy being twice the person I used to be…in any sense.  And I NEVER want to be three times the person I used to be…no matter what emotional self-growth that might foster.  But, today, instead of beating myself up over my weight gain…or obsessing over how long it would take me to lose all of that weight, only to declare defeat before I even get started…I am going to just relax and chalk it up to a life lesson.  My girth may have grown, but so has my heart…and for that, I am thankful.



And A Handsome Prince (a.k.a. My husband)

In the traditional fairy tale, the beautiful princess always completes her journey with a handsome prince.  Not always so in real-life fairy tales.  Sometimes couples are composed of two princes or two princesses.  Sometimes a princess decides to embark on her journey into motherhood on her own.  I have friends in each of these categories and I love and respect them for their strength and courage.  So please don’t think, when you read this post, I am forgetting that not everyone is making their journey with a prince…But I am, so that’s what I’m going to write about.

Let me start out by saying, my husband is not always a prince.  Sometimes he is aloof and grumpy.  Sometimes he goes into his emotional turtle shell and it is all I can do to coax him to poke his head out to acknowledge that I’m there.  Sometimes he rolls his eyes when I am crying about another coworker announcing her pregnancy or he lets out too big of a sigh when I ask him to pause a television show so I can update him on our current position on an egg donor’s waiting list.  Sometimes he makes me feel like I am all alone, because his way of dealing with the overpowering emotions involved in our infertility struggles is to move on without acknowledging that anything happened.  On these days, “prince” is not the word that I use to describe him.

But then there are other days – the days when he gives me a hug first thing in the morning and tells me that today is going to be a good day, or the days that he surprises me with a weekend getaway during a two week wait to get my mind off the all-consuming fear that we’ll be disappointed again.  There are those times when he offers to take over dealing with the egg donor coordinator because I am feeling overwhelmed and out of control.  On those days…he is absolutely a prince!

I should explain that my husband is a chemistry professor.  Enough said.  He is the poster-child for “emotionally unavailable" but I love him anyway.  We are very different people and we have struggled as a couple in the last year.  We’re in marriage counseling right now, not because we are on the verge of divorce or are disinterested in the marriage, but because we don’t speak the same language when it comes to infertility and it leads to serious breakdowns in our ability to communicate with one another.  The counseling helps and I would recommend it to anyone who is feeling like the tiny cracks that were there in a marriage before infertility are widening.  It happens to the strongest couples I know, and counseling helps.  Even my husband admits that it helps and he HATES relying on anyone, especially someone in the “soft sciences.”

Anyways, Mr. Science is logical, analytical and predictable about everything.  I am logical, analytical and predictable about everything…except infertility stuff.  When it comes to my struggle to become a mother, I am a hormonal ball of emotion that changes her mind faster than the wind changes directions.  Even when I am not on the fertility meds (which would turn Spock into a bawling little girl), I am not myself when it comes to dealing with my own infertility.  And it is because of the very different way that my husband and I approach infertility that we have made it this far. 

When I was begging to keep trying IVF’s with my eggs after 6 failed IVF’s and our second RE saying he just didn’t feel we were going to get pregnant that way, the prince didn’t cry or get angry like I did.  Instead, he insisted that I consider what was most important to me and what was going to give us the best odds of getting to my goal of motherhood.  I grieved for a long time, but eventually it was his objective perspective that forced me to be realistic and realize that having a baby was more important than having a baby with my DNA.  Granted, I wanted to send him outside to live in the garage when he was telling me that he didn’t understand why I was being so stubborn and emotional about not wanting to move on to donor eggs, but if he had taken the easy road right then and given in to my begging to continue a futile quest, I would probably be on my eighth failed IVF cycle by now, with two more heartbreaks under my belt.

Writing this post makes me think about a T-shirt that I got my husband for his birthday, after our third date.  The T-shirt says “Trust me.  I’m perfect.”  He still has it and even though it doesn’t quite fit his body anymore, it still fits his personality.  And he doesn’t hesitate to squeeze himself into the shirt, like a sausage, when he thinks I need a laugh after we’ve quarreled.  I’ll never say it to him and I would deny it if ever confronted with the statement I am about to make, but he is perfect...in his own way.  He is my perfect partner in the infertility trenches.  I can always rely on girlfriends to help me cry it out and to talk about the stuff that is too sappy for my husband to take on, but he is the one I need when the time comes to make the tough calls (there have been a lot of them on this journey).  He  is the one that consistently rises to the occasion when the chips are down.  Bottom line, my husband may not always be exactly what I want, but he is exactly what I need and in that sense, he is my prince.