Hubby and I had an emotional night last night.
It all started when he told me that we would be going to his parents' house to celebrate Mother's Day. I fucking lost my shit. I don't know if it was just picturing me sitting at that table again, wishing to be anywhere else, with no one acknowledging that it might be difficult for me. Perhaps it was the realization that another Mother's Day is upon us, and our arms are still so so empty.
But anyway, I cooked dinner with tears streaming down my face (and probably into the food too. Don't tell the health department!) and somehow we got into an argument. I think Hubby has a lot of anger towards me, and sometimes he acts like I should just magically be ok and forget that the last four years have ever happened.
I can't be ok, not yet. Maybe I'm weak or just too FUBAR to ever be a normal person. Maybe I should just be over all of this by now, but I'm not.
Or maybe I'm just an emotional PMSing bitch, and this will all seem ridiculous next week.
Anyway, I've started to contact couples counselors in our area. I want my marriage to survive this, and we do love each other very very much. If I have to deal with a therapist, I will.
Infertility, you may have stolen my soul but you will not ruin my marriage.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Smackdown!
One of the worst things about infertility and RPL is what I like to call the grief smackdown. I can be walking around, a sorta normal, fairly happy person, when BAM! A grief smackdown leaves me cowering, snotty and tearful, waiting for another blow.
Most often, the grief smackdown is triggered by something ridiculous and unexpected. Sure, the belly rubbers and the FB baby boom get me down, but I expect to feel like shit when looking at newborn pictures or staring at pregnant bellies.
This week's grief smackdown has come courtesy of a bed.
Hubby and his dad spent the day doing some heavy moving on Wednesday. They picked up the materials for our new deck (to be built sometime this summer, I hope) and then some furniture his parents wanted to get rid of.
The furnishings? They're for our empty guest room. Since we've lived in this house, the second largest bedroom has stayed empty, ready to become a nursery for our baby. That emptiness was like a symbol of our hope that eventually, someday, some way, we'd bring a baby home. I'd go in there, occasionally, just to look around the room and picture how we'd set it up. It was a room that was fertile ground for daydreams and wishful thinking.
And then we agreed to take this bed and dresser from the out-laws. We need another bed, to be sure. My family lives halfway across the country, and between their visits and friends who spend the night, it'll get used. (Side note: I need to remember to put rubber sheets on that thing. One of our lovely friends occasionally spends the night because he doesn't drink and drive. Last summer he ruined our sweet. red. leather couch by peeing on it in his drunken stupor. Somehow, I love him anyway.) I always imagined, though, that we'd get some small daybed or futon and stuff it into our third bedroom/office (which is really not much bigger than a large closet). There is no way that queen sized bed will fit into the office - not if you want to be able to walk, too.
And so now, that queen sized mattress and boxspring and dresser sit in my dining room, because I cannot bear to haul them upstairs and say goodbye to my vision of us, as a family, filling that room with the sweet smells and sounds of babyhood. It feels like a betrayal of my hopeful self, but the reality is that I'm probably not pregnant now. And even if I were, I'd probably miscarry. Chances are, we have years left in our quest, because that is how long it's going to take to get our finances in order.
Hubby is so wonderful. I know he won't push me to get the bed together and the room established as a proper guest room until I'm good and ready to say goodbye to what could have been. And I suppose that is the one small light in all of this: I love him. I know how much he loves me, despite my faulty parts and bouts of tearfulness. That has to be enough, for now.
Most often, the grief smackdown is triggered by something ridiculous and unexpected. Sure, the belly rubbers and the FB baby boom get me down, but I expect to feel like shit when looking at newborn pictures or staring at pregnant bellies.
This week's grief smackdown has come courtesy of a bed.
Hubby and his dad spent the day doing some heavy moving on Wednesday. They picked up the materials for our new deck (to be built sometime this summer, I hope) and then some furniture his parents wanted to get rid of.
The furnishings? They're for our empty guest room. Since we've lived in this house, the second largest bedroom has stayed empty, ready to become a nursery for our baby. That emptiness was like a symbol of our hope that eventually, someday, some way, we'd bring a baby home. I'd go in there, occasionally, just to look around the room and picture how we'd set it up. It was a room that was fertile ground for daydreams and wishful thinking.
And then we agreed to take this bed and dresser from the out-laws. We need another bed, to be sure. My family lives halfway across the country, and between their visits and friends who spend the night, it'll get used. (Side note: I need to remember to put rubber sheets on that thing. One of our lovely friends occasionally spends the night because he doesn't drink and drive. Last summer he ruined our sweet. red. leather couch by peeing on it in his drunken stupor. Somehow, I love him anyway.) I always imagined, though, that we'd get some small daybed or futon and stuff it into our third bedroom/office (which is really not much bigger than a large closet). There is no way that queen sized bed will fit into the office - not if you want to be able to walk, too.
And so now, that queen sized mattress and boxspring and dresser sit in my dining room, because I cannot bear to haul them upstairs and say goodbye to my vision of us, as a family, filling that room with the sweet smells and sounds of babyhood. It feels like a betrayal of my hopeful self, but the reality is that I'm probably not pregnant now. And even if I were, I'd probably miscarry. Chances are, we have years left in our quest, because that is how long it's going to take to get our finances in order.
Hubby is so wonderful. I know he won't push me to get the bed together and the room established as a proper guest room until I'm good and ready to say goodbye to what could have been. And I suppose that is the one small light in all of this: I love him. I know how much he loves me, despite my faulty parts and bouts of tearfulness. That has to be enough, for now.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Happy ICLW!
I love ICLW. I haven't participated in a few months but I'm glad to be back, and looking forward to finding new blogs to add to my reader.
So, if you're new around here, this will give you a little introduction to my life. Right now, I am in the Two Week Wait: Femara Cycle #3/6, and feeling alternately hopeful/hopeless.
Thanks for stopping by.
So, if you're new around here, this will give you a little introduction to my life. Right now, I am in the Two Week Wait: Femara Cycle #3/6, and feeling alternately hopeful/hopeless.
Thanks for stopping by.
Monday, April 19, 2010
I'm like a bird
Our house was previously owned by a childless (oh my god. maybe the house is making me infertile!) older couple who gardened like it was their job.
Then, the husband got sick and died and the wife got dementia and let everything in the yard go to crap. We've been in the house almost 4 years now and it is a constant battle to keep invasive vegetation from taking over. I am not a gardener! I'm more a concrete jungle kind of gal, and I have absolutely no base knowledge of anything plant related. Seriously. I got The Idiot's Guide to Gardening and it's too fucking advanced for me. There are days when I stare out at the yard, in my gardening get-up, trying to figure out what the hell to do, and what tool to use to do it, and then I go inside and fix myself a nice cocktail. Or three.
Anyway, Hubby and I have this week off because we really need some time away from work, and we really really need to tackle some serious house projects, including the yard. (And what are we doing this fine morning? I'm writing and he's sleeping. Productive indeed.) He got started on Saturday while I was at work and took down a rotting, swaying pergola attached to our garage that had probably been up since the dawn of time.
I didn't know he was going to do it, and if I had, I probably would have convinced him not to. I know that it really needed to come down before it collapsed onto the dogs. I get it.
But it had become the perfect nesting place for some birds. They constructed a nest under the overhang from the garage. They made a home there last summer, and we watched them raise their babies and taunt our dogs, who really haven't figured out that they can't fly, and will never be able to jump high enough to snag a critter that can. And then the birds came back this year.
Hubby was worried because the thing was so damned rickety, and the dogs were trying to climb it to get to it's residents. So he took the pergola down, and the little nest with it.
There were two eggs in that nest.
And now the momma bird sits on my garage, staring at the spot where her nest used to be, looking for her soon to be babies. She makes me so sad, that poor little momma, because I get it. I know what it's like to do everything right, and lose your babies anyway.
Maybe I'm anthropomorphizing. Maybe I'm just looking for an excuse to avoid being outside and doing yardwork. But still, whenever I see her, my heart aches.
Then, the husband got sick and died and the wife got dementia and let everything in the yard go to crap. We've been in the house almost 4 years now and it is a constant battle to keep invasive vegetation from taking over. I am not a gardener! I'm more a concrete jungle kind of gal, and I have absolutely no base knowledge of anything plant related. Seriously. I got The Idiot's Guide to Gardening and it's too fucking advanced for me. There are days when I stare out at the yard, in my gardening get-up, trying to figure out what the hell to do, and what tool to use to do it, and then I go inside and fix myself a nice cocktail. Or three.
Anyway, Hubby and I have this week off because we really need some time away from work, and we really really need to tackle some serious house projects, including the yard. (And what are we doing this fine morning? I'm writing and he's sleeping. Productive indeed.) He got started on Saturday while I was at work and took down a rotting, swaying pergola attached to our garage that had probably been up since the dawn of time.
I didn't know he was going to do it, and if I had, I probably would have convinced him not to. I know that it really needed to come down before it collapsed onto the dogs. I get it.
But it had become the perfect nesting place for some birds. They constructed a nest under the overhang from the garage. They made a home there last summer, and we watched them raise their babies and taunt our dogs, who really haven't figured out that they can't fly, and will never be able to jump high enough to snag a critter that can. And then the birds came back this year.
Hubby was worried because the thing was so damned rickety, and the dogs were trying to climb it to get to it's residents. So he took the pergola down, and the little nest with it.
There were two eggs in that nest.
And now the momma bird sits on my garage, staring at the spot where her nest used to be, looking for her soon to be babies. She makes me so sad, that poor little momma, because I get it. I know what it's like to do everything right, and lose your babies anyway.
Maybe I'm anthropomorphizing. Maybe I'm just looking for an excuse to avoid being outside and doing yardwork. But still, whenever I see her, my heart aches.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
From the lushary....
I'm making my first visit to the lushary.
((Drinking a giant virtual black velvet and cherry coke. yum.))
Did you know that pain can be a good thing? Pain usually indicates that something is wrong, somewhere, and that something needs to be done.
My pain tolerance - physical, emotional, mental - is a bit on the high side.
I think the fact that I have survived seven miscarriages and I'm still trying proves it.
Need more proof? Well, settle in, have another drink, and I'll tell you a story.
In 2000, I was living the good life. I was working, dating a musician, about to graduate from college, partying as much as humanly possible. I was an athletic, active girl then, one who hadn't alienated half of her friends and who didn't cry every day. My boyfriend and I took up snowboarding that winter, and we became fanatics. After the yearly ski/snowboard trip we took with my friends, after just one lesson, we went out and purchased all of our own equipment and planned another trip, just the two of us.
So, the first morning of our trip, we decided to take another lesson. It went well - I seem to have a bit of a natural knack for snowboarding - and I decided that my nascent skills needed a test.
So I attempted a jump. Note the word "attempt." It did not go well, and I fell hard, but got up and continued to ride all day, despite the pain in my groin.
Fast forward two weeks. I was still in pain, and the thought occured to me that I might have more than a strained muscle. I'd go out for a jog and only manage three miles instead of six or seven.
So, off to the doctor I went. He sent me out for xrays. That night, I was out in a bar with some friends when my (giant! non-web-browsing!) cell phone rang.
It was my mom, telling me to get my ass home immediately. She had just spoken to my doctor, and that strained muscle? well, it was actually a fractured pelvis. As in, sit down, put your feet up and don't get drunk and stumble on your fractured pelvis.
I was a very lucky girl: lucky that all of my snowboarding (and falling on my black and blue butt) after the accident didn't cause the fracture to become a clean break. Lucky that nothing else went wrong in those two in-between weeks that I was jogging and partying and clubbing.
And very very lucky that I didn't go to the hospital when it first happened.
At my consult with an orthopedic doctor, I was informed that had I presented in an ER with that fracture, I probably would have been sent to surgery to be repaired, which would have meant immobilizing my left side and a long and painful recovery, which would have put a crimp in my two-job having, college attending, party all of the time style.
As it was, by the time the rads were taken, the fracture was starting to heal. All I had to do was rest as much as possible for another 8 weeks. No running or other strenuous activities. And I healed up just fine, no issues or complications.
I think I used up all of my medical luck on the wonder-pelvis.
((Drinking a giant virtual black velvet and cherry coke. yum.))
Did you know that pain can be a good thing? Pain usually indicates that something is wrong, somewhere, and that something needs to be done.
My pain tolerance - physical, emotional, mental - is a bit on the high side.
I think the fact that I have survived seven miscarriages and I'm still trying proves it.
Need more proof? Well, settle in, have another drink, and I'll tell you a story.
In 2000, I was living the good life. I was working, dating a musician, about to graduate from college, partying as much as humanly possible. I was an athletic, active girl then, one who hadn't alienated half of her friends and who didn't cry every day. My boyfriend and I took up snowboarding that winter, and we became fanatics. After the yearly ski/snowboard trip we took with my friends, after just one lesson, we went out and purchased all of our own equipment and planned another trip, just the two of us.
So, the first morning of our trip, we decided to take another lesson. It went well - I seem to have a bit of a natural knack for snowboarding - and I decided that my nascent skills needed a test.
So I attempted a jump. Note the word "attempt." It did not go well, and I fell hard, but got up and continued to ride all day, despite the pain in my groin.
Fast forward two weeks. I was still in pain, and the thought occured to me that I might have more than a strained muscle. I'd go out for a jog and only manage three miles instead of six or seven.
So, off to the doctor I went. He sent me out for xrays. That night, I was out in a bar with some friends when my (giant! non-web-browsing!) cell phone rang.
It was my mom, telling me to get my ass home immediately. She had just spoken to my doctor, and that strained muscle? well, it was actually a fractured pelvis. As in, sit down, put your feet up and don't get drunk and stumble on your fractured pelvis.
I was a very lucky girl: lucky that all of my snowboarding (and falling on my black and blue butt) after the accident didn't cause the fracture to become a clean break. Lucky that nothing else went wrong in those two in-between weeks that I was jogging and partying and clubbing.
And very very lucky that I didn't go to the hospital when it first happened.
At my consult with an orthopedic doctor, I was informed that had I presented in an ER with that fracture, I probably would have been sent to surgery to be repaired, which would have meant immobilizing my left side and a long and painful recovery, which would have put a crimp in my two-job having, college attending, party all of the time style.
As it was, by the time the rads were taken, the fracture was starting to heal. All I had to do was rest as much as possible for another 8 weeks. No running or other strenuous activities. And I healed up just fine, no issues or complications.
I think I used up all of my medical luck on the wonder-pelvis.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
mirror image
To recap: I work with my friend A, who is best friends with M, who just had a baby this weekend.
Yesterday was a strange work day for me. I felt disjointed and out-of-place, like I had woken up in some alternate universe. A was aflutter over the recent birth of M's baby girl, and was spilling details left and right about the whole process. My office was transformed from a somewhat baby-hostile environment into motherfucking baby land.
I've spouted off many times before about how when someone I know has a baby, as is true for many of us dead-baby mamas, I'm sure, I am sent into a tailspin of self-destructive and self-pitying thoughts. It's an ugly place to be, and it makes me feel like an ugly person: selfish, locked so deep in my prison of grief that I cannot even muster a smile or a "Congratulations" to welcome the miracle of a new life.
Yesterday was different though.
I watched A, radiatinghappiness pure joy for her friend. I saw how she loved the hell out of this new baby, this newly expanded family.
And suddenly, it wasn't M and her healthy-baby-popping-out abilities that turned me green. A, and her I-don't-have-a-kid-and-I-don't-care vibe shocked me. I wanted to be her.
I could have been her, before my utesaurus started eating babies. I could have gone grocery shopping for the new parents on my break. I could have spoken with pride and joy about the birth of my best friend's child. I could have been there for every pregnancy milestone. Seeing A act with such concern and kindness was like watching myself in a mirror to some weird opposite land, where babies don't die, and people don't break up with their friends when they reproduce.
My oh my how RPL can change a gal.
Yesterday was a strange work day for me. I felt disjointed and out-of-place, like I had woken up in some alternate universe. A was aflutter over the recent birth of M's baby girl, and was spilling details left and right about the whole process. My office was transformed from a somewhat baby-hostile environment into motherfucking baby land.
I've spouted off many times before about how when someone I know has a baby, as is true for many of us dead-baby mamas, I'm sure, I am sent into a tailspin of self-destructive and self-pitying thoughts. It's an ugly place to be, and it makes me feel like an ugly person: selfish, locked so deep in my prison of grief that I cannot even muster a smile or a "Congratulations" to welcome the miracle of a new life.
Yesterday was different though.
I watched A, radiating
And suddenly, it wasn't M and her healthy-baby-popping-out abilities that turned me green. A, and her I-don't-have-a-kid-and-I-don't-care vibe shocked me. I wanted to be her.
I could have been her, before my utesaurus started eating babies. I could have gone grocery shopping for the new parents on my break. I could have spoken with pride and joy about the birth of my best friend's child. I could have been there for every pregnancy milestone. Seeing A act with such concern and kindness was like watching myself in a mirror to some weird opposite land, where babies don't die, and people don't break up with their friends when they reproduce.
My oh my how RPL can change a gal.
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