Stalker

I am stalking Clear Blue Easy fertility monitors on eB*y.

Because I need a new strategy.

The no chart way is working well for my sanity but not for the Summer of {DIY} Love. Is is Labor Day already?

This cycle I used OPKs for many days in a row and always got the same pale blue second line. I gave up on CD 15 or 16. I don’t think I even ovulated this month. My body does this after a stressful spate of work and travel. It pisses me off but I think it is my body just asserting herself.

I don’t know, she says, hand on hip. How do you expect me to pump an egg out of your old ass when you work for, like, four weeks straight through with barely any exercise while subsisting on lunches of chocolate kisses and Clif Bars? And let’s not even bring up ALL that stress about your job ending. Yes, your job is ending! We all KNOW that. My goodness, when can we just get on with being normal again?

See, while I am kind-of-sorta on a “break,” it is more a break from having my whole existence revolve around my fertility. I just want to go to yoga, run, not swallow nasty herbal tea twice daily, not shell out a hundi every 2 weeks for acupuncture, thus not raise my hopes that this month I might get pregnant naturally (shocker!). But I still want to be cognizant that Cowboy and I are at least giving it a shot.

Gross, I just realized what I wrote. No pun intended.

It is like I am in this weird, quasi-limbo of IF-land.

Is it denial that we have an issue, hence the new-to-me monitor?

Is it impatience with this process? And why do I accuse myself of impatience when plenty of others I know – both older and younger than me – get pregnant so easily?

Or is it that I am done and I am ready to move on to the next step? And deciding, really deciding, on what that next step may be? I may talk all tough about going straight to adoption but I am scared. to. death to take on the cost of IVF w/ PGD with no guaranteed outcome.

And, lastly, is it acceptable to take a prenatal vitamin with a slug of red wine?

Many thanks to Liz at Missed Conceptions and Amy at So When Will You Have Kids? - 2 of my favorite daily reads - for nominating That Was the Plan for a Rockin' Girl Blogger award.

I always wanted to rock. Seriously. My younger sister was the cool, alternative rocker girl in high school. If we didn't live on different continents, I would still be stealing her clothes.

Instead, I've always been, hmm, much more

this.

But - at least for today - I rock!

And so do you:

Von at Murphy is a Bastard. Von has an amazing gift for articulating the emotional rollercoaster of IF via a carefully-cultivated collection of photos, poems and quotes that always give me a moment of peace and comfort.

Erin at The Vicious Cycle of Cycles. Erin is hilarious. Her posts and comments have an amazing combination of thoughtful honesty and delightfully-wicked humor. She once singlehandedly brought me out of a funk by commenting that has there is child out there somewhere for parents who met in a strip club.

The Oneliner was one of the first bloggers I read when I found this wonderful invention that is infertility blogs. Her posts are smart and sassy - just like I imagine she is. Though she is a veteran now, she started her blog kind of early in her journey, hence her archives are a must-read for anyone just starting to deal with this.

Carrie at Precious Little... poignantly writes about how she is emotionally dealing with her infertility struggle. Her posts reveal the awesome sense of fear we often face along with the quiet courage that helps us pick up the pieces and keeping going on with life and TTC.

Sarah & Andy at Sarah & Andy Go to Kaz*. After a failed IVF and lots of years struggling to start a family, this couple is currently experiencing insta-family as they internationally adopt a young brother and sister. Their blog gives me hope and a glimpse of what may be our path to parenthood.

*Unfortunately, their blog is password protected for the moment as they are - at this very minute - going through the final phases of their adoption and need to keep things on the down low as they go through the final waiting period. But, trust me, their blog rocks.

There are many other blogs that I love to read and connect with on a daily basis. If I leave comments on your blog, then you know who you are. I also noticed that some of you also received RGBs from other readers so I wanted to spread the love.

For those of you duly mentioned, go forth with your rockin-ness and nominate others. Because it feels kind of good to get a nod.

Oh No She Di' int

We went to the wedding of one of my very good friends from b-school and his darling bride on Saturday. It was a mini-reunion of sorts, as he is the kind of person who stayed in touch with a good many of our classmates. I, for one, was ready to celebrate.

Hair done up, channeling Audrey as Holly in the famous movie featuring an equally famous jewelry store, I was determined to make this a night of happiness. I feel so full of sadness and disappointment lately. I didn’t want to bring my baggage into the wonderful night of a lovely couple and their lovely ceremony. I was so over myself.

The wedding was a bit modern with a cocktail reception pre-func before exchanging vows. My second good friend in our triumvirate gal pals was there, too. She started TTC in July. In fact, I gave her my copy of How to Get Pregnant Fast (Naturally) a few months ago thinking I was being so helpful and all.

I haven’t seen her since a coffee date in July when she announced that she was, at that very moment, ovulating and that they had done the deed three days in a row. Ick.

I froze then and I froze again last night when she was freaking sipping on water at the cocktail reception.

My pregnancy radar went off.

Her excuse was that she didn’t want to drink while they were still trying. I get that. I didn’t drink for months when we first started TTC. I told her was sorry that it didn’t work out for her this time and by the look on her face after I made the comment, I just knew.

I get it. It is your pregnancy. Own it. Don’t let others force you to take it in a direction you aren’t ready to go. Like telling someone you are pregnant in the middle of a wedding reception filled with dozens of classmates.

So I would have left it at that. But then she had to say that she was “a little bit past the two week wait and I’ll leave it at that.” And if she has any announcements to make, she will be ready to do so when we have lunch at the third friend’s house in early October.

I went numb.

So much for my glorious night.

It wasn’t so much that I am bummed she is pregnant. I was just so hurt that she wanted me to play a part in her fantasy pregnancy announcement to her dearest friends. Over an intimate lunch. Just the three of us. And the other friend’s new baby. And the stupid smile plastered on my face hiding the bitter lump in my throat.

What disturbs me, too, is that this is the friend with whom I have shared some of my deepest, saddest thoughts with after both of my miscarriages. She’s been there for me. I should be happy for her. What’s wrong with me? I wouldn’t wish infertility on anyone, but why can’t I get it out of my brain that this is so not fair. Why can’t I be the one blessed with a baby? Why is it easy for virtually everyone around me? Just not me.

She says she has prayed for me and thinks of me often. And I believe her. But if she thinks I am going to be party to a public announcement after which I will wind up sobbing in my car on the way home, then once again, I’ve been let down by yet another friend who claims to understand what I am going through. But who very clearly doesn’t.

I HATE what not being able to have a baby has done to me. I absolutely hate the mixture of emotions that course through my soul at this moment. I can barely write this without seething at myself.

Then I detach. I go through the motions. I smile brightly through the wedding reception. I give her a hug. But I can barely look her in the eye. And I hate myself for that, too.

I have never been so thankful that I splurged on an up do for the occasion because at least I had fantastic looking hair that night.

The next day Cowboy asks me if I am upset. I lie and say no. Later on, he asks me if her husband is going to quit his job and stay home to take care of the baby. I say I don’t know.

The sad thing is that she is my friend but I don’t care to know. Because I just can’t care right now.

I’m afraid of the thoughts I might uncover if I think about it too much.

Left Behind

I have the acute feeling lately that I am being left behind.

It all sounds very melancholy and woe-is-me. Suffice it to say that this feeling – the one of being left behind – is not my style. I hate it, actually.

It’s not that I always have to run with the pack. That’s never been my style either. I’ve always felt like a bit of an outsider, even in the most tightly-knit groups.

Call it taking the long way. Or my own way. Whatever.

But standing still is not my gig.

I just completed a big work project. One of my last. Several of my old colleagues and new employees were involved in the project. I realized at its completion, that these people were forging ahead with new adventures, new lives, new jobs, new homes. And I was not.

Not that I wanted to be establishing a new life in that new location. But at least their lives had momentum. Mine feels like I’ve slammed on the brakes.

Same goes – and please, please forgive me for these sentiments, but this is a place to get out my feelings – with all of the BFPs. I do not begrudge anyone their success. God knows, there has been enough suffering and this good news is so hard won and so deserved. But each one represents the gift of forward progress. Actual, physical and emotional forward progress.

The same with the Cyclesisters out there. I cheer for you. I have my fingers crossed. I send positive thoughts your way. But I am a small person because I am a little bit jealous because at least you are doing something.

And all of a sudden, this blog, which was my safe place, is also making me feel left behind.

Left behind because we are just trying naturally. Again. For the 16th, 17th, 18th, 19th, 20th cycle. Rinse. Repeat. It is becoming clear I don’t have any momentum here either. And even once we get to the result of that 20th cycle in October, there is no plan as to what to do next. We agreed to discuss it when we got there.

I admire and am incredulous that there are folks out there who are in this revolving door with no acceptable exit for 5 or 6+ years. I couldn’t, I can’t do it. I so wish I could be that strong.

Instead, what I need is a break. A break from the acupuncture, the herbs, the TCM diet, the meditation and the no-rigorous-exercise ban. I’ve been trying it this way religiously for 6 months. If it hasn’t worked by now, I’m betting it isn’t going to.

I don’t know if this is giving up or just acceptance. I believe that it doesn’t matter what I do. I can’t expect that this is going to happen naturally for us. Or at all, for that matter. We’ll still be parents someday but it just won’t involve me getting pregnant.

If I can’t move forward, then I might as well go back. Back to important parts of my old life. This new one, quite frankly, blows.

My old life is the one where I took as many yoga classes a week as I wanted. And weighed 10 pounds less. And could run whenever I wanted. And wasn’t sad all the time, because I had faith that I was healthy and that this was something we could do.

There will be new things in my "old" life. Like contract marketing jobs where I can work from home. With my dog asleep under my feet. Keeping them warm because my kidney yang will re-surface and they’ll get cold all the time again. And being able to practice yoga whenever I want. And skiing on a good powder day, even if it happens to be Tuesday. And being so much closer to Cowboy after all of this.

Does going back (even a little bit) ever equal forward progress?

Investment Strategy

Driving home from the lake yesterday, Cowboy and I discussed where we were going to “put” my retention bonus. Retention bonus. Sounds like an oxymoron to me.

Cowboy is a commercial financier. From Texas. I have learned in our marriage that these things to him are as essential, as natural and as unemotionally discussed as if we were deciding what to have for dinner.

Too bad housing prices haven’t dropped much around here, he said. We could use it as a down payment on a rental.

How about we invest it in an adoption, I said.

Well, darlin’, that’s not really an investment. (Duh. We went to the same b school).

Yes it is. An investment in my sanity.

About that job thing

They packed up our office today.

I worked right through it. A lot of people, well, the people who haven’t moved on or haven’t moved to the new state where my company is setting up shop, left for the day. I worked at my desk with its gorgeous view of the Willamette River and Forest Park and tried to ignore the movers.

It has been almost a year since the governor of another Western state stopped into our booth at a trade show and announced, "Welcome to (insert state here)!"

Those of us who witnessed it had to keep our mouths from dropping open.

We’d been told in June of 2006 that our company, which was purchased by a new parent firm in 2005, was staying in our hometown.

The official announcement of our company moving did not come until Friday, Oct. 13. The day before the business section ran a front page story announcing the decision. And the day before I received our first BFP.

We all worked and waited diligently for the next month, wondering who would get move packages, what would they look like, when would the move happen, what would the severance packages be? It didn’t help that it was our busy season. After weeks of anxiety, we were worked in more ways than one.

I had BIG things on my mind. I didn’t breathe a word of my news to anyone in the office. My company is great. It is very family-friendly. If, by family-friendly, you mean that you are guy with young children and a cute stay-at-home wife. In sales and marketing, where I work, there are exactly two working moms. There were a lot of women during my six year tenure who became mothers. They just no longer work there.

I was petrified that they would put me on the severance package track if they learned of my news. That they would make my decision for me. Not that I wanted to move. But it mattered that I was invited to go.

At one time this job was my dream job. It is in sports. Very cool sports. A vocation that is as much about lifestyle as anything else. I couldn’t believe I had landed such a sweet gig right out of graduate school. More times than I care to admit, I put this job before everything else. Once, while on a flight to Europe, we started counting how many weekends we had worked that year. We had to stop at April because it started to make us bitter.

It was demanding and challenging and – more often than not – beyond fun. Until this whole move thing happened. And then it got all fucked up.

A month later, you are sitting in your boss’ office. The door is closed. He has been meeting personally with your whole department, one-by-one, all day long. It’s 5 o’clock on a Tuesday. It is dark out. He is glassy-eyed. You wonder if he is stoned. Or just holding back tears.

He is talking about how they haven’t made any decisions about what the marketing department will look like in the new structure. How they want to keep you in the organization. But they have no offer to give yet. He is sorry. He knows this has been a tough time for everyone.

You don’t really hear much, because you are having deep, painful cramps.

The day before you had gone to your first pregnant lady appointment. The OB asked how you were feeling. Cheerily you said, fine. "Sometimes I don’t even feel like I am pregnant."

With that she pulled out the dildo-cam. Junior was measuring small for the gestation period. At that moment, you have no idea how bad that is. What that means. She chalks it up to a last-menstrual-period calculation error. You told her you chart. You use OPKs. Your chart dates are spot on. She shrugs and orders a more powerful ultrasound for the following week.

And now you are cramping. In a chair. In your boss’ office. With your back to the river. And it is taking all that you have not to cry. To smile. To say it is okay, you are patient. You understand that these things take time. December for a definitive answer on your role in the new organization? Before Christmas? Sounds great. Thank you for explaining the situation so thoroughly.

You walk back to your desk. Calmly tuck the cell phone into your pocket. You walk quickly to the bathroom. There is red.

You take a free tampon from the dispenser in the women’s room. You wash your hands. Still you are not crying lest someone walks into the bathroom. You work in an office with mostly guys. In sports. Beyond everything, you do not cry in the office. Instead, you dash into the stairwell across the hall and call Cowboy.

I don’t have a move offer. No, I don’t have a severance package either.

When will you know.

I think I am miscarrying. (Begin crying.)

Hang up the phone, your husband says, and get home now.

Later that night you lay in bed cramping. And bleeding. And crying quietly so you don’t wake your husband. You don’t take aspirin or Advil for the pain because you are, after all, pregnant. But you know. Though they haven’t said it, you feel like you have lost your job. And though they haven’t confirmed it, you are pretty certain you are losing your baby, too.

In 3 days the cramps and bleeding stop. You go to work every day. You take Advil now to control the pain.

Four more cycles, Christmas, New Year’s, a month where you are home for only four days out of 30 and Valentine’s Day go by before you receive word of a promotion, a new job and a move package.

By then, you don’t really care anymore.

And so you elect not to get on the bus going to the new state. A majority of your colleagues decide the same. A new regime. A new mission. You stop getting meeting requests for next year’s planning sessions.

It feels awkward. You could leave. But the retention bonus and severance package are good. And, by the time it starts to really suck, you feel that you have earned every bit of them.

After the movers left. I walked around the empty office. The framed magazine covers of athletes are packed. All of the products scattered around that I write marketing plans for are gone, too.

I start to cry. But it is OK this time. Because no one is around to see me.

You're Bhutan!

With the body of a gnat and the mind of a dragon, you are a bundle of energy. You enjoy mountain-climbing, rock-climbing, stair-climbing, pretty much any kind of climbing you can manage. This has lifted you into the clouds in more than one way, helping you achieve some inner peace above the fray of madness all around you. People would seek you out for advice if they could ever find you.

# # #

This is a lame post after being gone and not posting all last week.

Both Cowboy and I enjoy mountain climbing, as long as we can ski or ride down. I loathe down climbing. And I freaking love rock climbing. Oh yeah, I am majorly short.

Wanna hear something funny. When I answered the question about temperature saying that I like it hot, (I like it hot but I like snow just as much) and followed the line of questioning from there my country was . . . Texas.

Hysterical.

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