Is This Thing On?

It's been awhile since my last post.  A long while.  If you read blogs regularly, you'll find that most of them have a stopping point. 

I think that stopping point mirrors our lives. It's tough to blog about your life when you can't figure out what to say.   For the past six months, I haven't had much to say to anyone about anything of substance. 

My social media outlets light up with posts on the gym and pictures of our pets.  I'll chat up my neighbor about the weather.  Sometimes text a friend about a new beauty product.  Surface communication. Beyond that, I don't have much to say.

I hurt.  Every day.  Some days more than others.  I'm not sure how to express it. How to talk about it.  If I should talk about it anymore, and who would even want to listen.

Since our last round of treatment this summer, we have not scheduled any additional appointments.  It's simply too much.  The flimsy and failed connections with potential birthmothers, the negative test results, the list of diagnoses, the failed treatments, the side effects from all of the medication.  The loss of hope.  It's taken a huge toll and we need time to heal.

I hurt.  We hurt.  Our world has shrunk and we feel often feel alone.  I don't place any blame on our loved ones.  We're sad.  And tired.  And trying really hard not to be either.  Conversation often feels forced and neither one of us are exactly the life of the party right now. 

But the alone goes deeper than that.  I feel left out of major life milestones. Milestones that most people take for granted.  Some big.  Some small.  All losses.  Experiencing pregnancy and birth. Birth announcements.  Watching my father  become a grandfather.   Holding a child that is a part of so many who have come before them.  And more, many more.  So many losses. 

All unrecognized.

All this loss and grief woven into the fabric of daily life takes a toll.  When I look at old pictures, I marvel at the brave and cheerful face mugging for the camera.  So playful, full of life and outgoing.  Everyone's cheerleader.  I miss that girl.  There are glimpses of her now and then and it's a welcome relief.  But she's been hit hard by life lately and has no capacity to even begin to explain the impact.

So , here I am.  Hurting and trying to find a way to talk about it. 

The Giant Time Out

7/14/13

We came here in search of solace.  Shelter from the storm of infertility.  Another failed treatment and another dent in the dream.  So, we packed up and ran away to a beach town.  In a tiny and cheerful little cottage, the grief seemed far away.  It was still there, but quieter.  Not as tangible.

Unknowingly, we returned to a place that was a happy highlight of my childhood.  I took more than small comfort in the warm memories and sense of nostalgia that they evoked.  It was a lovely novelty to have no plans, no appointments, nothing to do.  Four lovely days to fill as we pleased.

Our little family desperately needed this time out from the emotional rollercoaster we’d been riding. 

Even the dogs seem happier here. 

We just need to be and that’s all we’ve done.  Lots of sleeping in a luxurious king size bed.  Lots of lying  around and reading.  No TV, no phone or internet.  Just us.  Just stopping to be fully in the moment and taking joy wherever we could find it.

Wandering the shoreline and dipping our feet in the lake, mixing cocktails in the middle of the day…snacking, napping, playing in the yard with the dogs, farmer’s markets, walks to the ice cream shop and the novelty of meandering up and down the little highway that connects this string of tiny towns.

Stopping wherever we please and sampling the local delights.  Exploring and discovering delicious food and beautiful scenery.  The simple pleasures and charm of a summer beach town are balm for our wounds.

I like to think of this trip as the Giant Time Out.  A chance to be still and even silent.  To quietly reconnect with each other.  No expectations, no planning, no pressure.  A rare chance to just be.

In this silence, I am reminded of how very much we have to be thankful for.  My marriage and my life is rooted in love.  I am blessed beyond measure by the sheer amount of love in my life.  I find myself overwhelmed by the generous and compassionate souls that travel in and out of my life. As I pause and reflect, I am stunned by how very lucky I am.  After three years of feeling unlucky, this is like an elixir for my soul. 

It’s the beginning of healing, of acceptance and a small step away from grieving.

A very wise woman once gave me a mantra, “accept your life as is”.  Such a simple phrase and so powerful at the same time.  Once you focus on this concept, there is no turning back.

As I reap the rewards of the Giant Time Out, I’m slowly beginning to breathe again.

Now, more than ever, I think I’ve arrived at the end of this infertility journey.  For me, the road may end here.  No more treatments, no more false hopes and emotional rollercoaster rides.  I have other dreams to chase.  There are other avenues to explore and stories to write.

I think it may be time to fully accept my life as is- rooted deeply in love with laughter, and even some luck.

The Crooked Path

I’m a linear person, borderline OCD about organizing things.  I like to plan and research.  Data is fascinating to me.  The majority of my writing happens in the form of elaborate to do lists- grouped by themes and timelines.

In my professional life, I am a teacher and technical writer.  I literally get paid to organize text and people.  In my private life, I often wield a label maker and lament the fact that we have junk drawers.

I’m not great with ambiguity.  Even when I’m relying on my ‘gut feeling’ or ‘following my heart’, there’s always a plan brewing in the back of my brain.

Ironically, I’ve spent the past few years without a clear, linear plan. Living in the land of infertility is not exactly a vacation for anyone, but I think it’s particularly taxing for the ‘planner personality’.

This month marks our third year traveling along the crooked path of infertility. So far, our journey has included more meetings doctors, specialists, tests and co-pays than I can count.  We’ve racked up multiple diagnoses along the way.  Researching options and running data has become second nature to me.  At times, we’ve strained our patience, our budget and even our sanity. I’ve walked away and then come back again.

You would think over 36 months, your tolerance would grow.  You would learn to- if not embrace, then at least tolerate the bumps in the road.  Gain perspective.   Sometimes that works.  Often it doesn’t.  And every once in a while hope bubbles up and sends things spiraling out of control all over again.

Last month, the hubs and I met with a new reproductive endocrinologist.  I wanted to see if we had any new options now that the celiac & autoimmune disease were being managed.

What a difference a year makes!  This doctor was wonderful. 

 Picture a calm, older fellow sporting yellow Crocs and a big smile.  Add in a thick Swedish accent and a contagious chortling laugh.  It was obvious why his staff and patients all adored him.

He kindly tackled my 6 pages of notes without even blinking.  He was respectful and in accordance with my concerns about medications and side effects.  We came up with a practical plan to run some additional tests and repeat some others.  This would give us current data to make decisions with- did I mention how much I love data?  I knew we were in the right place.

As we left the appointment, I was so ebullient I was practically skipping.  My heart had committed to this process and my mind knew that this made sense.  Over a celebratory lunch that afternoon, we even had a long awaited update on a potential birthmother.  She was still a long shot, but we had more information and hoped to hear from her or her family very soon.

Giddy from all the good news, we toasted each other and dared to daydream out loud about what life with two new people would be like.  No detail was too small to relish and we talked about everything from birthday parties to schools to camping trips.  We drove home holding hands with hope in our hearts.

Over the next few weeks, I squeezed in tests and collected more data. Hoped. Daydreamed. Waited.  And then it all came crashing down. You know that saying ‘what goes up, must come down’?  May was the month it all came down. 

With about 3 ½ weeks left until her due date, we have not heard a peep from this potential birthmother. Her family has never contacted us and I don’t think they will.  She is young and in crisis and I wish her well on her journey.  This was a long shot at best, but it was still an avenue for hope.

And after weeks of butting heads, the hubs abruptly decided to back out of fertility treatments. 

Over the past few days, we’ve had some long and insightful conversations. I’m very grateful for the chance to connect with him and hear where his heart is leading him.  It seems he has already made peace with moving forward and living child free.  Not only has he made peace with it, it seems the most likely outcome to him.  From a practical point of view, he doesn’t think that we will be parents.  It bothers him to put so much energy and emotion into something that won’t have a good outcome.

With love and time and space, we will find our way.  We’ll keep walking down this crooked path- often together, sometimes apart, until we reach the same stopping point.  It will (eventually) be ok, because it has to be.  In one way or another, we will both find peace.

At the beginning of the year, I wrote about my intention for peace.  Sometimes, the gift of peace comes to us in small, unremarkable moments.  Tonight, I had a giant piece of chocolate cake and breezed through a series of social media updates about mother’s day…smiling babies, birth announcements, tributes to moms and to motherhood- it was all there.

I took my time with the cake, pausing to lick the extra frosting off my fork.  I eyeballed all the happy families with surprisingly little reaction.  This many years in and some things are just not as hard as they used to be. 

Last year, I spent mother’s day alone- miserable and hiding from the world.  This year, I went grocery shopping and took my dogs for a run by the lake.  It felt like any other sunny, spring Sunday.  I am thankful for the respite. For a small slice of peace.

I’ve learned so many (too many?) things about infertility over the past 3 years.  The greatest lesson has been how to co-exist with pain.  Heartbreaking, breathless, aching pain.  Not only how to co-exist with it, but how to thrive in spite of it. 

One of my very favorite songs has a lyric that has also become my mantra. “The darkness has a hunger that’s insatiable and the lightness has a call that’s hard to hear”.  It’s simple, beautiful and true.  As I continue on this crooked path, I  willfully choose to acknowledge the darkness but listen carefully for lightness. It's always there.  Sometimes hidden.  But always, always there. 

Peace Be With You

Although I don't practice any particular religion, I grew up surrounded by my father's classic Italian-Catholic clan. In fact, my sister and I are the only ones in our whole family who did not go to Catholic school.  I'm not just talking the usual K-12 here.  College and Grad School too.  I then married into a good old fashioned South Side Irish Catholic family.
 
I'm now related to nuns and actual priests- on both sides!

I have never been baptized and I don't consider myself Catholic, but I've been to mass.  A lot of mass.  I actually love going to mass.  I have very happy memories of time spent there with my grandmother, my father and many other dear family members. 

There are many things to like about the service. The pageantry of the church is beautiful.  A good homily is riveting  and forces you to pause and reflect on your actions.  The communion line is some of the best people watching around.  But best of all is the moment when everyone stands up and offers peace to the other members of the congregation.

I absolutely adore the Sign of Peace. (and yes, I called a Catholic cousin to fact check the name)

Although the practice varies a bit from parish to parish, the basic exchange is always the same.  A handshake or touch on the shoulder.  One person says, "Peace be with you."   The other replies, "And also with you."  Some people simply smile and whisper, "Peace."  When my family attends mass together, we often offer each other hugs and kisses as we invoke peace.

From the time I was a small child, I have been captivated by this moment.  An entire room full of people wishing each other peace.  And responding in kind. Many of them are strangers. 
 
So simple.  So powerful.  So good.

In this new year, I find myself again enamored with peace.  In 2013, I'll be focused on peace and the many different ways that peace can encompass our lives.  Maybe this means making amends with a loved one or walking away from a conflict.  Maybe it means accepting something as is or treating a difficult person with kindness.  Maybe it means allowing things to unfold in their own way, without influence from our personal wants and desires.   Maybe it means just being still and loving yourself.

The many ways that peace can play a role in our lives is powerful, instructive and even  healing.

So, as you begin a new journey into a fresh year, peace be with you. 

What She Said...

I'm on vacation and happily reading, reading, reading my little heart out.  I stumbled across this blog along the way and needed to share it.  What a relief to find someone who was able to put this into words!

I've pasted excerpts from the original post and highlighted my favorite parts.   To learn more about the author, or to read the entire post in the original format, please click the link at the end of the article.  Happy reading!

What We Wish You Knew: Supporting Loved Ones in Infertility

"The first thing that is tantamount to understanding the broken heart of an infertile couple is realizing that infertility is a loss and a death that needs to be grieved. It is often the loss of a lifelong dream. It is the loss of what could have been and for couples who choose not to pursue other methods, it is the loss of legacy of children, grandchildren and many many memories.

Because this is a grieving process, there is no way to rush through, around or over it. Your patience and grace will be of unending value to the couple grieving. And just like every other grief process, it will cycle. There are stages of acceptance, anger, devastation, sadness, hope, loneliness, despair and ambivalence. There is no "getting over it" and it is a gut wrenching, emotionally consuming process that everyone goes through differently.

With that background, here are a few well-intentioned quips that are meant to be helpful, but are often times very painful. We all know in our heads that these are well intentioned, sincere, and borne out of a desire to help, but depending on where we are in our grief cycle, our hurt hearts can overrule our heads and we can lash out or bury that bur and carry it for a long time.

Have you considered adoption?
Without question, this is the most common thing said to us. I would wager a guess that any infertile couple you would encounter is aware of the existence of adoption without it being suggested. Some couples may get there, but the decision is a very personal, difficult one, and is not answered out of a desire to "replace" or "substitute" a biological child. There are a couple issues at play.

I have lost my dream of ever giving birth to a precious angel with my husband's eyes and my grandma's smile, and no child conceived of another will ever mend that ache. That particular part of my heart will never be full. Just as you would never say to a grieving spouse "Why don't you just marry someone else?" the proposition to an infertile couple that they "just" adopt, is rarely helpful.

Unfortunately however, the world often portrays it that way. Many couples only turn to adoption after their biological road has ended and this is unfortunate but at the end of the day, I think most stable Americans should at least consider adoption because there are far more children in need of homes than there are parents willing to love them. I completely agree that not every couple is called to adopt, but that question should not be contingent on biological reproductive ability anyway. The bottom line is that the question could easily be asked of you (the fertile), "Why don't youadopt?" and the question would be equally awkward, biology aside. The decision to adopt a child hinges on so much more than biological capacity or lack thereof.


Relax. It will happen when it happens.
This is probably one of the most nonsensical approaches I've heard and unfortunately, it's the second most common thing we hear. While it is true that stress may be a factor in someinfertility cases, and it's true that stress can compound any other problem, a large number of infertile couples suffer from true medical malfunctions that require treatment. Relaxing won't cure cancer or the flu, and it won't cure infertility.

Additionally, infertility often presents interpersonal challenges between the spouses and with their friends and family. They're probably doing their very best to navigate the emotional waters as best they can while still keeping their relationship in tact. This journey is stressful, painful, and tiring. Telling them to "relax" is as futile as telling a two year old to sit still, or a grieving spouse to stop missing his beloved.

Lastly, telling a couple to relax implies that their infertility to that point has been their fault and if they would just keep their emotions in check and settle down, everything would be fine. Infertility is not earned or deserved though sometimes I confess that if I had a "reason" for having this cross to bear, it might make it a little easier.

We also know that we don't want you to be able to understand this grief first hand. I don't know of any infertile couple who would wish this cross on anyone else. So in that regard, we are glad when our loved ones can't or don't understand because they have been spared this pain.

But that doesn't always make the loneliness that accompanies this journey any more bearable. Know that we love and appreciate you, and we appreciate your grace and patience as we do our best to show you that when our hearts are trying to get the better of us. "

http://blessedarethebarren.blogspot.com/2007/12/what-we-wish-you-knew-supporting-loved.html?m=1

This Shit is Hard.

Here's the thing- You never really walk away from infertility.  It's a loss and a grief that you will carry with you the rest of your life.  It changes you forever.  There are no easy answers and there are no perfect outcomes.  To deny that minimizes your journey.

The hubs and I have decided to move on and aggressively pursue adopting an older child.  We are signed up for parenting classes and working on what we'll need to do to pass a home study.  We are also thinking about seeking a second opinion with a new Reproductive Endocrinologist.  We're also thinking about throwing up our hands and walking away from the whole damn thing- for good.   Or becoming foster parents.  Sometimes, we're thinking about all of these options and changing our mind in the course of a day or even an hour. 

Clearly, there is no instruction manual for this kind of thing.

In the process, we are simply driving our friends and family members crazy.  Thinking out loud.  Announcing that we are pursuing one path, only to retract our decision later.  These lovely, lovely people root and cheer for us the whole way through.  If they have even half as much battle fatigue as we do, their kindness is nothing short of a miracle.   They love us and just want us to be happy.  The problem is that we're not even sure anymore what will make us happy.

Did I mention that this shit is hard?

Recently, I find myself reluctant to talk about it with our loved ones. Or I feel bad when I do bring it up.   I sense that this is becoming too much.  It's gone on for too long.  The back and forth and wheel spinning is exhausting.  There are other things happening in the world and our quest to have children is starting to become more than a little self involved.  It's tough.  I need support.  We need support.  We and the loved ones in our life also need resolution .

It's hard to resolve when you are still working things out.  The grief goes on and on.  Choices, choices everywhere and sometimes you're just too damn overwhelmed /tired/sad/angry to pick one.  But the whole time, you feel an urgent need to decide, to 'move on',  to solve the situation.  I know I need to accept this new normal and understand that the course of my life will be different. 

Historically, this is not a strength of mine. 

When my parents divorced, I was a junior in high school.  For many, many years after that I spent a lot of time mentally dividing my life up into the "before" and "after" of the divorce.  It took me almost a decade to process the grief of my nuclear family changing and ending.  To accept the new normal and understand that the course of my life would be different.  Not bad, just different.  For a long, long time- I was unable to truly accept it.  I had a very happy childhood and it ended when my parents split.  It was  surreal - almost as if that whole life before ceased to exist.  I literally ached and mourned for my "before" life.  

I was homesick for something that no longer existed.  A home I could not return home to. 

Lately, I'm struck by how much my reaction to infertility mirrors that divorce journey.  Deep, deep grief.  The death of a dream and a huge change in the course of my life- one I did not ask for.  I've been angry and sad and felt hopeless.   And that same nagging feeling of being homesick for a space or place you can never return to. 

The grief is the thing.  You can't shop it away.  You can't run it away.  Or wish it away. Or sleep it away.  There is no escape.  Trust me.  I've tried.  Very hard. 

Without fail, the grief returns.  And it's exhausting.

It makes you want to leave a giant out of office message to the world.  One that will give you the space and energy to begin to process this experience.  To mourn your losses and assess your choices.

Just when it feels like the whole world should come to a screeching  halt, life moves on.  In the time we're been on this road,  the loved ones in our life have married, had multiple children, moved across the country.  They've graduated from college and gone off into the world.  They have tried new jobs and some even have even passed on. 

And here we are.  In the same boat we were paddling almost three years ago. Assessing our options and changing our minds on a daily basis.  No easy answers or magic solutions ahead.

Like I said before-this shit is hard.

Time to Move On...

Time to move on
Time to get goin'

What lies ahead, I have no way of knowin'

But under my feet baby, the grass is growin'

Yeah, it's time to move on

Time to get goin'

                          -Tom Petty

Well, here we are.  It is time to move on.  For the past two and half years, I've been so focused on having a family that everything else has been on standby. It has been all consuming. This is not an easy place to find myself at, but it's time.

Time to focus on other things.  Time to renew friendships.  To laugh.  To explore.  To wander.  Time to decide what happens next.  Time to put away the loss and look at the possibilities. 

Time to focus on the rewards of the journey and not the sad outcome.

On a good day, I accept my life as is.  It's chock full of love and lovely people.  On a less than good day, I waffle between sad and angry that there are no babies to rock to sleep.  No family traditions to continue.  No small hands to hold while crossing the street.  I often feel like someone took the script for my life and shredded it.  Now it's time to start again and it's a challenge to stay positive and look ahead towards the unknown.

The good news is that I'm always up for a challenge- I'm stubborn like that!  I'm also always up for a bit of reflection.  The past few years have been some of the most challenging and painful ones of my life.  On the flip side, they have also been filled with personal growth, new experiences and love.  Always love.

I walk away sad about the outcome, but thankful for the journey.

While bumbling my way through this maze of infertility:

• My husband and I connected and supported each other through some doozies.  We both have a new found respect for each other's strengths and an acceptance of our weaknesses.

• I learned how to cook- from scratch!  My kitchen is now a refuge and not a place to store take out menus.

• I found out that a lot of my health issues are connected to a genetic defect with my autoimmune system and I learned what I can do to manage it.  I've probably never been this healthy before.

• I ran a mile!  For the first time ever!  And then I kept running and went on to complete over 20 races.

• I lost 40 lbs and gained muscles and confidence and the belief that I can do just about anything I want to do.

• I got promoted at work and took on a big, new role that I happen to love

• I rediscovered yoga and meditation and simple pleasures like watching the clouds pass by

• My heart broke into a million pieces over and over again and each time I picked the pieces up, my empathy for others multiplied.  I'm more sensitive and compassionate today than I was before

I'm sure there are other gains, but these were the first that came to mind.  A powerful reminder that even in a storm, there is still light.  The human spirit endures and continues, even when things seem bleak. 

I'm not sure where this next path will take me, but I'm betting on a good outcome.