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.