burnt toast life

doggy guilt trip

We have a Golden Retriever.

We also have a Jack Russell/Whippet Mix, but he’s not the main subject of my guilt. I don’t know why; I guess it’s just the way my bizarre little mind works.

So here’s the thing. My parents have grandkids, both a boy and two girls. Eric’s parents also have grandkids, and also have both genders represented. While I’ve always wanted to do my part to provide them with more, I’ve never felt obligated to do it. I never felt pressure from my family to have kids.

The place that I am feeling pressure is with my dog. My dog. Yes, it’s insane. But I managed to pick the most stereotypical kid-friendly dog on the planet, through no fault of my own, and literally every time I look into his big brown eyes I think, “Damn, I wish you had a little kid to play with.”

I take pride in saying that both my dogs were adopted, but let’s be honest…Ryder probably would have found a good home even if I hadn’t gotten to him first. He’s a purebred 5th generation Golden Retriever with the papers to prove it and cost his original family $900. But then the Dad of the family was away a lot and the Mom of the family left Ryder in his crate all day, even though she was home all day, which prompted her neighbors to threaten calling animal control. We found out about Ryder’s situation via a forwarded email and took him home two days later.

That’s when the guilt trip started, I think. He was 7 months old and had spent most of his life with this family of three kids. I felt terrible when the little 5-year-old cried as I loaded him into our car, but it wasn’t my fault. I was saving him from her asshole mother who couldn’t be bothered to treat him like part of the family. We took him home and he seemed to like it there, but then we had to go to work. We left him alone for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. We felt awful. We quickly decided that he needed a buddy, and that’s when we adopted Bird.

Ryder and Bird are best buddies, probably out of necessity, but nevertheless it’s better for my anxiety to know they’re hanging out at home together while I’m stuck at work all day. But still. I feel so incredibly guilty that I haven’t blessed them with a baby yet. Both of them, really. Because Bird would love playing with kids, too.

Guilt – is it ingrained in me somehow? I feel guilty when I leave them in the morning, guilty when I get home and I’m too tired to walk them, guilty when they shower me with love and affection that I don’t feel worthy of. Guilty that I can’t give them what they so clearly need. Then I think, hey now, there are dogs out there in the world who are abused and neglected who would kill to have the charmed life that our dogs have, all clean and fed and coddled in a nice warm house. That’s true. But I feel like I owe them more than just the bare necessities.

twins, right?

twins, right?

You wanna know what Ryder is like? Picture the dog from the movie “Up.” The one who says, “Hi, I just met you, but I love you.” He’s a big, dopey oaf who thinks he’s a lapdog even though he weighs 80 lbs. He’s afraid of everything – we have a jug style water dish for the dogs that he refuses to drink out of because one time it made a loud GLUG GLUG noise. He once spent hours “trapped” in the kitchen because our little recycling bin had gotten knocked over in the doorway and he was too terrified to go near it. And don’t even get me started on the vacuum.

The fact of the matter is that he’s stupid. He’s stupid, he’s inbred, he’s easily frightened and he’s also the most gentle, sweetest soul you’ll ever meet. I literally think about his mortality on a daily basis, and wonder how the heck I’m going to survive it when he passes. And then I think, I’m really running out of time here. He’s only 2 and a half; he’s young and energetic and at the perfect age to play with a toddler. What if I don’t have kids until he’s old and feeble? It’s not fair to them, and it’s not fair to him. I feel like I’m depriving him, and also am depriving those future unborn kids who should really get to meet my Ryder at his best.

And his breed was part of the reason I knew he was perfect. We knew we wanted kids, so a Golden made so much sense. It’s not like you ever hear about children “being attacked by that vicious golden retriever.” That’s not to say that other breeds aren’t great with kids, too…I am 100% pro Pit Bull (as Eric likes to point out, they are the original nanny dog), but I never had dogs before. Goldens are so simple and easy to train. They’re a great starter dog for someone who has no idea what they’re doing. They are the breed that you choose when you have/want kids and you don’t want to worry for one second that it was a bad decision. For this reason, it seems like they belong with kids. And then I take it one step further and think I owe the dog some kids.

This weekend we went camping. The campground had a dog park that we spent a lot of time in, and let me tell you it was awesome. Oh! If you want to hang out with people who aren’t obsessed with kids, go to a dog park. This one woman was practically spitting nails at the little kids from across the street who wandered over to see the dogs from the other side of the fence. Another person threatened to leave if kids came in. I know it doesn’t always hold true, but a lot of times dog people are decidedly not kid people. No one asked me if I had kids or when I planned to have them, that’s for darn sure. They just talked about dog this and dog that for hours on end. It was actually nice.

So anyway. We were at the dog park when an adorable little redheaded girl of about 2 toddled over and started petting Ryder through the chain link. His tail was wagging furiously as he tried to get closer and closer to her chubby little hand. I’m not gonna lie… this scene caused tears to prickle behind my eyes as a million metaphors raced through my mind. There’s a giant fence between him and that little kid he’s supposed to play with. It’s a fence called infertility, miscarriage and injustice. It’s a fence I’m trying to climb with all my might, but I just keep falling down on the wrong side of it. It looks so easy, but it’s just so hard.

Doggy guilt trip. Am I crazy?

a swelling rage

Warning: graphic/disturbing post to follow. Keep reading at your own risk, and only if you’re in an emotional place to handle some seriously heavy shit.

I’m sorry for posting this. I get super annoyed with people that litter my Facebook news feed with sad pictures of abandoned/neglected animals all day, because I am totally in favor of animal adoption. My pets are adopted. Why should I be subjected to these horrific images when I’m one of the good guys? It doesn’t seem fair that I should be forced to see depressing images and occasionally have to stifle my weeping while at work (solution: stop checking Facebook at work and/or hide frequent offenders).

With that in mind, I need to apologize for sharing this story with you. Because you don’t deserve to know about it. But I just can’t stop thinking about it, and when something is on my mind like that, this blog is my source of catharsis. Plus, I know I can count on you all for some righteous anger, especially in light of the situation.

First, take a look at this person. Take a nice, long look at her:

fuckingpieceofshit

She recently came into local (and maybe even national?) news level fame for giving birth in the bathroom of a local restaurant, suffocating her newborn son, and leaving him dead in the toilet. Her full-term, 100% viable baby son. Suffocated. Murdered. And left dead in a fucking bathroom.

That was bad enough. Even though it’s been all over my news feed (dammit, Facebook!), I was content to not even read the article and just know that this world is seriously messed up. This is not the first time something like this has happened, though it was extra creepy that it happened so close to home, at a restaurant I’ve actually been to. When the story broke, they didn’t even have a suspect yet, it was just an anonymous infant dead in a toilet. Sickening. But still, I tried to avoid it and not think about it.

But today. Today I started to see posts indicating that they had identified this lovely woman, a 26-year-old who unfortunately shares the same name as me. 26, as in old enough to know better. Not a stupid teenager at prom (not that her being a teenager would make it OK, but it would at least provide some sort of explanation). She’s 26. The same age I was when I started trying to conceive.

Here’s what made me shake with rage and know I needed to post this. They found out that this bitch was hanging out at the restaurant watching a wrestling event on TV. She did her “business” in the bathroom, and then went back out to continue drinking, smoking and watching wrestling for another hour before leaving. I just… I just can’t. Not even the slightest modicum of remorse. Just another night at the bar for her. You know, stop by, have some drinks, give birth, murder baby, keep drinking, go home to bed. Fucking awesome.

People are already demanding the death penalty for this piece of trash (yup, we fry ’em here in PA). It will probably be a while before she goes to trial, and even longer before she’s actually executed, if that is in fact the decision they make. But the point is, it doesn’t even matter. That precious child is gone. Not that he deserved her for a mother, but to enter this world and leave it so quickly, and in such a traumatic way…well, I’m crying as I type this. I can’t wrap my head around it.

And I don’t understand. I don’t understand why she got pregnant, and one of us infertiles who is desperately dreaming of that precious gift just can’t. I don’t understand why she got to carry a baby to term when I can’t make it past 8 weeks. I don’t understand why no one was in that bathroom – at a bar? During an event? Did no one hear this going on, something like labor and delivery, in a damn bathroom? I wish to God I would have been there. I wish I would have stumbled in right before she made that choice and had just taken the baby from her. She was a few miles from a hospital, where she could have left the baby, penalty free. Hell, she could have left the living baby in the bathroom and someone would have saved him. Anything. Any decision would have been better than the one she made.

There’s really nothing else to say. I’m so pissed at the world tonight. I’m pissed at how unfairly these things are dealt out, and I sincerely hope it makes sense to me one day, maybe in the next life after this. Sorry for bringing you down. But I can’t get this off my mind. I’m so disheartened right now.

guest blogger: my little sister (the 24-year-old, not the 8-year-old)

we got married a month apart the same year, so we had a joint bridal shower; this is a pic from that really awesome day

we got married a month apart the same year, so we had a joint bridal shower; this is a pic from that really awesome day

I had such fun being a guest blogger that I decided to invite some guests of my own to host right here (up next: Eric with The Penis Perspective. I swear to God that’s what he named his post). Maybe I was feeling a little lazy…guest bloggers mean you don’t have to think of posts. I was also feeling a bit narcissistic, I suppose. I figured they’d write about me, and I kind of wanted to hear what exactly they’d say. Today we have my little sister, Ashley. She’s fertile. Very, very fertile. She’s also one of my biggest advocates and supporters, the first one to commiserate over obnoxious ultrasound pics on Facebook. She may not understand what it’s like to be me, but she’s hella sympathetic. She’s already got one foot in the stirrup ready to be my surrogate the moment I say the word. She’s a good sister, the kind of sister you want on your side when you’re conceptionally challenged. She has a blog, Perfectly Imperfect, where she documents the challenges and joys of raising three little ones. Here’s her take on me and my drama.

First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage. Isn’t that how we all assumed it would go? What happens when things happen out of order and are less than perfect? Or what happens when things aren’t happening? My sister and I join separate blog worlds, that’s what happens. I am new to blogging and I hardly think I am qualified to be a guest on my sister’s blog. I am very intimated by the whole thing and it’s not just because Amanda is a much better writer than I am (she is). I am intimidated because my struggles seem far less difficult than the audience I’m writing to.

I’m a mother of three and my audience is women who are or have had trouble having children. What could you possibly want to hear about from me? When I asked my sister this very question, she said, “Talk about what a bitch I am, talk about what it’s like to have a sister who can’t have kids or tell everyone having kids isn’t always roses and sunshine.”

I can’t talk about her being a bitch because despite occasional bitchy comments (we are all guilty of those), she isn’t a bitch. Obviously having kids isn’t always roses and sunshine, even women without kids know that. However, kids who drive you nuts and having a sister who can’t have kids (yet), share common ground. There are a lot of tears, there’s questioning and there is doubt. Her tears are over a child she doesn’t have, over the children she’s lost and over the unfairness of it all. My tears are over the children I do have. I have lost (I’ve had two miscarriages); the difference is that I already have kids. I understand that, but that doesn’t make it any less painful. No woman should ever have to experience a miscarriage. However, I believe it’s much more devastating for a childless woman to go through that. It’s unfair that a woman so capable of loving a child doesn’t have one. I occasionally feel it’s unfair that I have a child with a disability. My oldest child, Aiden, was recently diagnosed with autism. I shouldn’t feel unfairness for him or myself because if you’re going to have a disability, autism is the most manageable one. Does that sound bad? I am easily overwhelmed, so despite the fact that its manageable, we have a lot of hard days.

I often question why my sister is struggling. All of you have gotten to know her (you may even know her better than I do), so I’m sure you see how maternal she is. I have never stopped praying for her. She deserves a baby. I know God will give her a baby. I just wish I could tell her when and how. She’s my big sister and always seems to have answers for my questions. I’d love to be able to return the favor. When someone you love hurts, you want to take the pain away. How can I possibly take the pain of not having a child away? I’ll give her my kids! Yes! I know, that’s not what the infertile woman wants to hear from fertile myrtle. However, I suffered from postpartum depression after both of my daughters were born. There’s my sister praying, hoping and wishing for a baby. Then there I was, with my newborn feeling so disconnected and sad. In those first few months, I really didn’t want my girls. I would’ve gladly given my sister my baby.

There’s a lot of guilt that comes along with all of this. I pretty much feel guilty all the time. Not only did I at one time or another not want my kids, she has to deal with when I do want them. After every picture, status and post the next thought I have is, “I hope that doesn’t upset Amanda.” I bring my children around her, I talk about them and all I keep thinking is, Get the children away from her! Shut up, don’t talk about them. Your stories aren’t interesting anyway. I don’t know why I’m making her sound like a monster. She loves my kids and she’s OK with seeing and hearing about them (or so she says). I hope she isn’t lying about that because I know they love seeing her.

I haven’t answered any questions and I haven’t given any advice. I hardly think I’m in any sort of position to do so. I am 24 with no college degree, I’ve been working at the same place since I was 16 and I’m not the picture perfect mother I thought I’d be. Here is what I do know. God will never give us more than we can handle and we are living this life because we are strong enough to live it. My mother was the first person to tell me this. I use to think God entrusted me with a lot, and I thought I was strong. Now I know, my sister is the strongest and most trusting woman. The doubt rarely comes, and if it does it’s quickly pushed aside. She knows there is a plan for her (she just wants to know what it is). She will get her baby. She is a mother and always has been. Amanda is loved deeply and that’s where her strength comes from. She loves deeply and that’s where her courage comes from. All I can give are my prayers, and trust me, I’m always praying for the childless mother.

little sister + little brother = big, huge blessing

Besides just the rarity of suffering multiple miscarriages, I’m also weird in another way. I mean, really weird.

You may have (or may not have, I’m unsure how intensely you stalk me) noticed that I have two young siblings. Like, young young siblings. Alessandra was born a few weeks before I turned 21 and Michael was born when I was 24. And as I’m always quick to point out because this makes it even less common, this was no “second marriage, let’s have one of our own” hurrah. They are my 100% biological siblings. (I also have two other siblings who were born when I was 5 and 7 respectively, but they’re not nearly as shocking to bring up. I just felt it appropriate to at least mention them here lest they get offended).

Mikey was born with a sad face

Mikey was born with a sad face

Having young siblings is very different from having nieces and nephews. I can say this because I have both. For one thing, when the little ‘uns were born I was still living at home with my parents (well, you know. Moved out and then came back in typical Gen Y fashion). I helped to raise them from the day they came home from the hospital until the day I moved in with Eric a few months before our wedding in 2010. I changed diapers, I shuttled them to and from daycare, I rocked them when they had fevers. My arm muscles got ridiculously toned from constantly hefting car seats everywhere to the point that total strangers would inquire what kind of arm workouts I did (and trust me, they ain’t asking that anymore). They were my quasi-kids. They were my practice (ha, ha!) kids.

This is part of the reason I know I want kids and have zero romanticized notions on what parenting really means. Well, in a way I did have it pretty good just being a sibling. I could always pick and choose which activities I wanted to participate in and could hand the screaming baby back to my mom when I felt like taking a nap. At that point in my life I was still bar-hopping with my friends every weekend, but it’s not like I needed to line up a babysitter in order to go out or anything. It truly was the best of both worlds. I knew then and still know now how blessed I was/am to have them.

I guess I’ve just been thinking what it would be like if they didn’t exist. It goes without saying that I can’t imagine life without them, but it’s deeper than that. I think having them has made this infertility shit slightly easier to handle because I always have a child I can borrow when I’m feeling lonely. In a way it sucks, because I totally know what I’m missing out on. And of course I think of them as being the brightest, sweetest, bestest kids on Earth, so that makes the longing-to-be-a-mother feelings even worse. But then, it’s not like I’m living some incredibly lonely life in a quiet, empty house. At my old job I used to bring them in to company hosted trick or treat on Halloween so I could pretend I was a parent. If I ever need a small hand to hold, I drive the two miles to my parent’s house and find one. It’s not quite like having my own kids, sure. But their hugs and adoration sure do make this interim a lot closer to bearable.

cousin love

cousin love

And that brings me to the point of this post. Over the weekend I was struck with how old they’re getting, and how mature. The first thing I do when I see Allie is fix her hair. It’s not a conscious thing, it’s more that I always notice her messy, falling out and unbrushed ponytail and feel the immediate need to fix it. It’s not even like she batted me away when I was trying to do it… it’s just that I started thinking about how I can’t keep fixing her hair forever. She’s 8 now and totally idolizes her 11-year-old cousin, not her almost-30-year-old sister. When she’s 15, I seriously doubt she’ll still have that sloppy, careless ponytail like she does now (or if she does, it will be an intentional fashion statement or something).

And don’t even get me started on the frequent debate that my 24-year-old sister and I have about whether or not we should be her bridesmaids. I say yes – we are her sisters, what friend will ever compare? But Ashley argues that we’ll be so old that we’ll ruin the pictures, so she should pick her young, beautiful friends instead. Seriously! I may not have won the genetic lottery with my flat brown hair and undefined chin, but one thing my 50-year-old mom (and by default, as her clone, me) does not have is wrinkles. I plan to still be attractive when that little lady gets married. God-willing, I’ll be a total MILF. And she damn well better put me in her bridal party.

for some reason, he's always posing with Ryder

for some reason, he’s always posing with Ryder

I’m way off-topic, aren’t I? So yeah, I kind of hate that they’re growing up. I’m jealous of my sister Ashley who gets to watch them a few days a week and is therefore more involved in their everyday lives. I usually see them at least once a week, and I know I could take a turn with aftercare pick-up, but it’s amazing how much time and energy my DINK existence encompasses. I have a routine at night. I’d rather see them on my own time, which is how it is now, but still, I feel like I’m missing out. In truth, it can never be like it was before because they are no longer infants who depend on me. I miss them being babies. I miss living with them, watching gigantic milestones happen right before my eyes. It’s a void that could be filled with, oh I don’t know… with some babies of my own, perhaps? That would be most excellent.

I’m lucky and I’m grateful that I was given this blessing of siblings, and at an age that I could truly appreciate them. I’m more than a sister, more than an aunt, less than a mom… I’m just Deeda to them. And to them, our unique relationship isn’t all that weird. That’s just how life is. Never quite what you expected.

could not live without them... not one bit

could not live without them… not one bit

random monday mumblings

You’re all too kind.

No, seriously…you guys are too nice to me.

First, no one pointed out the egregious error on my last post pairing an FET with an IUI. I mean, how stupid was that? I have no excuse besides, perhaps, that I’ve never done an IUI and that I was trying to “sound cool.” (Assuming that even fertiles are familiar with the term IVF but may not have heard of IUI, so it made the whole line more obscure in general).

Next – perusing Pinterest, I saw this:

usmachine

There I was, several posts ago, claiming that I’d make my millions with an at-home ultrasound machine when lo and behold one already exists (with an iPhone app, of course)! Well, wouldja look at that. Now I feel stupid (again).

And then while browsing The Berry (I had some spare time this weekend, what of it?), I found some dude who managed to create cotton candy flavored grapes. Anyone who knows Erika from Something Beautiful would understand that she needed to be informed about the existence of these grapes, like, yesterday. As I was frantically emailing her, my dear husband sauntered over to ask what I was doing.

Me: “I have to tell Erika about these grapes!”
He: “Who is Erika?”
Me: “Like, duh, she’s one of my favorite bloggy friends, of which I have many, and who I have most certainly mentioned before!”

I won’t rehash the whole argument, but let’s just say he and I have differing opinions on what consititutes “friendship.” His opinion: never met, not friends. My opinion? Friends come in all forms. True, I haven’t seen any of your smiling faces in real life or even in photos (and some of you I only know by blog name), but many of you gals know me better than people who I know in real life.

And I’m not going to lie – I have a deep and abiding fear that those of you who are pregnant right now will abandon your blogs once the bouncing bambino(s) make an arrival. And rightly so – it’s your blog, it’s your life. Yes, there have been countless posts arguing whether or not a parenting blog has any business existing in the world of IF blogs if the author is technically an IF’er. But still, selfishly, I don’t want it to end. I don’t want you all to leave me. I’ve come to depend on your advice, your encouragement, your commiseration… hell, if that’s not friendship, I don’t know what is. My real life friendships have suffered if those friends are not blog followers (thankfully, most of them are). Because it’s kind of annoying to answer the “What’s new?” question with a laundry list of treatments, failures and lamentations. Better to just say, “Well, besides what you read on the blog…”

Perhaps this is laziness. Really, I think I’d be more guarded and reserved when it came to sharing if I didn’t have a space to write. Mostly because I’m far more eloquent with written words than spoken words, but also because who wants to tell these stories over and over again? How many times can I say the word “miscarriage” out loud before my head explodes?

Psychologically, I’m sure it goes deeper than just missing your blogs if you chose to abandon them. I don’t want to get left behind, period. I don’t want to be the only one left in our group still cycling and failing. On a related note, when confronted with a date in early September that would involve drinking, I immediately thought, “But no, that’s the 2ww and I can’t drink.” Seriously? I am thoroughly convincing myself that this off-cycle is a real try, proving once again that even while taking a break, I can’t actually take a break. There’s always something going on in my baby-scheming mind.

Oh, hello, rambling and nonsensical post. To sum up, in case you have as much trouble following my thought train as I do:

1) I feel stupid re-reading my own posts, because I keep making stupid mistakes that you’re all kind enough to ignore, so thank you
2) I miss you even though you’re not gone yet
3) I think we are friends, even if just bloggily
4) I genuinely care about your welfare and depend on your support and encouragement more than you know (see item 3)
5) I wish we could all have a playdate (technically I didn’t even mention this yet, but it’s a fact); (see item 3)
6) I can’t actually take a break even when I’m supposed to be taking a break

Well, in case you haven’t noticed, I am deliriously tired (emphasis on delirious, heh). We went to my uncle’s house in Massachusetts for the weekend and camped out Woodstock-style in his backyard, and then we didn’t arrive home until after 11 last night. Even the dogs were too tired to go out this morning, which is a first for them. While they spent the day recovering in bed, I went to work and tried to contribute worthwhile, inspiring cigar copy whilst refilling my coffee cup as quickly as I could empty it (and no, I still haven’t given up caffeine. Dammit).

Now I’m a little punch-drunk and completely drained of coherent thought. So why am I blogging right now? No clue. I’m done. Goodnight.

gettin’ weird

Ever have one of those weeks where you think to yourself, “Where am I and what happened to my life?” That’s how I’m feeling right about now.

First – the new job. Without giving away too many specifics, I will tell you that I’m working for a pretty big cigar retailer as their first official full time copywriter. Me, a girl who has had approximately two puffs of a cigar in her entire life is now tasked with speaking eloquently about a topic that has a shocking number of insanely knowledgeable devotees. Intimidating? Yeah, a little. And lest you think I’m sitting there filling out new hire paperwork and smiling sweetly, the answer is no, I was thrown right into the mix with a gigantic amount of copy to write on my very first day. My motto of the week? Fake it ’til you make it, baby, and hope like hell that these cigar dudes don’t see right through me. I can’t help but compare it to a fertile Myrtle introduced to an infertility blog with no compass, attempting to decipher “ZOMG the bitch got a BFP after my BFN on an HPT on 9dp5dFET after an IUI, good CM, primo SA and so now I hope AF doesn’t come before the beta!” That’s me, at work, except it’s all like puro and figurado and ligero and I just look at them like, “Whaaaaa?”

Granted, my employer knew my level of interest/exposure to cigars (um, NONE) prior to hiring me, so they must have just liked something about my writing. Or, they made a terrible mistake. Hopefully not the latter. So far it’s been fun, and everyone clearly loves working there, and I feel important and respected with less than a week under my belt. So it’s not bad, it’s just… different. Just wait, in 6 months I’ll be this kickass cigar smoker with a terribly refined palate. And if you’re a true friend, then right now you’re saying, “No, Amanda, in 6 months you’ll be pregnant and not smoking cigars at all.” Right?!!

Next – I got my period today! And a week early by my count. Which is good, because I was about to bust out the zipper on my fat jeans (you may recall that I’ve done this once before) and have been crying at Zillow commercials for the past few days. Good to know it’s for a reason and not because I’m going cuckoo for cocoa puffs. Aaaanyway, the first thing I wanted to do when AF showed up was call the doctor, because seriously, doesn’t everyone call the doctor when they get their period? I texted Eric and said, “We need to talk about my period,” to which he was understandably confused, but yeah I just felt like more action was necessary. I have spent the entirety of 2013 calling people to announce the advent of my period. Literally, since January. I’ve either been pregnant or getting ready to get implanted. This is my first break all year… it was weird to accept. But I did sit down with me and ask, very gently, if I even wanted to call New Hope. And the answer was no, I’m not ready. I know we had already decided to wait, but I was secretly worried that when the time came, I wouldn’t want to wait. The truth is that I do need to wait, and I want to wait. So it’s alllll good.

And of course a tiny annoying voice kept saying, “Maybe you’ll conceive on your own this month,” and of course I was like, “Shut up, stupid tiny voice, what makes this month different from the freaking two and a half years preceding our IVF cycle?” It’s not. I mean, the difference is that I’ve been pregnant. So now I think my subconscious got cocky, and she’s like, “Girl, we got this.” But we don’t. I got pregnant from pre-fertilized embryos, not from a glass of wine and an OPK. It’s just insane to think it could happen. But damn, that would make things so much easier.

Which brings me to my next weird moment. Today I was perusing my new benefits package when I came across a line that made my little heart stop with hope. Under Infertility Services it said “covered in full after deductible.” Which is totally too good to be true, and which isn’t true at all, it turns out. I went running in to Eric squealing like we hit the Powerball until I saw the next line, which said Assisted Fertilization: not covered. Why are those two things separated out? Could it be any more unclear? I’m assuming it just means they cover the testing and not the treatment, because they are total and complete assholes, but did they really have to get my hopes up like that? I guess I will have to ask to confirm (hello, awkward conversation with HR department at a new company).

One thing that is surprisingly covered, however, is infertility drugs. They give you up to $2,500 for your lifetime. Of course we’ve already spent more than that, but there’s more to come, and that’s pretty good. Better than what I had before ($0), so no complaints here. Why are they covering drugs and not treatment? Because they suck. Insurance companies: blah.

That’s all for now, dear friends. I no longer have time (or, ahem, permission) to sit there catching up on blogs and Facebooking all day, so I’m frantically trying to catch up on all my feeds at night while still doing the cooking, general household maintenance, and oh yeah, working later in the evening. Phew. Is it Friday yet?

I’m basically like a minor celebrity

Risa took my guest blogging virginity, woo hoo! I can’t help but feel like I’ve really made it now. A book deal should be just around the corner, right?

In the blogging world, there’s bound to be some overlap in followers. Our current “graduating class,” if I may call it that (thank you, Erika, for this brilliant analogy) is overwhelmingly pregnant right now – and to that I say, “YAY! So happy we are overcoming this awful infertility thing!” But there are some of us who are so NOT pregnant right now. And then there are some of us who had miscarriages. And for us, I wrote this post.

Now, I don’t really know the proper etiquette when it comes to plugging my own blog post – I figured I shouldn’t post it here, because you should have to go to the other blog to read it, right? I don’t want to screw this up; it’s my first time! Without further ado (because seriously, this was way too much ado already), here is the link to the guest blog post I wrote for one of my favorites:

My first ever guest blog post – posted on “Who Shot Down My Stork?”

dead ends and best friends

When I was a little girl, my mom used to go for acupuncture at a lovely place that’s still in business, so I knew that was the first place I wanted to check into. He’s a chiropractor, but no longer offers acupuncture. DEAD END.

The nice chiropractor dude suggested a place nearby. There aren’t many acupuncturists in my area, which is annoying. I called the place he suggested and they want $150 for the initial session and $85 for each session thereafter. I was willing to spend about half that. Sure, I spend oodles of money on drugs and commutes to Manhattan for treatment, but those are proven things that work. Someone sticking little needles into me just makes me skeptical, and for that kind of cost, is it worth it? I’m calling this a DEAD END.

The Reproductive Immunologist who offered free Skype consults? He doesn’t do that anymore. You can Skype him for an hour… for $250. Better than $900, but I was really digging the “free” thing. You guessed it – DEAD END.

I’ve been getting really frustrated with the progress I was supposed to be making in August, because now it’s the 9th, and I feel like I’m going nowhere. My diet is… better, not what it should be. I’ve been in control of breakfast and lunch, but then a coworker brought in these amazing looking mini pies, and I ate one. There’s a 9 day long music festival going on in my area that features lots of food and booze. I can’t skip that! And I haven’t. I’ve gone for dinner more than once, and trust me, my meals have been far from Paleo (can we argue that vodka is Paleo since it comes from potatoes?). I still haven’t been able to give up my beloved coffee yet, either. Blah.

every morning is a cuddle morning

every morning is a cuddle morning

Exercise? I’m going to share my biggest problem with you, and maybe you’ll think it’s silly, but here it is: it’s my dog. Every morning Eric gets up at 5:30 and takes the dogs out. And every morning they come back in, eat, and then my little Bird dog comes back to bed to snuggle with me. He curls up into a tight ball and smushes his little rump right up against me. So there I am, in a sea of down comforter and memory foam pillows, looking out into the just breaking light of dawn and feeling this warm ball of love next to me. I think, “Should I go run right now? Should I do yoga?” and it seems impossible. It’s like there’s a magnetic pull in my bed, and I’m unable to resist it. Are these excuses justified? No. Do I feel a wave of guilt sweep over me around 11 a.m. every morning and think, “You should have gone running, you lazy bitch?” Yes. But still, I stay in bed. I effing love my bed.

I’ll get there. My new job starts on Monday and the hours are different, so my morning routine is going to change even if I don’t want it to. I’ll run. I’ll yoga. I’ll eat better, especially when Muskifest ends. There’s light at the end of this tunnel, even if it’s taking longer than I want it to.

Now, enough dead ends and on to best friends.

You know how sometimes you have an absolutely perfect and amazing night when you don’t even expect to? Wednesday was like that for me. I had planned on going to the aforementioned music festival of food ‘n’ booze (Musikfest!) with two of my friends. You can walk around the city streets and drink beer or cocktails from giant plastic mugs, listen to live music for free, and eat all the delicious food you can possibly imagine. It’s the event of the summer for my area, and something we all look forward to all year long. Anyway. I was going to skip out Wednesday because the sky was gray and threatening rain, I was tired, it was muggy, my hair frizzed up and did I mention I was tired? I was just feeling blah. I was two seconds away from saying, screw it, you guys go on without me when I had a change of heart. I hadn’t seen my one friend in months and I wanted to catch up. I dragged my unenthusiastic butt out the door and figured I would just make the best of it.

Please don’t take this the wrong way if you have kids and talk about your kids. Please don’t, because I love them and I love hearing about them. But I figured out that besides just seeing my friends, one of the best things about the night was that NO ONE mentioned babies ONCE. That never happens. Ever. We drank, we ate, we talked. We talked about girl things; we talked about sex and relationships and vacations and things I can’t even remember. We laughed and were silly. It was just so much fun.

The most remarkable thing about this is that the friend who I hadn’t seen in months is a mom. She has two adorable tow-headed boys. But she made it through an entire evening without mentioning them one time. I even asked about her recent vacation to Florida, a perfect opportunity for her to blab on and on about how cute they were doing this or doing that, but she managed to talk about Florida without talking about kids. Like, wait, there’s more to life than just obsessing over kids? WOW.

It made me realized how often I keep my guard up. I’m always on edge, ready to mentally steel myself against pregnant bellies and pregnancy announcements and baby photos and and toddler stories of “Omigosh she usually naps for 45 minutes but yesterday she slept for a whole hour and isn’t that just the cah-raziest thing you ever did hear?” I didn’t even realize how tense it made me until I felt my guard slowly being let down on Wednesday night. I truly relaxed for the first time in what feels like ages. It felt so damn good to just talk about stuff that didn’t stress me out. Stuff that was interesting. Stuff that matters to me, as a woman without kids, right now.

I sent my friend a text later and thanked her for making it through an entire evening without talking about her kids. She didn’t do it on purpose for me; she just did it because she had other things to discuss. She said when she has a girls night, she likes to just leave all that at home. Doesn’t that make sense? I wish this happened more often.

Once again I want to say thank you, best friends. Thank you for a night I absolutely needed. Let’s do it again soon.

big changes (and also the story of the panic attack)

I know you’ve all been waiting with bated breath to hear the story of my most recent panic attack. Sorry that I made you wait so long, but I had to tie up a few loose ends before I could share.

First, the good news – I have been offered and have accepted a new job. Of course I am sad to leave coworkers who have become genuine friends over the past few years, but I’m also excited at the prospect of trying something new. Admittedly, my job has become monotonous lately, and it’s gotten to the point that I’m just going through the motions as my brain turns to mush. I need a new challenge. While I’m not big on change as a rule, I do want to develop my talents and grow professionally. My current job, while wonderfully flexible and easy, does not offer these kinds of opportunities. This new job? Tons of potential for growth, with the added bonus of business travel. I have always wanted to travel for work (I know, some people hate it, but for now at least it seems glamorous). Plus, the places I’ll get to go are pretty awesome. It’s exciting. Nerve-racking, but exciting.

“But Amanda, this all sounds so great, why are you having panic attacks?” you might wonder. Well, nothing about this whole new job thing has come easy. I first put in my application on May 7th. Yes, May 7th. Over the course of the past few months, I became convinced that they were just going to hire someone else. I am fortunate enough to know someone who works there (not a close friend, more of an aquaintence friend-of-a-friend type person), so I did have the inside scoop on where they were in terms of the hiring process the whole time. It just took a while, and there were a lot of applicants. The (first) interview was literally four and a half hours long and involved meeting six people. It was quite a day. There was even a second interview (thankfully not four and a half hours long), a personality quiz and a writing test. They clearly take hiring very seriously, and I appreciate that. It also made me feel pretty damn good when I was the one they chose.

All of these things, while not panic attack worthy, were stressful. I wanted to know the outcome and prepare accordingly. Finally, I got the call – I was hired! I just had to do a quick background check and drug test and we’d be all good to go.

Somehow I’ve made it through 29 years of my life and have never had to take a drug test before. It really doesn’t matter; it’s not like I do drugs. I had nothing to fear. But this particular drug test coincided with my miscarriage and the prescribed medication that I’ve been taking for it. I went into the company to quickly fill out background check paperwork and to pee in a cup. Interestingly, the receptionist was the one in charge of administering and reporting on the test. I warned her that I was on medication and showed her the bottles, which I was smart enough to bring along. I peed. I waited. A second receptionist got involved in the reading of the results. And then the HR person pulled me into a conference room and informed me that I failed the test. I had tested positive for opiates.

Well, yeah. That’s when the panic attack happened. I started crying pretty hard and explained that I was going through a miscarriage and was on this medication, which had to be what made me fail because I didn’t do drugs and I certainly didn’t do drugs while pregnant, which I was up until a little while ago. I’m sure it’s not the first time an HR person has had to hear someone cry. But still, it was embarrassing. I didn’t even WORK for this company yet. He was very nice about the whole thing and sent me off saying that it would all get straightened out once they sent it out to the lab for further clarification. But still, I couldn’t help but feel like the receptionist thought I was some huge heroin addict. Failed my first drug test. Just craziness.

It took several days (which felt like an eternity), but it did all get sorted. I had failed for the drugs that were precribed to me – and for future reference, Tylenol with codeine comes up as opiates on a drug test. You know, in case you were wondering.

And of course, because I am me, after being hired my mind immediately jumped to treatments. For all the negative things I can say about my current job, one invaluable thing that’s remained is their unceasing flexibility when it comes to leaving early, coming in late, working from home and not working at all when I need to. It’s been such a blessing. I’ve felt totally comfortable sharing what was going on, and my sort-of boss and friend has been known to say things like, “Please stay home today with your legs up” and “Take all the time you need to process and don’t worry for one minute about work. It’s all taken care of.”

It would be silly to expect that kind of environment at this new place, especially in the uncertain first few months. Taking a break from treatments is one thing, but for how long? What’s going to happen when I start up a cycle again? Of course I can’t predict the future at all. Maybe they’ll offer flexibility, too. I can only hope.

So one week from today I am embarking on this new professional path, which will hopefully feature positive change and new opportunities. I will truly miss the girls (and guys) I work with, who always seem to make me laugh when I feel like crying. But I’m not too worried about staying in touch. It’s a tradition I’ve kept up with almost all the places I’ve worked. I’m just going to bully them into hanging out with me and scare them too much to flake out. Sounds like a good tactic.

Here’s to new beginnings and taking chances (and passing drug tests).

back from the beach

I’m back from the beach! Didja miss me?

I did bring my laptop along, and our condo did have unreliable yet available internet, but I needed a break from it all. Know what I mean? I haven’t gone this long without posting in a loooong time, I’m talking long since back before I blogged about infertility and I only posted like every other month. I’ve been following along with all of you and have been pleased to note some exciting BFP’s and some ongoing positivity. This makes me feel so happy, and so hopeful for the future.

Vacation was good, it truly was. I went with Eric, his mom and my own immediate and extended family including aunts, uncles and cousins. Our unit was just me and Eric and his mom, which we kept referring to as our “adult vacation.” It was nice, but…quiet. I could take a nap whenever I wanted. His mom and I polished off an entire giant bottle of vanilla vodka in the space of a week and didn’t worry about being loud or tipsy. We went for early morning bike rides and late night dips in the hot tub. Yeah, it was a really good time, but I can’t help but hope like hell that next year is so, so different.

view from our condo

view from our condo

It was on this trip that I realized we keep doing something, perhaps intentionally, perhaps inadvertently. I probably noticed it a while ago and have been pretending to do it accidentally for some time now, if it’s possible to pretend to yourself (I don’t think it is). Here’s what we do: we talk about having kids like it’s a definite future occurrence. Eric does it all the time, and I noticed his mom does it, too. It makes me feel safe and secure in my future in ways I can’t even express. He’ll always say things like, “Yeah, but when we have kids we can’t do this…” or, “Cover your mouth when you cough. Are our kids going to have terrible manners like you do?” It’s always an offhand, throwaway comment that most people wouldn’t notice. And yes, I understand that just saying “when we have kids…” isn’t the same as having them. But it’s just that overwhelming confidence, that assured way of describing what’s so obviously part of our future that makes me feel happy inside. It gives me comfort and hope. Yeah, we will have kids. We will one day.

Besides that, there were a few notable fertility-related moments on vacation. Here’s a roundup:

– Joking around one night (and you have to understand, we say all these things with nothing but love), Eric threatened me over something or another with, “Fine, then we can never have sex again. Don’t know how you plan on having that baby you wanted.” And with that, I grinned devilishly and replied, “No problem. I’ll just go to the doctor…” HA. HA. HA.

– Drinking brought out some moments of fun and forgetfulness, but it also unleashed some demons. On one occasion I missed the twins and wanted them back so badly I almost couldn’t breathe. I started to panic that the feeling wouldn’t go away and I would just be miserable for the rest of my life, but of course it faded. I keep trying to recall it because I’m a masochist because it almost felt good to feel the longing that deeply. Sometimes I feel like there’s something wrong with me that I didn’t mourn enough. It’s so weird.

– We went to one of those beach shops that prints up custom t-shirts. I knew vaguely that I wanted to make a shirt but had gone to four or five shops, dashing in and darting out in the pouring rain, before finding a design that I wanted. Eric and his mom were getting understandably frustrated at my indecisiveness. Then Eric noticed a design that said “Where’s Molly?” and joked that we should get that. Two things, in case you were curious – 1) we’ve planned on naming our first daughter Molly since 2003, and 2) I’m sure the shirt was referencing an illicit drug. Whatever. I wasn’t in a bad place at that moment so I laughed, but his mom got so upset by the scene that she had to leave the shop in tears. Needless to say, I picked a different design (I got an anchor that says, “Refuses to sink,” which I thought was poetic, but the more I think about it, the more I realize anchors were designed to sink. So it doesn’t really make sense but it is pretty).

– I’ve been reading the book State of Wonder, which is actually really good, but the plot centers around a scientist who goes looking for another scientist into the Brazilian jungle to find out her progress on developing a drug promising everlasting fertility. The women of some aborigine tribe never go through menopause and go on reproducing until death because they chew on the bark of some rare tree in the jungle. Yeah, it’s fiction, but I couldn’t help but think how awesome that would be.

So, back to the real world today. We missed our dogs pretty terribly, which only proves that I’ve crossed over into what can be classified as “official dog person.” It’s a strange way to think of myself. I know I’m supposed to be starting my healthy new life this weekend but I dunno… there’s a lot of leftover crap food that needs to be eaten. I’m thinking Monday sounds good for a brand new me. I do plan on going for a run tomorrow morning and I’m telling all of you this so that you hold me accountable if I fail. So please, feel free to ask me how that run went. It’s time to get this ass in gear.