burnt toast life

I wish I had more interesting things to say, or even a clever title for this post

I think this is a common problem over here in infertility blog-ville. When we’re not doing anything fertility related, it’s easy to run out of things to talk about. But then I wonder – is my infertility the only thing I have worth discussing? No. But at the same time, I lose momentum when there’s nothing going on, uterus-wise. I could have posted three times a day in April, but now it’s like my words have run dry.

Sunday came and went and I’m still waiting on Auntie Flo. It’s so frustrating! Here’s the worst part: if she comes on Friday, the clinic will want to see me Sunday (IF they want to monitor this cycle), which is the day I’ve signed up to run the Color Me Rad 5K with my friends/coworkers. I am absolutely not missing that, the race starts at 9 am (but we’re meeting for mimosas at 7 am…), and the clinic is two hours away. So what to do?!! Of course, I don’t know if she’s actually coming on Friday… or anytime soon… I’m hungry as hell and my boobs are porn star huge, plus I’ve been bitchy and cranky all week, so I’m hoping that’s hormones doing their thang. Murphy’s Law says she’ll show up on Friday, of course. I’m ready to get this show on the road. Really, really ready. (Just not on Friday.)

So not missing out on this!

So not missing out on this!

It sounds like everyone had surprisingly benign Mother’s Days, and for that I am thankful. It’s probably a good thing that we get ourselves all worked up, because that makes the reality much less intense, I’m sure. I went to Eric’s niece’s first birthday party on Saturday and I have to say I handled it amazingly well. There was a horrible moment when one of my sister-in-law’s friends (who I don’t know very well) said to me, “So how are you doing? How’s everything going?” or something like that, but just in the way she said it or maybe in my delusional mind it just sounded this way, I thought she thought I was still pregnant. I felt my blood run cold and I just started shaking my head, stammering, “It’s not… I’m not…” until she followed up with “When can you try again?” It was such a relief to realize that I didn’t have to explain that I was no longer pregnant, especially in full earshot of a whole bunch of people.

I did not have a mental breakdown on Sunday, just a nice brunch with my family and then a little bit of yard work with the hubs. It was funny, some people made a point of saying a vehement Happy Mother’s Day to me while others avoided it completely. It really doesn’t matter. I am/was a mother and hopefully by next year I can be one in the eyes of the public.

That’s it, just a little boring update to let you know I’m still alive. It seems like either everything happens all at once or nothing happens at all. Oh, and if you could all do an AF-fairy dance for me to bring on the bleeding, I’d be much obliged. I’ve run out of patience and clearly I’ve run out of blogging fodder. I need the madness to commence!

waiting (sucks)

I hate waiting. I hate it, but I’m getting better at it.

We’re coming up on 3 years of TTC (mom – that stands for “trying to conceive”). My TTC anniversary is easy to remember; it’s the same as my wedding day. We started actively trying to start our family that very night and have been ever since. I’m grateful for the successes we’ve had, but the subsequent failures pushed us further into the year. Every day that I do nothing fertility-related feels like an eternity. I’m so flippin’ sick of waiting.

Right now I’m waiting for AF to show. I finally feel “normal” again – my stomach shrank back to normal size, mysterious cramps stopped, incessant m/c bleeding slowed to nothing. Now I feel like I’m in limbo. Just like before the egg retrieval, rather than dreading AF’s arrival, I’m eagerly awaiting it. If Good Ole Auntie Flo really does come one month after the D&C, that would mean she’d arrive right on Mother’s Day. You’d think that’d be upsetting, an infertile getting her period on such a day, but for me it would be a huge relief. For once, getting my period means that everything in my body is on track. It’s certainly a strange feeling.

For some reason, Mother’s Day does not decimate my emotional stability. I’ve been able to handle it very well these past two years, so I don’t anticipate there being a huge problem. Then again… talk to me when I’m cramping and bleeding while happy moms in church cuddle their newborns. Then I might be singing a different tune. But as of this moment, I’m not dreading it. I think it’s because I’ve always associated it with my mom and not myself, so I still think of it that way. But this is my first MD post-loss, so who knows… maybe a mental breakdown is just lying in wait for me. I guess we shall see on Sunday.

It’s only been just over a month, but I feel like I haven’t been to the RE in ages. For some inexplicable reason, I imagine myself calling them up only to find the number disconnected, or arriving at a completely revamped office and being treated like I’d never been there at all. Like I didn’t experience my greatest joys and my lowest lows within the confines of those office walls.

I know I’m being quite dramatic. I think the difference between being a paying customer vs. a clinical trial patient is that it’s always seemed too good to be true. I keep waiting for someone to realize that they’ve accidently given me $20,000 worth of medical procedures for free and send me a bill or lock the doors or something. I remember feeling relieved after we found out the procedure worked, thinking there was nothing they could do to take it back if they changed their minds. Now once again, I’m at their mercy. There’s small comfort in knowing that at least we have the embryos created and frozen, but if I had a nickel for every time I felt a shiver of panic imagining a fire/mix-up/catastrophe in the lab and losing those little snow babies… well, I’d have a whole bunch of nickels.

My impatience isn’t entirely unjustified. The deal with this clinical trial is that they’ll try to get you pregnant for six months or until they run out of embryos, whichever comes first. I don’t know when they start counting from (again, questions that I only think to ask in retrospect), but I started my IVF protocol on December 31st. If we start counting from then… June is it. The end. Finito. How strict are they on the six month thing? Again, not a clue. The doctor certainly didn’t mention it at that fateful ultrasound, and made it sound like we could definitely try again. But what if it takes two months to get my period? What if they try again and I don’t get pregnant? What if this happens all over again and we lose the pregnancy? I could sit here and “What if?” all day long.

I’m definitely making a bigger deal out of all this than they do at the RE. I’m sure as far as cases go, I’m one of the less tragic/complicated, I’m sure. I also doubt someone is sitting there with a calendar, just waiting for me to hit the six month mark so they can boot me out of the trial. But I still have to worry (because it’s ingrained, that’s why). I’ve intentionally avoided calling or emailing anyone from the clinic – first, because what the hell would I say (“Hey it’s me, still no period, just making sure you still have your phone connected, K thanks bye!”) and second, because I don’t want to hear any bad news. My imagination has been working hard enough to come up with worst-case scenarios, I don’t need any reality to add to them.

On a totally unrelated note, did anyone else go see Gatsby yet? I agree with most of the reviews, and I believe this one sums up my feelings most accurately, but may I just say: Leonardo DiCaprio is so talented. Without him I may have despised the movie, but with him I give it a solid B+ for effort. It makes me want to dust off my copy of Romeo + Juliet, bust out some old Teen Beat posters of Leo and relive a little bit of teenage angst.

Twenty-nine

I’m 29 today (shout out to all my Taurus peeps!) Strangely enough, 29 is a lucky number for me. I’ve been keeping track of all the 29 occurrences in my life, and I figured today was as good a day as any to post them.

  • May 29th, 2010 was my wedding day. It was an awesome day. Everything went perfectly, we got just the right amount of drunk (fun, dancing drunk but not fall over and throw up drunk) and best of all, I finally got to marry to the love of my live. Now he’s stuck with me…forever.
just the right amount of wine

just the right amount of wine

  •  May 29th, 2010 was also, coincidentally, the day Hollywood Video officially went out of business. Who cares? Well, without Hollywood Video, Eric and I may never have met. He was my manager (but don’t judge – we didn’t start dating until long after I’d left the company).
  • Eric was 29 when we got married.
  • Warren G. Harding was the 29th president of the United States. (Oh, and my last name is Harding).
  • My grandmother was 29 when she had her first child, which, as you can imagine, was lot less common back in that time. She was told she’d never be able to have children. She had six. (Interestingly, I also have six. Frozen… in a freezer).

Of course, each birthday is bittersweet as I creep closer to the end of my fertile days. Does that sound depressing? Yes, I’m still young. But still, I want to have more than one child. I want to have more than two. How many, I’m not really sure, but I come from a big family and I’ve always wanted a big family. Each year that I don’t get started makes me so anxious.

But enough about that because it’s my birthday, y’all. I had a fun day of shopping with my mom and I came home to flowers and a cupcake (red velvet with ivory frosting to mimic our wedding cake) from my hubs, so you know, I took a leeeetle tiny break from the diet today. And my tummy was so mad. But it was worth it.

So 29 is here, and I’m ready, because 29 will be full of luck and love. And hopefully, you know, a baby.

a bargain hunter’s paradise

I don’t know about you guys, but I get serious anxiety whenever I’m bargain hunting. Not that this is any different than my normal state of existence, but it kicks into high gear whenever I’m within ten miles of a yard sale or a TJ Maxx.

Here are the problems:

1) I hate to feel like I’m missing out on something,
2) I always imagine someone else scoring an item that’s perfect for me,

and

3) I always feel like I’m arriving too late and missed all the good shit.

Despite these truths, I absolutely love clearance shopping. I have no qualms about digging through racks and bins to uncover amazing finds. In fact, the more buried the treasure, the more value I attribute to that particular item. One of my favorite treasure hunting spots is Ross Dress for Less. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel dirty the minute you walk in. It’s like the Walmart of off-price retailers in terms of clientele and cleanliness. But the bargains? Unbeatable. They have the same housewares as TJ Maxx and Marshalls but so, so much cheaper. Those places can be kind of expensive, even for discount store standards. For home goods, I go to Ross. For clothing, yes, Marshalls and TJ Maxx are better. (I swear, I’m not getting paid to say any of this, even if it’s starting to sound that way).

The Far Hills Rummage Sale (if you click on the link, understand that these pics do not do it justice) has been described to me as “a place where super rich people discard unwanted Vera Wang sheaths and Louboutin pumps that are so last season.” For those of you not familiar with the area, Far Hills is a New Jersey suburb of Manhattan where most residents are very well off. Common sense dictates that a yard sale in an expensive development tends to yield better finds than a yard sale in a trailer park. No kidding. So my mom and I finally hit up the Far Hills Rich Person Castoff Sale for the first time in October.

map of so much good stuff!

map of so much good stuff!

The whole thing is overwhelming, but in a good way. There are tents set up by category and people line up outside, so you’re never really fighting for elbow room as you’re digging through the racks. They literally have everything. EVERYTHING. I read in one article that there were 25,000 plush toys, 2,500 vinyl records, 2,000 pairs of women’s shoes and 50,000 books. Not hard to believe – just when you think you’re done looking, there’s more to see. At the October event, I made a beeline for the Boutique tent (clearly) and scored a bunch of adorable dresses that could have come straight off a rack at Nordstrom. Many of them still had tags on them. No, I did not find Louboutins, but I did spy a few pairs of Coach sandals and plenty of other respectable brands (rumor has it that the Manolos are gone before you can blink). The best part? The system is streamlined so that you just pay one price for each type of item. So all shirts, regardless of condition or designer, are $5. All high-end designer dresses (think Cynthia Steffe, Alice + Olivia, French Connection, Laundry, etc.) are $25. Yes, you read that correctly. $25. With tags. Hallelujah.

Admittedly, this season’s haul was a bit less impressive than last fall’s. The sale goes on for three days, and the diehards all line up first thing Friday morning (which is when mama bear and I went in October). This year we skipped the Friday crowd and went on a Saturday, so the Boutique tent had fewer amah-zing frocks.

We did find a whole bunch of random things, including one thing I’ve been trying to talk myself into buying for ages now… an under-the-desk elliptical machine. These babies go for about $100 on Amazon, so I hadn’t pulled the trigger just yet. But at the Rummage Sale? $15. I could not be more excited. I’m the girl who swapped her desk chair for a giant fitness ball months ago, but it’s not as effective as I’d hoped. This elliptical thing is perfect. Bring on the buns of steel.

Oh, and since I’ve made it through five paragraphs without mentioning baby drama, I’ll mention now that I did suck it up and peruse the maternity section (because, you know, I’m insane). It was oddly disappointing. I’m talking one small rack of totally random, ugly clothes with a preggo chick huffing and puffing her way through it, lamenting that she had “Four more weeks to go. Just four more weeks to go.” You’d think maternity wear, the single biggest category of castoffs, would be a gold mine. But alas, no. At least I didn’t have to obsess over it.

under the desk elliptical!

under the desk elliptical!

the Life or Death diet

I would like to thank you all for your kind words after my little meltdown on Tuesday. As predicted, I felt better the next day. I’m working very hard on the blaming myself thing and really, really trying not to do it. It’s a daily struggle, but like everything else, I’m handling it.

And on a less serious note, I would also like to thank everyone who recently shared priceless advice for chaffing. I also hope that I won’t need to follow your advice for very long. I’ve had the thigh gap before, and I’m confident that I can get it back. I will get it back, dammit.
thighgap
I realize that I’ve been throwing around “Paleo diet” the same way infertiles tend to throw around acronyms without explaining themselves, expecting their readership to be well versed in the endless combination of letters. I’m sorry for assuming everyone understood what the hell I was talking about. It has been exactly one week since I went totally Paleo, and so far, I’m feeling awesome.

paleoPyramid350The Paleo Diet (also sometimes called The Caveman Diet or The Primal Diet) philosophy, simply stated, is an assumption that the earliest men were healthier than we are now, so clearly their diets were superior and modern-day agriculture along with the influx of processed foods has been to our detriment. This is an oversimplification of a diet that has a plethora of books, blogs, recipes and advocates, but really I find the science portion of it quite boring. I originally heard about the diet from my parents, who have hopped on most low-carb bandwagons since Atkins. The real reason that I chose this diet over all others is that it’s easy to follow. Plus, there’s a whole part of it that directly correlates to fertility and pre-pregnancy/pregnancy health benefits, so it felt very relevant to my current situation.

The basic principle is that you should eat lots of lean meat, fresh vegetables, seafood, nuts/seeds and healthy fats. You should avoid dairy, legumes, grains, processed food/sugars, starches and alcohol. Fruit is OK in moderation but should be limited, especially if you are trying to lose weight.

As I said, the Paleo diet is super easy to follow and requires no point tallying or calorie counting. It’s also healthful and free from chemicals and preservatives, which I’ve never felt good about eating. My mom lost a bunch of weight following it moderately, so I have high hopes for what can happen if I follow it strictly (which is what I’m planning to do). The only problem is that I have to kind of manipulate it to fit my no-fructose plan, which means I have to cut out a lot of yummy fruit. My digestive system is so freaking complicated.

By the third day of my diet, I already felt a lot more clear-headed and energetic. Was it just my imagination? I don’t think so. It’s more proof positive that I was eating like absolute crap before vacation. I believe I’ve heard it referenced as a “carb fog” (or did I totally make that up?) Anyway, made up or not, carb fog was gone. I felt strong, capable and alert. That feeling has continued through the entire week.

So what have I been eating? Stop pretending you’re not completely fascinated by my diet. Breakfast is usually fresh berries/pineapple and a hard-boiled egg, lunch is a lettuce and spinach salad with assorted veggies and grilled chicken or salmon, snack is a clementine and dinner is a protein (chicken, steak, fish) with tons of veggies on the side and sometimes a small-ish baked potato. Bottom Dollar was selling these huge bags of potatoes for like $1.49, but they are freakishly small (maybe that’s why they were on sale). Anyway, there’s some controversy over whether potatoes are technically “Paleo” or not, so I figure small potatoes are better than giant potatoes.

I’ve always had pretty good will power when it came to dieting, but when you want incentive, look no further than the “cheating on this diet could potentially put my future baby’s life at risk” diet. I mean, think of the repercussions. You cheat and have a Snickers? THAT IS POSSIBLY A LIFE OR DEATH DECISION. Really, if I was ever going to stick with something, this is the time. No, I’m not currently pregnant. But this is practice and training for when I am. I have to teach myself to eat this way because once I get that BFP again (wow, confident much), there’s no looking back. I’m sticking to this like no woman has stuck to a diet before. I’m reading every label and interrogating every restaurant manager. I’m not taking one chance on making a mistake and having something go wrong. And if, perchance, something does go wrong… then it wasn’t my diet. It was something else. I’ll have yet another definitive answer. I know people are skeptical that diet can cause miscarriage, but the common refrain I keep hearing is, “it can’t hurt.” So true – it can’t hurt, and it can help. It’s costing me nothing more than a test of will power and some extra time in the produce section. So why the hell not?

And just in case you’re curious (I know, this post is riveting), here is a list of Fructose Malabsorption symptoms. Ever read a list of symptoms and think they were written about you? Hello, talk about a light bulb that suddenly clicked on. Interestingly, there are mental symptoms, which could explain my improved state of mind after cutting out the fructose.

Clear indicators that you can’t digest fructose:

bloating (YES)
flatulence (um… erm… OK, sometimes)
gurgling (what? stomach gurgling, yes)
abdominal pain (YES)
diarrhea/constipation (no/hell yes, for the majority of my life)
aversion to sweet-tasting foods (yup. Always liked savory better and can’t eat anything too sugary)
depression (not quite…)
anxiety (should have been my middle name)
fatigue (yes)
headache (yup)
brain fog (absolutely)
craving for sugar (no… doesn’t this contradict above?)
weight loss (I freaking wish. No. The opposite, actually)

So I trudge along, eating salad and making “regular” meals for my disinterested and even skeptical husband. I have to say I never liked homemade salads as much as prepared salads (weird, I know), but I’m starting to love and even crave them. The key for me is to add protein, like egg, grilled chicken or tuna to make it heartier. I guess another key factor is not allowing myself to eat anything else. When your options are salad or hunger… salads start looking mighty tasty.

Paleo all the way, baby. And yes, in the space of one week I’ve lost 5 pounds. Already! Woo hoo!
paleo

just when you think you’re doing fine…

Today I received a phone call that I was expecting, but somehow it knocked me right onto my emotional behind. That part was unexpected.

You might have noticed, and I’m sure people in the real world definitely noticed, that I’ve been doing pretty great. I keep doubting myself and doing little self-checks, asking my emotions, “Are we OK here? Good? Not gonna cry or be sad? OK then, I guess we’re not sad today.” I believed it. It felt a little strange to feel so normal so quickly. But as my mother wisely warned, the sadness tends to hit you gently like a Mack truck barreling down the highway, and right when you least expect it.

Today my OB/GYN called with the results of the chromosomal tests that were run on the embryos. She called personally, which I appreciated. Both of the babies were perfectly fine and not abnormal in any way. The uterine tissue was also normal. And oh yeah, the babies were girls. That had a lot to do with the emotional crumble, I think – I knew they were real and I knew they were babies, but knowing the genders made reality extra super real. Those were my daughters.

I took the call, sat back down at my desk, and within minutes had to quickly exit stage left to go sob in the parking lot. The whole scene was quite melodramatic – me, alone in the parking lot, blubbering and repeating over and over again, “I’m sorry” as petals from the trees gently floated by.

Why am I sorry? I’m sorry I didn’t know that my first exaggerated HFCS allergic reaction was actually a warning sign. I’m sorry that I kept eating candy and terrible foods, ignoring my body’s protests. I’m sorry I feel bitter every time I see a pregnant person eating junk food (Why do they get to do it with no consequence?) I’m sorry I ever let myself get so excited. I’m sorry I truly believed that miscarriage was just something that happened to other people. I’m sorry for being so hard on myself today. I’m sorry for shouldering the blame. But I can’t help it. I failed. This body failed. Those babies were perfect, and I was not.

Tomorrow I’ll wake up and feel OK again. Tomorrow I’ll look to the future with hope and feast on my dressing-free salad with a renewed sense of purpose. I don’t miss bread or pasta or preservative-laden snack cakes. I feel light and clean. I feel like I’m coming to peace with my digestive/immune systems (I don’t know if that’s really a thing, but I’m doing it). Tomorrow will be better.

But today, I’m just so damn sorry.

something exciting happened today

Upon returning from vacation, I can’t tell you how sad I was to receive a text from my sister in reference to the impending arrival of my niece saying, “I wanted her to come while you were away so I wouldn’t have to have the awkward phone call where I tell you I’m in labor. You don’t have to come…this is just to tell you I don’t want you to feel like you have to be there.”

Of course, I was much more content at the notion of witnessing her delivery when I was pregnant. Of course I was. But even after my loss, I did not for one second consider missing the birth of this baby. I watched my nephew being born. I watched my first niece being born. Despite everything, it remains the coolest, most awe-inspiring thing I’ve ever witnessed. And I can tell you that when you’re watching a new life enter this world, all the other shit falls away (for me, at least). My niece Addison was born in June of 2011, so we had already been diagnosed as infertile. It didn’t matter. The last thing I was thinking about during her delivery was myself. I know that’s hard to imagine, but it’s true. I knew this time, with everything that has happened, it would be exponentially harder. But I also knew that years from now, when I had kids of my own, I would regret missing it. So I went. And I knew that if tears were rolling down my face, they could be for the beauty of the moment, for the unfairness of the world, for my babies in heaven, for the hope I’m still feeling, or for all of the above. Yes… for all of the above. (And when I didn’t end up crying at all, that was OK, too).

When I got the text that she was experiencing contractions, I didn’t feel jealous or sad or angry. I felt excited. Even I was surprised by this. I don’t know why I fly into a jealous rage at sonogram pictures from distant acquaintances on Facebook, but I was not at all jealous of my sister who was literally about to give birth. It makes no sense. Maybe its because while I can imagine perfect lives for these random Facebook friends who I don’t really know, I don’t have such fantasies about my sister’s life. She is just 23 and has three children. Her son Aiden is (not yet officially diagnosed but most likely) on the autism spectrum. She has also suffered the pain of miscarriage. She struggles with the daily challenges that many of us women struggle with – money, self-esteem, emotional roller coasters. I’m jealous that she gets pregnant so easily, sure, but I’m not so jealous of her that I can’t tolerate being in her presence. I was truly, genuinely excited about her baby coming.

When I was 23, I was still making bad decisions on extended weekend beach trips with my best girlfriends. I was still having a blast. My sister has a great life; she has a loving husband and beautiful children. But for me… I’m grateful for every experience that I’ve had. Having babies is my number one goal in life and it always has been. But number one doesn’t mean it’s my only goal. There’s so much else that’s important to me. And deep down in my deepest of deep heart of hearts, I really think I’m going to have a baby one day. Somehow. I really and truly believe it. Maybe this whole experience proved that.

I think one of the biggest problems with Fertilebook, ahem, Facebook is that we only see that small sliver of what people want us to see. It’s easy to envision all these preggo biatches having picture-perfect lives even when we know they don’t. To date, there’s only one person on my Facebook friend list who seems to actually have the perfect life. I keep meaning to delete her but hey… I already said I’m a masochist.

Wow, I went off on a tangent there. Back to the matter at hand. Baby was coming. I was excited. But maybe I was also internalizing complex feelings. I was irrationally irritated at the fact that a cute baby in the nursery had a ridiculous, stupid name (which I hesitate to share in case it’s a name that one of you has picked out. But seriously, for the sake of your future children, I hope not). I kept drifting in and out of daydreaming, and yes, imagining how different it would be if I had still been pregnant. My sister’s best friend was there and we kept discussing her future labor and delivery (she’s engaged, not currently pregnant), but delicately avoided discussing it for me. Or maybe it wasn’t intentional and I’m just being overly sensitive. I know I acted like the whole thing didn’t phase me, and for the most part, it didn’t. But that baby with the stupid name. Yeah, that was frustrating. My baby would never have a stupid name.

My sister should be the poster child for childbirth, though if she was I think women would have unrealistic expectations. Sure, it took 2 days of contractions and she checked into the hospital ten hours before the baby was born. But she had an epidural, which slows things considerably. Once we got to “push time,” she literally pushed twice, smiled hugely in between, and casually brought up another unrelated topic ten minutes after Avery was born. It was like she just accomplished something on her to-do list and was on to the next thing. It’s her third, yes, but I still found it rather impressive.

I contemplated posting a photo, but ultimately decided against it. I know it’s hard for some of you to see. Know that my niece is a beautiful, healthy baby girl and I truly hope to give her an equally adorable cousin one day. One day soon. Please, let it be soon.

Infertility sensitivity training at the nail salon

Allie all grown up, sitting in her own chair

Allie all grown up, sitting in her own chair

First off, I would like to let you all know that I hit a milestone today – 10,000 page views! Holy baloney! Granted, 9,00 of them were probably just me self-editing… but for the other 1,000, thank you all so much for pretending to be interested in what I have to say. It’s so humbling and gratifying.

Today my mom, little sister and I made our annual first pilgrimage to the nail salon to get our toes done. We go to the same place every month of the spring/summer, year after year, so the people there know us well. It’s your typical place, run by people of Asian descent who speak English as a second language. It’s familiar and predictable. It is also a place that tested my tolerance today.

Below is an almost verbatim exchange between me and the young man doing my manicure:

Young Man: You married now one yea? Two yea?
Me: Almost three years.
Young Man: Three yea! No baby yet?
Me: No, no baby yet.
YM: You have baby soon?
Me: Well, yes we want to.
YM: You try to have the baby?
Me: Yes, practicing is half the fun. (Joke totally goes over his head).
YM: Your sistah, she have baby yet?
Me: Yes, she has two. She’s probably having another one today. (P.S. – my sister is in labor at this moment).
YM: Three baby! And you not have one! Tell your husban, you needa have the baby.
Me: Oh yes, he knows. (pause) …You know, it’s not so easy for some people. To have babies. Some people try to have babies and can’t.
YM: Oh. Oh you try to have the baby, not working.
Me: No, no it’s not.
YM: Sometimes the doctuh, they takeah the egg – take it out, and put it in? You know? They put it in the woman.
Me: (holding back laughter) Yes, yes we did that. We tried that. It doesn’t work for everyone.
YM: Oh, yes. Yes very expensive, the doctuh?
Me: Oh yes, VERY EXPENSIVE.
…long pause…
Me: Actually it did work. We were pregnant, with twins. But it… it didn’t last. We lost them. (WHY AM I TELLING HIM THIS? WHY?)
YM: Oh, your body no keep the babies.
Me: Nope. Maybe next time!

I’m seriously glad no one was sitting next to me. And I’m also unsure why I chose that person and that moment to school someone on infertility. Maybe I was hoping he wouldn’t harass the next married/childless woman who sat in that chair? I honestly can’t tell if I got through to him, mostly because of the language barrier. He certainly didn’t apologize for asking why I didn’t have babies, and didn’t shed a tear for my tale of tragedy. He just kept filing and cuticle clipping like we were talking about the weather.

Sigh. Well, at least I tried.

Fat, poor and introspective in the Cayman Islands

Things got better in Cayman. We figured out that the room service was sub-par, but the restaurants at the hotel were pretty good, so we just needed to motivate our lazy asses to get out of the room. I never thought I’d have the life experience to say the phrase, “Don’t order room service at the Ritz in Cayman, it’s positively dreadful,” but here I am saying it. Oh, and in case anyone was wondering, there were no pregnant women on our snorkeling excursion. Right when I let my guard down enough to enjoy the trip, another boat zipped past and slowed just long enough for me to notice a very pregnant passenger, also in a bikini. Apparently that’s a thing there. Also, HAHA, UNIVERSE, VERY FUNNY.

There were times I felt a little bit like the Beverly Hillbillies at the hotel. It’s not just that we don’t fit into that financial bracket – it’s a whole other mindset and way of behaving. I think I’m pretty good at “faking it ’til I make it” but as for my husband… God love him, he does not care what people think, and he won’t pretend to be anyone other than exactly who he is. Really I should take a lesson from him and stop being so worried about appearances (and no, I’m not just saying this because he reads all my posts). I was the girl quietly slipping the complimentary Molton Brown shampoos and lotions and cute little jars of honey into my handbag while maintaining what I hoped was an expression of total indifference. But Eric totally surprised me when we went to a dinner with my aunt and two of her lawyer friends. Her colleague, a Caymanian resident, picked us up in his Jaguar and whisked us over to a gorgeous open air restaurant where we dined on lobster and sipped mojitos in the balmy 80 degree evening. I was thinking, “A girl could get used to this,” and hoping I’d think of interesting enough things to say during dinner. But then it turns out I didn’t need to worry about it, because Eric totally held his own during the conversation, regaling them with tales of the military that they found a hell of a lot more interesting than discussing billable hours. And he didn’t even have to fake it.

stole a lot of good free stuff

stole a lot of good free stuff


On our way to the beach one morning Eric asked, “Why are you walking funny? Just get off a horse?” I didn’t even notice I was doing it. But after he said something, I figured out the problem. When wearing dresses or bathing suit bottoms, it became apparent that my thighs rub together when I walk (something that has never been an issue before). To accommodate their larger circumference, I had inadvertently and involuntarily adopted a wider stance, therefore making me walk like I just got done jockeying or alternately, had just had some kind of bathroom mishap. Oh, the shame of it all.

I know I’ve been so weight focused and it’s probably getting annoying to hear but honestly, I was terrified when I got my BFP. I was certain that I would balloon to elephantine proportions during the pregnancy. My stomach getting bigger was one thing. But my thighs and my arms and even my calves? They were already too big for me, and had the potential of getting bigger still. I can’t explain how much I felt like a foreigner trapped in my own body.

Before packing for the trip, I made the mistake of hastily texting my sister saying, “None of my clothes for vacation will fit my fat ass. Looks like I’ll need to borrow yours.” I need to mention two things: 1) My sister is extremely sensitive and 2) She’s not fat at all. But we are built differently and she gravitates towards mediums while I (used to) make a beeline for the extra smalls. I also need to mention that my sister is incredibly beautiful whereas I am more “pretty” or even “average-leaning cute.” I think that’s part of the problem, or even most of the problem, with the weight gain. For the longest time I’ve relied on my thinness to keep me feeling attractive. Like, OK, my face isn’t a 10, but at least I look decent in a pair of jeans. It’s like I’ve become invisible to the world now that I’m larger.

The fact that I have to keep reiterating how I’m not obsessed with appearances probably proves that I am obsessed with them, and clearly I’m in denial. I’m smart enough to know that my self-worth is not directly proportional to my weight nor is my being thin or not thin an indication of how attractive I am. I know. But going on vacation in April forced me to thrust my winter-hibernation and especially out of sorts post-infertility and even post-miscarriage body into a bikini and skimpy cover-up. And I did this at a resort populated with women whose full-time jobs appeared to be working out, tanning and getting manicures. I felt a bit like the Pillsbury Dough Boy at the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. And, at heart, I’m feeling quite betrayed by my body both inside and out. It’s no wonder my self-image issues go deeper than just how much extra pasta I’ve been eating.

I stuck to my new diet today, which was extra hard since I haven’t gone grocery shopping since vacation and there’s pretty much nothing but eggs in my fridge. I took a great “before” picture that I contemplated posting, but I’m thinking I’ll wait until I have a noticeable “after.” I also ate an apple this afternoon and then suffered the absolute worst stomach pains, so I’m convinced I have Fructose Malabsorption as my PCP suggested. Looks like it’s legit broccoli and chicken from here on out. Bring it.

Greetings from the Pregnant Women’s Convention, Grand Cayman edition

I was going to hold off on posting until I got back from vacation. I wanted to just take a break from blogging and infertility and drama for five days. But alas, you cannot take a break from reality, even when you are in paradise.

I could not wait to post because 1) shit is on my mind, 2) it’s a lot of shit, so I don’t want to post it all at once and 3) relaxing vacations offer plenty of spare time to write, write and write some more.

Here I am on Grand Cayman Island, staying at The Ritz-Carlton and trying to enjoy myself. There was one cute baby on the plane. Fine, OK, I dealt with it. But apparently someone forgot to mention that there must be a Pregnant Women’s Convention here at the hotel. Within the first ten minutes of sitting by the pool on the first day, Pregnant Woman #1 waddled her happy pregnant ass over and plopped into the chair right next to me. Awesome. Then Pregnant Woman #2 passed me in the hallway. Today is day two and around Pregnant Woman #6 (in a cute bikini, no less) I’ve stopped counting and just resigned myself to laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing. I would not classify this as a “kid-friendly” hotel by any means. I would not come here for a wild and fun family vacation. But I guess there are a lot of lawyers and hedge fund managers here and the men brought their wives to enjoy the beach while they’re stuck in conferences. Their pregnant wives. Or maybe there’s really a Pregnant Women’s Convention. Frankly, it wouldn’t shock me.

Moral of the story? There’s no escaping your state of mind, even if you leave your state. As frustrating as it was to see those women and the occasional cherubic baby in a stroller, the worst moment so far happened when I casually glanced at Eric in profile and couldn’t help but picture that our babies probably had his facial structure. I don’t know why I thought that and it’s something that could have happened anywhere. It just proves that I’m never safe from my own self-inflicted misery.

I’m making it sound like I’m having a terrible time, but really I’m not. This place is incredible. The water is turquoise and warm, the sand is white, the weather (minus a brief rain shower today) is perfect. My complaints, besides the inundation of pregnant people, are just the food and the prices. I mean, $15 cocktails and $25 salads would be one thing if they were mind-blowing. But honestly? Every single thing I’ve eaten has left me uttering, “I’ve had better,” all while trying hard not to calculate just how much we’ve wasted on dried-out-cheese encrusted nachos.

Tomorrow we’re going snorkeling and swimming with stingrays, two things that are actually worth the money and will hopefully deter the league of pregnant chicks. Tuesday we’re planning to go on a rum distillery tour and a brewery tour, which are things I would not have enjoyed as much if I’d still been knocked up.

As far as existential crises and major life decisions, I’ll save those chats for a later post. Let’s just say I’ve been doing some serious thinking about my life and knowing that I’m a super control freak surrounded by uncontrollable situations, it should make for an interesting next couple of months and even years. I need to make real changes if I want things to change. Simple to say… not so simple to do.

And for now, here’s some sandy toes:

toes