burnt toast life

can someone get me off this emotional roller coaster, please?

I’ve mentioned before that at my RE’s office, most of the doctors/nurses/techs don’t speak English very well. So far my biggest issue with that has been the recurring need to make them repeat things during phone calls, and the occasional abrupt and funny conversation. Then yesterday happened.

I went for CD11 blood and sono and had to wait until 4 freaking 30 for the results. The whole day started off on a sour note because I had my least favorite tech for the sono, the same tech who did my “your babies have no heartbeat” scan, so I was already feeling a little weird about the whole thing (at least it wasn’t the same room). She usually tells me nothing, except life-changing, terrible news, but today she said, “Mostly we are looking at the lining… you’re at 7.7, that’s perfect… Follicle on the left is measuring 21, and you’ll ovulate soon.” OK, I can live with perfect. Great. But then I had to wait eight hours for the blood results, which is uncommon. Despite my earlier good news, throughout the day I convinced myself that my hormone levels would be unacceptable and we’d have to cancel this cycle. They finally called.

English as a Second Language Nurse: “I do not know how to say this…”

Shit, right? She even repeated it, followed by a long silence. My heart dropped. Tears formed. I was working from home, so I looked forlornly out into the backyard, doing quick mental calculations of how we could possibly afford to do an FET on our own by next month. What about a yard sale? Maybe I could sell a kidney? How long would it take to raise the money? Seriously, in the space of 30 seconds I was already offering up my own organs to get pregnant again. Then she continued:

ESL Nurse: “I do not know how to say this, but did you give us a copy of the tissue results from your D&C? Do we have those?”

On the list of phrases to be banned from fertility clinics, I’m going to have to recommend that “I do not know how to say this” should be in the top ten. She literally did not know how to say something. I guess she didn’t realize that in the English language, prefacing your statement with, “I do not know how to say this,” means that the next thing you say will be awful, awful news. I felt both relieved and emotionally drained once I figured out what the hell she was actually saying. We straightened out the paperwork snafu and then she gave me my transfer date – June 6th. I don’t even have to go back for monitoring between now and then. I just have to start my Estrace, start my lovely PIO injections, and show up at 11:30 on Thursday to get pregnant.

I feel weird about this. We did a natural cycle FET last time, so I feel good about that, but I remember going back every day around ovulation to determine the precise time of it happening. They even gave me some nasal spray to induce it when I hadn’t ovulated by CD15. But this time, they’re just like, “Uhhh… yeah, come back Thursday. That should be good.” Maybe because it worked last time, so they don’t feel the need to be so precise? Maybe they don’t care that much? I just don’t know. And once again…I’m at the mercy of these people and cannot demand answers since I’m not a paying customer. I’m just a number in a study. I’m just a girl getting a free ride who needs to sit down and shut up.

I got a second emotional smack in the face on that same phone call. At my miscarriage ultrasound, Dr. L mentioned the possibility of just transferring one embryo for the next round. I’ve been mulling that over for the past 6 weeks and had finally come to terms with it being a good idea. I was scared of my ability to handle twins, especially for my first children, not to mention the added risks of having multiples. Plus it felt even more like trying to “replace” my lost children. So I made the decision. Yes, we would just transfer one. I had a higher level of confidence that just one would work since both of them stuck last time.

On the call, ESL Nurse said, “We will transfer two embryos.” I protested, mentioning that Dr. L had offered to just do one, but she said, “No, no that would break protocol. We have to do two.” So again… six weeks of planning and decision making was out the window. I’m scared enough to be pregnant; now the likely chance of twins again? I couldn’t sleep last night. I’m just so worried. (And before you ask if I can just talk to Dr. L, I’m now remembering that she kept getting confused if I was a clinical trial or regular patient. So she probably thought I was regular when she offered to do one. I know it makes more sense that they would have to do two again, so they don’t screw up the study).

I know, I sound like an asshole. Here I am so concerned about achieving the greatest goal: getting pregnant. Poor Amanda, her lining is just too welcoming and sticky. But I am a little messed up about the twins thing. More than I realized before I got that call. I’m stuck in that same conflicting place of wanting both my babies but only wanting to have one at a time. I can’t have it both ways, I know that.

This post just reeks of skepticism and negativity, I’m now realizing, but the entire gist of it is good news. I get to do a transfer this cycle. I knew it would be June 6th because that is my dear friend’s birthday, a friend who has been inexplicably linked to my infertility in strange and amazing ways (post explaining this further to follow). When I saw that things were lining up for early June, I thought, “The 6th. It’s definitely the 6th,” and it was.

Onward to Thursday, then…

Wheee!

Wheee!

the garden that love built

In honor of my three year wedding anniversary tomorrow, I have a sort of lovey-dovey post.

I’m not one for mushiness. Eric and I are a make-it-through-anything, meant-to-be-together couple, not an in your face, so-cute-it-makes-you-want-to-vomit couple. Some of the strongest indicators of his affection often come in the form of actions, not words. This weekend he put away the clean dishes without being asked. Yes, it’s minor, but to me it spoke volumes. This weekend he also built me a garden.

In this post I mentioned that Eric’s solutions to problems are often well thought out and elegant, whereas mine are slipshod quick fixes (somehow he took this as an insult, though it wasn’t intended to be one). Allow me to clarify this further. When we first purchased our home, the kitchen featured custom built, solid wood shaker style cabinets in a dark oak finish that were covered in about 20 years of caked-on grease. They were literally sticky to the touch; it was disgusting. However, these cabinets were so gorgeous that anyone with a little bit of vision could see the potential. We immediately disassembled the cabinets with plans to paint them off-white to brighten the whole kitchen. Once the doors came off, we noticed that the base underneath the sink had gotten wet and rotted out. Eric immediately made plans to replace the wood and rebuild a sturdier bottom to support our under sink necessities. Guys – this. project. took. days. It’s my absolute favorite example of his meticulous project planning because I was so fixated on the real project at hand – the cabinets – (which were also the biggest pain in the ass and took well over a week to complete) that I did not give a shit about a stupid under the sink cabinet base that no one would see again ever. I got frustrated. I’m sure I said some harsh words. But now? I have a cabinet base that won’t ever fall apart again. It’s already gotten wet due to some faulty plumbing and has withstood the test of moisture. Had it just been me replacing it, in typical slipshod fashion, it would probably be a soggy, unusable mess again. I’d be spending double the time on a self-described “stupid project.”

So back to the garden. I’ve always been wanted a backyard vegetable garden in a vague, daydream-y way, but haven’t really done anything about it. It seemed a huge undertaking, and lets be honest – I’ve never had much of a green thumb. I just want to have a green thumb, and that’s definitely not the same thing.

I got out of work early on Friday and didn’t feel like going home, so I called my mother-in-law to see if she was going out shopping. She said she wanted to head to the local nursery and use up a gift card that she had won, and that’s how I unexpectedly ended up with a blueberry bush and tomato, squash and pepper plants that needed a place to be planted, preferably before they shriveled and died. I was stressed out immediately.

We had a couple of things planned for the weekend and as usual, Eric’s list of priorities differed a bit from mine. He wanted to fix the heater in our camper and build a fire pit out of a pile of rocks in the backyard, whereas I just wanted to “make the yard pretty.” When I explained in increasingly panicked tones that I needed a garden before my poor plants died from inexcusable negligence on my part, he sighed in exasperation. I figured this would be another month-long fight ending with dead plants, tears and resentment. But then he surprised me and moved one of my priorities to the top of his list.

We had an above ground pool that got destroyed during a freak October snowstorm, and Eric had torn down the pool and ripped out the pool deck, which is why we had some extra lumber lying around just taking up space. Eric took that wood and began to build me my garden, almost as though he knew what I wanted more than I knew what I wanted (probably true). It didn’t take days; it took hours. By Monday evening, I planted those tomatoes, peppers and squash in a garden that I didn’t even know I needed but am now convinced I absolutely cannot live without.

You see, he doesn’t always do what I want him to do. We don’t have enough money to go away for the weekend to celebrate our anniversary. But now I have something – a tangible representation of love that will (hopefully) bloom and grow for the whole season. And that’s more precious to me than a cheesy, sappy card or an overpriced B&B stay could ever be.

loving my love garden

loving my love garden

a chicken named Toast

“Coming in late tomorrow because I have to take my chicken to the vet. I realize how ridiculous that sentence is.”

That was the exact text I sent to my boss on Monday night. You may be thinking, “Chicken? Vet? What?” and you would be entirely justified. Here is the story.

Some of you may recall that in our quest to remain rural in an increasingly suburban setting, we keep chickens. It’s a fun fact to share with people, and the eggs really do taste better. Anyway. Our chicks from this Easter grew up beautifully in their cardboard box before graduating to the small coop in the basement. Any day now they’ll be ready to join the lone chicken from last year, Gloria, outside in the brand new fancy coop. All the chickens, that is, except one.

This is the part where I admit that I don’t have much involvement in the care and feeding of the chicks. And by not much, I mean basically none. Eric does the whole morning routine and takes the dogs out, feeds and waters the chickens, makes the coffee, etc. while I stay in bed for as long as humanly possible. My justification for this is that he’s the one who wanted chickens/dogs, not me. But I digress.

I was aware that we had six chicks and I vaguely remember him saying something about a “chick with a hurt leg.” Here I will admit that I mostly pay attention, but sometimes do not necessarily hear important details. Fast forward to last week.

I was down in the basement doing laundry and for whatever reason, I happened to glance over at the coop. I counted five chickens intently watching me load the washing machine. I was confused. Did a chicken die? Did he not tell me? I walked over to that side of the room and noticed their first home, a large cardboard box, was still set up beside the other coop. Inside that cardboard box was a chicken with a pathetically twisted dead leg, flapping around pitifully in the wood chips.

That’s when the whole “chicken with the hurt leg” comment came back to me. I immediately found Eric and demanded he explain about the hurt chicken in the cardboard box animal hospital. He confirmed that the chick did walk normally at first, but something must have happened because over the course of the last few weeks, he had developed a serious chicken leg injury. He was separated out to prevent further damage to his bum leg.

This is a good time to point out that Eric and I deal with problems differently, a fact that has spurred more than a few knock down drag out shouting matches good-natured arguments. He tends to let things go for long periods of time, whereas I prefer to solve problems the absolute same hour that I become aware of them. I can’t claim that my method is necessarily better. His solutions to things such as how to lay out a picture collage focal wall and how to reorganize the basement are infinitely more well thought out and elegant than my slipshod quick fixes. However, when I saw the deformed chicken, I wanted to help him, like, yesterday. It turns out that Eric had talked to some person at work with a farm who assured him this problem could potentially fix itself if the chicken was kept quarantined. But the waiting so far had not helped.

My next point – our vet is expensive (as I’m sure most vets are). The little postcards kindly reminding us that both dogs were due for all kinds of shots were piling up, yet we couldn’t bring ourselves to drop a few hundred dollars on a shitload of vaccines. Besides, we were too busy spending money on injectables for me. And lest you worry that we are bad dog parents, we ended up taking the pups to a low cost vaccination clinic over the weekend and paying about 1/6 of what our vet charges for the very same shots. We’re thrifty like that.

So if we were hesitant to take our dogs to the vet due to the cost, you can see why taking our male chicken to the vet was low on the priority list, never mind the fact that Eric’s farm-savvy coworker suggested the problem could be fixed by waiting. In theory, I probably agreed with all of this. But agreeing with something in theory and literally watching a poor animal suffer are two different things entirely. Also, we dubbed the chicken “Toast” since he was so very pathetic, which managed to make me feel even worse about the whole thing. (Catch up on the story of burnt toast here.)

Maybe things would have continued that way for a while longer, despite how uncomfortable it made me, had it not been for the second leg injury. At some point this week, I peeked into the box and realized that Toast had somehow injured his only good leg. Now he was literally crawling on the floor with both legs bent into grotesque yoga-looking poses, chicken ankle wrapped around neck and still flapping around in the most heartbreaking fashion that you can possibly imagine. Whatever you’re picturing, multiply it by 1,000. It actually brought me to tears.

That’s when I decided I’d had enough. It was time for a mercy kill. If Eric wouldn’t let me pay for the vet, then at the very least I could put poor Toast out of his misery. I worked up the courage and the moment Eric got home from work on Monday night, I pled my case:

Me: “Listen, I need to kill that chicken.”
Him: “What? What are you going to kill it with?”
Me: “Your axe. You have an axe, right? I’m going to chop off its head.”
Him (incredulous): “OK, chop off its head. I can’t do it, though. I want no part of it.”
Me: “Well…”
Him: “What? What now?”
Me: “I need you to hold it down. But you don’t have to look.”
Him: “So I’m going to hold down a chicken and not look while you swing an axe at my hand? No. Hell no.”

This went on for a little while. Finally he stopped, looked at me, and gave in.

Him: “Fine. Go ahead and call the vet.”

The vet’s office was still open when I called. They asked the name, age, breed and gender of the chicken, and shockingly I had answers for each question. (“His name is Toast?” asked the receptionist skeptically. “Yes, Toast.”). The receptionist also apologized that the only vet in their office who treated chickens was not in that evening. She asked if I wanted to be referred to another chicken-servicing vet, or if I could wait until morning. Way too ashamed to admit how long Toast had been in distress, I pretended to wrestle with the decision before confirming I could wait a few hours. That’s when I sent that text to my boss.

The next morning I arrived at the vet with Toast flapping around loudly in a box. We were ushered back into a room, where the vet took one look at him and said he appeared to be the victim of a common yet incurable chicken birth defect known as slipped tendons. As he grew, his little tendons did not fuse properly, leaving him with twisted up legs that would never carry his weight. She also said that his was one of the worst cases she had ever seen.

Not that we would have opted for surgery necessarily, but in this case there was no surgery available. The only way to help poor Toast was to euthanize him with dignity. Even though this was a chicken, even though I figured that would be the outcome and even though I had only known him a few short weeks, I totally broke down. I kept apologizing for crying – over a chicken – but the vet seemed sympathetic. She offered me a box of tissues and asked if I wanted to say goodbye and if I would like to be with him in his final moments.

And that’s how I ended up paying $200 to euthanize a young rooster named Toast.

chiecken

the story so far (a post with three purposes)

As the title suggests, this post has three purposes.

Purpose One: I would like to greet everyone who is visiting for the first time from ICLW. This is my second time participating, and I can’t wait to read all of your blogs and blow up the comments sections. I started out my blogging career as a hardcore lurker and only through ICLW have I embraced the fine art of commenting. If I love getting comments, then I should also go forth and comment. It’s only fair.

Purpose Two: I’m “coming out” again on Facebook. I’m also going to start posting my blog on Facebook once again. If you’re here from Facebook, welcome back!

Purpose Three: On a similar note, I’ve created a separate fan page for Facebook. It felt a little bit arrogant at first, but then I convinced myself that it makes sense. Now people who want to follow my blog from Facebook can follow. Even if we aren’t FB friends… follow if you want to. Especially now that they’re getting rid of Google Reader (so, so sad about that). Here is the link to the Facebook fan page: https://www.facebook.com/belovedburnttoast

Phew, OK. Now for some background. Below is the story so far.

On matters of fertility:

  • We began this brilliant dance of trying to conceive in May of 2010.
  • We were diagnosed as infertile on February 28, 2011. We did our first embryo transfer on February 28, 2013. It was a total coincidence.
  • We have zero insurance coverage for ART (assisted reproductive technology).
  • In an amazing stroke of luck, a friend suggested that we research clinical trials. We found one. We got accepted. We somehow finagled free IVF.
  • We got pregnant with twin girls on our first round of IVF.
  • I was pregnant for one incredible month before the worst fucking day of my life, the day we found out neither baby had a heartbeat.
  • I got to hear their little heartbeats at 7 weeks, but those heartbeats were gone at 8 weeks.
  • There is no explanation for the miscarriage. Embryos normal, tissue normal, everything normal.
  • You never know how strong you are until strong is the only choice you have.
  • I never thought I could survive an M/C, but I did, with most of my sanity intact.
  • For our next round of IVF, I’m trying the Paleo Diet because of a strong suspicion that my allergic intolerance to certain foods had something to do with the loss. Justification: it can’t hurt to try.
  • Want more? See it all on the timeline.

On matters non-fertility related:

  • I spend an exorbitant amount of time reminding myself that inanimate objects don’t have feelings
  • I’m a Libertarian-leaning Christian with the bleeding heart of a Liberal
  • I hope I’m as witty as I think I am
  • I’m always thirsty. Always. It’s rare to find me without a beverage close by.
  • I used to not like dogs until I got dogs. Now I cannot imagine my world without my two crazy boys.
  • Some people have drug addictions; I have a coffee addiction. It’s seriously intense.
  • If I could, I would spend hours of my day just listening to people speak French.
  • Want more? Check out my about me section.

Well, that’s all for now. I have a riveting/incredibly sad post about a chicken coming up soon, so stay tuned! There’s always something dramatic going on here at Burnt Toast central.

lovecoffee

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!

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

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.