Without Even Trying

I always used to think that one day I would be one of those women who got pregnant without even trying. From the time I started having sex, I was convinced that I would eventually become a statistic. The unwed mother with an unplanned pregnancy.

We’ve already discussed the fact that my hunches may need some recalibration.

It was because of this feeling of mine though, that I remained beyond diligent when it came to my pill taking. Because of this fear that pregnancy would happen before I was ready, that I took every precaution I could.

Despite these precautions though, I still had plenty of scares. If I was involved in a sexual relationship (and even some months when I wasn’t), I was holding my breath until those first signs of the crimson tide. I was simply that convinced that I was a fertile myrtle; that even modern day contraception couldn’t stand in the way of my body making a baby.

And that was one of my biggest fears. At 16, 19, 22, and even 25; the worst thing I could imagine happening to me was an unplanned pregnancy.

Little did I know.

But you see; I had plans and goals. I had a timeline and a checklist. As much as I wanted to be a mother (and even then, that was always the ultimate goal); I wanted to do it on my terms. When I decided the time was right.

Funny how life works out.

I think I've come to terms with the fact that conception will never be easy for me (if even possible), but I seem to have lost sight of the reality that this isn’t the case for all women. Not everyone struggles and fails. Not everyone lives in fear of it never happening. Not everyone has to try so hard.

Some women get pregnant without even trying at all.

I found out last week that the ex’s sister was pregnant. The same sister who’s wedding I attended just last month, and who I knew decidedly wasn’t trying.

As soon as I found out, tears were streaming down my face. I couldn’t stop them, I couldn’t force them back; they just flowed.

As quickly as the tears began though, they suddenly shifted to tears of anger. Anger at myself. Anger over the emotions I simply couldn’t control.

Anger that I was the girl who cried over the happy news of someone she loved.

I caught myself wondering if I would always be like this. If I would always be the girl who ached so deeply that she simply couldn’t rejoice in the news of a pregnancy anymore; no matter how wanted or loved that child would be.

For the rest of my life, will this news always hurt?

It isn't that I would ever wish this struggle on anyone either, but somehow (someway), I have become so consumed by it that I've forgotten it isn't so hard for everyone else. I've become so entrenched in this infertile world of mine, that I've lost sight of what things are like in the real world.

In the real world, women just get pregnant. In the real world, they don't even have to be trying.

In the real world, becoming a mother doesn't feel so impossible.

And in the real world, those I love are passing me by.

I spoke to her the next morning, and was able to tell her how happy I truly am for her. I owned my tears, but I tried to explain as best as I could. I wasn’t crying because she got two lines; I was crying because I didn't. I wasn’t hurting because she would get to experience the magic of pregnancy; I was hurting because I wanted to be right there with her. Had my cycle worked, we would have been within a week of each other’s due dates. Having no friends in my immediate circle who are anywhere near having babies (they have all either been there/done that, or they are still young and single with no plans of changing anything anytime soon), the prospect of being pregnant with a close friend was palpable. In my head, our baby showers were playing out alongside every single moment when we would have been growing together.

But, that won’t be happening. Instead, it will be only her; at least for now. And while I love her with all my heart, the loss of what could have been (by all rights; what should have been) had my heart aching.

After I explained the tears though, I also explained my very real joy. Joy over a baby who will be loved and wanted. Joy over a little one who I will be able to snuggle up to and shower with attention. Joy for a friend of mine who will be a wonderful mother.

And she understood. She was cautious of my feelings, and considerate of the rawness; she understood. She knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that I really am happy for her (and if she doesn’t, she should. This is a beautiful woman with an incredible heart and a fabulous husband – these two will make phenomenal parents.) But I think she also gets why there would be an ache in my heart. And I think she knows that despite that ache, I still want to be there for every single step of the way. I still want to be the friend that is supporting her as best I can; the one who is loving that baby before he or she ever even arrives.

Because that’s what friends do, and this girl is a friend who I adore. Regardless of what the end result was between the ex and me, I will forever be grateful for our relationship if only because it brought this incredible family into my life.

And even though I’m having to come to terms with the fact that other women get pregnant without even trying, I’m also trying to remind myself that my turn hasn’t passed me yet. That there is still hope, and love, and joy in this future of mine.

That somewhere around the corner there may be a baby meant just for me. One who is simply waiting for the right time. One who I will undoubtedly have to work for; try for, pray for, and sacrifice for. But a baby nonetheless.

A baby who will land in my arms and suddenly;

It won’t matter how hard I had to try.

The Curse Of The Ugly Sweater

Note to self: If you make a conscious decision to wear ugly clothes to work, just know that everyone and their mother is going to see you.

I tend to dress pretty well for work. I’ve got my Express business attire that I’m actually quite proud of (working in bars, I never really had a need for a nice button down. But when I got my first grown up job 2 years ago [yes, I have been at my current place of employment for 2 years now!] – you had better believe I splurged on grown up clothes!) Every once in a great while (for meetings typically), I even go all out with a suit jacket.

Now, keep in mind that this is still Alaska – the call to be totally business chic all the time just isn’t really there. As much as I would love to pretend that I’m a high powered business woman living in the mean streets of somewhere posh and business-y like New York or DC… yeah, that isn’t exactly the case.

As such, I still own a few less than classy pieces of attire. When I first moved up here, I was not equipped for a winter in Alaska at all. The only warm things I owned were hoodies emblazoned with the name of my college – not exactly classy, or even warm for that matter. At least 90% of my wardrobe was sleeveless and centered around flip flops.

I was not prepared.

As such, I took on warm clothes as quickly as I could find them. Sometimes I got my hands on a steal, but more often than not; I was buying based on survival: the need to get through my first winter without freezing to death.

Add to this the fact that I absolutely despise shopping, and it wasn't rare for me to walk into a store and grab a few items that looked like they would fit before walking out without looking back.

Yes, I paid, but that was it. No trying on, no hemming and hawing over color; just grab, pay, and go.

This upcoming winter (my 3rd now) is actually the first where I feel fully equipped with an appropriate number of jackets and shoes. Things I like and won’t mind wearing. Items which are actually built to withstand the colder temperatures.

Still – lingering in the back of my closet are the remnants of those past shopping trips where the only goal was to get in and get out. Those clothes which are less than adorable, but which I have still yet to toss for reasons unknown.

Even more unknown are the reasons behind the days when I still grab one of these less than appealing frocks and actually go out the door wearing them.

With a closet full of clothes I actually like now, why do I feel the need to still give my ugly clothes a chance?

Today was one of those days. As I stood naked in my closet surveying the options (the plentiful options, seeing as I had just done laundry yesterday), I caught myself eyeing the ugly sweater.

Now, this sweater has no redeeming qualities at all. It’s shapeless, lifeless, and incapable of flattering anyone. Add to that the fact that it is also the most boring shade of grey ever, and there you have it – the ugliest sweater in my closet.

I can’t even take a picture of it on me for you – mostly because I’m convinced that it makes me look like a homeless crack whore who was unlucky enough to find herself living in Alaska where she was actually forced to cover up lest she freeze her ta-ta’s off.

So why (someone seriously – please tell me why) would I grab this sweater to wear today?

I think it’s because it’s there, and because I feel guilty not wearing clothes that are in my closet. A trait which I’m fairly certain completely highlights my neurosis.

This is also how I wound up wearing a wrinkled and too small green button down for my employee photos – not because it was anything that I actually found flattering, but because it was there. And because I had no idea anyone was going to be taking my photo that day.

Ugly clothes have a way of being seen.

But today I thought for sure I could hide away in my office; shielding the world from my ugly sweater. I had no meetings scheduled, and nothing major on the books – plus, as ugly as this sweater is; it’s kind of soft and comfy.

And Mondays drive me towards comfort over style.

As I left my house this morning, I felt confident that I could get away with my ugly sweater day without having to face any of my co-workers. It would be the perfect outfit to hide away in my office in. The perfect outfit to avoid any and all interactions while catching up on some of the more pressing matters on my to-do list.

So, I shouldn’t have been surprised when I walked into my office to spy hot copy machine guy repairing my copier.

The same copier that I called in a service report for on Friday (and had subsequently forgotten all about).

The same copier that was now functioning without issue.

Which means that not only did hot copy machine guy see me in my ugly sweater first thing in the morning – he also likely thinks I have now resorted to making up problems with my copier just to get him to come by and repair it.

Lovely.

After that little run-in though, I was still naïve enough to think that I could make it the rest of the day incident free.

Until I got a call from a local businessman I had been speaking to last week about some work we may have for him. He wanted to meet. Today. At one. In my office.

Sure! Of course! No problem! Come on down!

I’ll be the one in the ugly sweater.

Now convinced that my professionalism was severely in question by someone who we really do need a good working relationship with, I sunk back into my chair after bidding him adieu – hoping that I could just make it through the next 3 hours without anyone else witnessing my ugly sweater.

It was at that point that I got the e-mail announcing an all company mandatory meeting at 3:00.

Thus is the curse of the ugly sweater. The sweater that I don’t even remember buying and that I can’t for the life of me justify wearing (even as I’m putting the appalling thing on.)

The ugly sweater that will no longer hold a place in the back of my closet where the morning version of me (with poor eyes and even poorer logic) can’t fully assess the hideousness of the situation,

No, the ugly sweater and a few other choice items will be making a trip to Good Will this weekend where they belong.

Out of site, out of mind.

And out of my closet, where I am apparently tempted to wear everything I own with at least some regularity.

Despite how ugly it may be.

Alaska: Pissin’ Off Texas Since 1959

This is what I learned at the fair yesterday:

Apparently I was clueless to this rivalry, but these shirts had me cracking up - especially since I know some of you (who I love and adore) are quite fond of your home state of Texas! You always hear that everything is bigger in Texas, but… we really do have ya’ll on size.

And oil.

And I would even venture to argue natural beauty.

Of course, Texas gets better winters, so I’ll give you that.

The fair was, unfortunately, a bit of a letdown. I had been so excited to go and so sure that I could get past the rain, but when it was pouring on us just an hour in; both Loo and I were over it.

This sign at the agricultural building pretty much said it all:

Imagine if we had 31 days of sunshine (instead of rain). It has certainly been a rough summer. Sigh...

I was soaking wet and in flip flops. My toes were covered in mud and cold. I had thought that by wearing flip flops I could will the sun to shine, but it didn’t exactly work like that. Apparently I don't have control over the weather.

In fact, when we finally left a few hours later, the rain was coming down so hard it was actually difficult to see while driving.

What a bummer.

Especially when you consider the fact that I woke up this morning to the sun shining (despite the weather report that it would be raining all week) and an epic list of “adult” things I needed to accomplish today. Things like cleaning the kitchen and doing my laundry and writing a freelance article that I have due.

Things that are nowhere near as much fun as the fair in the light of day.

Oh well though. Next weekend is another fair weekend, and hopefully the sun will come out to shine at least once. Loo and I (and hopefully Mrs. King and her hubby) are going to see Shinedown at the fairgrounds next Friday. If it’s a nice enough day, we may just have to skip out on work early to go and really get some good fair time in.

The one bonus to the rain though, was that people weren’t walking around eating fair food. They were all pretty confined to the few tents that were set up for eating, so I didn’t have to see people gnawing on elephant ears or popping delicious cheese curds into their mouths. As such, I avoided temptation like a champ.

That’s right. This girl survived a day at the fair and remained gluten and dairy free.

I even avoided drinking when Loo popped into the bar for a beer.

I have superhuman willpower.

I have to admit though; my pain has started to creep back up the last few days. I don’t really want to talk about it. I’m annoyed with it. But I’m going to keep trying with this diet just because… what else can I do? At this point another round of Lupron isn’t an option. I’ve only now started to feel “normal” again. I’ve only recently regained my energy. I’m not ready to go down that path once more. Especially with an impending frozen transfer.

So, I’ll keep trying naturally and hoping that I find something that works for my pain.

Back to the fair though. Before the rain picked up, we did get to enjoy a few of the festivities. For instance, no trip to The Alaska State Fair is complete without a little betting at “The World Famous Palmer Rat Race” (yes, that is what they call it – hilarious!) You see, this poor little rat (who I think looks a bit more like a mouse) is set in the middle of this spinning wheel and people place quarter bets on which hole the little guy is going to escape into.


Untitled from S.I.F. on Vimeo.

It’s funny. Even if it shouldn’t be.

We also tracked down a psychic, and I was thisclose to getting a reading. The money was literally on the table, but when Loo asked if she could videotape the reading (for blogging posterity of course) he was adamant that cameras weren’t allowed.

I’m sorry, but if you want me to pay $45 for a 15 minute reading and you aren’t going to let me tape it; I have to call foul. It’s not like you’re in some high liability profession. You’re a flipping state fair psychic! Being that opposed to taping makes me think you might just be a little bit sketchy (and yes – I realize that a state fair psychic is likely sketchy by nature).

Still… I’ve been wanting a reading for a while. Not because I fully believe in that stuff, but because; there is part of me that does believe. And what could it hurt? A little insight into the future. A reading that could possibly predict the path of this next round. A person to tell me when I’ll get the life I’ve been hoping for.

Doesn’t sound so bad, does it?

So maybe next week when we go back, I’ll give him another chance.

After all, if $45 can’t buy you a taped session with a fair psychic; that fair psychic isn’t nearly motivated enough.

But I guarantee you there's at least one there who is.

It's Possible

It’s possible that I am spending the day at the fair – avoiding cheese curds at all costs.

It’s possible that Loo and I have decided we are going on a man hunt for this year’s fair trip – which is mildly amusing seeing as I have never seen so many men in overalls in my life as I have spied at the Alaska State Fair the last few years.

It’s possible that it’s raining and the sun is refusing to shine – but that’s really no different than what we can expect from the fair every year at this time of year.

It’s possible that the fair planners really should push to have the fair in July.

It’s possible that I have a purse full of “acceptable” snacks to get me through the day and keep me from caving at one of the fair stands that carry the food I typically crave.

It’s possible that if anyone sees me taking that giant carrot out of my purse, it could get weird.

It’s possible that I’m still all kinds of excited to hit up the fair though; food or no food, rain or shine.

Because it’s possible that even with the overabundance of men in overalls and rides that I’m terrified of; I still love the Alaska State Fair.

Love it like a 10 year old on her way to Disneyland.

An Addendum

After getting lots (and lots) of input yesterday, I realized that in order to respond to everyone; I would have to say the same things over and over again. So instead; I give you an addendum to my previous post. A multi-faceted addendum with points I likely should have made clearer in my original meandering into this hot button topic:

The first point is: I am not perfect. I do not claim to be, and I have no interest in pretending to be. At one point in my life, alcohol was a huge priority of mine. I used to drink too much and too often; there was a phase there where someone could have argued that I may have had a problem. Drinking has been a rarity in my life for these last few years, but I've still harbored a love for wine and not too long ago I even got good and drunk in an attempt to drown away my sadness over my failed cycle.

I am not perfect, and I am not a teetotaler.

Just yesterday I caught myself thinking “Man, I can’t wait to get pregnant so that I can eat taco bell and pizza again!” Yep. That thought crossed my mind. And then I stopped in my tracks and laughed. I’m willing to eat 100% healthy and clean (because let’s not forget – I am currently off dairy, caffeine, gluten, and alcohol; and I’m not even pregnant!) in an effort to stay as healthy as possibly prior to getting pregnant, but it all goes out the door if I actually achieve that goal?

The simple answer is: yes. Will I still eat pretty healthy 90% of the time? Yes, yes I will. Mostly because that’s just me anyway. Caffeine and alcohol weren’t difficult for me to give up in the first place, so they won’t be difficult for me to continue refraining from. But, you had better believe that I am going to indulge in the occasional junk food that is less than healthy for me and baby. And I recognize that there are those who would frown upon even that. That’s my line though; and in my head taco bell every once in a great while really isn’t going to carry the same risk as a glass of wine just as occasionally would. In my mind, it simply isn’t the same thing.

But your line can be totally different, and that's fine.

Next up: Should bars have the right to refuse service to pregnant women?

Well… let’s not forget that most bars refuse to serve for so many things – things far less innocuous even.

Anyone who has ever been held at the door because they were wearing flip flops knows what I’m talking about.

So, legally and ethically – bars absolutely have the right to refuse service to a pregnant woman. Like I said; they refuse for far less.

In the same sentence though, women have the right to go to the next establishment down. Banning pregnant women from drinking is not a law and it never will be (nor do I think it should be) – so your rights really aren’t being infringed upon. If having a drink during your pregnancy is that important to you, I can promise that you will be able to find it somewhere else. But as long as doctors are allowed to refuse performing abortions and pharmacists are allowed to refuse filling plan B prescriptions based on moral and ethical grounds – bartenders should be allowed to refuse serving pregnant women if they so choose.

Private establishment = the right to refuse service to anyone for any reason.

When you can get me a drink at that bar in San Diego that wouldn’t allow me in because of my flip flops (in freaking San Diego!), then maybe I’ll change my stance on that. But until it is somewhere mandated that bars have to serve alcohol to anyone at any time; I’m not buying that anything illegal or immoral is taking place by them refusing service on ethical grounds.

Drinking in a bar really isn’t a “right” for anyone. And even if it were, should the cry for women's rights really go so far as to say that a pregnant woman's right to drink should trump the right of a server/bartender/owner at a private establishment to say "this doesn't feel right" and go with their gut? I don't think this should be a case of women's rights winning at the expense of all else. I think the person on the other side of that should have the right to follow their own conscience; the right to say "if you want a drink, you're going to have to take your business elsewhere."

As I said though, even I (as someone who spent many years of her life working in the bar/restaurant industry before graduating college) likely wouldn’t refuse to serve a pregnant woman. I would be extremely uncomfortable with it, but I wouldn’t refuse service. I just personally wouldn’t feel as though it was my place, but I can respect the position of servers who choose that other path.

We all have a line – even those yesterday who were arguing that drinking during pregnancy isn’t that big a deal had a line of where it was no longer acceptable. A point where they would suddenly look down on the mother for taking that risk. My line just happens to occur before your line (and no, not my “I’m looking down on you line”, but my “I simply don’t understand the point” line). I’m still not sure there is any benefit from alcohol that could outweigh the possible risk. But I also feel the same way about lunch meat and soft cheeses (and we all know how much I love cheese!) I won’t take that risk when I’m pregnant. It’s not worth it in my mind. There may be women who feel differently, but I am not one of them.

And again; I have a hard time believing your unborn child can get the hiccups based on what you’ve had for dinner, but that they aren’t getting at least some of what you’re drinking as well. The logic just isn’t there for me that alcohol is completely filtered out, but that everything else makes it through. If we can recognize that greater amounts of alcohol can lead to greater issues (and for any of you who have ever been around a child suffering from FAS or FASD – you know how tragic those issues can be), then why is it so hard to believe that smaller amounts could lead to lesser issues? And why would we want to risk harming our children in any way if it’s so completely avoidable; even if that risk is low. I fully understand taking certain medications during pregnancy because in those situations the benefit likely outweighs the risk. I just can’t wrap my head around any benefit from drinking that outweighs the possible risks it could inflict upon your child.

According to The March of Dimes, no amount of alcohol has been proven safe during pregnancy, and there have actually been studies done that do suggest an effect on the fetus even at low levels. Ultrasound studies  have even shown that the babies of mothers who are drinking only one glass of wine per week continue to exhibit a startle reflex throughout the pregnancy that would typically end at 18 weeks otherwise. This is a clear effect of even minimal amounts of alcohol on the baby’s nervous system. It also indicates that babies are in fact affected by even those small amounts; who’s to say what other effects could be taking place that just aren’t as simple to quantify?

Now, some may feel that these issues simply aren’t big enough to worry about. But to me, in my mind; that line is definitely there. If I don’t need wine to get by in life (which I don’t believe any of us do), then why would I even take the chance that it could in any way shape or form injure my babies still developing brain cells. Even minor effects on my child’s brain simply don’t seem worth it to me.

There is unfortunately no research that suggests that drinking even small amounts of alcohol during pregnancy is safe, and so in my mind; it isn’t. However, even feeling that way; I do not believe for one second that this is something that should be legally mandated. In fact, not once did I ever mention legal mandates, but that seemed to be where a lot of people thought I was going. For the record, I would not want the government stepping in on this one. Certainly as long as smoking while pregnant, and even having abortions are legal (and while we’re on the subject – I am actually pro-choice, but that is another battle for another day!); drinking while pregnant should be as well. I’m not calling for a government mandate at all; I simply think that private businesses should be in a position to make moral and ethical decisions when it comes to how they run their establishments.

I've seen it all in the bar and restaurant industry; from places that will serve people into a stupor and then not say a thing as those customers walk out the door with car keys in hand, to establishments that make strict drink limits to avoid over intoxication. I think that when it comes to something as potentially harmful (across all levels) as serving alcohol (because let’s be real – most of us do drink or have at one point, but we can all recognize that alcohol is not the best thing we put into our bodies and that drinking in excess is less than healthy), business establishments should be in a position to set their own limits on what they feel comfortable with.

And let’s not for a second forget that we live in a litigious society where a new mother to a child with FASD very well may decide to sue all the establishments that served her while she was visibly pregnant. And she might just win too. After all, if a woman can sue McDonalds (and win over half a million dollars) because she burned herself with hot coffee; you had better believe there are women who would at least consider taking something like this to court. I’m not about to advocate for a bar or restaurant to put themselves at that kind of risk if they don’t want to.

And no, you can’t always tell that a woman is pregnant, and it is very possible that there are plenty at a bar on any given night who aren’t even aware they’re pregnant. Pee tests should not be a requirement before obtaining a drink, but when a woman is very obviously pregnant and a bartender is very truly uncomfortable? I’m not going to argue with them having that right to deny service. Like I said before; there is ALWAYS someplace that will serve you if getting a drink while pregnant means that much to you.

So, I'm stepping off my soap box now, I promise. I know what I will and will not take risks with, should I ever be blessed enough to experience pregnancy. That’s enough for me; the knowledge of what risks I’m willing to take. I don’t judge those with a different line than me, I just simply don’t understand it. Just as you likely don’t understand my hesitation. That’s life and in this great country of ours we are all able to make our own personal decisions regarding what is best for ourselves and our families.

I know where my line falls.

All you have to know is where yours is.

Acceptable Risk

I have a feeling that I’m about to ruffle some feathers.

For once in my life, I think I know a controversial minefield before I step into it.

Usually I’m clueless (as was the case with the infamous "Smegma" post). Typically I have no idea what I’m setting myself up for when I wade into controversial waters.

But today I know. And I don’t care.

Not because I’m judgmental or bitter or think I’m better than anyone else; but because I genuinely do not understand.

And maybe I'm hoping some of you can open my eyes. Or at least see my point of view.

I read an article this morning that was about restaurants and bars refusing to serve pregnant women. There seemed to be a rather loud cry of foul from women who felt that it wasn’t a restaurants place to tell them whether or not they could drink. These women actually had some fairly good points that I was surprised to see myself understanding; if not fully agreeing with.

I say I was surprised, mostly because I am not a believer that women should drink during pregnancy.

Not a glass. Not a little bit. Not even a sip.

Now, I say this while recognizing and understanding that many doctors nowadays will tell their patients that small amounts of alcohol are fine. I believe I’ve heard that one glass of wine per week is acceptable. I also have several friends who I know have had a glass here and there while pregnant. I do not judge them, and I have certainly never tried to impose my values upon them, but…

I just don’t understand. To me, in my mind, it is not an acceptable risk.

I simply can’t imagine consuming any amount of alcohol while pregnant or breastfeeding. The benefits don’t outweigh the very real risks in my mind; I've never been someone who has needed alcohol, so I have a hard time justifying any risk when it's something that seems so completely avoidable.

The risk that the child could be born with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome or FASD (of which there are 40,000 incidents per year). The risk that even if the baby was born appearing “normal”, there could be underlying issues that wouldn’t appear for years to come. Health issues or developmental delays which may never be attributed back to that glass or two of pinot that were consumed during the 3rd trimester, but which could very possibly be linked.

And I understand the current belief that the blood stream and breast milk filter out most alcohol before it ever reaches the baby, but... if an infant can get indigestion simply because their mother has eaten a spicy dinner, I have a hard time believing that they aren't actually getting at least some of that glass of wine.

Most of us would never in a million years consider putting even trace amounts of wine into our babies bottle; so why would we consider giving it to them through our bodies?

The fear that I could be doing something that could in any way harm my child would prohibit me from even considering that one glass.

Because really, what benefit is that one glass going to give me that is worth even the smallest of risks?

Still, even feeling how I feel; I have been in the position of the servers mentioned in the article, and I have continued to serve. Not believing it was my place to tell a patron how to live her life, I served two bottles to a woman who was actively breastfeeding at my table during the 3 hours she was sitting there drinking. By the time I finally cut her off, it was because she was visibly intoxicated.

And I felt guilty. Guilt for that baby who must have gotten at least some of the liquor her mother was pouring down her throat, and guilt that I hadn’t had the courage to stop serving this woman earlier.

It’s a fine line though; the one that lies between the gut instinct that we should work to protect those who cannot protect themselves and the understanding that some things simply aren’t our business. It’s a line I have walked and fallen on the side of keeping my mouth shut, but; I can understand falling on the other side. I can understand refusing service when you feel ethically opposed to serving. A bar is a private establishment after all, and most reserve the right to refuse service to anyone for any reason.

I’m not sure this should be an exception to that rule.

We’ve been discussing this all day at the community (if you have thoughts on whether or not a bar should be allowed to refuse service to a pregnant woman, please come share them), and it has been weighing heavily on my mind. The points brought up there along with those from the article truly do have me seeing the other side.

I recognize that there is a line, and a point at which we go much too far in intruding upon a womans rights.

But even in that, I have to say that I simply don’t understand. I don't think it should be illegal, and I'm not saying it should be my place to decide for anyone else, but... I don't understand. I have a hard time viewing any consumption during pregnancy as an acceptable risk. I applaud the rights of mothers to make their own decisions when it comes to these choices, and I fully support the idea that people should be allowed to decide what is best for them and their children, but… If a bartender cuts you off (or refuses to serve you in the first place) when you are very noticeably pregnant out of concern for your unborn child (and based on the studies that claim that it’s unknown exactly how much alcohol consumption it takes to result in negative effects in that unborn child); I’m just not sure I understand the urge to fight that or claim your right to drink.

Why would anyone want to fight for the right to expose their baby to those possibilities, no matter how small they may be? Aren't we supposed to be giving those children the best we possibly can? Why wouldn't that always be the goal?

I genuinely want to know; what do you think? Should bars and restaurants be in a position to refuse service to pregnant women? Should women have the right to make these decisions for themselves and their unborn children without outside interference? Do we, as women, have an implicit obligation to give up certain things when we are with child?

Or is it actually an acceptable risk?

Undecided

At this moment, I am looking at a calendar for a November transfer date protocol.

Don’t get too excited – I still haven’t made an official decision.

But, I am on the books at Seattle Reproductive Medicine for a FET (frozen embryo transfer) on November 11th, 2010.

I'm also on the books for January 11th, 2011.

I suppose I should explain.

When I first brought up the fact that I was going back and forth between doing the transfer in November or January, someone mentioned that I could do the transfer on 11/11. For those of you who don’t know, I have a thing for numbers; and 11/11 has always been a big one for me. I literally stop and hold my breath to make a wish every single time I see 11:11 on the clock.

Still. To this day. As an adult.

And I have long said that I wanted to get married on 11/11/11 (although, I’m starting to think that would be pushing it now!) The number just has significance for me. It seems like a number that good things happen on.

So basically, I was sold. As soon as I realized that I could have my transfer on 11/11, I knew that’s what I wanted to do.

Until the same person also mentioned that instead of transferring on 11/11/10, I could do the transfer on 1/11/11.

And again, I was deadlocked.

I’ve known since that moment that I wanted to transfer on one of those dates, but I honestly couldn’t decide which one. The truth is that my heart was (and has been) pushing me towards January. All of my reasons for wanting a January transfer had to do with success – I didn’t want a summer baby (both for school and birthday purposes) and my finances would be far better by then (in reality – I’m still not sure I could scrounge everything together in time to pull off a November transfer – it would be tight for sure). On the flip side, my big reasons for not wanting to transfer in November had to do with failure – I didn’t want to fail again just before the holidays. Beyond that, the only real reason I’ve been leaning towards November is based in fear – fear that my endo will return with a vengeance before I have a chance to try again.

Now, don’t get me wrong; that fear is real and very very strong. But should it really be the main reason I transfer in November rather than waiting until January when I would be more comfortable?

Do I really want to be making decisions based in fear right now?

To me, it just seemed like I should go with the month that I was leaning towards based on positivity rather than negativity. That just felt right.

But there was still that fear. That very loud fear telling me that endometriosis is nothing to gamble with right now.

Plus, from day to day I have literally gone back and forth between a desire to just get this over with (find out one way or another whether it was going to work and then be able to move on with my life from there), and an urge to hold off any possible hurt as long as I can; until my heart is fully healed.

The aftershocks of that failed cycle are still very much so with me.

I've had so many conflicting feelings about this decision that it isn’t even funny. Add to that the fact that I don’t really trust my gut right now, and I’m not putting a great deal of weight into my decision making abilities (did you all see what I did with my carpet?!?)

So, please know that I haven’t intentionally been keeping you out of the loop regarding what I’ve decided. I just literally haven’t decided anything.

At all.

Two nights ago though, I did finally pen an e-mail to my coordinator at SRM. I had been avoiding doing this  because I wanted to have a date to give her before I did. At a loss though (after asking my dad to decide for me and having him tell me I must transfer in November – because he wants to be able to go fishing when he comes up to visit for the birth - thanks Dad!), I shot her an e-mail detailing my crazy back and forth on the dates.

My coordinator is easily my favorite person at SRM, but I can only imagine the things she must think of me! This poor woman is the only person there who has had to deal with me consistently, and let’s just say that you probably wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of the emails I manage to compose at the height of an infertile panic.

It isn’t pretty.

I tend to think of myself as pretty quirky, and I embrace that. But I have a feeling my dear coordinator would describe me as a bit more manic... neurotic even.

It’s OK though. I don’t really care what her private thoughts of me are, because her responses are always warm and genuine – no matter how crazy I’ve just been.

And this was no different. I received an e-mail from her yesterday offering to block off both dates for me in order to give me more time to decide. Apparently they only do 1 FET per day in order to make room for the fresh transfers (which are less predictable), and it just so happens that both dates I was looking at were still available.

Yes. I am officially the selfish jerk who is blocking off two special days for transfer – for anyone else planning on doing an FET at SRM during that time frame: I’m sorry! I promise that as soon as I make a solid decision, you can have the other date.

I’ll admit though; there was part of me that was hoping only one date would be available so that I would no longer have a decision to make anyway.

No such luck, but at least I can breathe easier knowing that I have a little bit longer to truly decide.

She sent me a copy of my calendar for a November protocol, so that I would have a better idea of when I would need to decide for sure by. I had no idea how much sooner you start injections for a frozen transfer! If I decide on November, I’m meant to begin the dreaded Lupron injections on October 5th. Given how early I would have to start (and the time that would be needed to order all my meds) we decided on a deadline of September 24th for me to make a hard and fast decision.

I have a deadline.

The good thing about that deadline is that it will give me a few more weeks to really gauge my pain levels and see how much faith I have in these diet changes working to stave off my endo. If my pain starts to really amp up in that time frame, I will clearly transfer in November.

If not though, I do think I’m going to wait until January. I just like going with a date that has me thinking about what I want for my baby, rather than what I fear with a failure.

Between now and then I also have an appointment with my regular doctor and one with Dr. Naturopath. I’ll be able to run both dates by each of them and get a feel for what they think as well.

The calendar also let me know that I will for sure be doing the progesterone injections rather than suppositories for this round. It wasn’t something we had really discussed, so I’m not sure if the injections are the norm for all frozen cycles or if my concern about the suppositories was made clear enough that the change had already been made. I don’t care either way though – I already feel better knowing that I will be doing the injections instead. I know it’s more pain, and that 10 weeks of intramuscular injections (if I do get a positive) will be less than fun, but I just can’t shake the feeling that the suppositories weren’t absorbing. In general, I know I’ll feel much more confident with the shots.

I have to admit that there is something exciting about seeing this calendar all laid out in front of me. Some part of me that actually got a little giddy when I saw it today.

And I haven’t felt giddy at all since finding out that the last round didn’t work.

There’s something about this though; a renewed hope? This part of me that feels like maybe, just maybe… this could work.

There's another part of me that's still fighting that hope right now though; trying to temper it and not let it get the best of me. Working hard to keep the hope from fooling me into believing that this could work.

A feeling which I know probably means that I’m not really ready yet. That I may need more time before moving forward.

Because I do want to have that hope this next round. I don’t want to go into it guarded and skittish. I want to be able to believe that this could work, and to trust in that belief.

Until then… I wait.

And hope the decision comes to me.

Gluten Free Failure

I've been eating gluten.

At least once every other day for the last two weeks, I have definitely been ingesting gluten.

When I have decidedly meant to be gluten free.

Stop giving me those looks. Seriously. It wasn't intentional. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident. I didn’t even know I was doing it.

I’m claiming ignorance here. Anything else just isn’t a fair accusation. I really do have serious willpower - I was just knocked over by stupidity apparently.

You see, I have a thing for Muesli.

I have always had a thing for Muesli. It is yummy and filling and comes out of the tubs at the health food store – making me feel that much more enamored with it (because we all know that the tubs at the health food store are really where the goodness is at!) I used to mix it up with yogurt and fruit and call it one of my favorite breakfasts, but obviously I know that yogurt contains dairy (which has also been nixed on this road to fighting endometriosis naturally) so I have pulled that from my diet with ease.

What I did not realize was that Muesli contained gluten. You see, I already had a big bag of it in my pantry when I started this cleanse. A big plastic bag with absolutely no nutritional information (because that's all listed on the bins at the health food store of course!) I hadn’t even thought twice about eating it, but as I was devouring my oatmeal one morning (because I had been told that just plain oats were gluten free and therefore safe) I spied my Muesli and thought “Hey! That’s just oats and raisins! I can totally have Muesli.”

Wrong.

Now, this was all more or less unconscious. The next morning I poured my Muesli and some almond milk with fruit, and I went to town. I didn’t think about whether or not this really was an approved part of the cleanse - I didn't think at all. I just assumed.

Wrongly.

It wasn’t until yesterday morning as I was eating this divine treat that it dawned on me; I had never actually checked the ingredients to Muesli. I had no idea what was in it.

The moment of realization washed over me, and I just knew that this was something I probably shouldn’t have been eating. All it took was one trip to the health food store to confirm my fears; wheat and barley – both sources of gluten.

I had been unconsciously sneaking gluten for the past 2 weeks.

Fail.

That’s not the best part though. As I was hopelessly scouring the aisles for some gluten free Muesli (I found none, but I have since found a recipe to make my own – I am simply dragging my feet on making this a reality - mostly because I'm lazy) I spied gluten free oatmeal.

Wait. What?!? Hold the phone.

I thought oatmeal WAS gluten free. Like, by nature!

I slowly slapped myself over the head with the reality that I had been eating gluten for breakfast every single morning since I started this supposedly gluten free cleanse.

Every. Single. Morning.

I resigned myself to the fact that I am clearly clueless when it comes to the food I’m putting into my mouth. I don’t like to think about it too much. I just want to be able to eat with ease.

And I'm assuming that’s where I got tripped up. By not wanting to think too hard.

I put the $7.00 bag of gluten free oatmeal (compared to the $1.00 bag of the same size of regular oatmeal)  into my cart and I sulked all the way to the checkout stand. While in line though, I Googled “Are oat’s gluten free?” (because I know I heard they were somewhere!) on my iPhone (what would I do without that beautiful contraption?) and was annoyed to find that there were completely mixed reviews. Site after site said that it wasn’t entirely known whether or not oats contained gluten - that it was possible that some were just exposed to wheat in processing factories, but that most factories didn't cross contaminate anymore.

Someone please explain to me how it is that a gluten free substitute could exist for a product that no one is even sure contains gluten in the first place?

I’m starting to think it’s all a scam. That nothing is actually gluten free, and if it is – it really isn’t all that great for you. All of the gluten free bread substitutes are devoid of any nutritional substance as far as I can tell, and I often find myself thinking that eating any of those options can’t possibly be better than eating the whole grain and high fiber bread I used to enjoy.

I’m at a loss.

And I am actually surprised to admit that I miss gluten more than I miss dairy.

I never (ever) thought those words would come out of my mouth. But, I've adjusted to my dairy free existence, and I’m doing OK with my cheese withdrawals. What I’m still struggling with though, is how limited my diet has become without gluten. How many of the items that I used to eat daily, which are now on my "do not ingest" list.

I have my follow up appointment with Dr. Naturopath next week, and I am wavering back and forth on telling her that I completely bombed the cleanse. It's embarrassing, and I don't really want to own up to my stupidity! I still have a week left, and I’m hoping that I can at least make up for it this week.

I’m also hoping to find out what I can and cannot add back in after this cleanse. We never really discussed what exactly my diet would be after this 3 weeks; I just assumed that dairy and gluten would be the two big things to keep out, since I’ve read about their connections to endo online before. But there are a lot of things I’m not allowed on this cleanse that I’m hoping I’ll be allowed to add back in after the fact (tomatoes, eggs, and corn all come to mind), so there is part of me that is holding out hope that gluten could be added back in within reason as well.

I know dairy doesn’t stand a chance of being put on the “OK” list (it just has too much of an effect on hormones), and I’m actually starting to think I can deal with that (who am I?!?) But this gluten free thing is for the birds.

Especially since I don’t even know what gluten is, so I have no idea what it is and isn’t in.

That’s probably something I should have tried to figure out 2 weeks ago.

But like I said – I am a gluten free failure.

Not In Love

Over the weekend I received a call that my new carpet was in. Ecstatic to finally have my flooring job done, I decided to take today off work.

The problem was, I didn’t unroll the new carpet until the old carpet had been completely ripped out already.

And I was not in love. Not even kind of.

In the store, when I was looking at just a tiny swatch, I had been so sure that this was the carpet for me. So positive that it was exactly what I was looking for. I wavered back and forth on the laminate decision for days, but the carpet decision was an easy one. I knew what I wanted.

Until I saw it big and in my room. Then, I no longer wanted it.

I called Home Depot, but because the carpet had been special ordered there would be a restocking fee involved in returning it that I really didn’t want to pay. Beyond that, I had no carpet in either of my bedrooms now! No padding, no nothing. All of my furniture was in the living room. And I do not have a big enough living room for all of that.

So, what else was I supposed to do? I needed carpet.

The job is finished now, and I am still not in love. I had been hoping that once I got all the furniture back in, the carpet would suddenly grow on me, but…

I am just not a fan.

My big issues with the old carpet were that it was old, worn, and painted on.

Also, I just really hated the color. I thought it was bland and boring and looked even more bland and boring up against the color I had chosen to paint my walls.

So, will someone please explain to me how it is that I managed to pick out the exact same color when I bought new carpet?

(yep, that's the new stuff, and the picture just above it is the old stuff - classic)

I have been complaining about the color of this carpet since I moved in, so how is it even possible that I didn’t realize what I was doing when I was in the store?

I am not pleased with myself.

Now, this is Berber, which is definitely softer and higher quality than the stuff that was in before.

And it is clearly cleaner and new... so it's got that going for it.

Plus, there isn’t any paint on this carpet.

But, I am beyond bummed that my brain was apparently busted when I was picking out a color.

I really wish I had gone with something lighter. Or darker. Something richer and more compelling. Something multi-toned even.

Instead, I went with something that at first glance looks exactly like what was in before.

And this is what I hate about decorating when you are someone who clearly does not have a decorators eyes – if you make the wrong choice, there is very little you can do about it. You’re stuck with it.

And I will invariably be stuck with this carpet for as long as I continue to live in this condo.

Now, don’t get me wrong – I have obviously made worse decisions in my life. And this is one of those that really doesn’t rank too high on the list of things I should be worrying about. I have nice, new, clean carpet – and I really should be grateful for that.

But I have a feeling I’m going to be cursing myself (and my clearly color blind eyes) for the next few weeks or so.

My next house is going to be turnkey.

I can’t be trusted with these kinds of decisions.

The Disclaimer

Something happened yesterday. Something that kind of stopped me in my tracks.

Something that made me question what exactly it is I’m doing here.

And also, what exactly it is that all of you may (or may not) expect from me.

I received a comment. A comment which told me that it was time to “get over it” in regards to my endo and infertility, and to stop feeling sorry for myself. A comment which of course was left by someone who did not reveal their real name or e-mail address, because people who lash out at strangers on the internet are typically not capable of doing so openly. But this commenter struck a cord nonetheless, as she told me that there were women who have it worse than me, women who look to me “for inspiration and support… not you drowning yourself in your sorrows."

It was mildly amusing, seeing as it was left on a post that was actually meant to be funny. One that everyone else was able to find the humor in.

One that had absolutely nothing in the world to do with me feeling sorry for myself.

Which can only lead me to believe that this anonymous stranger was attempting to hurt me for reasons I don't even really understand.

But that didn’t matter. They didn't hurt me. In fact, I found myself feeling more sorry for them than me; because really, how sad must your life be if you get your jollies attempting to anonymously inflict pain upon strangers over the internet?

No, they didn't hurt me, but they did make me think. I suddenly felt bad. I mean, holy crap! Are any of you actually looking to me for inspiration or hope? Because let’s be clear – you shouldn’t be! And maybe I should have had a disclaimer to that effect a long time ago - maybe then this person wouldn't have been so confused about what my purpose here is.

I am just like you; just like any of you. I have my good days and my bad days. I have my heartbreak and my elation. I am muddling through this war zone of infertility just like anyone else.

If you want sunshine and rainbows all the time, it might be a better idea to watch some Hannah Montana and step away from the blog. Because real life isn’t that simple, and remaining constantly optimistic isn’t either.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I am a happy girl who is generally pretty gosh darn optimistic. I truly believe that you can choose how you react to the challenges life hands you, and I work to focus on the bright side as much as I possibly can. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t hurt, or feel, or grieve. I believe that everything happens for a reason, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t struggle and stumble and fall. I believe that God has a plan for me, but that doesn't mean that I don't question that plan daily.

That doesn’t mean that anyone should be relying on me to be anything but honest. That doesn’t mean that anyone should trust in me to lead the way in how to deal with infertility and loss; because I will inevitably let you down.

Every. Single. Time.

I shouldn’t be anyone’s inspiration.

And I don't want to be. That's not my goal or purpose, and it's not something I want to be responsible for.

Certainly not here. Certainly not through this blog.

Because this blog is just me. It is as real and raw as I get.

And sometimes real and raw just can’t always be upbeat and optimistic.

This may sound harsh, but here it is: I don’t write for you. I don’t write for any of you.

I write for me. I started this blog for me. It was my way to get the thoughts and feelings out about this whole mess that I simply couldn’t talk about. It was my method of coping. Sometimes I’m able to laugh about the situation, and sometimes I’m not, but the fact of the matter is; this blog is for me.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I LOVE that you are all here reading. It genuinely means the world to me that anyone would ever care about what I have to say. As an aspiring writer, having thousands of people read my words every day warms my heart.

But make no mistake; I have no agenda. I am going to write what I am thinking and feeling on any given day with little to no thought about what my readers may be hoping to see. That’s just the truth. I’m not writing for you, and so please know that my feelings will not ever be hurt if you decide that what you find here is no longer working for you and it’s time to move on.

It’s inevitable that this blog will grow and change as I too face different hurdles and challenges, but there is one thing I can promise you will never change; this blog will always be me. It will always be my heart, my thoughts, and my feelings. Nothing more and nothing less. I will not posture or pretend to be someone I’m not, and I will not exaggerate or expand upon stories and feelings in order to generate readers and clicks. That’s not me and that’s not my purpose.

I can promise you that you will always find me here, but as is true of life; sometimes you may not like who you find. I won’t apologize for that, and I won’t ask you to either. If you don’t like what you see here anymore, you are under no obligations at all to stick around. The people who care about me and love me and know my heart? They will always be here. And at the end of the day, that really is all that matters. I have no aspirations for fame or fortune; no drive to be better than anyone else; nothing compelling me to be Suzy Sunshine all the time.

But when I am letting my optimism shine through - you can guarantee it's legit. You can know that I'm not putting on a show just to please the masses.

You can trust in it.

I’m just me. The me who sometimes has bad days and hurt feelings. The me who is still struggling to deal with a challenge that some days seems too hard to bare. The me who still attempts to find the humor wherever she can, and who will never stop looking for the light; even when she feels surrounded by the dark.

I’m just me. I’m OK with that, but you don’t have to be.

And I’ll be OK with that too.

Hot Doctor

When Loo mentioned that last nights BBQ was being thrown by a doctor who worked at the hospital she works at (the same hospital where I have now had both of my surgeries, and also countless endo related ER trips); I probably should have recognized the possibility for embarrassment.

Embarrassment beyond what I wouldn't be eating or drinking.

But I didn’t. I didn’t even think of it. The possibility of my knowing someone there never even occurred to me.

Until I got there, and realized that it was a house full of anesthesiologists (with a smattering of nurses and surgeons assistants on the side).

A house full of anesthesiologists who all work at the hospital where I’ve had both of my endo surgeries at.

The likelihood that someone in this house had seen me naked was strong.

And then it hit me.

Hot Doctor.

If he was in this house, at this party, I would literally die.

For those of you who haven’t heard the amusement that is the Hot Doctor story, here are the details:

It was my second endometriosis surgery last November, and I had arrived at the hospital bright and early. Loo was actually my ride, and it was going to work out perfectly since she worked at the hospital. Not only would she be able to get insiders details while I was out (to appease my overly worried father), but she would also be able to continue working while I was having surgery; unlike any of my other friends who would have needed to take the entire day off.

After we got there and got me settled, I sent Loo off. I knew I would be going in any minute, and there really wasn’t any point in her sitting with me when I knew there were patients she could be checking on.

Can you tell how much guilt I have whenever my illness intrudes upon the lives of those I care about? I know they don’t mind, but I feel awful. I’m not a fan of anyone needing to drop anything in order to take care of me.

So Loo went off, and I waited. In a barely there gown, with thick blue socks on, no makeup, and a hairnet.

Sexy time.

In walks one of the best looking doctors I have ever seen. He was going to be my anesthesiologist, and my pulse immediately rose.

This man was going to see me naked. Passed out on a table. With all my lady bits on display.

Including the inside ones.

Fabulous.

I tried not to let this bother me too much, but if I had met this man under any other circumstances; I would have turned the flirt on full tilt.

In this situation? It was just humiliating.

Not as humiliating as it was about to get though.

You see, I woke up from my surgery just as they were pulling my catheter out. Not only did it hurt enough to make me cry, but as I was sobbing I looked up and saw Hot Doctor standing over me. The realization suddenly hit that Hot Doctor had not only seen me naked, but he had just seen someone pull a tube out of my cootchie.

“Oh no!” I shrieked. “Hot Doctor just saw my vagina.”

Hilarity ensued (I’m sure), and according to the nurse I called him Hot Doctor several more times as I was coming out of my stupor – many times while directly addressing him.

It’s also possible that when I got home that night (still in a drugged out haze) I wrote a Craigslist Missed Connections ad for him.

Yep. That happened.

So, as the realization washed over me that I could be about to have a run in with Hot Doctor, suddenly the fact that I wasn’t eating or drinking didn’t matter.

Because it could get so much more embarrassing than that!

I was wavering back and forth between the stages of girlhood crush and junior high embarrassment as I kept my eye out.

In the interim, I was looking every other person up and down. I have no idea who was in on my first surgery at all (which was only 6 months prior to the second), so it was increasingly possible that anyone there had seen me in the varying stages of undress too.

And there is something about that understanding that makes you a little less open to flirting.

I did spy one guy who I knew I knew from somewhere. I was eye stalking him and trying to figure it out; poking Loo to see if she had ever introduced him to me.

I was convinced he had seen me naked.

When I walked into a room where he was talking to people, he grabbed me and said “hi”. It was then that it dawned on me that he was the guy Mrs. King and friends had tried to hook me up with in February (the guy who I really hadn’t been interested in). Without thinking, I blurted out “Loo – He hasn’t seen me naked!’

Yep. Socially awkward. But at least not in the way I had feared being.

He gave me a funny look and said “Am I the only one?” I responded with “This is a house full of doctors – you never know.” And left it at that; appeased that he had never been in on any of my surgeries.

As the night wore on and I got more comfortable and realized that a run-in with Hot Doctor wasn’t likely, I asked a group full of women there about him; mentioning the very few details I knew.

And there was swooning. They all knew immediately who I was talking about and professed crushes, as well as lamentations that he was married with children.

Hot Doctor is not a mythical creature; but he is a taken one.

Sigh.

It’s probably for the best though. I’m not sure any good could come out of attempting to date a man I once referred to as Hot Doctor.

Or one who had seen my vagina before I ever even knew his first name.

Socially Awkward 101

“There are going to be lots of single men there.”

That’s what my friend Loo said to me this afternoon. She was referencing a BBQ that's being thrown tonight by a doctor she currently works with.

A BBQ she wants me to go to with her.

A BBQ where I wouldn’t be able to eat dairy, gluten, sugar, or meat (week 2 of the cleanse cuts out meat for the week as well), and I wouldn’t be able to drink any alcohol.

“What on earth am I going to do there Loo?" I said, admittedly a little flustered at the simple thought. "I’m going to be that girl! The one standing in the corner nursing her weird dietary habits at the expense of being social. What are you even supposed to do with your hands if you can't eat and drink at a place like that?!?”

Because let’s be real; at a party where everyone is eating and drinking, the one person who will take part in neither is a bit of a social pariah.

People ask. They want to know why you aren’t partaking in the goodness and imbibing in the spirits. They want to know if you’re a recovering alcoholic or if you're a girl who is far too obsessed with her weight.

I know this not because I have ever been that girl (hello – I dig food, and I drink at BBQ’s); but because I have totally judged that girl.

I admit it. I've wondered why she was such a stick in the mud. I've questioned what she was even doing there. I've made fun of her inability to let loose and drop the diet for just one night.

And now; I am so going to be that girl.

It would be one thing if I was pregnant. If that was the reason I was restricting myself so wholly, I'd shout it from the rooftops with pride - and people would understand.

But I'm not the pregnant girl watching her diet for what's best for the baby. Instead, I'm the single girl who is desperately trying to get pregnant. The one who is changing up her diet in an attempt to treat the lady parts disease she has as naturally as possible - like a hippy. The one who is doing all of this in the hopes of transferring frozen embryos (that were created with donor sperm) into her uterus with success in just a few months.

DING DING DING! We have a winner!

I will officially be the most socially awkward person there.

But, I think I’m going to go anyway. A night out could be good for me. Spending time with one of my closest friends could be good for me. Single men could be good for me.

And really, Loo is only recently single again herself. I think it’s possible she may need me to be her wing-woman on this man hunt. She’s probably going to need backup. I’m not sure if she even remembers how to flirt appropriately.

OK, that’s a lie. Loo would do just fine on her own (although, I am secretly excited to have a single friend up here with me again – I loved her boyfriend, but I love having a wing-woman of my own too! All my other friends in Alaska are married with kids - because that's what people do up here.) But seriously, if I’m going to make this diet change and no alcohol thing a permanent fixture in my life for a while, I suppose I should learn how to be social while still following the rules. I’m going to have to be that girl at some point, right? It’s not like I’m just going to stay locked up in my bedroom for the next several months.

If I’m going to have to face a socially awkward setting eventually, I might as well give it a go now.

In the name of "lots of single men".

Single men who will possibly be intoxicated enough to not notice what a stick in the mud I am.

Still… I should probably attempt to come up with a good story for when someone asks why I’m not eating or drinking. Something that has absolutely nothing at all to do with my health or with me being a weirdo who is far too concerned with her diet. Something that makes me sound kind of cool and mysterious.

Yep. I’ve got nothing.

Maybe I’ll get lucky and Loo will pick up on a good looking guy with a wing-man of his own.

Someone who’s willing to take one for the team and talk to me for a while.

Without acknowledging what a loser I am.

Or trying to hand me a beer.

Perfect

When I was preparing for my first round of IVF, I will admit; I didn’t do everything I could have done.

I did more than most women do to get pregnant, but I wasn’t perfect.

I wasn’t pristine.

I wasn’t at the top of my game.

There are women who will enter into IVF with truckloads of research. They maintain strict regimes for their life and do everything by the book.

They go into it thinking that if they’re going to spend that much money, they’re going to ensure they’ve done everything on their end perfectly.

I will admit that while I have a perfectionist side to my personality, I bucked against the idea of becoming this woman. I reasoned that the stress of doing everything perfectly (right down to every morsel of food that went into my mouth) would counteract any possible benefit.

But maybe I was wrong.

Maybe my first meal post transfer shouldn’t have been a jalapeño cheddar bagel with extra jalapenos (because eastern medicine would suggest against eating spicy food post transfer).

Maybe I should have been working out more regularly.

Maybe I should have been more diligent about getting enough sleep in the weeks leading up to the big day.

Maybe I should have been more perfect.

And maybe then, it would have worked.

I recognize the insanity of allowing myself to think like that now, but it has certainly shaped how I'm attempting to tackle this next round.

Suddenly I’m the girl who is trying to be perfect.

As I was leaving my appointment with Teeny yesterday, Dr. Naturopath grabbed me and pulled me into her office. I have a follow up appointment scheduled for 2 weeks from now, but since I was there and she was there; she wanted to go over my blood results from a few weeks back.

I’ve got to say that I love that about this place. It’s like Private Practice. There are general practitioners and eastern medicine practitioners; all coexisting in one space and feeding off each other’s knowledge. Discussing patients as a team in an effort to determine the best course of action.

I love it.

The reason she wanted to meet with me though, was that my thyroid levels definitely came back a little out of whack.

Sluggish.

That was the word she used to describe the situation.

When I told her that I hadn’t lost an ounce at all during the cleanse, she said that made perfect sense given where my levels were.

Vindication!

She wanted me to start treatment now, and then we’re going to reconvene at the appointment I’ve already got scheduled. I was sent off with a supplement called ½ grain (to add to my now growing list of supplements and vitamins; I am officially back to the point of considering an old lady pill organizer) and the hope that eventually my body will get back to working like normal.

Because this is one more thing I can point to and say wasn't perfect enough for this last round.

One more thing I can fix before the next round.

I left the office feeling refreshed. I can honestly say that after the last year I feel like my body has been through a lot; possibly too much. I think the Lupron and IVF hormones have wreaked a little bit of havoc everywhere, and I’m just not convinced that anything is functioning optimally anymore.

Nothing about my thyroid levels were too concerning, but they weren’t perfect either.

And that’s where I wonder if there wasn’t more I could have done going into this last round. If it isn’t possible that if I had paid a little more attention to my overall health and to following every trick there is out there to encourage implantation; I might be pregnant right now.

I realize the audacity there. Women get pregnant every day who are far less healthy than I am. Women who smoke or drink heavily. Women who are excessively overweight or who subsist on a diet of grease and sugar. Women who are drug addicts.

Women who don’t have to try nearly as hard, get pregnant every day; oftentimes without trying at all.

So my deviations from perfection (or my sluggish thyroid – which I’m convinced is just ticked after being bombarded with hormones) are not the reason I didn’t get pregnant.

But still… I can’t help wondering if I could have done more.

I’m not sure I want to be the woman who’s striving for perfection in this journey. I’m not sure I want to be the one who drives herself crazy trying to pour over the conflicting tips and diet plans. I’m not sure I have it in me to be so anal that the stress overshadows any benefits.

But I do want to be better before going into this next round.

I want to feel like I gave my whole body a chance.

Like I did my best.

To be healthy.

To be ready.

To be perfect.

Or if not perfect; at least good enough.

Good enough to make this one stick.

Good enough to feel like I did everything there was to do.

And good enough to wind up with a baby in my arms at the end.

Head Shrinking

Teeny wants me to see a head shrink.

And as someone with a very healthy appreciation of all things psychological and years of therapy under her belt; I really shouldn’t be opposed to this idea.

I also probably shouldn’t call highly educated and qualified psychologist's head shrinks.

Oh well.

I honestly cannot explain why I don’t want go to talk to someone right now. I’ve been to plenty of therapists in my life; some good, and some bad. The truth is that I owe so much of my current stability to an incredible therapist that I had while in college; someone who walked me through my past and helped me put the pieces together without the drugs that doctors had pumped me full of since I was a pre-teen.

(As a side note – I am not judging those who need psychotropic medications in any way, shape, or form. I just feel strongly that they never should have been given to me as a child, and that for me they simply are not [and will not ever again be] the answer. I want to be able to cope and thrive and survive this life on my own, without the assistance of chemical substances. But that is just me, and I in no way believe that what is best for me is what’s best for anyone else.)

As I was saying; I've had wonderful experiences with therapy. I admittedly spent a few years of my life in my late teens and early twenties in a completely depressive haze. I couldn’t get out of it. I was angry at the world over the ways in which I felt I had been slighted. Much of it stemmed from what I still to this day consider neglect on the part of my mother and borderline abuse on the part of my stepmother; but I couldn’t let it go. There I was: an adult on her own out of those painful situations; but I kept forcing myself to relive them. I kept forcing myself to go back and feel that hurt. Day after day after day.

And it was through therapy that I got out of that. It was through therapy that I learned to see the reality of the situation for what it was and recognize that I didn’t have to allow it to be my reality anymore.

It was actually through therapy that I learned to forgive my Dad. I don’t talk about it much here, but my dad and I had a very strained relationship for a long time as a result of the abuses of my stepmother; I felt like he hadn't protected me. Like he too had abandoned me and allowed her to tear me apart. There were 3 years there where we didn’t talk at all. I couldn’t forgive him and I couldn’t see his side, so instead I tried regularly to hurt him back and make him feel as lonely and wounded as I felt.

It wasn’t healthy.

But through therapy I worked past that and I began to see my dad for who he was instead of painting him as the failed hero. It was actually a good thing, because it helped me to forgive him and it gave us a starting point to rebuild our relationship from.

A relationship which anyone who reads here regularly enough knows, means the world to me now. My dad and I are incredibly close, and he is typically the first person I go to for advice on just about everything now.

If you knew us even 5 years ago though, you would have never believed that was possible.

So, I know the miracles that therapy can work. I know what a blessing a good therapist can be.

But when Teeny suggested today during our session that I start seeing someone, I immediately clenched up. I started making excuses in my head and letting them spill out of my mouth:

“I’m not depressed.”
“I think I’m coping pretty well.”
“Writing is my therapy now.”

Excuses that were flimsy at best, and I knew it.

Teeny knew it too. As I was leaving, she slyly handed me the card of the person she thinks I should see. The woman she thinks would be able to help me wrap my head around all of this.

The thing is, I really am not depressed, and I really do think I’m coping pretty well, but… it’s a lot. It’s been a lot. For the last two years, it's just been a lot.

I moved to Alaska because after 3 or 4 visits up here, I felt like this was where I wanted to settle down. I moved here because I wanted to have a real relationship (instead of the rampant flings that were so common for me in San Diego), get hitched,  and have babies. I moved here because I was ready to start that stage of my life.

And within just a few months of being here, that dream was already on its way to falling apart. I had been healthy my entire life, and then suddenly; I wasn’t.

The “cancer” word was thrown around, hysterectomies were suggested, and I was cut open not once but twice; in the span of one year.

It was a lot.

Suddenly I had a diagnosis I never even knew was a possibility for me, and doctors telling me that the aggression of my case was unheard of; doctors telling me that I may never conceive.

Even though the only thing I had ever wanted was to have children. Even though I always thought I would have plenty of time.

It was a lot.

In the middle of all this, I was making and breaking my first real relationship, and a friendship that I had held close to my heart for years was falling apart.

It was a lot.

And now we’re here. One failed cycle in, and a pending final round on the horizon. I feel like I’m coping. I feel like I’m doing OK.

But I also know that I still live in the shadow of that highly depressed girl. I still live in fear of ever becoming her again. And because of that fear, I steer myself as far as possible away from anything that even resembles depression.

I bottle up, I ignore, and I push forward. I am so afraid of becoming that girl again, that I don’t allow myself to feel the hard stuff.

And I know that isn’t right either.

When I started writing this, I had no intention of seeing a head shrink. I had no intention of putting myself through that torture. I had no intention of talking it out, because clearly I don’t need it.

I’m fine.

I’m fine.

I’m fine.

But maybe (just maybe); fine isn’t good enough anymore.

Where Did It Go?

There are clouds over Anchorage.

There have been clouds over Anchorage for the last 30 some days in fact.

A gloomy haze that is threatening to ruin moods throughout the state.

This weekend we actually set some sort of record for the most days in a row of rain.

We beat the previous record that was set in the 1950’s.

This is not why I moved to Alaska.

A coworker of mine is working on finishing up his degree online, and as a part of that he is taking a few beginning level psych classes (to cover his general education requirements). Knowing that my degree is in psychology, he’s talked to me a few times about his projects. He’s currently reading a book about a woman with schizophrenia for his abnormal psych class, and as we were talking about it today; I got jealous.

Really and truly.

I was jealous of him and his school work. I was jealous that he was learning about these conditions that I find so fascinating.

I was jealous of the coursework he’s taking, even though I’ve been there and done that.

And it got me thinking: where did that period of my life go?

I loved school. I always loved school. I loved learning, and I loved submitting projects that I had worked oh so hard on.

I even loved taking tests.

As completely warped as that is. I think it was the validation that I knew what I was talking about that I liked.

I just loved the environment. I loved feeling like there was so much to soak in.

College was a good time for me.

And as I was talking to him today, I started to daydream about those years again. I started to ponder going back.

That had always been the plan after all.

I was going to go back to school and get my masters. I was going to become a psychologist. I was going to work with abused and neglected children and help to turn their lives around.

And therein lays the problem with that dream now. Forget that I would come out of school making half of what I make today (after paying at least my current annual salary to get that degree); I just honestly don’t think I could do what I had always intended on doing anymore.

As much as I love kids. As much as I think I could make a difference.

I don’t think I could do it.

Not now. Not after this last 2 years. Not after everything I’ve gone through to have one of my own.

I don’t think I could look at those children who deserved so much more and not feel like we had both been slighted.

I could totally go back to school. I could go to classes every day and learn and grow and thrive. I could read and study and write reports.

I could set the curve, and I would love it.

But I would never want to graduate.

I would never want to apply what I had learned.

I would end up sitting behind a desk 9-5 just like I am now.

Guaranteed.

Because this I can handle.

That I could not.

Still… I miss school. I wonder what happened to that point in my life when I was so excited about learning and growing; so full of hope for the future.

So sure that one day I would change the lives of children who really needed me.

Children much like the little girl I once was; broken and sad and lost.

I miss thinking that one day I would have it in me to make that difference.

And on days (or months) like this one (smack dab in the middle of the summer that is supposed to be the hands down reason to live in Alaska); I miss San Diego too.

The only time I ever remember it raining like this in San Diego, I was actually at school running from building to building because I didn’t even own an umbrella (I still don’t). I had just reached the safety of a hallway, and had managed to pop the lens out of my glasses while trying to rid them of the mist from outside (the mist that was so wholly uncommon in San Diego). I was crawling around on the floor looking for that lens I could no longer see when an attractive classmate of mine who I had tutored once upon a time scooped it up and helped me off the ground.

It was at that moment that I decided to have Lasik surgery – but that’s another story in itself (and really, I do seem to be doing quite a bit of wandering today.)

I miss San Diego some days. I miss the girl I was there. I miss the sun, and the warmth. I miss the beach and my friends.

I miss Mexican food.

But when I think about moving back, I can’t imagine really doing that. You can’t go backwards in life, and going back to San Diego would feel like going backwards. It would feel like giving up. It would feel like admitting that the life I came here to have would never be within my reach.

The life I still don’t think I could ever have there.

That much hasn’t changed.

San Diego and college were a great period of my life, but that period is over for a reason.

And really, I do just adore Alaska. Even on days like today, when I look outside and the sun is nowhere to be seen; there is still beauty everywhere.

I have a good job.

And good friends.

I love my house.

And I have different dreams. Dreams that suit this next stage. Dreams that will one day come true.

It’s still crazy for me to think that that part of my life really is over and gone though. That my college days are now years past, and instead of renting on the beach while partying my early 20’s away, I'm a homeowner in Alaska who is trying desperately to make a baby.

And that’s where I realize what’s missing.

My youth.

I’m a grown up. A grown up with realistic (arguably) goals and expectations for the life ahead. A grown up who is able to look at the old dreams and think “that wouldn’t really work for me anymore.”

I’m a grown up.

Living in Anchorage, Alaska; where I fear the sun will never shine again.

And I can’t help but wonder:

Where did it go?