Why would you EVER want to date ME?

Wanna know a secret?

I’m single.

Big shocker there, right? I know you didn’t see that one coming.

Well, neither did I today when Dr. Headshrink decided she wanted to talk about my singledom.

For real lady?!? As if I don’t have enough on my plate? Now you want me dating?!?

OK, so it’s not like she was trying to set me up or force me to give the internet thing another try.

But she did want to discuss why I’m so opposed to the idea right now. And even further; why I’m still single to begin with.

And let me tell you what; those issues would take about 20 sessions to cover completely.

The why I’m still single part has a lot to do with my family and scars from my past. I like to think I’ve overcome many of those scars, but they did mold me into someone so fiercely independent that I was incapable of letting anyone in for a long time.

It is a constant battle that I am still struggling with, but I do like to believe I’ve made large strides and knocked plenty of my own walls down.

The why I’m so opposed to dating now part gets a bit trickier.

Basically because it comes down to the fact that I cannot fathom why any man would want to date me in my current situation.

And because I can’t fathom it, I immediately judge all those who would be OK with it.

I've actually been on plenty of dates in the past year. The problem is that most of them have either been bad dates (like, seriously bad dates – one guy I was set up was in his early 40’s, bald, 3 inches shorter than me, and he had the personality of a dead turtle), or I’m so anxious about telling them about my life that I just don’t. I don’t go on second dates in order to avoid that awkward scenario.

Even better is when they already know about my history (either through friends, or because I’m in a generous mood and running my mouth) and they’re still interested (which happens more than I would have thought). The scenario from that point forward basically goes like this:

“Wait. You’re actually interested in me? Sorry, but that’s my number one turn off. Yes, you heard that right. Someone showing interest in me right now turns me off. Because something MUST be wrong with you if you’re still interested in me.”

NEXT.

Hey, I never claimed to be a completely put together girl here.

Dr. Headshrink basically burst into laughter when I tried to explain this conundrum to her though.

Yes. My therapist laughed at me.

She pointed out how ridiculous it was that I would immediately lose interest in anyone who would ever even dare to feign an interest in me.

And I agree. On the outset; that is not the move of a cool, confident, put together girl.

But again – when did I ever claim to be put together?

Or cool for that matter?

I’ll go ahead and own confident though. Mostly because I’ve seen myself naked and I was not disappointed.

Back to the issue at hand: in the last year I have discovered that if a guy is interested in me even knowing what I’m going through, I suddenly lose all interest in him.

That’s probably not normal, is it?

Here’s the thing: I’m not entirely opposed to dating. My friends have been joking lately that it’s almost like I’m in heat when we go out. My eyes are darting all over the room, and I am continuously looking out for fresh meat.

The problem has now become that whenever I spy that fresh meat, I refuse to do anything about it. At all. I stare them down from across the room like a creepy creepy stalker, but I don’t take that next move.

Mostly because, what would the point be? At some point they’re going to find out what I’ve got on my plate right now, and they’re either going to totally blow me off (in which case; I would have to contemplate slashing their tires), or they’re still going to be down for getting to know me (in which case, I will probably determine that they must have some freaky physical anomaly that I just can’t see yet because it’s underneath their clothes.)

Either way; it’s not going to end with us dating.

So what’s the point?

The truth is, I have seen what having a child early on in a relationship can do to that relationship. I have seen how that pressure can eat away at all threads of a healthy connection and wear a couple down; turning them into two people who don’t even like each other.

So even if I met Mr. Right tomorrow, why would I want that? Why would I want to bring someone into my life now, knowing that I am either going to be devastated in 6 weeks (and really incapable of putting any attention on a new and budding relationship at all) or I am going to be pregnant and on a path that will inevitably introduce all levels of new stress on a brand new, and still unstable pairing.

Just because it worked for J. Lo, doesn’t mean it would work in real life.

And I think Dr. Headshrink understood that thought process, although her point to me was; when will it be the right time? When will I ever want to date again?

My answer to her was: When my babies are two. Then I’ll just be a single mother, like every other single mother in this world.

It would be easier to date as a single mother, than as a single mother to be.

Of course, that puts us about 3 years out. And 3 years is a long time.

I’ll be 30 for Pete's sake!

What it comes down to is, there are no easy answers. No right ways to do this.

I am single. For real. The promise of the ex is gone, and there are no new prospects on the horizon.

I am single.

And I can either bask in that and embrace it for the next however many years of my life (and let’s face it – at some point it's going to become almost impossible to let anyone new into my life, because I will have gotten just far too comfortable being single), or… I can take a leap. I can try. I can break down one more wall, and stop questioning why any man would ever be interested in me at this stage in my life.

I’m not sure I’m prepared for either of those options to be honest.

Dr. Headshrink reminded me that I need to remember that this part of my life is only one small piece of who I am. That it is just a slice of the pie, rather than the whole damn thing.

That it's possible someone could be interested enough in the rest, that they don't care so much about that one slice.

But it doesn’t feel like that. Right now, it feels like I live, breathe, and eat infertility. And endometriosis. And IVF. All of it… it feels like it’s the biggest piece of my life and who I am now.

She’s right though. It isn’t everything. And it isn’t all I have to offer.

So maybe I could meet her half way. Maybe I could stop sitting on the side of the room starring, and start having a conversation.

Not with the intention of dating per se, but with the expectation of bringing a few bricks down from that wall at a time. Of opening my life up to some new friendships at the very least.

With the understanding that maybe, those friendships could go somewhere some day.

Even if not today.

I hate it when Dr. Headshrink makes sense.

I’ve Been Thinking About Octomom...

I’ve had a long standing disgust for Octomom.

I think most of us have actually. I mean, the woman is a nutbar. She's clearly delusional, irresponsible, and incapable of thinking even a little bit into the future.

And that doesn’t even begin take into account the bad name she's given to IVF and single mothers by choice.

Even my own grandmother asked me at one point (albeit jokingly) if I was going to become an Octomom.

It took everything I had in me not to hang up the phone on her – and we all know how much I adore my grandmother.

But that’s the first place peoples minds go now. Mention IVF and a single woman, and people automatically think “Octomom”. They immediately assume that I must be as big a nutbar as her, because that is the only point of reference they have for someone making these same decisions.

And for that reason (coupled with the fact that I have a hard time not hating people I deem to be bad parents anyway – especially those who’ve been blessed with 14 children); I have long loathed Octomom.

A conversation on the community got me thinking last night though, and I haven’t stopped thinking since.

Suddenly it dawned on me that if she did IVF, something was wrong with her.

That’s not something I would have realized 2 years ago. I had no idea how this process worked, and I didn’t have any clue that there were so many less expensive and less invasive options out there before you ever get to the point of IVF. I didn’t understand that single women had other ways of getting pregnant if they were perfectly healthy. That IVF was not the first thing you jumped to.

OK, so it was the first thing I jumped to, but that’s because I’m cool like that… Or because the damage to my insides in two years time was so severe that there simply were no other options.

Yeah, that’s right; it was one of those.

So in the realization that she likely had some form of infertility if she had used IVF in the first place, my heart actually started to soften towards her a bit.

Because that means; she was one of us. At one point in her life, she actually felt the fear that she may never carry a child.

And while I can’t comprehend any other decision she made past that point; the fear she must have felt is something I can relate to.

So I began to wonder; what was wrong with her? What drove her to this decision?

Did she have endometriosis? PCOS? Unexplained infertility?

And why do we never hear that part of the story?

The answer came from Linda this afternoon: Octomom had blocked tubes. IVF really had been the only way for her to get pregnant.

Which makes sense, doesn’t it? Knowing what we know, I think most of us can recognize that no one would go straight to IVF unless they had to.

So the rest of the story goes like this: Octomom inherits some money when a rich relative passes, and she decides to put that money towards her one life dream; becoming a mother. She goes through a fresh round of IVF and produces however many eggs. After fertilization with sperm from a known donor; she transfers some, and freezes the rest. Over the next few years, she goes back to those embryos and winds up having a total of 6 children.

Now some people would scoff at this, but… OK, who am I kidding?!? Even I scoff at it. As much as I would love a houseful of kids (and honestly – 6 sounds like a perfect number to me! Heck, I wouldn’t even hate if we bumped it up to 8, or 10, or 12!); with no husband, no job, and no means of providing for those kids; I wouldn’t even be contemplating having 1, let alone 6! Even now, with a good job and a way to support myself and those babies to be; I doubt I would have more than 2 without the husband. There is just a point there where you realize that it would be best to have that spouse by your side before going any further.

So yes, we can scoff at this single woman with no income and no apparent skills intentionally having 6 children.

But then she goes back for more, and most of us are left scratching our heads and screaming “Why?!?”

Here’s where it get’s tricky though: She had 6 embryos left in the big freeze, and only enough money remaining for one last round. I’ve heard her explain in interviews that she just couldn’t donate them, and she couldn’t destroy them. Now, I don’t necessarily understand that position. If I had leftover embryos and I knew I wasn’t likely in a position to give birth to anymore children; I would donate those leftovers in a heartbeat. Without question. After all, I already donated my eggs, so why would I even think twice about donating my embryos?

But I do get it. I know a lot of women who feel the same way. Women who are far more tied to genetics than I am, and who wouldn’t for a second be able to comfortably donate those embryos never knowing where “their” children had wound up.

It’s not an uncommon stance.

And you would think her refusal to destroy them would actually be lauded as the popular choice. After all, if people are so concerned about the possibility of IVF equating to murder (and let’s face it – there are lots of people [admittedly myself included] who view those embryos as the beginning stages of life, and who wouldn’t want to see them simply thrown away); didn’t she technically do the “right” thing in the eyes of many?

I find it almost amusing that the same people who would call her a murderer or look down on her for tossing those embryos, are likely the ones who also talk about what a freak she is for using them all.

If she was morally opposed to donating them, and equally morally opposed to destroying them; I’m not sure she had any other choice. I can’t see what she could have done beyond using them.

So that’s what she did. She transferred the final 6 in one shot.

Here’s the thing though; I know a lot of people believe she intentionally got pregnant with 8 babies because she wanted the attention. I’ll be honest; there was probably a point in my life when I actually believed that as well, before I had an understanding of what all was involved.

And how low the odds were that 6 frozen embryos could somehow become 8 healthy babies.

Let’s look at the facts here; frozen embryo transfers have, on average, a 30% chance of success.

30%.

Those aren’t great odds people.

And the chances of all the embryos implanting and two of them further splitting after the fact?

My guess is that you would have a better shot of being hit by lightening while on your way to collect your multi-million dollar lottery winnings.

When you think about the odds, you very quickly realize that this woman didn’t go into anything thinking she would end up finding herself carrying 8 infants. No one could have predicted this happening. Ever.

In fact, according to the odds; she would have been lucky to take home 2 or 3 infants.

Now, when you know her financial situation and how many mouths she had to feed at home already; 2 or 3 still seems a bit crazy.

But it’s far less horrific than the thought of a woman who intentionally got pregnant with 8 children for fame and fortune.

I don’t believe she intentionally did anything. I do think she has milked that quasi-celebrity for all it’s worth once the attention was on her, but I don’t think for one second she had any idea what she was getting herself into when it all began.

After all, if it were that easy; we would all be taking home babies.

This is a situation where you really have to look at her doctor. A doctor with a medical license who should have been capable of steering his patient away from this decision.

Because I am here to tell you (and Pepper pointed this out earlier as well); when you are sitting on that table preparing for transfer and looking at pictures of your embryos, everything you believed you would do up to that point goes out the window. The logical, thoughtful side of you disappears, and suddenly the fear of this not working combines with the love and adoration you already have for those embryos; and you stop thinking clearly. No matter what your plan was previously, you find yourself questioning the possibility of transferring more.

Even as a single woman who knows that her ability to care for multiple infants is likely compromised due to her lack of a partner.

Now, as the rational woman that I like to think I am; I was able to fight back that voice in my head telling me to just go ahead and transfer all 3 this last fresh round. Because deep down I knew that should those embryos beat all the odds and make it; I would be in way over my head.

But if you put someone who is already a little off into that same position?

You get a woman who chooses to transfer 6 embryos.

And on some level, I’m not sure how much I can fault her for that.

But you had better believe I fault her doctor. That man should lose his license for the choices he allowed her to make.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I still find the woman gratingly annoying. I think she is a total nutbar. I believe she has used those kids as her ticket to fame. And I also think she is under the impression that she's somehow entitled to assistance from the government and private donors for the rest of her life.

Plus, I really hate her stupid sticky uterus that actually seems to have mastered the ability to replicate embryos, while mine seemed intent on throwing one back.

Seriously. Who would have ever thought that woman would have a cooler uterus than me?

But I don’t necessarily hate her. And I don’t look down on her in the same way I once did.

After a day spent contemplating this woman who’s mental clarity I still question, I’ve actually found myself starting to look at her with a bit of understanding.

Because long before she was popping 8 babies out of that little body of hers;

She actually started out as one of us.

Live Infertility Chat: Week 5

This week’s Live Infertility Chat will be held on Sunday at 5pm Alaska time.

As always, you can find it by clicking over to the community at that time Sunday.

And if you want a refresher on what’s been discussed during prior live chats, you can find that here:

Live Chat: Week 4

Live Chat: Week 3

Live Chat: Week 2

Live Chat: Week 1

Looking forward to another week of catching up ladies!

It Just Hit Me

At some point this afternoon (as I was sitting in my office staring at a blank computer screen and trying to get motivated) it hit me; I really am doing this again.

I mean; holy crap holy crap holy crap! I am doing this again.

One week from today I start injections again. In 6 weeks, I will be in Seattle again.

And in 2 months, I will once again find myself peeing on sticks hoping and praying for two pink lines.

I may or may not have had a tiny panic attack as this information truly sunk in.

Because it’s crazy, isn’t it? To put yourself through this for a second time? Only months after the first devastation?

It’s insane to set yourself up for almost guaranteed heartbreak on the 30% odds that you could have your dream come true this time (if you get really really lucky), right?

After all, isn’t the definition of insanity doing the same thing over and over again while expecting different results?

Now, don’t get me wrong; I’m starting to feel that excitement again as well. That hope, and belief; the butterflies that tell me everything could very well work out this time.

There is this part of me that is beginning once again down an optimistic path of surety that this WILL work, simply because it HAS to.

Because I cannot imagine any other way.

And I’ve discovered that I cannot move forward without that belief.

Which is good. Really and truly, it is. I want to be able to move forward with hope and optimism. I want to be able to trust in those 30% odds rather than dwelling on the 70% chance of heartbreak.

But still…

Am I seriously about to do this to myself again?

Seriously?

One more week, and then bring on the injections.

The mood swings and hot flashes and night sweats.

The nausea and bloating and exhaustion.

6 more weeks until my two ice babies get to be placed safely inside of me. Then comes the wait. The anxiety. The constant questioning of possible symptoms. The inability to sleep.

The longest wait of my life.

At least this time; I know exactly what to expect.

And while it just hit me that this truly is the path I’m about to take again.

All I can do is hope that this time around; the outcome catches me completely by surprise.

In the most amazing way possible.

I'll Give You Two Guesses

I have long dreamed about making writing a career. In all honesty, I think I could do it now. I make a little more money from writing every month via my freelance projects, and I believe that if I really threw myself into it – I could put together a book that would sell. Either way, I really do think that if it was my sole source of income; I could find a way to make it work.

Part of the problem with making writing a full time gig now however, is that my real job often gets in the way. Responsibilities, time, and expectations; it all keeps me from being able to focus on my writing as much as I would like to.

Why do people ever get real jobs anyway?

Oh yeah, that’s right; the benefits. The health insurance, and paid time off, and 401K’s.

For a girl trying to have a baby; walking away from a job with good benefits would be a silly silly move.

Especially when you consider the fact that I really do have a great job. A job that has been extremely flexible with me regarding the management of my endometriosis. A job that I have now been at for over two years, and therefore know exactly what is expected of me at all times. There is very little stress and I really don’t have much to complain about. So leaving right now (and walking away from those benefits I covet oh so dearly)? Probably not an option. At least not as long as I would like to be able to count on that insurance to continue paying for my endometriosis treatments (including acupuncture), and to cover me through what will hopefully be a healthy, happy pregnancy here very soon.

I'm guessing I'll re-evaluate once baby is actually here (because I loathe the idea of packing them off to daycare at only 6 weeks old), but for now; I won’t be quitting my day job any time soon.

That was a wonderful guess though! A guess that seriously had me smiling from ear to ear even just thinking about turning my spare room into an office for me to embark upon a life of full time writing in.

Unfortunately, the truth isn’t nearly as exciting. But the bonus is that some of you actually guessed right!

I am getting a roommate.

Those of you who have been following along since the beginning likely remember that I used to have a roommate; once upon a time. One of my big goals in my baby making plan however, was to start making room in my life for that baby. That meant getting rid of the roommate back in February and figuring out how to make up for that lost income before a baby actually arrived. Finding a way to truly cover the mortgage, and dues, and household expenses all on my own.

And I did it. I made up that income with my writing jobs actually, and I haven’t looked back since.

Until a few weeks ago that is. I have a friend who was offered a job in Anchorage and was given 2 weeks to get here. She has a husband and two kids, but because of the quick move she is coming here first, finding a place for all of them, and letting the kids at least finish out this semester of school. When she was frantically trying to figure out where to stay on such short notice, I remembered that empty room of mine. The one that I used to rent out to Craigslist strangers back before the baby making took over all other aspects of my life.

I remembered that room, and I offered her a place to stay.

The rest of her family will be moving after the holidays, so this will really only be a few months at the most. But, it will give her time to find something more permanent, and it will give me a little financial backup over the next few months when finances were going to be a bit tight going into this second round anyway.

Now keep in mind; my place isn't exactly big. At only 780 square feet, a roommate situation involves being pretty much on top of each other. I love my condo (seriously - it's the first home I've owned, and I have worked my butt off renovating every room but the kitchen so far - I adore it), and the fact that there are 2 full bathrooms makes the roommate situation a bit more bearable, but... don't even think about trying to put two people in that itty bitty kitchen at once!

Plus, I’ve been living alone for the last 8 months, and I've discovered that I like living alone. I like having my own space, and being able to do what I want when I want without worrying about bothering anyone else. I like being able to sleep in until noon on weekends without being disturbed, and I enjoy walking around my house naked if my little heart so desires.

Living alone has turned my condo into a haven of sorts. It’s nice knowing that all the messes are my messes and that nothing is ever moved from where I last put it. This is my space, and I think readjusting to a roommate again is going to be a bit of a shock.

Especially since let’s remember; she's moving into my nursery. The space I've had set aside for my babies in this little head of mine. The room where I just put down new carpeting thinking that their little knees would be the next things to touch that flooring as they learned to crawl.

That room is their room, and it is definitely going to be weird having someone else in there. Even if that someone is a friend.

But, it’s only temporary. Just a few short months to help out a friend and enjoy a little financial assistance myself. It won’t be that bad at all. A few months of having some adult company around, and then if all else goes as planned; I’ll be able to start my baby room decorating as soon as she’s ready to move out.

Plus, it might be nice having that empty room be not so empty for a little while.

And the best bonus of all bonuses? I’ve already made her agree to help me with my tuckus shots when the time comes.

That’s right ladies and gentlemen; part of our deal was that she must be willing to give a 27 year old woman shots in the butt night after night for at least 6 weeks.

This is going to work out just fine.

A Thin Green Line

It’s a thin green line between bitterness and envy, one that I’m not too anxious to cross.

Check out my new post at Fertility Authority - A Thin Green Line.

This Empty Room

I have an empty room.

Literally, there is nothing in it.

At all.

I’ve had this room set aside to be my nursery. But, I haven’t wanted to do anything to it nursery-esque because… well, because; what if there is never a baby to put in that room?

I’ve seen Sex In The City. I know how much that fully decorated nursery with no baby pained Charlotte. I remember seeing her wince every time she ever walked past it.

Of course, there is something to be said for the pain that is incurred by walking past the empty room that was meant to be a nursery after a failed cycle as well. There is wincing there too.

Still. I’m not sure the pain incurred by the empty room would be quite the same as that incurred by a fully prepped nursery.

And so, I have refused to turn my baby room into a baby room. I walk past the baby aisle at target and I find myself running my fingers across cribs and changing tables. I test out rocking chairs and I dream of the new color scheme this empty room of mine will have once I know what kind of baby is going into it. I think about the need for new black out blinds and contemplate where everything will go. Once I even had furniture in my cart. I don’t know how I had talked myself into it, but there I was – walking proudly to the checkout stand with a matching crib and changing table. Thinking about how I would spend the evening putting these pieces of furniture together. Convincing myself that starting to decorate would be a good thing actually – a sure sign of positive thinking.

I wound up backing out at the last minute. Having to let the person behind me in line go ahead of me while I returned the furniture I as of yet have no use for.

Because I knew. I knew that another failed round would suddenly turn a decorated baby’s room into a complicated torture device.

So, as much as I would like to start; as much as I would love to decorate and plan and start putting the pieces together… I won’t. Not yet. Probably not until I hear a heartbeat.

Or heartbeats.

Besides, the truth is that once that baby (or babies) arrive, they likely won’t be spending much time in their nursery anyway. As a single mama, the chances are much stronger that I'm going to have those little ones in bassinets right by my bed; where they are easy to get to and I feel like I have a better grasp on the fact that they are actually breathing through the night!

My babies will probably be in my room well past the crib stage, so it will almost be humorous to have a fully functional nursery.

But we all know I will have one. Because that’s just what you do. It’s part of the fun. Part of making a space in your life just for those little ones to be. Part of acknowledging that everything is about to change.

And until I have solid proof that everything really is about to change, I probably should keep up my end of the bargain by maintaining this empty room.

Keeping it as a blank canvas – until the time arrives when I can confidently turn it into more.

Except, that isn’t what’s going to happen.

I will no longer be maintaining an empty room.

In about a week in fact, something is going to change.

Something which will give this empty room purpose again.

There is news to come…

I am a Drug User (But I am NOT a Murderer)

I came home last night to a shock I wasn’t expecting.

A hurt in my heart I hadn’t been planning for.

A confusion that overwhelmed me, and that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since.

I had an amazing night with my friends. The movie was incredible (as in, so incredible that I kind of want to go again tonight!) but the time with my girls was even more relished. Time to catch up, gossip (apparently Kristen Bell and Drew Barrymore are in town!), and commiserate.

A perfect night.

When I got home though, I started to get ready for bed and read through some blogs. I stumbled upon a post by Katie about another blog she had read – one which equated IVF to abortion, and called them both murder.

I was immediately taken aback. I have of course heard abortion likened to murder, and while I don’t agree with giving it that connotation – it was at least a leap I could understand.

But calling IVF murder? Calling me a murderer because that’s the path I’ve chosen to take? Even though I am using every last one of my embryos? Even though I never would have even considered throwing any away?

Basing it all on faith, when I do in fact consider myself to be a woman of God?

(Although, I am an admittedly flawed and ever struggling woman of God who knows she could be and should be doing better in many arenas of life - I am still a woman with a strong faith!)

It all just kind of stung. And I’ve been trying to wrap my head around it ever since. In fact, we’ve had an ongoing conversation over at the community about it. I would actually love your opinion there, because this is something I’m still just thrown by. I truly am just trying to understand.

You can read most of where I’m coming from there as well, but the main point I’ve come to is this:

I am NOT a murderer. The fact that there is anyone in this world that would equate me to a murderer honestly breaks my heart. It makes me think that they have obviously never lost anyone they loved in a violent or calculated way, because if they had – perhaps they wouldn’t be so quick to make such a broad comparison using a word that has so many sick and hurtful connotations.

But I do know that I am NOT a murderer. And that still, most of the examples that lead to that comparison make very little sense to me. I am strong in my faith, and I believe with all my heart that God has led me to the path I am currently on. And that is enough for me; my knowledge that God and I are good on this one.

It’s just that… there is a hurt there, in knowing that there are people in this world who would label me such a strong and ugly word because of the choices I have made. I know it shouldn’t hurt me, and I know that technically it isn’t about me.

But I feel the need to reiterate once again, that I am NOT a murderer.

I am however a drug user.

My package of meds arrived in the mail yesterday, and as I was pulling out my needles and syringes and refrigerating the meds that do in fact need to be refrigerated, it dawned on me – infertility has turned me into a heavy drug user.

I am a girl who doesn’t even like to take Tylenol unless absolutely necessary, and it has been years since I have been on an antibiotic for anything that wasn’t endo/surgical related. I don’t even have a primary care practitioner. I am not even kind of a pill popper, but here I am – a girl capable of shooting herself up with drugs without even flinching.

So, if you want to make any ugly comparisons about what I’m doing – feel free to call me a drug user. I own it. I hate that it has to be this way. That the only way I can hope to get pregnant is to pump myself full of drugs that I know are not exactly good for me. I hate that this is my only option, and that there are no natural alternatives which could reverse the damage that has already been done to my insides.

I hate that this is the way I have to do this, but in the same breath; I am thankful every day that these options exist.

So go ahead. Call me names. Point fingers. Come to your own conclusions about who I am and what I’m about. I’m fine with that, because at the end of the day; I know the truth.

I am a drug user.

But I am NOT a murderer.

I Used to be a Twi-Hard

You read that right.

Once upon a time, I myself got sucked into the tween Twilight phenomenon.

I read all four books within 2 weeks – twice.

I swooned over the love story of Bella and Edward.

And I even went to the midnight showing of New Moon.

I’m embarrassed to admit all of this, because it really is so very out of my character.

Oh who am I kidding… I’ve already admitted my Bieber fever here as well.

Clearly, I am a Tween pretending to be a grown up.

This Twilight fascination started out simply enough though. The ex was not yet the ex, and his daughter (12 at the time) had started reading the books. The way she talked about them (with all kinds of pent-up teenage excitement) reminded me of everything I had gotten equally worked up about when I was her age (hello JTT posters and seeing Titanic 13 times in the theater!) I picked up the first book out of sheer curiosity, and because I wanted it to be something we could talk about together. I hadn’t anticipated liking it at all. In fact, I was fairly sure I was going to be bored out of my mind.

I am (after all) a highly intellectual individual (in my own mind of course) with grown up tastes and literary predilections far more sophisticated than anything Stephenie Meyer could ever even dream to conjure up.

I was sure I would hate this book; convinced it was simply something I should endure to help connect with this little girl I used to think would one day be my step daughter.

I wound up devouring it in 2 days. And rabidly running to a book store late at night to get the second in the series.

I dropped money I didn’t have on hard cover editions when I couldn’t find the paperbacks.

I stayed in and avoided interaction with everyone I knew.

It was all I could do to force myself away long enough to go to work and eat.

These books sucked me in, and I could not put them down.

I still can’t explain it. The writing isn’t really my style, and I’ve never been all that interested in vampire stories before.

But there I was; swooning. Desperate for more. Unable to get enough.

A twenty-something Twi-Hard in need of a serious vampire fix.

I fell in love with the love story. And I even became jealous of Bella and her sparkly half vampire baby.

Because seriously, where is my vampire liaison?!? If getting my insides ripped in half by a little vampire mutt and having to become a vampire myself is what it's going to take for me to become a mother; where the heck do I sign up?

Yes, I was Twi-Hard enough to actually find myself daydreaming about being Bella Swan.

Something happened in the last year though. Life I guess. Life, and loss, and distraction.

Because I have still yet to see Eclipse in the theaters.

An injustice I have every intention of rectifying this evening (thank you Bears Tooth Theater Pub – I love you and your $3 movies combined with beer, wine, and the yummiest menu this side of Canada!)

But still. It’s been out for 2 months now! I am clearly a Twi-Hard failure.

This wasn’t entirely my fault however.

The midnight showing of Eclipse came out days before I left for my first IVF round. I was on hormones, exhausted, and filled up with all kinds of fear and anxiety. Plus, my friends were going to see all 3 movies in a row starting at 7PM.

And in all reality – I was not fully equipped to spend that much time in a movie theater chair.

Instead, I made plans to see it with Mrs. King after I returned home. We had been anxiously discussing it for weeks, and I couldn’t wait to finally see this movie she had already seen 3 times by that point (yes, I have grown up friends who are bigger Twi-Hards than I am). The date was set and I was all ready to go on a perfect Sunday afternoon.

Until I woke up that fateful morning to blood.

And was told to stay in bed until I could get into a doctor the next morning.

Where I was told that I officially had not gotten pregnant.

The next few weeks were hazy at best. Missing out on Eclipse was obviously the least of my worries.

I just didn’t care.

A few weeks ago though, I remembered that I still had not seen this movie I had been so excited for. So I called up Chatty, and we made plans to go see it together on the following Saturday afternoon.

We were talking about it with anticipation the entire drive to the theater.

Only to arrive and discover that the previous evening had been the last night it was showing.

Crushed, I bought us tickets to see Nanny McPhee.

Yes. I spent almost $20 to watch Nanny McPhee. Let me tell you what – I was not a happy Twi-Hard.

That's all going to be resolved tonight though. I am going to sit back and enjoy movie number 3 with a few of my favorite girls, some wine, and some tasty Bears Tooth snacks.

So if you really think about it, it was probably worth the wait when you consider all the extras I’m getting out of the deal (and the fact that this ticket will cost me $3 instead of almost $10. Seriously – I have a special spot in my heart for Bears Tooth.)

I am going to kick back, enjoy, and swoon with the best of them.

For the record though; I'm going to have to claim Team Jacob here. I dig Edward in the books, but R. Pattz doesn't really do a thing for me.

(thank you Google Images!)

That topless 17 year old werewolf though? MmmmmmmHmmmmmm… That boy is swoon-worthy for sure.

It turns out I may also have a predilection for shirtless teenage boys.

Like I said: I am a tween pretending to be a grownup.

Secretly in love with a werewolf.

Train Tracks

I have never ridden a train.

I’ve always wanted to, it’s just never really happened.

Next weekend the Alaskan Railroad is teaming up with one of my favorite breweries to host an Oktoberfest railway adventure. They’re calling it the Great Alaskan Beer Train – seriously! Beer, hors d’oevres, and hours of riding around Alaska in the fall – when this state is at its prettiest.

Sounds incredible to me.

Unfortunately, the almost $159 tickets makes it a bit out of my price range. I am a girl on a budget after all!

So as of next weekend; I will still never have ridden on a train.

And I've also never stopped on the train tracks. Ever.

(photo courtesy of Google Images)

I was thinking about that this afternoon, as I came to a stop a good 20 feet before the tracks – creating a serious gap between me and the car in front of me.

I could feel the heat of the car behind me questioning what I was doing. This is Alaska. Yes, we have a train, but it’s pretty darn predictable. And it’s not going to come barreling through without the barricades going down way in advance. There is no reason to be wary of the tracks otherwise.

But I have a deep seeded fear regarding lingering too long over those tracks. The mere thought causes my stomach to do flip flops.

That’s just not something you do; stopping on the tracks.

I’ve actually had friends make fun of me for this unfounded anxiety before. But still – I refuse to change my ways. I refuse to linger where one simply shouldn’t linger.

I’m the same way when it comes to my emotions.

Whenever something makes me feel too intensely, I pull back; the fear of being run over by those feelings far stronger than the emotions themselves.

I don’t ever like to give myself over to anger, or sadness, or grief. I prefer to hold back; allowing myself to feel nothing at all if that’s what’s necessary.

Because at least that’s safe. There’s no risk of allowing the hurt, or frustration, or depression to overcome me.

To define me.

To take away every last piece of who I strive to be.

I was discussing my anger towards my mother today with Dr. Headshrink. Even in our conversation, I was talking myself out of that fury. Laughing about it and acknowledging how silly it was that I would allow myself to be disappointed by this woman yet again when in reality; she has never proven herself to be capable of anything more.

I don’t want to be angry. I don’t want to linger on the bitterness. It does me no good, it does her no good, and stopping on those feelings is much like stopping on the train tracks; it sets me up for impending disaster should the emotions spin out of control.

Dr. Headshrink made a good point about this anger though. She reminded me that anger is in fact an important component of the grieving process; that it’s a necessary feeling to work through.

And that I really have no one else to be angry at in my situation. I mean, who am I going to blame and point the finger at? There is no one responsible for my broken lady parts. No one who could have (or should have) done anything differently to save me this pain.

But my mother makes an excellent scapegoat. When I have no one else to rage at, she suddenly becomes a beautiful outlet for that anger.

Because the woman has spent my entire life letting me down.

And it’s OK to let myself feel that some days. It doesn’t mean I am going to become an angry person, or that I’m going to hang on to those feelings for days on end. In fact, I rarely hang on to anger for long in my adult life. I don’t wallow in sadness, or drown in self pity. The emotions have never come any closer to running me over than those trains I work oh so hard to keep a safe distance from. No matter how deep I fall, it’s typically only a matter of time before I wind up embracing the good again.

I’m an optimistic person. And that's why I am able to still find disappointment in my mother, even now; after a lifetime of her proving to me that she won’t ever be what I need. It's the same reason I allowed myself to be disappointed by the ex over and over again too. It's because I believe in people. Because no matter how many times they've hurt me, I want to believe that they are capable of more. That they have it in them to be better.

It’s because deep down, there is still a part of me that clings to the idea of her miraculously becoming the mother I always wanted.

It’s not ever going to happen (anymore than the ex is going to show up on my doorstep with lilies and promises he actually intends to keep), and as long as I let myself continue to have any expectations of her whatsoever; I will be eternally disappointed. But such is life. These disappointments cropping up now and again aren’t ever going to break me. And there is something to be said for being the kind of person who is able to at least hold on to a tiny shred of hope against an overwhelming amount of evidence speaking to the truth.

In the meantime though, it’s OK to let myself linger in that anger a bit. Because it’s necessary to work through the anger so that I can come out on the other side in one piece. Whole, optimistic, and ready to move forward with hope.

I’ve spent more time lingering near the train tracks these last few months than ever before. I have held on to feelings of sadness and remorse, and I’ve even ventured a bit into bitter. Rather than pushing it all away and running the other direction, I have allowed myself to feel some of these darker emotions without the paralyzing fear that they may take me over.

And now, I feel like a light is starting to break through. Like I’m becoming more myself again every day. Allowing myself to hope, and believe, and trust in this future of mine.

Letting the excitement for this next round sneak into my soul.

I hung out on the train tracks, and nothing bad happened. I didn’t get stuck, and I didn’t linger too long. I can feel myself pulling away from those heavy emotions now, even as I have moments where I get jerked backwards. Those moments don’t last long, and I’m only that much stronger as I start to pull away again.

I spent the last few months in what I would have always believed to be a dangerous position, and I didn’t get run over. I wasn’t crushed, and I didn’t wake to find myself strapped down; incapable of escape.

I think it’s over now, or at least; I think it’s coming to an end. And nothing catastrophic happened.

I'm still not going to go stopping on the tracks in real life anytime soon (I mean, seriously - doesn't that seem just plain idiotic to anyone else?!?) But this lingering on the emotional tracks didn't turn out quite as disastrous as I would have pictured.

I am still whole.

Intact.

One piece.

And looking forward instead of backwards.

Again finding the pieces of myself along the way.

Live Infertility Chat: Week 4

The live infertility chat is getting busier and busier every week, and I am loving it!

Thank you so much to the ladies who have participated! It has become such a warm and supportive environment!

You can check out the live infertility chats yourself here: Week 1, Week 2, and Week 3.

And if you’re feeling the desire to join in, now is the time! Our Live Infertility Chat: Week 4 will be kicking off this Sunday at noon Alaska time (we all know I’m horrible with figuring out what time that is anywhere else – but I’m pretty sure they make an app for that!) Just hop over to the community at that time, and the conversation should just be beginning!

Hope to see you there… There is something incredible to be said for being able to join a live chat with women who actually get exactly what you’re going through!

A Twinge of Excitement

As I finalized all the details this afternoon, it hit me: I am going to try to get pregnant in 7 weeks.

I’m starting injections in just under two.

I am doing this.

Again.

And I’m not as scared as I would have thought I would be. In fact, I think I’m feeling a little twinge of excitement.

A ray of hope.

A smidgeon of a belief that this could work.

And that in 2 months, I could be looking down at two lines of my very own.

Part of this excitement comes simply from making the arrangements. And the fact that I have vowed to do as much differently this cycle from last as possible.

Because there's a chance I might be exhibiting some over the top superstitious behavior.

I booked a hotel almost 40 minutes away from the clinic. I didn’t want to stay at the same hotel I did last time, and I didn’t love any of the other options (or prices) in the area.

It won’t be a huge deal since I only need to go to the clinic the one day this time, and I know I’ll feel better staying somewhere else.

Somewhere that doesn’t have the bad juju failed cycle vibes.

I’m also going to put myself on bed rest for 48 hours following this transfer. Technically I could leave as soon as it was over. Technically I should only be paying for one night in a hotel and 1 day of a rental car.

After all; I got on a plane to go home immediately after my transfer last time. I had been assured by my doctor that it was no big deal. That the embryo was either going to implant or it wasn’t, but staying in bed wouldn’t affect the outcome.

And my doctor was probably right, but I don’t care. This time; I am staying in bed with my feet in the air pleading with those embryos of mine to stick around for as long as it takes.

I also scheduled acupuncture the day of – for both before and after the actual transfer. I knew this was available the first time around, but I felt weird scheduling a treatment for something so personal with someone I had never met.

Someone who wasn’t Teeny.

But this time, I don’t care. I want to do everything I can possibly do to get these embryos to stay put, and from what I’ve read; acupuncture the day of can increase your possibility of implantation by 40%.

My insurance won’t be covering that treatment at all (of course), but I will make it work. Believing that the extra piece of mind (knowing that I’ve done everything within my power to succeed) will be worth it in the end.

And with all the details in place, I really am starting to feel that twinge of excitement again.

My drugs are ordered, my plane ticket, hotel, and car booked, and now I just have to wait.

Trusting that I am doing everything I possibly can to ensure this next round will work.

Allowing that little twinge of excitement to sneak past the wall I’ve been protecting myself with the last few months.

Believing that good things really do come to those who wait.

And that on November 11th, I will be getting knocked up.

For realz this time.

I’ve Decided I am Pissed at My Mother

I should probably preface this post with a disclaimer. There are not a whole lot of uplifting, feel good, live and let live vibes wafting out of the words that are about to follow. I am angry. I feel like I have a right to be angry. And while I fully recognize that putting this anger out into the universe isn’t really going to solve anything; I also firmly believe that I need to get it out there. That I need to get it out of my head, heart, and soul and get it onto a piece of paper; where at least I can walk away from it feeling as though I've said my piece.

I also recognize that anger in any form really isn’t a fantastic emotion. I know it has never served me well in the past, and that forgiveness is really where it’s at as far as rising above and moving forward with life.

But I’ve decided I am pissed at my mother, and before I can start rising above; I need to allow myself a moment to be pissed.

The little girl I used to be, needs to throw a hissy fit.

Because I will tell you what; I have risen above with a lot of things when it comes to this woman. I worked hard and I let go of my anger a long time ago. I dare say I even forgave her; for walking out of my life when I was just a kid, for exposing my baby brother and I to things that no child should ever be exposed to, and for being forever determined not to ever recognize the needs or feelings of anyone other than herself.

I let go of that anger and replaced it with pity years ago, because I really do see her as a broken woman who simply wasn’t capable of any more. I do feel sorry for her in many aspects; and grateful simply that she is out of my life now, rather than acting as a continued burden intent upon further impeding my ability to grow.

But this? This is something I am just not sure I can forgive her for.

It's been about a year now since I was informed by my maternal grandmother that both she and my mother had needed hysterectomies due to endometriosis. At the time, I was almost relieved to hear this news. It was at least an explanation of where this disease had come from. Prior to that point, I had no idea why this had happened to me; no clue how I had gone from being so healthy to so broken so fast.

But a hereditary link? That made perfect sense. Endometriosis is after all a highly hereditary disease. In fact, one of the first things I did when I got my diagnosis was contact the agency I had donated my eggs through for that very reason. My medical history had been impeccable up to that point, and I wanted them to notify the family I had donated to (the family who now has one son and one daughter from my eggs). It was important to me that this family know about a disease I may have passed on to their daughter. Important to me that they know what to watch out for, and were able to educate themselves on some of the challenges she may face. I don’t even know this family personally, and I have never met them or their daughter – but I wanted them to know so that they could be proactive. So that they could look out for any signs, and not spend months (or years) wondering what was wrong should problems arise.

I was immediately conscious of this shared history I felt they had a right to know.

This weekend however, it suddenly became clear to me that my mother had never had the same compassion and sense of caring for me.

Yes, I have known about the hereditary link for over a year now, but for some reason this weekend it suddenly dawned on me that I should have known about this link a long time ago. That someone should have cared about me at least enough to warn me.

And so, I’ve decided that I am pissed at my mother.

The woman had a hysterectomy from this disease. Her mother had a hysterectomy from this disease.

So why did she never feel the need to tell me about the genetic and hereditary components?

Why did she never think it was necessary to pass this information along?

I mean, I get that she and I didn’t have a relationship. That she checked out when I was still a child. I understand that she had washed her hands of any parental responsibility. That she did so with ease in fact - because parenting me had become too much of an interruption to the life she wanted to live.

But how hard would it have been to impart this knowledge upon someone in my life? Anyone. Me. My grandmother. My father. How difficult to pick up the phone and say “Hey look, I have this disease, my mother had this disease, and it’s likely our daughter could have it too. She should be on the lookout and know it's a possibility.”

Two seconds out of her life. That's all it would have taken. Two seconds to put someone else first.

It had been important to me to give that little girl created from my genetic material fair warning.

How is it possible that the same thing wasn’t important to my mother? To the woman who actually birthed me?

I truly did stop being angry at her over the past a long time ago. I went to therapy, I worked through it, and I forgave her – for myself (not for her), but still. I let it go. She was selfish and self involved and a little bit batty. But in all reality, I just felt sorry for her. She had a tough life and faced challenges I’m sure I could never comprehend. I had pity for her.

But the more and more that I think about the failure she set me up for, the more angry I get all over again.

I don’t know what exactly would have been different if I had known, and I do truly believe that everything happens for a reason, but… I would like to think that I would have taken more precautions with my health and that at the very least – it never would have become as aggressive as it is now. That if I had known, maybe I wouldn’t be where I’m at now.

Staring down the barrel of a gun feeling like I am out of options.

But I didn’t know. I didn’t know until after I had donated my eggs (inflicting upon my body all the hormones that this disease actually thrives off of) and taken myself off the pill (reasoning that I was only on it to protect from pregnancy anyway, and I wasn’t having sex – so what harm could going off it possibly cause?)

I didn’t know until after I had spent 7 months trying to figure out what was wrong with me alongside a doctor who was initially convinced that I was making it all up.

At the very least – she could have saved me that.

It would have been so easy for her to pick up the phone and let someone know what my future could possibly hold.

So, why didn’t she do it? Why didn’t she think about someone other than herself for those two seconds it would have taken?

And how do I once again let this woman off the hook for all the things she never even tried to be for me?

How do I stop being so pissed?

I Don't Remember Asking For a Knight

I don't talk as much about my dating life here as I probably should (with the exception of the endless words I seemed to have for the ex not too long ago. It got to the point where he was asking me if he had made the blog every time he did something crappy - a fact which made me realize I should probably stop writing about him all together, because he seemed to be getting some kind of sick pleasure out of it.)

Still, I tend to shy away from writing about dating now; mostly because it is a series of false starts and non-events.

Let's just say that I haven't been excited about anyone who has come into my life recently, and therefore I just haven't had the passion to write about it.

Plus, it would be mean if I was just constantly picking apart the losers!

A few weeks ago though, a fellow blogger asked me if I would write a guest post for her blog (Ramblings of a Singleton) about what it's like to date while infertile.

I being me (a girl who hops upon just about any writing prompt with giddy anticipation) said "of course" and started typing away.

That guest post was published today, under the title "I Don't Remember Asking For a Knight".

Feel free to check it out if you're interested!

And I'll work on sharing more of those non-starts.

Because I guess some of them are kind of funny.

November 11th It Is

Sometimes I like to let my imagination run wild.

To pretend that I have this all under control. That I am a Warrior Princess (donning some seriously hot Warrior Princess duds) who has taken on endometriosis and infertility and is winning. Striking the pain away with ease and depositing small children into my womb without hesitation.

Of course, I’m not a Warrior Princess, and I have very little control; but sometimes I like to pretend.

My doctor was running late for my appointment today because she was busy delivering a baby. As I sat in my room awaiting her arrival (and the call to get naked – because there was just no way I was going to sit around under a paper blanket [been there, done that]!) I found myself thinking that I wanted the same treatment please.

Not that I want anyone having to wait around because of me of course.

But that I really would appreciate my doctor having to put everything else on hold while she delivers my baby.

Or babies.

When she arrived, we had the added bonus of most of her appointments being cleared for the rest of the day.

I was the only stubborn one who had insisted on waiting to be seen.

I didn’t care if that meant waiting an extra hour – I just knew I couldn’t go another night or two questioning what my next step would be.

Thankfully – she now had plenty of time to sit and ponder that next step with me.

And the conclusion we came to is that I'm going to bite the bullet and push forward; a November 11th transfer date without surgery first.

One of her concerns with surgery first was that it would mean more scar tissue and inflammation for my transfer. She also pointed out that while surgery would be good for reducing my pain, it’s not necessarily good for increasing my fertility. The more surgeries I have, the more ovarian tissue I lose.

And I’m not exactly sure I’m ready to lose anything more right now.

Having surgery now would only help the growth that’s currently there, and while endometriomas do not (and will not) go away on their own; I would still likely be looking at new growth 2 months from now anyway. So what would I do then? Another surgery?

When would it stop?

When would I have enough of being cut open?

She couldn’t make me any promises about where my pain is now or where it will be in two months, but the hope is that if I can get myself pregnant; most of the pain will at least subside during that 9 months of bliss as my little one grows inside of me.

So, I am biting the bullet. I am hoping that I have it in me to get through this next two months of pain; for the greater good. For my baby to be.

For the best chance possible of this working.

And in the meantime; I need to take care of myself. Do whatever I can to reduce stress and remain relaxed and calm.

Doctors orders.

I’m taking this to mean that I now have a prescription to indulge in massages and spa days; movie nights with the girls and days in bed with a good book.

Time for me. For two months. To remain as calm and rational and pain free as humanly possible.

Because I really am doing everything I can do, but I need to come to terms with the fact that I have no control too. That I cannot control this disease and I cannot control the outcome of this next round.

And neither can my doctor.

There were moments today when I felt like she was telling me there was nothing more she could do to help me. When I had to fight back the tears because I heard in her words realities I didn’t want to face.

That my case is extremely aggressive. That I likely don’t have much time left to make this dream come true. That I’m doing exactly what I should be doing by being equally aggressive back.

But that if this doesn’t work; it may be time to consider other options.

None of this was what I wanted to hear, but maybe it’s what I needed to hear. Maybe as the tears cleared I needed to face the reality that there isn’t really anything anyone can do anymore to give me additional hope.

Because this is officially out of everyone’s hands now.

There is no controlling it. No willing it into submission. No forcing the desired outcome.

There is no Warrior Princess.

There is only the truth. The truth that none of us have any control.

That it is all in God’s hands now.

And all I can do is pray.

I Dumped a 12 Year Old

I had to do something I’m not proud of.

I think it was necessary. And I think it was time.

But I still feel like an asshat.

I quit Big Brothers Big Sisters. I quit Chatty.

I dumped a 12 year old.

This has been something I’ve been contemplating for a little while now, but the last few months? It’s become pretty clear that it was time. I was finding myself upset almost every single time we hung out. Frustrated over her home situation, irritated that no one seemed to be taking care of her in the way she needed and deserved, and heartbroken that her mother was able to have 4 children she doesn’t seem to really take care of at all; when I may not even be able to have one.

Yes. It was all entirely selfish.

And I’ll be honest – it makes me feel like a really awful person.

When I first joined Big Brothers Big Sisters, I was through the moon excited. I couldn’t wait to meet my little. Couldn’t wait to connect with a child who desperately needed someone to take her under their wings.

I was convinced that I could bond with any child, anywhere, any time. I was convinced that I could make a difference.

Chatty and I have been matched for two years now, and sometimes I find myself wondering how much of a difference I’ve really made. I’ve found myself questioning whether or not I can really combat the influence and neglect she faces the other 166 hours a week that I’m not there.

In truth, it has been one more aspect of my life that has made me feel helpless.

And again being completely selfish – I don’t have a whole lot of room right now for any more scenarios where I feel helpless.

I’ve known for a while now that Chatty probably needed and deserved someone who wasn’t quite as distracted by life as I’ve been. I’ve felt like our outings were getting less and less fun as I was becoming more and more preoccupied with my own struggles. In a way, I’ve almost felt as though Chatty has been trying to be there for me – when it should be other way around. We really don’t talk about my situation at all, so she has no idea what I am thinking and feeling about the state of my insides; but I have sensed her attempting to be overly agreeable and pleasant in an effort to cheer me up week after week.

Because apparently – I’m not as great an actor as I would like to believe I am. Apparently my distracted and soured mood has been simple enough for a 12 year old to pick up on.

And, that just really isn’t fair.

But, I’ve avoided making this decision. Both because I feel like this child does not need one more person in her life abandoning her, and because I’ve felt like I should be better than this. Like I should be stronger than this. Like once a week, I should be capable of putting someone else first.

It started to feel like a chore though. Like something I was forcing myself to do. And as I drove away from her house week after week in tears because I couldn’t stand dropping this child back off in that environment; I knew something needed to change.

The truth is that I know Chatty’s home life is still better than what foster care would likely offer her. I know her mother loves her; even if it seems as though she isn’t capable of providing a stable environment. I know she has her siblings there; and an extended family that tries to help as best they can. I know there really is nothing I can do to improve her home life for her, because doing anything that would involve her being ripped away from that would just be wrong.

But, I also know that she deserves better. That all children deserve better. And while I was capable of looking at that situation as a challenge 2 years ago (searching to find any way I personally could make a difference); I now find myself stuck in the injustice of it all. Unable to see past that “it’s not fair” bubble.

Still… I have wavered on this decision. Feeling selfish. And like a coward. Angry at myself for not being able to give more.

But, I discussed the situation with Dr. Headshrink this week, and she put things into perspective for me a bit. Reminded me that if I’m feeling this way; Chatty is likely picking up on it. That I’m not doing this child any good by not being fully invested in her. My distraction and state of mind are not helping her. But a new Big Sister – with fresh eyes and an open mind and heart – well, that may be exactly what she needs right now.

I hesitantly picked up the phone to call my Big Brothers Big Sisters coordinator on Wednesday. I have never been good at quitting anything. Never been great at admitting my own inadequacies. My stomach was in knots even thinking about having this conversation.

But my coordinator was surprisingly understanding. They’ve known about my illness all along (since my surgeries meant taking some time off of hanging out with Chatty for a few weeks in the past), and I had also felt obligated to make them aware of my IVF in July. They’ve known my basic history this whole time, and when I explained that I was once again facing the possibility of surgery; she seemed to understand where my head may be at. She was incredibly kind and put me at ease that they would find Chatty another match right away; and that we could still remain “matched” even if we weren’t within the confines of the program anymore. That possibly taking the pressure off of a weekly commitment may even be what I need in order to spend time with her on a less stressed basis. A way to remain in her life, while remembering that someone more capable than myself right now was able to pick up the slack when I couldn’t.

I picked Chatty up yesterday morning to take her to our favorite breakfast place and give her the news. Again – I was nervous and anxious. The last thing I ever want to do is hurt this child. Hurt any child.

But I can’t deny the fact that I just don’t have all of myself to give right now. And that Chatty deserves that from someone. She deserves to be a priority. And I can’t give her that anymore. At least not right now.

I need to make myself and my health (both mental and physical) a priority first.

Again though – my stomach was in knots as I anticipated this conversation with a child I have spent time with for the last two years. This child who looks up to me and idolizes me. This child who will drop anything on a moment’s notice to spend time with me.

This child who I have made a commitment to.

A commitment I was about to break.

I started off by explaining to her that I’ve been getting sick again, and that I may be needing another surgery here soon. I asked her if she’d noticed that I’ve been a little cranky lately, and she said she hadn’t, but this is a smart girl – I have no doubt she’s noticed a change in my mood. I told her that with everything with my illness, I needed to start taking care of myself a little better, and that some days it may be harder for me to go and do things than others. I told her that I had talked to our coordinator with Big Brothers Big Sisters, and that they were going to work on getting her matched with someone else for a while – so that she could still have someone to spend regular time with her.

Then I told her that I would still always be there. That she could still pick up the phone to call me whenever she wanted, and we could still hang out sometimes too – we just wouldn’t officially be matched with Big Brothers Big Sisters anymore. I told it would be kind of like she had two Big Sisters though, because she would still be able to see both of us.

To that she perked up immediately and said “Oh man! My friends are going to be SO jealous! They all have one big sister, but they aren’t going to believe that I get two now!”

And that was it. All the conversation that was needed. She finished breakfast and we drove home talking about our favorite movies and music. I asked her at one point if she had any questions, and she said “no” – that she understood.

She was fine. For all the worry and lost sleep as I’ve had over this situation; this little girl was resilient. She was fine.

And for what must have been the millionth time in the two years we’ve been matched, I found myself thinking – I could learn a thing or two from that girl.

Her resilience. Her ability to take it all in stride. Her willingness to look forward without spending too much time dwelling on the past.

It’s impressive. She is an impressive little girl.

Yesterday I dumped a 12 year old.

I still feel like an asshat. I am still piling guilt 10 stories high upon myself. I still can’t help but feel like a selfish jerk.

But she was fine.

She WILL be fine.

Maybe if we’re really lucky; we both will be.

Bedroom Explosions

There are two kinds of bedroom explosions.

The good kind (when fireworks fly and toes curl) and the not so good kind (when things are literally exploding out of the walls and making you question the safety of your home).

Unfortunately today; we will be talking about the not so good kind.

After last month’s exploding breaker, I was already a little unsure about the integrity of my wiring. Something about the whole situation had just made me nervous, but I tried to assure myself that the sole issue had been the breaker and everything beyond that was fine.

Especially because the hairy electrician of my dreams (or nightmares) had gone to the lengths of getting my number off of his company records and calling me about two weeks after the explosive event. He wanted to know if I wanted him to come over and help with anything else – on his own time. The whole thing was just kind of… creepy. And inappropriate. I am not now, nor have I ever been, one of those girls who takes advantage of guys to get things done; and the idea that this guy may just want something in return for all his "helpfulness" turned my stomach.

Thankfully I was in Seattle at the time and I was able to tell him that taking care of my other electrical projects wasn’t really at the top of my priority list, but it was just… weird.

So yeah, I hadn’t been relishing calling an electrician any time soon.

But then, Wednesday morning happened.

I had been awake all of 1 hour, and was attempting valiantly to get my butt in gear and get ready for work (I am the exact opposite of what someone might call a morning person). All of a sudden, there was a loud pop overhead and a flaming light bulb came flying down towards my bed.

No joke, this is what the thing looked like when I was finally able to pick it up:

Like torched glass, right? The stupid thing actually burnt a hole in my comforter.

And, it scared the crap out of me!

The metal remains of the light bulb were still in the fan, and I was attempting to determine what exactly I was supposed to do about this when a second bulb came exploding out.

At that point, I turned off the light.

Then, I called the electrical company I use.

And without wanting to get anyone in trouble, I specifically requested they send someone besides the hairy beast to do a complete wiring check on my condo.

I also bought a new ceiling fan – assuming that at the very least, this was a sign from the heavens above that dark wood and brass ceiling fans were out and it was time to upgrade to something more modern and neutral. Something more… me.

Yesterday afternoon, a young guy showed up at my house and checked everything out. He assured me (after plenty of checking) that the wiring all looked fairly safe and intact. That if anything, it may just have been an issue with the fixture being old and needing to be replaced. So, he replaced that for me and did a few more quick projects around my house that have been needing to be done; all while being the epitome of professional.

It was impressive. So impressive that I actually called his company after he left to let them know how great he had been.

I felt bad about complaining about the other guy, so I kind of wanted them to know that I’m also capable of recognizing good work.

Yep. This is how my brain functions.

So far, there are no issues with the new fixture and everything seems to be functioning great. I have two new ceiling fans and 1 new bathroom fan as well (I had been avoiding installing that thing for about a year – it was about time I let someone else just do it for me!) and all is right in Casa De S.I.F. again.

Of course, there are no bedroom explosions… of any kind.

But who needs bedroom explosions anyway?

To Cut, Or Not To Cut

There is a girl sitting in Alaska as we speak who has some big decisions to make.

And that girl, is me.

I heard from my doctor’s office in Seattle around 10 a.m. this morning. They wanted to let me know that the current endometriomas likely wouldn’t have any effect at all on the success of my frozen egg transfer. From their end, there are no concerns moving forward with a November 11th transfer date.

But, Dr. RE did acknowledge the fact that I’m in pain right now, and that that pain likely isn’t going to be going anywhere. Thus, she left the decision up to me. She said I should discuss the pros and cons of another surgery with my doctor up here at my appointment on Monday, and then I need to make a decision based on what I can and cannot handle.

So the question becomes; can I cope with the pain level I’m at now, knowing that it may not subside at all without surgery. Pregnancy or no pregnancy.

You see, pregnancy hormones are actually very similar to what my hormone levels were at when I was on Lupron. Many women report relief from endometriosis while pregnant and breastfeeding, and for some it’s almost even like their bodies reset; they go on to live their lives without any more issues at all from endometriosis.

Now, most of these “cures” occur with women who have lesser forms of endometriosis, but it is still possible. It still happens.

And it happens because your hormone levels dip so low during pregnancy that the endometriosis has nothing to contribute to its continued growth.

However, what is already there doesn’t typically go away on its own. Endometriomas don’t usually just disappear without surgery.

At least, that has always been my understanding. (I just did a quick Google search too, and found this page which does state that endometriomas require surgery to be removed).

Most of you are probably thinking this is a no-brainer now. Just do the surgery and get it over with.

Right?

Except that, every time I have surgery I take the risk that they won’t be able to save something. That I could wake up with that one remaining tube gone, or one or both of my ovaries being removed as well. I fully trust my doctor who has performed my last two surgeries, and I know that she does everything in her power to save what she can – but it is still a massive fear of mine.

I like to believe that I have come to terms with the fact that I will never get pregnant naturally (and therefore no longer need that remaining damaged tube anyway), and that I will never again go through another fresh round of IVF – because I cannot handle it financially, mentally, or physically (and therefore I don’t really need my ovaries either); but saying those things and knowing them to be 100% true (beyond a shadow of a doubt, no going back), are two different things.

I am scared of hitting that point of no going back.

Not to mention the fact that I’m not even sure surgery could happen in time for me to do my Nov. 11th transfer anyway. According to Dr. RE, I would need to have surgery prior to starting the treatment drugs. This would mean I would need a surgery date prior to October 5th in order to be able to still transfer on my current date. I’m just not sure my doctor could accommodate that. My first surgery was actually bumped up and scheduled 3 days out because I had gotten so sick and was in so much pain I could no longer function, but my second surgery was scheduled almost a month out at the time (Nov. 11th of last year actually – how's that for ironic!) Getting a surgery date within the next 2 weeks may be next to impossible.

And, there's also the cost involved. Looking at where I'm at on out of pocket expenses with my insurance right now, I should count on surgery running me another $1500 before I capped out.

But, I keep coming back to my pain. I am not miserable right now. I am still fully functional. It isn’t really inhibiting my day to day life. But there is pain. A nervy, gnawing, uncomfortable pain in my low back that shoots down my hips (due likely in part to the endometrial tissue which has been found around my nerve endings in the past). And those endometriomas are causing random and sharp pains in my left side.

I am functional, but I am in pain. And getting to this point of pain all occurred within 2 months. Which means there is no telling how much more growth I could have in the next 2 months while waiting for my transfer; especially once I start on the hormones, which I am still convinced only encourage more growth.

Will I still be functional 2 months from now? Will it still be a pain I am willing to endure?

In the words of my nurse at SRM this morning “Endometriosis sucks. No one is thinking that you're making too big a deal out of this. It just sucks!”

I kind of love my nurse down there. She's the only person who has had to deal with me on a consistent basis, and she is always so patient with my panic attacks and freak outs… Seriously, some days I feel like the neurotic patient that no one should have to deal with because my questions are so numerous and fueled by Dr. Google that it isn’t even funny. But, she is always kind to me – no matter what.

And, she’s right. This sucks. Endometriosis sucks. And I’m just not sure what to do.

I’m hoping my decision will become clearer once I see my OBGYN on Monday, but until then… I’m trying to figure out what I can and can’t handle.

What would you do?