God Is Faithful

I have to admit, I had a hard time going to church this morning.

The pain kicked in pretty good around 1am last night, and hasn’t really subsided since. My stomach is swollen all the way up into my rib cage today, making it uncomfortable for me to eat or even take too deep a breath.

I am definitely over this.

My endometriosis doesn’t normally hit this extreme without my being on my period (which obviously I’m not), and for my whole stomach to be uncomfortable like this as a result hasn’t happened in a while.

I keep telling myself it’s just the hormones, but… I’m in pain. And bloated up like a balloon.

So getting up and getting ready to go to church this morning really wasn’t on my top list of things to do, except…

I really wanted to see if church boy was by himself this week.

That's right, I just admitted it. I went to church this morning for a boy. Almost entirely for a boy in fact.

And when I was pulling into the parking lot this morning and realized he was pulling in right in front of me, I almost (for half a second) thought that everything was about to work out perfectly!

That is until I got over excited and jumped out of my car way before him – leaving me walking into church by myself and cursing my own eagerness.

But, I found my seat and sat down – pleased to notice him saunter in moments later.

By himself!

I don’t know who that girl was last week, but I really do think this guy is single.

The sermon began, and again we caught each other’s eyes more than once. This is honestly getting a little ridiculous in fact. I definitely caught him looking my way multiple times.

A little more than half way through the sermon, I had to get up to go to the bathroom. Mostly because I had been sitting there uncomfortable and really needed to just get up and walk around for a second.

It was on my way back however, that I ran into him. Coming out of the main room at the same time I was getting ready to re-enter it. With his jacket and bible in hand – it was clear he was ducking out early.

And I smiled. I locked eyes with him, and I beamed. Thinking that running head on into each other in the hall was the perfect opportunity for us to officially meet.

Even convincing myself that his walking out just minutes after I had, possibly meant something.

And then it happened.

He met my eyes, saw my smile, and…

Looked away.

He didn’t even acknowledge me. He just walked right past me with his head down.

And I felt like an idiot.

Seriously. It would have been laughable. If it hadn’t happened to me.

I cannot figure this guy out. Maybe he was just surprised to see me in the hall and reacted out of complete awkwardness, or maybe I’ve been making up his stares for the last few weeks?

Heck, maybe he’s only been staring at me because I’ve been staring at him! Maybe seeing me in the hall, he for sure thought he had a Grade A stalker on his hands and got supremely uncomfortable.

It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been accused of stalking.

So for now, there really is no story to tell. He could have just been caught off guard running into me, or it’s possible he’s not interested at all.

But I’m pretty sure he’s not completely indifferent. Because let’s be real – someone who was indifferent would have at least smiled back!

With him gone though, I was able to focus on the message of the sermon. And the truth is, it was a message I desperately needed.

The entire sermon was based around the concept that God is faithful. That if we put all our faith in Him, He will provide.

Those of you who have been reading here for a while know that this is something I have long struggled with. I believe in God. I am a follower of Christ. I see myself as a faithful person.

Except when it comes to handing over control of my life. It’s then that my reflex turns into an iron grip on the details and I do not want to make any concessions.

Because I fool myself into thinking I am capable enough to handle it all.

Put it on my shoulders – I’ll figure it out.

Life doesn’t really work that way though, does it? I went into this last round believing that I could will the results of my choosing. Convinced that if I was positive enough, committed enough, and informed enough – I could manipulate the ending and walk away pregnant.

And we all know how that turned out.

I believed with all my heart that I would be pregnant last round. I believed so strongly, that I refused to acknowledge the possibility that it might not work. I refused to accept that I could even survive if it failed.

Yet here I am. Surviving.

This round, I feel like I’m in an entirely different place. Like for once, maybe I really am putting all my trust in God. Believing that He is faithful. That He will provide for me, one way or another.

Even if it’s not in the way I have hoped and prayed for.

I feel stronger this round. More convinced that even if it should fail, I will be OK.

I feel like I’ve come full circle.

And while I know another failed round will in many ways crush me, I also know that I will come out the other side. I know that something good will come out of it. That even if it takes me years to fully recover, I will one day look back on this part of my life and know that everything worked out in the end.

I’m not delusional enough to believe that another failure (truly my last failure, as I know I cannot put myself through this again – and that really is something I need to come to terms with now) will be easy to bounce back from, but lately… Lately I’ve been realizing that as hard as it will be, I will be fine.

That no matter what, I will survive.

God is faithful.

I’m trying to remember that. Trying to put full trust in him. Trying to lay it all at his feet and believe that he will give me a life more incredible than anything I could ever imagine.

God is faithful.

And one way or another, He will make me a mother.

Maybe if I get real lucky, he’ll also faithfully deliver me some information on church boy here soon too.

Because that boy and his coyness?

About to drive me crazy.

For Your Viewing Pleasure...

Since most of you were screaming for pictures, I figured I'd throw a few out there this morning. But seriously, it was nothing to get too excited about. In fact, I'm pretty sure I didn't even look dressed up at all.

Especially next to this guy:

(For the record: There is totally water in my beer bottle.

We're making babies in these parts - no boozing allowed!)

But hey, at least I wasn't the only one who ran with the white trash theme. That would have been just plain embarrassing!

As soon as I walked in the door though, Loo looked at me and said  "You don't even look white trash!" To which I had to reply "You told me to just take stuff out of my own closet. What kind of stuff do you think I have in there?"

I mean, sheesh! I'm not a trashy girl.

Typically.

Besides, it's not like she even did the white trash thing at all:

(I told you my boobs were exploding!)

But I still love that girl. Seriously - everyone should have friends as incredible as I do.

I'm pretty sure Loo's new man has better pictures on his camera, but this is really as exciting as it gets.

Me and my non-costume.

Maybe I was just hoping my tots would distract everyone from the fact that I clearly did not wear a costume all.

But next year?

Next year I'll be dressing up babies!

Fingers crossed.

Let's Talk About My Boobs

Loo wanted me to go to a Halloween party with her tonight. I was hesitant. I’m not exactly feeling great lately, and there was just no way I was going to justify spending money on a costume that I only planned on wearing once.

That’s when Loo told me it was a theme party though. “White trash” she said. “Don’t you have anything slutty you could wear?”

(Courtesy of Google Images)

Crap. Anyone who has seen my closet knows that my costume argument pretty much went out the door at that point.

It’s not that I dress slutty either (she says - trying to explain away younger years spent wearing next to nothing). It’s just that what constitutes as slutty in San Diego and what constitutes as slutty in Alaska are two very different things.

Thus, I have a lot of clothes from my San Diego days that I just couldn’t pull off up here if my life depended on it.

Even if it was warm out.

So, I started pulling things together. I grabbed my 1800 Tequila cap that I have from when I was working in bars. I pulled out my ripped jeans that I’ve been hanging onto for reasons I can’t even explain. I contemplated picking up a bottle of peppermint schnapps that I could dump out and fill with water.

I even thought about going the whole pregnant white trash route. You know, those women who can get knocked up while smoking, drinking, living off welfare, and whoring themselves around town.

Because some cruel twist of fate decided they could handle a baby better than I could.

Yeah, I thought about being one of them.

But then I realized that might be jinxing myself, and I decided to play it safe.

No pregnant bellies on this body until it’s the real deal.

So then I started pulling out wife beaters, of which I actually own a surprising number.

Hey, tank tops in San Diego are a pretty normal look!

But it was when I started trying them on that I realized something was off.

My boobs have gotten HUGE. I mean, they’ve always been big. I was the girl who graduated 8th grade in a training bra and started high school in a C cup.

And when humility should come in, in the case of my chest it has always faltered. What can I say? I’ve always been a fan of how I turned out up top.

(While not-so-secretly hoping and praying for the day they sag and fall apart from breastfeeding my babies to be.)

But I looked in the mirror today while donning my too low cut tops and realized for the first time that they have gotten even bigger. As in, I don’t actually own a bra that can effectively contain them right now.

When did that happen?

And what does it say about my ability to pay attention to my own body?

The truth is, they’ve really hurt the last few weeks. I’ve known it was the estrogen and have almost even been thankful for it.

After all, if my boobs are hurting now I can’t take that as a false sign of pregnancy in a few weeks like I did last round.

I can’t get my hopes up about a symptom I’ve already been having.

But that’s really the most I’ve acknowledged them. They’ve hurt, it’s been from the hormones, so I’ve left them alone.

Not that I spend an exorbitant amount of time playing with my boobs otherwise, but you know what I mean. I’ve been careful not to jostle them around more than necessary!

Now though, I’m thinking these estrogen patches might be onto something. I mean, I had no need or desire to go any bigger (seriously, they are already big enough – and as much as I love them, I have always kind of felt like they made me look larger all around than I actually am, which really isn't that cool.) But here they are, noticeably bigger than they were a month ago.

And there's got to be a market for that, right? Women dying for larger breasts, who wouldn’t hate that extra cup size?

I have no idea how horrible an idea this may be (after all, excessive amounts of estrogen for an extended period of time really can’t be good for anyone), but... I am here to tell you, if you want bigger breasts just start slapping estrogen patches on your stomach. I’m up to 4 every other day now, and just hoping these bad boys don’t get much bigger lest they explode!

And about that Halloween party that I am grudgingly attending this evening?

Loo informed me an hour ago that it was a costume party OR a white trash party.

Which leaves me with the sinking feeling that the white trash theme may have been invented just to get me to come.

As I explained to Loo, if I show up in a white trash theme to a party that really has no such theme, I’m no longer dressed white trashy – I’m just trashy.

She assured me I won’t be the only one, but we’ll see about that.

I have a feeling me and my out of control and overexposed tots are about to have an embarrassing night.

That'll teach me to be too cheap to buy a costume.

How Does That Happen?

I’ve always wondered how it is that people fall asleep during sex.

You see it all the time on sitcoms and in movies.

Husband gets randy and talks wife into doing the deed.

Wife complies, even though she’s exhausted.

Husband starts doing his thing while wife just lies there.

Suddenly – wife falls asleep.

Depending on the show, husband either keeps going, or pulls out pissed about the whole thing.

Whenever I’ve seen this scenario go down though, I’ve always been left wondering:

How does that happen?!?

Today, I might have figured it out.

Kind of.

It was my final checkup for this round. The last one I needed to ensure that everything would remain set for November 11th.

And since I seem to have a track record for things not going according to plan, I was admittedly a little nervous.

Meaning, I probably didn’t sleep as well as I should have last night.

And then I had to wake up at 5am in order to squeeze my appointment in before work (somehow I still wound up running an hour late though.)

Driving to the hospital for my blood draw (because the hospital is the only place here that can get same day blood work to SRM) it was still dark out. It was also the first day we’ve had a noticeable sheen of ice on the road.

If it hadn’t been for that ice and my cautiousness regarding it, I probably would have fallen asleep at the wheel.

We all know I'm a zombie in the mornings.

After getting my blood work done, I then had to drive to the sonogram place.

It was still dark out.

And as I crawled on that table for my vagisound, I was already getting sleepy. The lights were out, the room was warm, and I was naked.

Which is how I sleep anyway, so it’s not as if I’m uncomfortable in that state.

What I should have been uncomfortable with was the probe being inserted into my hoo-hah and poked around.

I swear to you though, the ultrasound tech spent forever taking pictures of my uterus initially (the whole reason we were there to begin with – to check my lining and make sure it was baby ready). It’s possible that as this was all going down, my eyes shut on their own and I started to drift…

Until I was jerked awake by the sharp jab of pain as she moved over to my left ovary that is.

But until that point (until the tech banged right up against my endometriomas) I am 99% positive I fell asleep.

Right there. On that table.

With a vagisound stuck all the way up in my business.

Granted, there is no comparing a vagisound and sex… obviously. And it’s not like there was any kind of rapid movement going on down there. I still really don’t see how it’s possible for anyone to fall asleep while in the throes of passion.

But then again, I never would have thought it was possible for me to fall asleep during a vagisound either.

I think this may mean I’m getting a little too comfortable with having doctors poke around in my lady parts.

Regardless, everything looked good. I did have one new decent sized endometrioma on the left side (yes, a new one has grown in just the last 2 weeks – that brings our grand total to 3 over there now, all bigger than my actual ovary), but at this point the doctors aren’t worrying too much about those so I’m trying not to either.

It does however explain my increased pain on that side.

Other than that though, my lining was perfect and my estrogen levels were right where they needed to be.

I am done with check-ups that could make or break this cycle.

And I am now officially in the books for a November 11th transfer date.

Which means that two weeks from today;

I’m totally going to be knocked up.

(Courtesy of Google Images)



Hocus Pocus

I came home from work tonight, and took out some matches.

I removed tiny pieces of Moxa from a brown paper bag, and I held them to the flame until they had a steady burn.

I then stuck that Moxa to my skin, on points Teeny had thoughtfully plotted out for me last night at my appointment.

(sadly, it is with this picture that I am forced

 to come to terms with the fact that I have kankles)

I sat back and looked at my legs and wondered:

“When the heck did I become such a hippy?!?”

This is the first time Teeny has ever sent me home with one of her treatments. Obviously she’s given me herbs before, and plenty of instruction about diet, but she’s never actually set me up with a do-it-yourself Chinese medicine cure before.

Yet here I am, burning Moxa on my own skin.

Like a pro I tell ya.

A friend asked me recently if I really buy into all the hocus pocus that Teeny fills my head up with.

I think it was the squirrel poop that made her ask.

But the answer is yes… and no.

If you had told me about any of the crazy things I would be buying into two years ago, I would have laughed at you. I was not a girl with flighty beliefs or hippy ideals. I was a skeptic.

And in many ways I still am.

Some of it definitely makes me scrunch my nose up and wonder what good it could possibly do. There are absolutely sessions where Teeny will suggest something and I burst out laughing before telling her how weird she is.

But you know what? It’s not like Western medicine has been doing me a ton of favors here either.

The drug my doctors had me on initially tore me apart. My hair was falling out, my skin in shambles, my stomach a mess, and my mood in the pits. I was exhausted all the time, and a bundle of tears most days.

Which all would have been well and good had the drug actually worked, but it didn’t. Not really. Not completely. It helped with my pain levels a great deal, but the endo was still spreading.

So if it’s completely reasonable for me to still have at least some faith in Western medicine, I don’t think it’s totally crazy to put some of it into the Eastern practices as well.

And the truth is, while I may not believe in everything Teeny talks me into, I do believe in Teeny. I believe that when she gets passionate and worked up about the ways in which she can help me, she trusts fully in what she’s telling me.

And it’s hard to resist that kind of faith.

Plus, I know what I’ve seen in the last year of working with her. I know that sometimes she sticks needles in my legs and I feel them in my sides. I know that the spots that hurt the most, are always the ones directly related to my ovaries. I know that it wasn’t until I started seeing her that my energy levels began going back up and my ability to handle the pain increased.

Teeny has never promised me a cure for endometriosis. She has never claimed she could make it go away or that she could resolve all the issues attached.

But the promises she has made, she has always been able to keep.

So when Teeny tells me that my kidney and bladder pulses are low, and I need to spend a little extra time supporting my system this week – I believe her.

When she explains that sticking needles in my eyelids will help to regulate my completely out of whack hormones – I trust that she knows what she’s talking about.

And when she suggests I start drinking some squirrel poop tea to help slow the progression of my disease – I want to give her the benefit of the doubt.

Which leads me to right here. Right now.

Sitting in my room with some Moxa burning on my feet.

Believing 100% that I’m doing my part to support my kidney and bladder while those baby making estrogen patches have my endo on the attack.

Submitting to the reality that maybe (just maybe);

I kind of believe in some of this hocus pocus.

On The Subject of Dating

I’ve been thinking about this whole dating thing a lot this week. Wondering why all of a sudden I’m so open to the idea, when for the last year I have been so unsure of the timing surrounding even trying.

Because let’s be real; it’s one thing to ask a guy to date a single mother but another thing entirely to try to find a man open to dating someone who is actively working on becoming a single mother.

It’s hard not to question what the heck is wrong with the guy who would be interested in that girl.

But suddenly, over the last few weeks, I have become more and more open to the idea of dating. More willing to accept it as a possibility and maybe even something I could pursue.

Heck, I’ve been getting giddy like a school girl over Church Boy, and I don’t even know his name!

Part of it is probably the hormones. I swear this round has been so much easier on me in terms of mood than the last round, but the estrogen is not without its side effects. And one of those side effects is that I am clearly on the prowl right now.

I am not joking when I say that those little patches have put me in heat.

But there’s more to it than that. Maybe it has something to do with therapy, or a little to do with all those Plan B’s I’ve been trying to accumulate (after all, if there are only 30% odds I’ll get pregnant – isn’t it kind of silly to avoid dating on the premise of impending motherhood?)

More than anything though, I think my eyes have simply been open lately.

When up to this point, they were pretty firmly shut.

My head was in the sand and I was walking around refusing to acknowledge any males in my presence.

Because deep down inside, I had been holding out hope that the ex and I would finally figure things out. That we would reunite and everything would be the way it was supposed to be.

And now, I don’t think that anymore.

I really don’t.

I was thinking about it last night, and our chance has passed. There was a moment in time when we could have been amazing together and all the pieces would have fallen right in place. A point when everything was lined up perfectly for he and I and his kids to have a happily ever after.

But the truth is, I derailed that train and there was just no getting back on track after that.

And now, it’s too late. We’re both different versions of who we were when we met. We no longer fit.

We missed our chance.

The last time we spoke was about 2 months ago. After the whole “I thought I was pregnant” ordeal. He showed up with a bottle of wine and all kinds of sweet possibilities.

It all went downhill after that.

There was a conversation where he basically told me that I was the girl he would always come back to, and that he was the same to me. He acknowledged that he loved me and that he probably always would, but that was the extent of it. He had this theory on the whole thing (a theory I’m fairly sure he got from a friend of his who has a girl he has a similar history with – a girl he has cheated with on every person he’s been with since her), but basically it came down to the fact that while we would never get back on the track we were once on, we would always wind up finding our way back to each other. There would never be any commitment, or relationship, or happily ever after; but we would always wind up back in each other’s arms.

The funny part (or maybe the sad part?) was that as he told me this, he genuinely wasn’t trying to be a jerk. He wasn’t trying to hurt me or tear me down in any way. In fact, in his own mind I think he thought he was being sweet. Telling me that I would always be the one that really mattered, no matter who else came along in our lives.

But that he would never fully forgive me. And we would never really be together again.

It was in listening to him weave this explanation of who we would be to each other from here on out, that I finally understood we couldn’t be anything to each other at all. Not anymore. Not ever.

Because the life he was painting sounded like a miserable and lonely existence to me.

And I realized; I want to fall in love. I want to get married. I want to have someone to stand by my side and hold my hand. Someone worthy of everything I’ve got to give, instead of just bits and pieces here and there.

I want more. More than he was offering.

And so, he left. I asked him to lose my number. Told him to take me out of the rotation of girls he was currently juggling. Explained that I loved him, and that I always would, but that what he was offering wasn’t something I was willing to take anymore.

Sometimes love just isn’t enough.

It took a few days for him to get the hint. In fact, he wound up sending me a text the day after this all went down asking what I was up to that night. But I remained strong. Firm. Resolved.

And we haven’t interacted at all in 2 months. Which is the longest we’ve ever gone without speaking. Even after we had broken up the first time, we didn’t avoid each other to that extent.

I have to tell you too; in a town this small it’s quite the feat to avoid running into someone for two straight months. Especially when you live within a mile of each other.

I’ve done good.

It’s over. And he is going to live the life he wants to live (dating without commitment or love) while I try my darndest to go in the other direction. To find someone who loves me enough to take a chance on me.

Someone who makes me feel like he used to.

Even beyond that, I’ve honestly found myself hoping and praying lately that he will let his guard down again and find someone to share his life with as well, mostly because I do think he is so much better than the guy he’s trying to be right now. I’ve seen the man when he’s in love. I’ve seen the man he can be. I know he deserves more than what he’s choosing.

I know what he looks like when he is truly happy, and he hasn’t been that in a long time.

But, that’s not my problem anymore. And in reality, it hasn’t been for a while.

Something funny has happened in the final healing of this break though. I have started to pull my head out of the sand and look around. I have begun to see those in my presence again. I have found myself crushing for real. Something that I haven’t felt since the first time I laid eyes on him.

And it’s a good feeling.

Especially when I realize that many of those eyes I’m meeting are looking right back at me.

Checking me out!

I don’t know where I’ve been for the last year. If I had just forgotten that there were men that find me attractive, or if I’ve intentionally been ignoring the signs.

But now that I’m waking up again, I’m remembering that there are men out there. Men who are interested in me. Men who want more from me than a lifetime of nothing real.

And I’ll tell you what; all of this is leading to a girl who is definitely getting her groove back.

A girl who is returning smiles and flirtations.

A girl who believes she is worthy of someone special.

A girl who is willing to take a few risks in order to find that person.

A girl who even looks in the mirror some days and thinks “Damn! I look pretty good!”

In fact, I caught myself thinking that just today. I had woken up this morning and for whatever reason thrown on my fancy pantsuit that I almost never wear (because there are hardly any occasions that call for me being that professional at my job). I did my hair and makeup and spent the rest of the day checking myself out every time I passed a mirror.

Thinking that even on the hormones (with the bloodshot eyes and the swollen belly) I still looked like quite the catch.

Of course, at lunch I managed to spill lentil soup all over my white shirt.

Just the universes way of reminding me not to get too cocky.

But still, I feel good. I feel like he is out there. Waiting for me to find him.

Like now is my time.

And baby or no baby;

I’m getting this dating train back on track.

Defining Infertility

Do we use the term "infertility" too loosely?

This question was posed to me a few weeks ago, and I've been thinking about it ever since.

Built In Birth Control brought it up on another post, and she got the wheels in my head spinning.

So much so, that I based my newest post for Fertility Authority around that question.

How do we define infertility? How do we differentiate ourselves and our diagnosis? How do we help the general public to understand that not every infertile can get pregnant by simply relaxing?

And does some of the answer lie in discussing our individualized diagnoses openly, rather than crawling under the blanket of infertility and allowing it to define us all?

We've had a discussion going at the community on this very subject, and I would love your input as well.

Sunday will be our next Live Infertility Chat (can you believe we've been doing this for over 2 months already?) Sparkle had 3 eggs released this last weekend during a medicated cycle, so we all have our fingers crossed for her during this tww and would love to root you on or commiserate alongside you as well.

If you want to catch up on this months past chats first, you can do so here:

Week 8

Week 7

Week 6

Week 5

Otherwise, we'll be starting at 3:00 PM Alaska time, and are anxious to hear your story!

And in the meantime (the right here, right now) while we're on the subject of diagnoses, what is yours? What is it that landed you in our little club? And what are your hopes and plans for the future?

Resisting The Urge To Shake Strangers

I witnessed a scene today that left me… perplexed.

Wrapping my arms tightly around my chest. Biting my lip to keep my mouth shut.

Resisting the urge to shake strangers.

Because let’s be real; there aren’t very many circumstances where you could get away with that kind of behavior.

But today, I wanted to do it. I wanted to shake and yell and berate. I wanted to wake a woman up.

A woman I didn’t even know.

I was at the grocery store when it occurred. Minding my own business and picking up some Monistat. (Because yes, the baby making drugs have sadly put my whole body out of whack - including my cootchie-coo. Some days I actually don't hate that there's no husband around to witness this hot mess I've become.) Suddenly, I noticed the most adorable little boy just chatting away in a cart.

He must have been about 3. Blond. Sweet. Angelic.

Just a little guy, but with a pretty hefty vocabulary.

And he was just cracking himself up.

Sitting in that cart talking away. Rattling off questions and telling his mother all about everything they passed in the store.

(Courtesy of Google Images)

His mother who was ignoring him. Ignoring every single word. Doing her best to not pay attention at all. Succeeding in appearing painfully annoyed.

And I wanted to shake her. Here was this woman with a perfect, healthy, adorable son in her cart, and she was annoyed by him. Annoyed to the extent that to anyone walking by it was obvious she was wishing he hadn’t been there at all.

Probably wishing she could just get a break from him.

Now, it is here that I want to point out that I’m not judging this mother. I get that every day of parenting isn’t sunshine and roses. I’m not naïve enough to believe that it will always be easy, or that you will always be content in your child’s company.

I know that there are bad days. Days when you just need a break. Days when it all just seems to be a bit too much.

But… She didn't appear to be in a rush and she wasn't on her phone. There was no one else there demanding her time. No clear reason she should have appeared so opposed to acknowledging her son.

And here was a child who was polite and kind and funny. He wasn’t interrupting his mother, or being too loud, or asking for anything at all beyond her attention. He just wanted her to interact with him, and he was very obviously trying to make her smile as well.

Something which she just couldn’t give him. Not even one teeny tiny smile. She didn’t have it to spare for this little boy.

My heart broke. I wanted to tell this boy how smart he seemed, how funny he was, and how good he was being while stuck in a cart being wheeled through the grocery store. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and tell him how special he was.

I wanted to shake his mother.

But instead, I bit my lip and walked on by. Trying to remind myself that this snippet of their lives I was seeing didn’t necessarily reflect what the dynamics actually were. That I had no idea what had happened prior to spotting them in the store, or what this woman was going through in her personal life.

For all I know, she’s an incredible mother who was simply having a bad day.

A woman who certainly did not need me saying the words I so desperately wanted to say.

So instead of saying them to her, I’m going to say them to you right now.

For those of you who have children.

For those of you who may have had a bad day.

For those of you who might some days forget how lucky you really are.

Love those babies of yours. Wrap them up in your arms and tell them what they mean to you. Listen to them. Laugh with them. Praise them when they’re good. Clean up the skinned knees, and discipline when they’re bad to be sure, but don’t forget to love them too. To love them always. To give them the attention they need. The attention they deserve. Each and every day.

Even on the bad ones.

Give those children of yours big kisses tonight, and tell them how wanted and adored they are.

Do it for me.

For women like me.

For anyone who has ever wanted a child so desperately it hurts.

Because you were one of the lucky ones.

And when I see you being a crappy parent; I have to resist the urge to shake you.

Or the urge to kidnap your child.

Since both of those things could probably land me in a bit of hot water, how about you do us both a favor?

Remind your children how much you love them.

Do it for me.

Until I can do the same for my own.

This Could Go Either Way…

I got a plane ticket home.

To a place which obviously isn’t really “home” anymore, and hasn’t been for a long time.

In the spirit of accumulating Plan B’s though, I took the leap and got a plane ticket back to Arizona for Thanksgiving.

Knowing full well that I will find out whether or not this IVF round worked just days before that plane takes off.

Which would mean, a trip home could either turn into an amazing celebration, or… a disastrous meltdown in which I take my broken heart out on everyone who loves me.

This could go either way.

Here’s the thing you should know about my family; the dynamics are… complex. If you’ve been reading for a while, you may have caught on to some of those complexities. The truth is that moving away from Arizona was the best thing I ever could have done for myself. I was never going to heal from the wounds of my childhood while still stuck right there in the middle of it.

It took my leaving that town, that state, that life for me to begin to repair some of those scars I had been left with. It took my leaving for my father and I to begin healing our relationship as well.

A relationship which has taken yet another twist now that he and my stepmother have divorced.

In fact, this trip will be the first time I step foot in the home he’s been living in for the last however many years. From the point when I turned 18 and my stepmom took it upon herself to pack up everything I owned, I haven’t been allowed in their home.

At all. Not once. Not ever.

And now, suddenly, I’ll be staying there.

Don’t get me wrong, I really am happy about this new development. I never wanted to see my dad hurt, but the woman was cold and spiteful and downright abusive to me growing up. I’ve said here before that the scars she left me with were actually far worse than the ones my mother left me with, if only because as much as the choices my mother made kill me; I’ve always known that her intentions were never to hurt anyone.

She did the best she could, it was just that her best wasn't really any good.

I cannot say the same for my stepmother. We’re talking about a woman who wrote out a list of everything that was wrong with me when I was 13 and set it up for me to find. A woman who told me to my face almost from day one that she did not want me in her home – even though I was just a child. Even though she had known she was marrying a man with children. Even though I moved into that home wanting desperately for her to love me and want me.

I truly believe that she made the decision to tear me down from early on, and that she went full force ahead with that effort. I believe with all my heart that she manipulated and lied and deceived to try to put a wedge between my father and I. I believe she would have loved nothing more than to see me become a pathetic excuse for an adult so that she could have pointed and said “See! I told you that girl was no good!”

And I believe it’s because in her sick and twisted head, she was threatened by anyone who could possibly take my father’s attention away from her.

That woman did not like to share.

But the problem there is, my dad let her get away with it.

Now, I love my father with all my heart and I have long since forgiven him for this (and based on the history there, I even kind of understand it), but… He let her hurt me in a thousand different ways. He allowed her to set guidelines that kept me out of aspects of his life. He gave her the rope to make me feel unwelcome. To make me feel like an intruder in that home. I know that wasn't ever his intention, and that in many ways he never wanted to believe any of it was happening at all. But by the time he really acknowledged what had gone down, it was too late. There was nothing he could do about it.

I was already gone.

And now, going back there, and suddenly having a room and space in that home (suddenly being welcome there) is almost a little weird. In fact, I told him initially that I didn’t want to stay with him, solely because it still kind of hurt to know that the only reason I was now welcome there was because she had left. That if she hadn’t, I would still be staying with my grandparents and friends every time I came for a visit.

I guess something about that still stings…

But after talking to my dad about it, and voicing my hurt feelings and apprehension over staying with him now (which he took incredibly well, because… my dad’s just kind of amazing like that) I realized I was being silly. For the last 10 years it has broken my heart that I wasn’t welcome in my fathers home, and now that that isn’t the case I’m going to make it so anyway?

That’s just crazy talk!

The past is the past and the wicked witch is gone… I’m not going to allow her to continue causing splinters in my relationship with my father.

Which brings us back to the question of Thanksgiving.

(Courtesy of Google Images)

My dad wanted me to come “home”. The devirginator was pushing for me to make an appearance too. And I knew the vast majority of the friends I grew up with (most of whom have spread across the country just like I have) would all be back in town for the holidays as well.

Plus, I kind of realized something. If this next round doesn’t work and I stay here in Alaska, I am going to wind up holed up in my condo by myself for those 4 days I won’t have to work. I know me, and I know that that’s how I grieve. I won’t go anywhere, I won’t do anything, and I won’t talk to anyone.

I will simply watch TV and sleep.

And honestly; that just isn’t healthy.

Yes, it's how I’ve always grieved anything in the past, and sometimes it is exactly what I need, but… I’m afraid that if I allow myself to spend 4 days locked up in my house with zero interaction or responsibilities after going through that kind of loss; I won’t be able to come back out.

And while I absolutely have places to go for Thanksgiving here in town, I know that if I'm already home in my bed it'll be that much easier for me to cancel any and all plans and hide away under my covers.

And how depressing would that be?

At least in Arizona, I’ll have a bigger drive to get out and see everyone knowing that it may be forever before I get the opportunity again.

Should this round fail, I know that if I’m in Arizona I will still get out of bed and do things. See old friends, have nights out on the town, and catch up with the people in my family who I know would do anything to keep my heart from breaking if they could.

In all likelihood I’ll probably find myself breaking down during each and every one of those interactions, but at least I’ll be forcing myself out of bed.

At least I’ll be trying.

At least I’ll be “home”.

So, the ticket is purchased and I'll be going to Arizona for Thanksgiving. Five whole days spent in my old hometown.

The longest trip I’ve had back there since I left for San Diego 5 years ago.

Even for my brothers wedding, I managed to be in and out in 2 days.

Hopefully I'll be able to go with amazing news that just has to be celebrated.

But if not? If this round fails?

I can only pray that my family and friends love me as unconditionally as I love them.

Because I am gonna be a train wreck.

A train wreck who will probably ruin Thanksgiving.

But hey, what’s a dysfunctional family holiday without at least one of those?

Not Giving Up Yet

I prettied myself up in a big bad way this morning.

I don’t want to brag, but I even took a shower.

All in anticipation of seeing church boy again.

I pulled up to the church just before noon (running early again I might point out – it turns out that all it takes for me to get to church on time is a good looking man!) and immediately I spied his truck.

So of course, I intentionally parked right next to it.

I then sauntered into church quite confident. I had been talking about this all week, and one way or another – I was going to meet this man and learn his name.

I saw him almost right away, and I began walking that direction – planning to sit as near to him as possible without appearing weird.

But then, suddenly, I stopped in my tracks.

There was a girl sitting next to him!

A pretty girl. With long dark hair and far better fashion sense than I have.

I bet she doesn’t have to talk herself into showering on the weekends.

I sulked and sat in the aisle across from them. Still closer than I had been last week, mostly because changing course at that point would have appeared highly suspicious.

I can’t believe he has a girlfriend.

But then… I started watching them. Not in a creepy stalker way, but in an out of the corner of my eye way. And I have to be honest with you; I’m not sure they’re dating. They didn’t touch once during the entire sermon, and while they did talk to each other and were clearly there together, their body language just didn’t really scream couple.

Plus, I still caught him looking my way more than once.

So I’m not sure? Maybe it was his sister? Or a cousin? Or a friend? Or a girl he’s only gone out with once or twice?

I honestly don’t know, but I really don’t think it was his girlfriend.

And from my closer vantage point, I was able to ascertain for sure that he wasn’t wearing a ring.

Of course, any hope I had been harboring of approaching him and introducing myself before I had walked into the building dissipated quite quickly as soon as I spied her. I don’t care if she is just his sister, there is no way I'm approaching a guy who has a girl with him.

I just don’t have the balls for that kind of maneuver.

So instead, I stayed firmly planted in my chair attempting to determine what this means in the grand scheme of things. Trying to figure out just how big a wrench had been thrown into my hopes of happily ever after with this boy whose name I don’t even know.

And it was then that I spied my prayer partner from the bible study I completed at the beginning of the year. The prayer partner who confided in me early on into the study that she and her husband had started trying to get pregnant that month. The same one who then gleefully announced 2 weeks later that they had just found out all their trying had paid off.

Because it turns out there are people in this world who decide they want to get pregnant and actually succeed on the very first try.

Sometimes I have a really hard time liking those people.

I saw her though, and in her arms was a brand new baby. Itty bitty, just 3 weeks old, and perfect.

I swallowed my bitterness and went over and congratulated her. Gave her a hug and fawned over her perfect new son.

Hoped and prayed and pleaded that I could be in her shoes soon.

She and her husband had come to the service this morning (when they likely would have still preferred to be in bed loving this new little one) for the baby blessings. My church doesn’t do infant baptisms, but they do bless all the new babies every few months. And so as the service began, they and about 5 other families walked up to the front.

And I marveled at this scene. These loving families praying for their new additions. I pictured myself standing up there with two babies in my arms (I'm embarrassed to admit that I have already begun researching baby wearing options for twins). Praying for them to become strong followers of Christ and for me to be able to raise them in the best way possible; allowing the pastor to pray for them as well.

I do this often lately. Picture myself in scenarios with twins in my arms. I'm not sure if it's overconfidence, or a need to come to terms with the idea of two now so that it doesn't seem too overwhelming then. But I do it. I picture twins in every aspect of my life now. Build myself up and convince myself that I could do it, even on my own.

Today I got sad though. Every baby up there on the stage had a mother and a father. They had both loving them and guiding them on their path to Christ. I suddenly pictured myself standing on that stage by myself with no baby daddy by my side, and I have to admit… I got embarrassed.

I am strong in my decision, and all along I have felt God leading me on this path. I have known that I was meant to at the very least try, and it is rare that I ever feel the need to apologize for pursuing this path on my own. But today, for whatever reason, seeing all those daddies marveling over their children; I got sad. Not for me, but for my babies to be. For the one aspect I'm just not able to give them right now. I know I will be fine, and I know my babies will be fine as well. I know that even if their father hasn’t found us by the time they are born, he will find us eventually and we will be a happy and complete family.

But trying to get those words across as an entire congregation is eyeing me and wondering how I wound up with twins on my own?

The thought makes my stomach churn.

I’ve been thinking about it more and more though, and realizing that it doesn’t matter. That those who will be strong supporters in my children’s lives will never judge me or them for how they were brought into this world. Those who matter will always stand by us in that endeavor and will always understand the path I was called to. The solution I was driven to seek in the face of infertility.

And in reality, if my choice is to stand on that stage with my two babies and fight for them to be children of Christ with no man by my side, or to never have those infants to fight for at all?

I will choose even the harshest of judgments every time.

Because me and my babies? We will be just fine.

And all that matters now is getting them to stick next month and reminding them daily how much I love and want them. How capable I am of making this work for all of us. He committed I am to providing for them the best possible life.

And this is what I was thinking about for most of the sermon. My babies to be and the life I hope to provide for them. It was fitting, because the service was on preaching to the next generation and raising legacies that are strong in faith.

I want nothing more than to be able to do just that.

To be given the opportunity to be the best mother I can possibly be.

As the service came to an end, my attention turned back to church boy. I watched him and his lady friend and again found myself thinking that they couldn’t possibly be a couple. In fact, as soon as the pastor stopped speaking, he leaped out of his chair leaving her behind. Initially I started to think that they hadn’t even come together. That perhaps she was just another single admirer who had managed to get there earlier than I had and claimed a seat next to him.

But then she kind of followed after him. Slowly, and about 10 feet behind, as he approached another woman walking out by herself.

This one also beautiful.

I’ve got a crush on the church player.

Which makes sense really. I always have had impeccable taste in men.

I couldn’t exactly read that situation either, because as he spoke to this new girl the original lingered at a safe distance behind. The conversation only lasted about a minute (yes, I was totally a creepy lurker who took her time getting out of the building so she could assess what the heck the deal was with this man) and then he turned to the original girl and asked if she was ready to leave. So they did leave together, but even heading out to his truck (the one with my car parked right next to it) they weren’t really talking or walking side by side. He was a few steps ahead of her the entire time.

Whatever the story is there, I highly doubt she's his girlfriend.

And even if she is, he’s probably not a guy I would want to date anyway. Because seriously – there was no intimacy there at all!

I kind of figure I’m going to play this one by ear.

I have no idea if he is single and available, or even if he’s a guy worthy of dating or one who would be interested in me at all to begin with.

But I do know…

That I’m not giving up yet.

Butterflies

I thought you should know, that I woke up this morning with butterflies.

(Courtesy of Google Images)

The kind in my tummy.

The kind that tell me something exciting may happen today.

The kind that are reminding me that there is a single boy (I hope) at church who I am going to try oh so hard to meet.

Church boy.

I've been getting good advice about how to approach him all weekend over at the community, and hopefully I'll have the nerve to follow through.

Hopefully he'll actually be there again!

When I get home I'm going to need to run this week's Live Infertility Chat before I can tell you all what happened, but as soon as I can I'll type up the details. In the meantime though, if you are a reader suffering from infertility (or have at any point in your life and think you may have some insight to add) please join us for our 8th weekly infertility chat at the community. Just hop over there at 3 pm Alaska time and join in on the conversation. We would love to hear your story.

And up until then, wish me luck.

Because I am totally crushing!

A Finished Product (Kind Of)

Well, it took them almost 16 hours from start to finish, but the new floor is finally in.

And I am loving it!

I went with the vinyl tile, and I think we can all agree that it looks so much better than what was previously in there.

In fact, between the flooring and the paint - I feel like it is already becoming a kitchen I no longer hate.

I will admit that I felt a tiny bit mopey all day over the paint color. I kept thinking about how my original plan had been to paint those walls taupe. How my vision was completely set on taupe in fact.

But now that the floors are in? I'm realizing that had I gone taupe, I would have ended up with a similar situation to what happened with my carpets.

My walls would have matched my floors just a little too much.

And suddenly, I am so thankful for that middle of the night surge of energy that found me painting the walls with the only color I had a full can of at the time.

This job is not finished yet though.

The countertops are currently being built and should be going in within the next few weeks. I really think that will make such a huge difference as well. And then, all I'll have to worry about are those cabinets.

Those cabinets that completely date the whole room.

I've been thinking about this a lot though, and I may have a plan for the cabinets. One of the things I hate the most about them are the lines etched into them. To me that just seems like something that screams 1970's, and refinishing them wouldn't really make a difference when it comes to those lines. So instead, I'm thinking about looking around and trying to price out how much it would cost me to just replace the doors on the cabinets. If it wouldn't be too crazy expensive, that may be my Christmas present to myself this year.

And after that, I'll actually have a finished kitchen! A project I honestly wouldn't have thought I would get to at all because of the price, somehow became so incredibly doable because of a leak.

Just one of those crazy things that forces you to remember that there is always a bright side.

But sometimes, that bright side is easier to find than others!

A Work In Progress (Part 4)

I swear that eventually this day of posts WILL come to an end.

And hopefully that end is near.

The flooring still isn't finished, but my fingers are crossed that it will be soon.

In the meantime though, let's get back to our story.

If you're unsure of what I'm talking about, feel free to check out Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 of my kitchen transformation story first.

I promise none of them are my typical lengthy posts!

So, it was late last night after I had finished painting my white walls when I realized something. I had no appliances. I had no floors. I had countertops I didn't give a hoot about because they would soon be replaced.

Never has there ever been a better time to paint a kitchen before now.

I've long known that I wanted to paint 3 walls in my kitchen. The area my boxed lighting was in, the back wall in the laundry room, and then the wall on the opposite side of that leading out of my kitchen. This has always been my plan, and now without anything else getting in the way - I realized I should make my vision a reality while I had the chance.

The problem was that because I didn't come to this conclusion until just before midnight on a Friday night, I obviously hadn't had time to go to Home Depot and pick out the perfect color.

This was a dilemma, because in my head I had an idea of what I wanted. I had been thinking about it for a long time. I wasn't sure I could compromise my vision.

But after much deliberation, I realized that I had paint that would work. Paint that would get the job done.

Almost an entire can of the green I had used to paint my bathroom.

It was a deeper hue than what I had been hoping for. Brighter for sure. But... I figured it would serve the purpose. Plus, it would be better than waiting and trying to paint when I had new flooring, new countertops, and appliances in the way.

And so, I started painting. And this is what I wound up with:

I would like to point out that I took full advantage of the fact that those countertops will be leaving the premises soon:

And that I didn't vacate the kitchen until:

Which means that after I showered and finally wound myself down, it was past 3 before I fell asleep.

And the flooring contractors were here at 10:00 AM.

But, at least the painting in the kitchen is done.

I'm still not sure if I love it. After all, like I said - it wasn't really my vision for the kitchen at all. But I'm hoping that once the floors are in it'll start to grow on me.

The floors that should be finished in just a few hours.

A Work In Progress (Part 3)

Before I hop right into what I decided to do about those dirty spaces behind my appliances, I thought some of you might like to see what I saw when I went to go get my mail the other day:

Right there, across the street from my mailbox. I seriously love Alaska some days!

And, I realize now that I'm pretty sure I took a picture of that moose pooping (this wasn't something that occurred to me at the time). But still - it's a big moose that was about 20 feet away from me and he deserved to have his picture taken.

Even if he was in the middle of taking care of business.

OK, back to my beast of a kitchen transformation. If you have no idea what we're talking about here, feel free to check out Part 1 and Part 2 of this story first.

Once I decided that those walls behind the appliances simply had to be painted, I knew I was in trouble. I had plans to go see Inception with friends, and I wouldn't be getting home until late. But I also knew that the appliances would be back in their rightful places today and I would lose my opportunity if I didn't take care of this right away.

So, when I got home from Inception (which was incredible!) at 11:00 at night, I threw on my painting clothes and started at it.

I should point out that I had been exhausted and looking forward to bed all day, and that I was still in a pretty decent amount of pain, but... When I get an idea in my head, there is usually no walking away from it.

Thus, I cleaned up those dirty spaces and painted them to match the rest of the walls:

The whole thing took me just a bit over 30 minutes, but then...

I had another idea.

A Work In Progress (Part 2)

After the initial panic over floors that were too wet to be repaired just yet, the guys calmly assured me that everything would just have to dry out overnight. That I would have my floors in and my appliances back where they belonged by Saturday evening at the latest. They would set a fan up, and everything would be OK.

(for part 1 of this kitchen transformation, go here)

They pulled out the remainder of the flooring and cleaned everything up leaving me with this:

And I'll be honest, I still had to work on calming myself down. I do not do well with unfinished projects.

Which is why when I got a good look at how the walls behind my appliances were looking;

I realized I would have to do something about it.

Just because I had to be doing something.

And because now that I knew how disgusting it was back there, I knew I would never be able to sleep again once the appliances were back in their rightful places. Not knowing that behind them lingered spaces that had never been painted at all.

Spaces that didn't match the rest of the walls.

Spaces that were empty, naked, and unfinished.

I should have known I was setting myself up for disaster with thoughts like this...

A Work In Progress (Part 1)

The last 24 hours, my kitchen has been in a serious transformation period (actually - it's still being transformed).

The flooring guys have been here, and let's just say it's been a barrel of laughs.

Except, I'm completely exhausted from a brilliant kitchen related idea I got late last night. (If you follow me on Twitter, you've likely already gotten wind of that one.)

So anyway, I figured I would give you all bits and pieces throughout the day, rather than overwhelming everyone with a huge post filled with a million pictures.

Here is how it started:

With my appliances in the living room.

And a bottom layer of flooring that was unfortunately still quite wet from that lovely leak of mine; in need of drying out before much else could be done.

As you, can imagine - this is the point where I started to panic.

What do you mean you can't put my flooring down?

What do you mean my appliances will have to stay in the living room?

How am I supposed to cook, or eat, or live?

What do you mean? What do you mean? What do you mean?

Grin and Bear It

I am a woman who prides herself on being strong.

Capable.

Determined.

Able to power through – no matter what.

The last few days though, that has all come into question. My pain levels are up far beyond what they’ve been in the last year. Starting to border on where they were before both of my surgeries in fact.

And I am scared.

Scared because I’m terrified of something happening to ruin this cycle. A cyst bursting, or inflammation that makes my insides so toxic my ice babies couldn’t possibly stick.

Scared because I fear that as the estrogen I’m giving myself increases, the pain will as well.

And scared because I simply do not want to be this woman. The one in pain. The one incapable. The one who can’t fight back.

I’ve spoken to Dr. RE and my regular OBGYN in the past 2 days. Both think the increased pain is likely due to the estrogen patches, and that unfortunately – there isn’t much they can do for me at this point. Both were incredibly sympathetic and understanding, and pain pills were offered, but… I don’t want to be popping pills for this. I’m already concerned about the toxicity of my insides and how that might affect my lining. I’m already staying away from booze and caffeine and most yummy goodness. I’m already going out of my way to ensure that my body is as healthy as humanly possible – and I just think that if I start popping pain pills now, that’s only going to work to counteract everything else I’ve been doing to keep my system clean.

Plus, I already have a drawer full of prescription pain killers. I don’t need any more.

So, I’ve refused the pills, and beyond that; there isn’t anything they can do to help. They can encourage me, remind me why I’m doing this, and hope that I’ll be able to pull through and that all this extra inflammation won’t cause one of those endometriomas to burst (which if you’ve never been through it, is one of the most painful things you can ever imagine experiencing – I’ve been there twice now); but they can’t medically do anything to help.

Not if I’m refusing pain pills.

And so, it’s one of those situations where I’m kind of on my own. Where I just have to grin and bear it. At least in terms of the pain.

Now, I'm telling you right now that this increased pain will all be worth it if I wind up with a baby in my belly at the end of this. If I get those two lines, nothing else will matter. I will have my dream, and all the struggles to get there will be entirely worth it.

But in the meantime, I’m stuck carrying around a heating pad and trying to do anything and everything possible to distract myself from the pain.

(Courtesy of Google Images)

It’s a freaky thing when you can literally feel your ovaries. When they actually ache to the point where you're afraid they’re going to explode. When that pain radiates all the way around to your low back – making it uncomfortable to even stand up straight.

And to think – I still have at least 3 more weeks of this.

The truth is I don’t talk about my endo or my pain as much here as I probably could. For so many reasons, I try to shove it to the back of my mind. I don’t want it controlling me, or my life. I don’t want it defining me. Besides, even if I did talk about it more - it would really be much of the same. Over and over and over again. It's not like the pain changes, or gets easier to deal with. It just is what it is.

And as much as the pain hurts, the infertility aspect is still the more pressing issue in my mind. It’s the issue my endometriosis has caused that really hurts me the most.

The pain is there though, and it does affect every aspect of my life. Especially times like now, when I’m all but incapacitated by a flare up that I cannot control.

That I cannot relieve.

That I cannot simply will away.

I was reading a post by one of my favorite new bloggers last night, and she had me in tears. Here is a girl who has literally done everything right. The diet, the exercise, the lifestyle; she’s followed all the rules. She has gone out of her way to fight off endometriosis and has lived her life being clean about every little thing that goes into her body (as if it wasn’t obvious enough; she is clearly in far better shape than I have ever been or will ever be in). And yet, here she is; being taken out by her endo pain. Being torn down by it. Feeling defeated and broken and hopeless.

Coming to the realization that no matter what she does, she cannot control this.

And my heart broke for her as I read that last night, both because I have been there many many times before, and because right now; I can literally feel her pain.

This disease is cruel. It is cold, and callous, and calculated.

Honestly, endometriosis is a bitch.

And there is nothing you can do about it. It affects all women in different ways, and there are varying degrees and levels, but the fact of the matter is that it’s an awful disease – no matter what. I’ve only been sick for two years. That’s it. And in that time everything has changed. This disease has taken so much from me.

It has rendered me incapable on many different occasions.

Incapable of conceiving.

Incapable of fighting through the pain.

And incapable of being the girl I used to be.

There are no cures. There aren’t even solid answers about what causes it. No one can tell me why my case has been so extreme, or why I don't seem to respond to treatments very well.

What is known about endometriosis is very limited.

This disease is brutal, and all anyone can offer me right now are pain pills.

Or squirrel poop.

I want to be a mother. More than anything in this world, I want to be a mother. If a genie popped out of a bottle tomorrow and told me I could have one wish, it would be for this next round to work. For me to get my 2 lines and my baby in my arms at the end.

But if I were given a second wish?

Another chance to make all my dreams come true?

I would find a way to beat endo.

For me, and every woman like me.

For good. Forever. For always.

Something Different

When I first made the decision to try acupuncture at the beginning of this year, I will admit that it was with a less than open mind.

I was hesitant to believe it could make a difference at all, and even at times felt a bit silly to be paying money for someone to stick needles in me.

But, I was desperate. I had been on Lupron for quite a few months at that point, and the side effects were getting the best of me. While my endo pain had gone down, I still wasn’t feeling “healthy”. The Lupron just wore on me in a different way, but the truth is; I was tired of feeling crappy. I was willing to try anything at that point.

One of the promises I was made from the very beginning was that acupuncture likely wasn’t going to cure my endometriosis. I knew going in that a few needles in well thought out places weren’t going to make the damage that had already been done go away.

But I was banking on symptom control. On something non-drug related that could tone down the symptoms of the Lupron and help me to manage my pain when the time came for me to go off of it.

I didn’t have much hope that acupuncture would be the thing that would provide me with the relief I was seeking, but I was open to trying.

As the months passed though, and Teeny became more and more invested in my case, I started to find myself trusting in her more. Trusting in acupuncture more.

Believing that these needles could do what was originally offered; ease some of my symptoms without requiring I pump myself full of even more drugs.

I started to trust.

And it was that trust that led me to where I was yesterday.

Lying naked on a table with needles in my eyelids.

(Courtesy of Google Images)

Over the last year, we’ve tried a lot of freaky things in terms of acupuncture. Teeny has cupped me, burnt herbs out of my belly button, and had needles in the bottoms of my feet, the insides of my ears, and the fatty tissue of my backside.

Yes, I realize that’s a big area.

Through all of this, I have attempted to remain as open minded as possible. Taking deep breaths and trying to will myself through the more painful of these encounters with the reminder that a few seconds of pain is worth even the most minimal relief in the long run.

But because of those past experiences, I probably should have known to be afraid yesterday when Teeny announced “I want to try something different today. A point we’ve never done before.”

Based on all the places this woman has stuck needles in the past, I definitely should have been scared.

And when she said she wanted to stick needles in my eyelids, trust me; I was a bundle of nerves.

But, I took a deep breath and I closed my eyes as she maneuvered needles into the crook of my eyelids. And she stood there. The entire time. With her hands cupped over my face to ensure that if anything happened (i.e. if I had a major panic attack) she would be there to whip them out immediately.

I can’t say for sure one way or another whether or not those eye needles really did what they were intended to do, but I do know that both spots were bright red for a while afterwards. A sign that Teeny says is good because it means the needles were bringing heat to the surface.

And I know that I didn’t freak out or panic as I probably should have, considering needles were going in my eyelids.

So at the very least, I know that I am obtaining nerves of steel.

And hopefully kicking endo’s butt in the process.

It Happened Last Night

It was just after midnight when there was a knock on the door, followed shortly by a ring of the doorbell. Confused, I pulled myself out of bed. I hadn’t yet gone to sleep, but I was definitely headed that direction

I grabbed a scrunchie (yes, a scrunchie – I’m cool like that) and threw my mess of curls up on top of my head as I shuffled to the door.

Wondering who in their right mind would be ringing my doorbell at this hour.

Convinced it was some drunk who had the wrong house.

Until the roommate said “I think it’s a firefighter”, and my heart stopped.

We all know how I feel about firefighters, right?

It was in that moment that I realized what I looked like. And knew I didn’t even kind of have time to do anything about it.

So, I opened the door.

Late last night.

In Capri sweats and a cut too low tank top with no bra underneath.

Wearing not an ounce of makeup and with my hair fighting desperately to escape the 1980’s throwback I had tied it up with.

I was a hot mess.

Minus the hot part.

In my defense, I had spent the better part of my evening spackling my kitchen, but… there was nothing I could do about that now.

I opened the door.

And discovered on the other side the hottest firefighter I have ever seen in my entire life.

(Courtesy of Google Images)

(Note: This was not THE firefighter from last night, but... I'm pretty sure there is nothing hotter than a firefighter holding a baby)

I froze.

Either I had passed out without realizing it (and was about to have the best hormone-induced sex dream of my life [because yes, I’m pretty sure the estrogen patches have put me in heat]) or someone had sent me a stripper.

Those were the only two options.

Because there was just no way a firefighter this good looking had shown up on my doorstep out of the blue in the middle of the night.

I’m telling you; this was the best looking man I have ever seen in real life.

Ever.

At least 6’2”, great eyes, built, tan, and with a perfect smile.

Swoon!

I stood there dumbfounded. Unable to speak. Incapable of interacting.

Simply staring at the Adonis who had been delivered to my front door.

He started to say something about CO detectors and alarms in the garage. I’m not really sure. It was all pretty much over my head.

I was too focused on his smile.

So I invited him in.

He declined, which I’m sure must have had something to do with the fact that I looked like this:

(Yes, those are my “I’m working on the house” clothes. I especially like how the no-bra look was accentuated by my THO. Classy-Class. Also, my room is not usually that messy. You can tell by the heating pad on the bed though, that when I haven’t been demolishing my kitchen I’ve been nursing some pretty serious endo pain – another side effect of those estrogen patches that's not quite as much fun as the increased libido. Needless to say, tidying up hasn't really been a priority.)

And then he left. Just like that. After talking to me for only a few minutes, and probably asserting that I was an undersexed train wreck of a woman who wasn’t hearing a word he was saying because I was too busy staring him down.

He would have asserted correctly.

I shut the door and roommate and I both looked at each other at the same time and squealed.

I was just telling her how excited I was that she had been there (because there was no way anyone would have believed how perfect this man was if she hadn’t been) when something dawned on me.

There we were, standing side by side in my living room, both in less than appealing nightwear.

Two women both likely passed the age when they would normally be living with roommates.

“He totally thinks we’re lesbians.” I blurted out.

WAH WAH WAH

And thus, my firefighter fantasy was crushed, because not only did he not decide he was madly in love with me and ask for my number – he probably didn’t even think I'd be interested in him to begin with.

Although, one could argue that a man like that could turn any lesbian straight!

My question now is; do firefighters have the same schedule from week to week, or do they consistently rotate?

Because if their schedules stay more or less the same, I’m thinking next Tuesday night I might have to have a bit of an “emergency”.

An emergency whilst completely showered, shaved, and wearing sexy nightwear rather than housework clothes this time.

The girls and I were talking, and it may just be appropriate to steal a scene from Friends and have a ritualistic burning of past men. The kind where a hot firefighter shows up to put out the flames, and winds up falling for me.

I definitely have a few sentimental items I could contribute to the blaze.

Because between hot firefighter and church boy, one thing is for sure.

This single girl is finally moving on!