In my own 4th grade scrawl, folded up like a secret love letter, and tucked away in my purse for tonight. Next to a lighter. Because that thing is going up in flames at midnight (or sometime shortly thereafter). I am sending it out into the universe. Making sure the world knows exactly what I’m looking for. And that I’m not willing to settle for any less.
I made Loo write a list too. Just for good measure. We will definitely be the trippy chicks ducking out of the bar to play with fire in the snow.
We’re classy like that.
But without further ado, I figured I should share my list here. Make sure you all know what I’m looking for too. That you can all hold me accountable when the next boy comes knocking on my door. Remind me that I promised myself no more settling for less than what I want from here on out…
The List
Wants kids. In a crazy passionate way that isn’t even necessarily natural for most men. But willing to consider any and all possible options for bringing those children into our lives. Accepting of the fact that it may not be the easiest route – but willing to do anything it takes, because he truly believes it will be worth it in the end.
All the makings of an incredible father to be.
Supportive. Patient. Understanding. Kind.
Spiritual, and capable of walking alongside me on my own spiritual path. Picking me up and redirecting me in the right direction when I fall. As I often do.
Comes from a genuine and warm family. One with a mother willing to wrap me up in her arms and adopt me as her own on the spot.
Passionate. In a thousand different ways and about a thousand different subjects. But most of all, passionate about me.
Honest. To a fault even. A man capable of being an open book. One who doesn’t necessarily mind if his life does in fact actually become an open book eventually.
Intelligent. Well educated. The kind of man who actually reads for enjoyment. For enlightenment. Simply for his own edification.
Motivated. Not necessarily rich (although it would be nice) or driven to the point of forsaking all else, but simply motivated. Towards something. Towards anything. Not willing to sit on the couch all day doing nothing when there is a world out there to conquer.
Someone who holds my hand. Touches me when I don’t expect it. Runs his fingertips along my body in bed. Gives me massages when my back is aching and my mood is waning. Fills my stomach with butterflies, even in the morning hours with crusties still in his eyes.
Witty. Capable of sparring with me for hours on end.
Undeterred. By me. My life. My health issues. My random bouts of insanity. My incessant neurosis. And my unending verbosity. In fact, not simply undeterred, but actually all the more smitten as a result.
Open minded. About anything. About everything. Capable of seeing the world through the eyes of others, and of exhibiting compassion in even the most uncomfortable of circumstances.
No heavy addictions. No smoking. No drugs. Limited booze. High on life. And maybe me.
Piercing green eyes and a mountain man beard. Not a requirement, but a plus.
A zest for travel. And seeing the world. Together, and with our children.
Loyal. Dedicated. True.
Mine. For keeps.
And just for good measure, I made a second list. One for myself this time. For the things I hope 2011 to bring to me above and beyond Mr. Wonderful
The Year
Healing. Mentally, physically, and spiritually.
Being better. A better friend. A better daughter. A better sister. A better granddaughter. A better employee. Just better.
Financial freedom.
Forgiveness. For myself most of all. But also for those from my past I’ve never truly been able to forgive up to this point.
A map back to my happy place. Wherever it may be.
Trust in God. Always. No matter what.
I hope you all have your lists made too. And that 2011 brings you everything you hope for.
I read so many blogs now. So many blogs with so many stories to tell.
Stories with timelines infinitely different from each other.
There are those who manage to get on and off this infertility train pretty quickly.
And then there are those who are on it for years.
This was my first year ever really trying. I’ve obviously never been given the opportunity to attempt naturally (the "fun" way - or so I hear), so there never was any temping or charting for me. It was straight to the big guns for this girl and her messed up girly parts.
In fact, there really were only 2 tries. No month after month of hopes dashed. Just two attempts.
And those were devastating enough.
So knowing that feeling, my heart aches for those of you with years invested in this process. I cannot imagine having this journey strung along like that.
As such, my newest post over at Fertility Authority is just for you ladies. The warriors. The ones who have been fighting for so long. The women who are looking at the dawning of 2011 and seeing only another year spent trying. Another year gone.
I am pulling for you women. Hoping that 2011 is the year you get your miracles. The year all your dreams come true.
The other thing I’m pulling for in 2011 is Pschall and her new fundraising endeavor. The Hope to Endure website is up and running now ladies, and it is fabulous. Barbara (the same gem who designed my site here) designed that site for free. Because she is wonderful like that! My endo story will be going up over there soon (I admit – Pschall asked me for it over a week ago, and I have been procrastinating in a big bad way), but in the meantime – please check out the site and donate if you have anything at all to give. All funds raised will be going to benefit endometriosis research, which is a cause I whole heartedly support. Also, if you’re interested you can grab the button to display on your blog in solidarity as well. I’ve got one over there in my right hand column now, so you know – all the cool kids are doing it!
The Live Infertility Chat will be back on and in action this weekend as well. So Sunday afternoon at 3pm Alaska time I hope to see all you wonderful warriors over at the community. Sharing your experiences with infertility, and finding some likeminded women to commiserate with and bounce ideas off of. If you want to catch up on our last few chats, feel free to do so here:
Thank you so much for your continued support and love this past year friends. I honestly do not know what I would have done without this space and all of you. Everyone take care and be safe tonight, and most importantly – have fun!
Yesterday, I helped set her up with an interview. For my old position. I can’t do much for her beyond that, but I have a feeling helping her get a foot in the door is all she’s going to need.
This was a random act for both her, and my old boss.
Who unfortunately has been pulling double duty since I moved up and out of our department.
I’m pretty sure he would do just about anything for someone he could rely on again.
I had just finished describing to her my weekend, and the pits of despair I unexpectedly fell into. I learned a long time ago that if you happen to find yourself in the dark places my mind went over those four days – it's probably something best shared with a therapist. Someone who will hold you accountable for getting out of that pit once your wallowing is complete. Because otherwise, it is far too easy to get stuck.
So there I was; trying to explain to her what had set me off. The nagging worry that is still threatening to bring me to my knees every time I allow it to enter my head even now.
The fear that this is now my life. That this will always be my life. That I will always be in pain, I will never have children, and nothing will ever make me happy ever again.
Forever.
When I imagine my life now, I can’t breathe. I feel like I am choking under the weight of it all.
Dr. Headshrink stopped me right there, and told me that what I was describing was exactly what people feel when they are going through a mid-life crisis.
Stuck in between the life I had mapped out for myself, and the one I was given instead.
(Courtesy of Google Images)
Only, I’m obviously (hopefully) not at mid-life right now. It is instead my quarter-life crisis.
Aren’t I supposed to be provided with a hot young pool boy of some sort if I’m experiencing my mid-life crisis though? I really feel like I read that in the rule book somewhere. What's the quarter-life equivalent?
Regardless, she said that the challenge for me now is going to be reinventing my life. Finding something new to get excited about. Something new to throw myself into. Allowing myself to deviate from the life I wanted, and jump head first into a life I never would have otherwise dreamed of.
I pouted. Proclaimed “But! I want the life I wanted! Not something new that won’t be as good!”
Like any good head shrink would, she tried to redirect me. Attempted to get me to talk about what I would be doing with my life if becoming a mother hadn’t suddenly become such an urgent necessity.
I explained that I would probably be traveling more. Seeing the world. Volunteering abroad.
Living out my own version of Eat Pray Love.
When she suggested I perhaps allow myself some of that now, I had to remind her that I’m not exactly in that position financially.
Not now anyway.
And we were back at square one.
Square one of my quarter life crisis.
How exactly does one go about reinventing themselves? Reinventing their lives? Scrapping entirely the life they had once hoped for, and building one instead that they can be at least equally happy with.
I’m tempted to say that this too is something I’m just going to hand over to God, but I know it’s not as simple as that. I know that I need to be willing to do some of the work as well. That God isn’t simply going to wave a magic wand and make me happy again. I need to be willing to follow my own bliss too.
I’m just not sure what that is anymore. I’m not sure what it would take to reignite my passion. My flame.
When I mentioned this to Dr. Headshrink, she again told me words I didn’t really want to hear.
Time. It’s going to take time. Grieving takes time.
I hate time. I want to feel better already. I want to be healed now.
I don't understand why I can't be.
It’s funny though, because on a completely logical level – I get that it is going to take time. In fact, just the other day when someone pointed out my melancholy in such a way that it was apparent they thought they were offending me – I almost had to laugh. Of course I’m morose! Of course I’m struggling! Of course I’m moody! I’m not oblivious to that at all, nor have I been hiding that fact in any way (at least not here – in my real life I like to think I’m putting on a better show!) I truly believe that anyone who had experienced the last 2 years I have would be feeling the same level of sadness and grief. And when I look at it logically from the outside – I can totally understand my mood.
But when I’m not looking at it logically? When I’m stuck in the middle of it, living day in and day out with this sadness?
I just want it to be over with. I want to feel happy again.
Thankfully, Dr. Headshrink shares my views of psychotropics and has not once recommended them to me. Even as I’ve sat there in tears asking her when I will stop feeling like this. She reminds me that I am not a depressed person. That it’s not a chemical imbalance or something that can be fixed medicinally. It’s situational depression, and eventually it will pass.
With time.
I loathe time.
But here I am. Waiting for time to pass. Stuck smack dab in the middle of my quarter-life crisis.
And wondering how it is that you reinvent a life when the one you’ve always dreamed of has been taken away?
I have mentioned here before that I love the HR woman in charge of benefits at my company, right?
She is seriously wonderful.
And she has been my advocate more than once now when I’ve needed help dealing with the insurance company.
On Monday, I went to her with the current surgery dilemma, and the astronomical price that I simply could not afford. And she immediately got on the case. Attempting to do what she could to at least make it more feasible.
Yesterday she told me that she wants me to get the surgery pre-approved through insurance, so that we can then dispute the out of network status and attempt to have it changed over to an in network listing simply because there is no one in the state of Alaska specializing in this disease at all.
She gave me the number to call to start the preauthorization process, and I thanked her profusely.
Because again – she is seriously wonderful.
When I got on the phone with the insurance representative though, it was another story. Some of you probably know that doctor’s offices typically get the ball rolling on pre-authorizations. It’s rare for the patient to be initiating this process, especially without any codes or real information at all.
It’s not like I even have a date for the surgery set at this point.
But seriously – the woman on the other end of the line was rude. Just flat out rude. She was clearly exacerbated with me, and tried more than once to tell me that this simply wasn’t something I could do. That I would need to contact the doctor’s office and have them contact her.
I knew what I was trying to do though. I knew it wasn’t that difficult. I was only trying to get a case started, and then the doctor's office could be contacted from there.
It truly shouldn’t have been that big of a deal. And there was this side of me that wanted to remind this woman that I was only asking her to do her job. And that she should possibly try to have some compassion and understanding along the way.
Instead of telling her that though, I focused on having some compassion and understanding of my own. I reminded myself that it was still technically the holidays, and this woman probably hears a million sob stories a day. I tried to understand where her foul mood may have been coming from, and why she may have had so little patience for me.
And in the reminder that I myself need to have some compassion before I can expect it in return, I took a deep breath and softened my voice. Tried to work my way through this as kindly as possible. Attempted to give her the benefit of the doubt, and ignored the rudeness that was clearly directed towards me in every comment she made.
By the end of the conversation, I think we had come to an understanding. I even think she was starting to feel a little bad about how snippy she had been. And most importantly – I had a case number to pass on to Dr. Cook’s office. So that they can call in on Monday and hopefully keep this process going.
When I hung up the phone, I thanked her for her help and told her that I hoped she had a good day. I meant it too.
And that was my random act for the day. Choosing to take the high road and breathe deeply when faced with someone who clearly had little patience for me.
It may not seem like much, but if we’re being completely honest - it took a lot.
Some days, it just isn’t that easy to take the high road.
I had wandered in and told her of my difficulty sleeping the last few nights. The tossing and turning. The waking up multiple times throughout the evening.
The last few days, I've actually found myself awake before my alarm goes off. Which is unheard of for me. I am a girl who will sleep until noon if you let her.
Happily.
So I was explaining to Teeny my sleep issues, and she started plunging the needles in. Talking to me as my eyelids grew heavier and heavier.
Until suddenly – I woke up over an hour later. As she was removing those needles from my body.
I seriously love that woman.
Even though the session should have been over at that point (and even though it was the end of the day and she probably wanted to start her drive home) she had me roll over. So that she could work on a few points on my back that had been missed during my excessive slumber.
She wanted to know if I had heard from Mr. Fix-It at all. If I had been having to fight the urge to call him myself. If I had been missing him.
And I told her the truth – I honestly haven’t been thinking about him. I haven’t been fretting about him, or pondering where his head is at, or wondering if there was some way to change his mind.
The man has literally just not been on my list of things to concern myself over.
Leaving me to wonder if perhaps he may have been on to something when he sat on those steps as I was exiting his home post breakup; the moment when he told me that it seemed as though I was relieved. I thought he was crazy at the time, but maybe… maybe somewhere deep down inside I already knew it wasn’t going to work. Maybe I was just waiting to see which one of us was going to say it first.
Yes, the rejection stung a little bit. But I’m over it. And I’m proud of myself, because the old me would have reacted much differently to finding out he didn’t want a relationship. The old me would have stayed curled up in bed with him after he made that proclamation. She would have set her sights on changing his mind. On manipulating him with sex, and baked goods, and sex.
And she would have failed. Probably not right away (in fact, she likely could have strung that faux relationship along for months), but eventually she would have failed.
And it would have been devastating.
I’m not that girl anymore though. He stated he didn’t want a relationship, I knew that I did, and so I left. I haven’t fought him on it, or tried to change his mind. No part of me has toyed with the idea of bargaining with him; manipulating to get him see the light. He didn’t want what I wanted, and so I left.
In a sense, I dumped him.
Because I think we all know I could have stayed. I could have accepted what he was offering. I could have just gone along with it.
In fact, that's exactly what the old me would have done.
But that's not what I did.
I left. I had enough respect for myself to acknowledge what I wanted, to say it allowed, and to not be willing to accept anything less.
(And thank you to the lovely Joanna for pointing this fact out to me, because in honesty – it wasn’t a distinction I had even realized myself initially).
I made a grown up decision. A grown up relationship decision.
And as Teeny and I discussed this, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders.
I am changing. I am growing. I am respecting myself more.
In ways I don’t even necessarily realize in the moment.
And that’s when Teeny posed the question.
“So, what do you want?” She asked. “Who do you want?”
We talked about it for a minute. About the qualities I am looking for from Mr. Wonderful. The traits that I would like him to posses. The pieces that would all be a part of the whole in terms of the man of my dreams.
“Write it down.” She ordered. “Make a list, and send it into the universe.”
“Make it real.”
Teeny has told me this story before, but I grinned as she told it again. The story of her bad breakup last year, and the list she wrote for herself on New Year’s Eve. The one that was meant to foster healing and serve as a guideline she would refuse to deviate from the next time around.
She told me about how she carried that list in her purse that night, clinging to her qualifications for the next man she would give her heart to.
And at 1:30 in the morning, she lit that list on fire. Sending it out into the universe.
It was that night that she met her current boyfriend.
It sounds simple enough, right? A list of everything you want. Romantically, or otherwise.
A list that makes it clear you aren’t willing to settle for less.
A list.
I think I’m going to embrace my hippy nature and start working on my list. Reminding myself with each and every additional quality that this is what I deserve.
A man who can fit the mold. Instead of simply keeping the bed warm.
Make a list.
Send it off into the universe.
And know in your heart that it’s exactly what you deserve.
Right around grade school, kids start to pick off those who are different.
The ones who stand out from the crowd.
The oddballs.
The geeks
The weirdos.
It happens almost instinctually. One minute, everyone is friends. And then suddenly the next, no one is playing with little Suzie.
I think that as adults we like to believe we outgrow that. We try to pretend that we are accepting of everyone and that we would never be the bully on the playground yelling out taunts to the kid who doesn’t otherwise fit in.
In truth, what we do is worse.
We ignore. Divert our eyes. Keep our focus on our own little worlds, while choosing to pretend that those outliers don’t exist at all.
I’m not innocent. I do it too. And living in Alaska (where substance abuse is rampant) I can tell you that there are more than a few occasions where I simply shift my gaze and look away.
All because someone makes me uncomfortable. By their mere presence.
The discomfort lies in how different they are from me. In mannerisms and expressions and a way of holding themselves that I simply don’t understand.
So while I say that I don’t judge, I do. It’s clear in the way I shift away from someone who seems different from me.
Someone who strikes me as just not all there.
For a girl who prides herself on a love of psychology, I have to be honest when I admit that I don’t have a ton of patience for people who aren’t all there.
They scare me a little. Make me uncomfortable.
In a way I’m not proud to admit.
But yesterday, I was confronted with an opportunity to help one of these people. The chance to assist someone who was different from me. In the way that makes me the most uneasy.
There it was. A random act staring me right in the face.
When I normally would have diverted my gaze and walked around them, I instead did what I could to help. I probably spoke to her a little too much like a child, and I’m sure to some degree my discomfort was evident, but… I tried. And I maintained a conversation with someone who was different from me for much longer than was comfortable as I attempted to determine in my head how best to help her with what she needed.
Without making her feel judged, or pitied, or belittled.
I tried.
Whether or not I succeeded, I honestly am not sure.
But I tried.
And some days, that really is the best you can do.
(Truth? I failed. I failed miserably. The woman I tried to help was drunk and *I think* crazy. She was trying to make copies at the UPS store, and really struggling. I tried to help, she yelled at me in crazy lady speak. I got scared and tried to apologize, she yelled at me again and told me I owed her a dollar [I couldn't really figure that one out]. The woman at the counter pleaded with her eyes for me to leave the crazy lady alone, and so I left - hoping that said crazy lady wouldn't jump me from behind and stab me in my throat. But, um, yeah... I tried.)
And it was good. I was good. I even found myself enjoying the meals I had initially turned my nose at.
Yesterday however, I ate nothing but pizza. Literally. I ordered a pizza on Sunday night, had a cold slice for breakfast in the morning, 2 more slices in the afternoon, and that was it.
Well, that and the ranch I was dipping it in.
That was all I consumed the entire day.
Today? So far, I’ve had a bowl of life cereal and the last two slices of that pizza. I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to try to venture into more healthy options later on tonight.
This is pretty much indicative of how I’ve been eating for the last few days. Ever since I ended the hunger strike with those evil peanut butter cups that found their way onto my doorstep, the only morsels of food that have graced my lips have been…. Bad. Really bad.
This is not a good move for a girl who has varying levels of stomach upset at pretty much all times. I mean, seriously; do I need to be consuming an entire pizza by myself over the course of 3 days?
Absolutely not.
Do I need to be picking up Reese’s wrappers that I’ve discarded all over the house in a mad sugar binge?
Nope.
Should I really be gnawing on that block of cheese as though it is the last food source on earth?
Heck no.
If this keeps up, I’m going to explode to 200 pounds by my birthday.
And let’s be real; if I have any chance in hell of winning Big Brother (still waiting for the call, but I think we all know it’s coming) I need to be in tip top shape.
Not broken out from greasy foods and strapping my gut tightly into my pants that don’t fit as I roll into the house.
I’ll be the first evicted for sure at this rate.
Not to mention, there isn’t much worse than getting dumped and following it up by getting fat. Seriously, that’s just embarrassing. Under no circumstances can I allow my waist line to expand infinitely, only to run into Mr. Fix-It.
In fact, from this point forward, if I ever see either of those men again; I really need to look my best.
Like, jaw on the floor thinking “That was the biggest mistake I ever made” best.
I need to be in “Damn! She looks amazing!” shape.
Not “Damn! She looks like she’s eaten nothing but pizza for days!” shape.
You see the difference here, right?
The problem? I can’t motivate myself to do any better. I’ve lost all my resolve when it comes to eating healthy.
And instead, I’m eating crap. The crappiest crap I can lay my hands on.
It isn’t pretty.
And it needs to stop.
Because that scale in my bathroom is beckoning me. Dying to tell me how much I’ve gained in just the past few days of unhealthy eating. Hoping to point out the extra pounds and mock me. Reminding me that it's not baby weight I'm putting on.
(Courtesy of Google Images)
And yes, my scale does mock me. Doesn’t yours mock you?
Something clearly needs to change.
I need to get my motivation back.
I should probably even start working out.
Something. Anything. Just so long as it’s a healthy fixation.
Instead of this unhealthy one I currently have.
On pizza.
And chocolate.
Unfortunately, it’s a short week at work and Friday night is promising to be a good one. I can’t possibly be expected to pull my diet back together just days before New Years. Because you know I'm going to ruin it all over again in the celebrating of 2010 being over (and seriously – I plan on celebrating hard the end of this horrendous year!)
So, I’ll give it another week. Another week of slothfulness and gluttony. Hoping that my skin doesn’t break out too badly, and that my stomach doesn’t expand too vastly.
I’ll step away from the scale for now, not giving it ammunition to hurl at me.
But next week? Oh next week, it’s on. Black beans and avocados’ and grilled chicken all the way.
This is mostly because I didn't think it was smart to expose myself to people.
Not in my state of disarray.
I was unshowered, unkempt, and unsavory.
Plus, I was feeling mighty sorry for myself. Which doesn't really tend to bode well with other people.
So, I stayed locked up. Behind doors. Sulking in my own filth.
Yesterday though, I had to get up and shower. I had to face the world.
I had to go back to work.
Because it turns out, sulking doesn't pay the bills.
I was pretty submersed in the new job most of the day. Trying to acclimate myself to my new surroundings and figure out what exactly is going to be expected of me. Thus, most of my interactions throughout the day were few and far between. And when I was interacting, it was typically with a closed mouth as I tried to soak in whatever it was that was being explained to me.
And so, yesterday after work I drove to Bed Bath & Beyond. I had a return to make anyway, so the trip was already necessary. As I exited the store though, I spied a white SUV. On the back was a bumper sticker that said "Just Married". I wondered about the owner of that car and about the bumper sticker. Wondered how long they had been married now. Wondered if they would still have that bumper sticker on their car years down the line.
I wondered if they were happy.
I find myself doing that a lot lately. Looking at random people and trying to determine whether or not they are happy. I'm not sure when it started, but I catch myself doing it frequently now. I catch myself wondering if perhaps these happy strangers have something they could teach me.
In thinking about this happy couple I've never actually seen though, I pulled a random acts CD out of my car and left it on their windshield. Hoping that regardless of how happy (or unhappy) they may be - that it would bring a smile to their faces.
The next song on the random acts playlist is one of those that can totally make my eyes well up with tears, but always makes me feel comforted as well.
A realization that I probably should have come to months ago.
Years ago even.
I realized that I have no control. That I cannot simply will the outcomes in this life that I want. And that no amount of pouting, crying, screaming, or bargaining is going to change that.
Sometimes, we just have no control.
I am convinced that this surgery is the answer. The more I’ve researched, the more convinced I’ve become. Every woman I have spoken to who has gone this route (and specifically, every woman I have spoken to who has gone through Dr. Cook) has raved about it. I have not heard a single bad thing. Not a single utterance of disappointment.
Which is probably why Dr. Cook can get away with charging what he does.
Because he’s worth it. Because he gets the job done. Because women walk away after having surgery with him and they are given a gift they haven’t experienced in a long time.
They are pain free.
And that state of being pain free lasts for years.
Sometimes, it even lasts forever.
This is my new dream. The dream to be pain free. To be able to return to my old life. Where I wasn’t running against a clock to conceive. Where I wasn’t daily battling a disease no one around me understood.
My new dream is to have this surgery, so that I can go back to being a girl who smiles from deep inside.
Endometriosis has created such a dark cloud in my life. It has left me crippled in pain, and doubled over in sickness. I realized this last weekend that I’ve forgotten how to really be happy. So much of the last two years has been a fight, and while I have kept my head held high and battled through; pieces of me have continuously been chipped away. I’ve lost sight of who I am and who I want to be in fighting this disease.
So at this point, the goal I would really love to accomplish is getting this surgery. Finding relief, and then being able to move on. Being able to jump back into the life it feels like I exited the moment the pain began.
Like I said before, I’m not even asking for the babies now. My heart aches for that loss. It aches knowing that I am likely never going to carry a child of my own beneath my heart. But I can’t fight that battle anymore. At least not right now.
All I want right now is relief.
And it doesn’t feel like that’s too much to ask.
Unfortunately, there truly is no way I can think of that I could pull together the money needed for this surgery. In my endeavor to get pregnant, I threw caution to the wind and told myself “It’s only money.” I was determined not to let money stand in between me and my dream to be a mommy.
And now, as a result, money is standing in between me and this surgery.
In between me, and relief.
Because I drained every resource I had in trying to get pregnant. And after I had done that, I borrowed heavily from family, maxed out a credit card, and the line of credit attached to my house.
There is nothing left.
Nowhere else to draw from.
And I would guess that my once pristine credit is now anything but, as my debt to income ratio has expanded faster than I ever intended.
The comment has been made that if I truly believe this surgery is the answer, I shouldn’t let money stand in my way.
The problem is; I may not have a choice.
So today (as I stood in my HR ladies office and we discussed the information she may need to be able to fight the insurance company on this) I finally let the realization wash over me.
The realization that I have no control.
I am going to get her whatever it is she thinks may help, and I am going to put myself on a budget as well. I’m going to find myself a roommate, and start trying to work my way out of this debt. I will keep moving forward and doing what needs to be done.
But I’m also going to recognize that I can’t force this. That I can’t fight it.
That whatever will be, will be.
I can’t keep fighting. Not any more. Doing so has only left me exhausted, dejected, and broke.
I want this surgery. I believe it could help. I believe it could be the answer.
But I can’t force it.
I am giving it all to God here.
Finally.
If I am meant to have this surgery (if it truly is the answer) then something will happen. Some way to make it work. Some answer that I’m not seeing right now.
Something will happen.
But in the meantime; I need to just let go, and let God.
Because I can’t fight anymore. I don’t have it in me. I am tired.
And I am recognizing that all this fighting I’ve been doing for the last two years has gotten me nowhere.
So, I’m taking on a different approach. Trusting in the ultimate plan. Believing in the life that’s been mapped out for me.
Having a little faith.
I’m letting go. But only because I don’t have any other choice.
Only because I finally realized, I have no control.
I’m back to a point of being in almost daily pain. Sitting at my new desk today, I was aching inside. Both my ovaries throbbing and my low back screaming at me to go back to bed. I don’t think most people realize that. That endometriosis pain can be a daily battle. I think most people believe it starts and ends with bad periods. And when I’ve just had surgery, that typically is true for me. But when things have spread to the extent they have now, it is a constant pain. Yes, it gets worse with my periods, but it is still a pain I feel every single day of my cycle. I get shooting zings down my hips from endometriosis on my nerve endings. That discomfort beneath my rib cage has not gone away. My low back is constantly aching. And my ovaries – my ovaries are always throbbing.
But I cannot force this. As much as I want relief, I cannot bulldoze my way to an answer.
Because at this point, it really is out of my hands.
I made sure of that, by throwing everything I did into the baby making process.
Until I found myself here; with nothing left.
So there it is. I am relinquishing control. I will continue with acupuncture and herbal treatments. Hoping that alternative medicine can provide me with at least a measure of relief. But I’m not going to fight for anything greater. If $10,000 somehow magically lands in my lap tomorrow, I guarantee you that the first call I will be making is to Dr. Cook’s office. But until then, I am going to try to take a step back here.
To breathe.
And to believe.
That whatever is meant to happen next, will.
With or without my fighting to force the outcome I desire.
I’ve had the ‘H’ word thrown at me a lot over the last few days. People who care about me, and just want this to be over for me; thinking that a hysterectomy is clearly the best answer. Thinking that I just need to get over this discomfort of mine surrounding the idea (a discomfort I'm sure they believe is fueled 100% by my inability to let go of the hope of one day carrying a child). That I just need to submit to the big ‘H’, and then I can move on with my life.
The problem is that a hysterectomy is not the answer. Despite what so many people (and doctors) believe, it is not a cure in this situation. And for women with stage III and stage IV endometriosis; more often than not, it doesn’t resolve anything.
That’s because with those later stages of endometriosis, the endometrial tissue has implanted itself to areas outside of the reproductive organs. It has traveled to the kidneys, or the diaphragm. To the nerve endings or the liver. It has moved far beyond the reproductive organs. And so going in and removing the ovaries and the uterus really isn’t a resolution. Because it still leaves all this bad tissue throughout the body.
I’ve done my research. I’ve talked to women who have had hysterectomies only to have a recurrence of their endo. I’ve done simple Google searches that produce a plethora of articles just like this. Articles that explain why a hysterectomy should not be considered a viable treatment plan for this disease.
A hysterectomy is not a cure for endometriosis. At least, not for severe endometriosis like I have.
I’ve read, and I’ve researched, and I’ve learned that the big 'H' is not the answer. It’s not an option for me. Because there is a strong likelihood that with my level of endometriosis, I would still be in pain. I would still have issues. There would still be a lifetime of surgeries in my future.
The only difference is, I would no longer have the pieces of me that could one day hold the hope of carrying a child.
I would have allowed a doctor to remove a vital part of my body, without any guarantees at all for relief.
This is the part of Western Medicine that I simply do not understand. The part that says if all else fails, let’s just take it out. I am a big believer that we have these organs for a reason. That choosing to cut and remove at will is compromising everything the body is actually supposed to be. Going into menopause at 27 is not natural. It is not healthy. It would involve a lifetime a synthetic hormones for me. Synthetic hormones which carry along with them their own sets of side effects, some quite scary in fact. Hormones that would likely only serve to agitate the endometrial tissue that’s been left behind.
We are so quick in this society to simply trust our doctors. To believe what we are told, and do what they recommend. But the more and more research I do on this, the more wrong I am realizing that is. Most doctors have the best of intentions, but this is a disease that very few are adequately trained in treating. And so while the specialists who have dedicated their lives to this disease are touting excision surgeries and veering away from hysterectomies and Lupron, the gynecologists and RE's that most of us see for treatment simply don't know any better. They keep doing what they were taught in medical school, even though the research has shown better ways.
From the beginning, I have felt incredibly uncomfortable about the idea of a hysterectomy. I know there are those who assume this is entirely about my inability to let go of the possibility of ever carrying children. And maybe to some extent it is. But there is more to it than that. I have now spoken to countless women who had hysterectomies to treat their endometriosis and have lived to regret it. Deeply. Women who have e-mailed me imploring me to be my own advocated. To not submit to a hysterectomy simply because it's what I'm told I should do. Women who listened to and trusted their doctors, only to face the heavy disappointment as they realized they should have sought the advice of specialists. Because a gynecologist is unfortunately no more equipped to treat severe endometriosis than a family practitioner would be to treat leukemia.
Unfortunately, these specialists are few and far between. Doctors who treat nothing but endometriosis are hard to find. There are RE’s who fancy themselves in that realm, but even they are known to leave some endometriosis behind when they perform these excisions surgeries. From all my research, I am learning that one thing is very clear; if you want real relief, you have to be willing to seek out a professional who specializes in endometriosis treatment and nothing else.
Not one who is going to jump to a hysterectomy simply because they are at a loss for what else to do.
The thing about a hysterectomy is, there are some women who will find relief from it. There are those who will go on to never have another issue. Those who submit to the knife, and then live a relatively pain free life from that point forward.
The problem is, there are also those who don’t. Those who agree to a hysterectomy believing it is the answer, only to be wholly disappointed when they discover it isn’t. And I have to be honest; that is the point where I do not believe I could take it anymore. The point where the heartache would become too much to bare.
Because if a hysterectomy doesn’t work, there is no going back. You can’t change your mind, or take back that choice. You can’t reconstruct what you allowed someone else to tear apart.
If you have a hysterectomy and still find yourself in pain, it’s not the doctor who recommended it who suffers. It’s not those around you who encouraged it who now face that blow. It’s you and you alone. You’re the one who allowed a vital part of your anatomy to be removed, and you’re the one who has to face that it didn’t work and that there are no take-backs.
This is true with every treatment option for endometriosis unfortunately. There are no guarantees, and some things will work for some women and not others. But the difference is, if I spend $10,000 on this surgery with Dr. Cook for instance ($10,000 that I still have no idea how to obtain, so this is purely hypothetical), and in 6 months I realize it didn’t work and my pain returns; all I’m out is money. But if I submit to a hysterectomy and realize 6 months down the line that it didn’t work, I’m out far more than money. I’m out a piece of me that I can’t ever get back. I’m out a dream that I will never be able to revisit. I'm out a world of sacrifice, that didn't work. And until someone has had to face that same choice with absolutely no guarantees of success, they really can’t weigh in.
I refuse to be made to feel like I don’t want relief enough if I’m not willing to consider it. I refuse to be treated like I’m ignoring a valid option.
Because it’s not a valid option. It’s not one typically recommended by those specializing in this disease. It’s an option that involves a lifetime of drugs, and on a logical level doesn’t even make sense if your disease has spread beyond the pelvic area.
A hysterectomy is not the answer.
Not for me anyway.
And it never will be.
Beyond that though, I guess I’m still not really sure what is.
I have to admit; I have not left the house in 2 days.
I canceled all my holiday plans at the last minute, in favor instead of cocooning up in my house for a few days and finally letting myself feel this all.
Finally letting myself grieve.
And grieve I have. There have been tears and sobs and moments where I have found myself curled up in a ball immobilized by the heartache of the last year.
And in my darkest moments, when I have pictured a lifetime of pain and no one to ever call me "mommy"; I have collapsed under the weight of it all. Breaking down into tiny little pieces that I am not entirely sure how to bring back together.
Because this is not the life I want. And it feels as though there is nothing I can do to change it.
It feels as though this disease has won. And will continue to win. Always.
But today, I got up. I took a shower. I washed my sheets. And I bundled myself up to go for a walk outside. Which you should know is rare for me. I tend to treat winters in Alaska much like I used to treat summers in Arizona; I stay indoors until the world outside returns to more reasonable temperatures.
I layered up today though. Put on the boots that I never wear, and ventured out into the cold.
On Christmas day.
For a walk.
Teeny would be so proud. She’s always telling me I need to get out more in the winter time. And I’m always telling her that I would, if it wasn’t so damn cold out.
I walked down the bridge outside my house, and took some pictures of the creek frozen over.
There was a little family out on the lake. Walking around on the ice. They had a little boy who couldn't have been more than 2 or 3. He had a new sled, and his parents were pulling him around on it. He was squealing in excitement.
And my heart ached a little. Because that’s what Christmas should be all about. Rejoicing in the shrieks of your children. In their joys and excitements regarding the magic of this time of year.
I trudged back up the trail heading home. Trying to take in the beauty of this white Christmas.
Because I really do live in an absolutely gorgeous state. And there really is something incredible about having a white Christmas.
Something beautiful that I never got to experience before I moved here.
And now, I am back inside my warm house. Curled up under the covers about to watch a movie and wondering if pizza places deliver on Christmas. Realizing that my reprieve from the world is going to be over in a few days, and I’m going to have to wake up at a reasonable hour and go to work and deal with the life outside my bed.
I’m OK with that though. This last few days have been exactly what I’ve needed. Exactly what the doctor ordered.
Time. Just time. To be sad, and angry, and cry. Time to throw things and act like a royal brat. Time to express my distaste for this entire situation to the man above.
Time to grieve.
And starting Monday, it will be time to heal. To rebuild. To move forward.
To come to terms with the fact that there are some things in this life I simply have no control over.
I hope you are all having an unforgettable Christmas. Making memories that will last a lifetime. Spending the day with those who love you, and those whom you love back.
I hope Christmas is proving to be just what the doctor ordered for you too.
And if you're really lucky; I hope you've been blessed with a white one as well.
That was it. Not even eating was on my list of things to do.
And trust me; the psychologist inside of me knows that this isn’t healthy. That with a past history of an eating disorder, I have it in me to use food to regain control of my life. And choosing not to eat at all (simply because I’m upset about something) is not acceptable.
I know this. But yesterday, I didn’t care. I was on a food strike.
Until there was a knock on my door a little before 7.
And a box on the doorstep when I finally pulled myself out of bed to see who it had been (side note – I’m fairly convinced our mailman has been doing drugs. He just keeps coming later and later.)
I brought the box into the house, and grabbed a knife to cut it open.
What I discovered inside brought tears to my eyes. Only good tears this time. For the first time all day, good tears.
Inside I found cards and gifts from a group of women who I love and adore. Little pieces of love sent to me from thousands of miles away. Thoughtfully chosen trinkets meant to put a smile on my face.
And they accomplished just that.
This card in particular had me cracking up.
And for the first time all day, I ate something.
Granted, what I ate were these little chocolate covered peanut butter things that I’m fairly sure weren’t exactly good for me, but hey; I was eating!
Shortly after opening that box, I grabbed one of the Random Acts disks and I walked out the door. Determined to do a random act for the day, just as one had just been done for me.
I drove to REI (where my kind of people hang out – or at least, people who like my kind of music hang out), and pulled up next to a car that had a “Don’t Eat Farmed Fish” bumper sticker on it.
I love hippies.
To my surprise however, just as I was about to open my door, I looked over and realized there was a woman sitting in the front seat of the car.
Looking right at me.
While holding a baby.
I sat in my car trying to figure out what to do. I was wearing pajamas, had been crying all day, and couldn’t remember if I had brushed my teeth or not.
I may have a complex now that it turns out good dental hygiene led to my getting dumped.
A face to face handoff simply wasn’t an option.
So, I sat there staring at my phone (hoping to make it look like I had pulled into the parking lot to send a text) and pulled away a few minutes later.
Over to the other side of the parking lot, where I found a Jetta to drop the CD on.
Before driving home to crack the bottle of wine that had been thoughtfully included in my package and pour it into the adorable wine glass that was also packed away in there.
The next song on the playlist is almost a little ironic, given the mood I was in yesterday (and am arguably still in a bit), but I sat and listened to it for a while last night.
One who pulls herself up from even the most brutal of knockdowns and manages to find the silver lining.
A girl who survives. Thrives. And keeps on fighting.
But I have to be honest – I am feeling less than strong lately.
Today in fact, I am feeling quite weak. Incapable. Hopeless.
I got a call from the financial department at Dr. Cook’s office this morning. They had spoken to my insurance company, and wanted to let me know how much I could expect this surgery to cost me.
A little over $10,000. Out of pocket.
After insurance.
And that's before you figure in the travel costs.
I’m not sure what I was expecting. What I was thinking here. They are an out of network provider (all specialists performing this type of surgery are), so I’m not sure why I expected this to be more reasonable.
But I did. In the back of my mind, I really did. I thought for sure it would come out to be something I could handle.
I have to tell you though; I cannot afford $10,000. Not even close. And that price was only if the surgery remains under 4 hours. If he gets in there and it turns out he needs longer to clear everything out, it could wind up costing me thousands more.
And again; I do not have it.
I don’t talk much about money here, but I am tapped out. Between my 2 surgeries and medical expenditures last year, and my 2 rounds of IVF this year; I am on empty. I have no more expendable funds. I am up to my ears in debt.
And it is terrifying to me. Terrifying that I allowed things to go so far, and terrifying that none of it really got me anywhere.
I’ve been doing this thing where I don’t think about it. Where I pay the bills every month, but I ignore what all that debt means. Where I keep living my life exactly how I would otherwise, because I cannot face how much money has literally been thrown into the wind.
Because at the end of the day, here I am. Right back at square one. In pain. With a severe case of endometriosis. And with no baby in my arms.
I have been running and running and running, and I have gotten nowhere.
(Courtesy of Google Images)
So when the nurse started mentioning financing options, it was all I could do not to throw up.
How much more debt can I really take on? At what point does it hit a place where I simply cannot pay my bills?
If I lost my job tomorrow, how long would it be before I also lost my house? My car?
My dignity?
Even with great health insurance, I have been consumed by medical debt.
And I honestly don’t know how I could responsibly take on any more.
Certainly not so much more.
This surgery isn't even about having a baby. I'm passed that. Working every day on coming to terms with the fact that it will probably never happen for me. Because even with this surgery, the damage that has already been done would not be repaired. I still would likely never conceive on my own. And I would still feel the same way about IVF as I do now.
That I couldn't put myself through it again without some serious guarantees.
Guarantees that will likely never exist.
No. This surgery is not about having a baby. It is about finding relief. About getting a reprieve from this disease. From the constant pain. And the nagging images I have in my head of it taking over. This surgery is about fighting this disease in a way I haven't yet tried. Without feeling like I am losing even more of myself.
This surgery is about continuing to fight without compromise.
But there is this part of me that feels like the thing that has gotten me in the most trouble over this last year has been fighting life’s circumstances. Fighting everything that I don’t like. Fighting to arrange the world exactly how I want it.
Just fighting.
I was watching a movie last night and someone said that true happiness is what you find when you embrace the life you’ve been given for exactly what it is. When you stop fighting.
And I couldn’t help but wonder if there was some truth to that? If there is something to be said for accepting what you’re given and not wanting for anything more.
But how do you do that? How do you just give up on your hopes and dreams? How do you walk away from the life you wanted and embrace the one you were given instead?
How do you do that, especially when the life you were given involves almost constant pain. Pain that you can’t exactly ignore. And a disease that you can’t help but imagine tearing you apart from the inside out.
I am a fighter. I have always been a fighter. I fight for the things I want. For the people I love. For the world to be the way I dream it.
So which way is better? Accepting life’s circumstances just the way they are, or fighting for more; even if it means you lose?
Because if I am being nothing short of brutally honest here; I am tired of fighting. I feel like I have been running an uphill battle to the best of my ability for the last 2 years, and I keep losing. I keep getting pushed back. Kicked to the ground.
At what point do you just give up?
Because I’m not sure I see any more holes to punch my way through. I’m not sure I see a way to keep fighting. A way to win.
And so instead of fighting, I am hiding. Pulling the covers over my head and simply hiding.
I don’t want to go anywhere. Not to church. Not out with friends. Not anywhere.
I don’t want to do anything.
I want to stay in my bed this next 4 days and cry.
Because I am exhausted. And I don’t know what to do from here.
And that is the less than pretty side. The side of me that just wants to give up, because where is all this fighting getting me? The side of me that feels like she has nothing left. The side of me that is broken down and beaten to the ground and doesn’t know how much more she is supposed to put into this battle.
The side of me that wants to quit fighting.
The side of me that is even starting to question God.
I just want to feel better. I want to feel like me again. I want to not hurt so badly anymore.
So, I stood in the cold parking lot and I chatted with him for a few minutes. Until he no longer hated me. Until he was no longer scowling. Until a smile finally graced his lips.
I’ve decided to pen a new term for when men are… men.
At their worst that is.
When they do things so asinine and frustrating that all you can do is shake your head and think “MEN!”
Generalized Douchebaggery.
I’m pretty sure it’s a medical condition. Something they can’t really avoid. An ailment built into the Y chromosome.
Generalized Douchebaggery causes men to suddenly become emotionally inept at the worst possible times. It leads to cold and callous behavior and forces them to focus all of their attention onto one specific part of their anatomy, while forgetting the hearts, feelings, and needs of those around them.
Generalized Douchebaggery.
I’ve been saying it over and over again for the last few days. Ever since I spoke to The Devirginator and got his take on what went down with Mr. Fix-It.
You knew I was going to call him, right? He’s my closest male friend in this world, so of course I was going to go to him for a male breakdown of exactly what happened here.
In fact, I have relied on The Devirginator to perform the autopsy on every single one of my relationships for as long as I can remember.
This is not a service that goes only one way mind you. When we were 15 or 16, it was I who tried to talk him out of climbing the tree outside the window of the girl who had just dumped him and proclaiming his love for her. It was then also I who listened to him cry (if he is reading here, I take it back – he never cried) (except, he really really did) when her dad caught him up in that tree and forcefully kicked him off the premises as she stared on in complete and utter fear.
Throughout the years, we have been this to each other. The analyzer of the opposite sex. The therapist and advisor on all dating related issues.
And as we’ve gotten older, we’ve actually learned to listen to the advice we’re given. Realizing that the other person really does know best on these matters.
Not to toot my own horn, but it was actually my advice that helped him land his current girlfriend. After he had thoroughly screwed things up on his own. I sat on the phone with him night after night talking him down from that ledge until she finally came back around.
As I promised him she would.
But really and truly – he was a pathetic sap through most of that waiting. (Again, if he is reading; that’s just some journalistic embellishment my friend. There is nothing pathetic about you at all!)
(Except that when he falls for a girl who doesn’t seem to return his advances – then he really can be a little pathetic).
So yes, this is our bond. The duty we each perform for each other.
The forensic relationship examiner.
And his diagnosis in the case of Mr. Fix-It?
The man suffered from a moment (or possibly several moments) of douche-itis.
He couldn’t quite pinpoint how long-term this diagnosis may last. According to him, I may hear from the boy again in a few days, a few months, or possibly never again. All he could say for sure was that it had obviously come on suddenly and unexpectedly.
Probably to both of us.
He then went on to explain a few of the triggers to me.
And while I was rolling on the floor laughing, I was also left thinking to myself “What the heck is wrong with men?!?”
The first trigger he pointed out to me? The toothbrush. He said that while Mr. Fix-It was laughing and joking about the toothbrush initially, it was probably the thing that originally set his head spinning. The first straw that got this “I don’t want to be in a relationship” stance started.
Apparently I should have continued my poor dental hygiene every time I spent the night over there. It turns out, that would be the preferable option to leaving a toothbrush at a man's house.
The Devirginator then explained to me his past resolution for the toothbrush dilemma.
You’re going to love this.
Apparently, my old friend who I love dearly has in the past practiced the act of purchasing toothbrushes at Costco.
When a new girl would spend the night, he automatically had a new toothbrush on hand. Then when she would leave the next morning, he would promptly throw the toothbrush away.
Even if he had intentions of seeing her again.
His reason? “I didn’t want that thing in my house! Girlfriends leave toothbrushes behind!”
Generalized Douchebaggery.
The next trigger he explained was the friend’s thing (obviously, since that was the moment where Mr. Fix-It became a guy I no longer recognized).
According to The Devirginator, meeting the friends is actually more frightening than meeting the parents.
When I explained that Mr. Fix-It had actually introduced me to some of his friends on our 2nd date, and that he was even supposed to meet my friends several weeks ago (before he got into the car accident) and that it hadn’t seemed like an issue then, he again went back to the toothbrush.
And the fact that Mr. Fix-It had likely already been having relationship anxiety on this particular night as a result of said toothbrush.
Making him that much more apt to fear the meeting of the friends. Even though it had never before seemed like an issue.
According to The Devirginator, friends are more likely to judge the new man in a girl’s life. They are more likely to dissect what they do and do not like about him. Even more likely to influence a woman’s decisions about a future with this man.
Thus, meeting the friends can be more frightening than meeting the parents. And if you aren’t even sure if you want a relationship, why subject yourself to that dog and pony show?
How about because you’re digging on a girl and spending all kinds of time with her, so it’s only logical that you would make that next step?
It’s not like meeting the friends equates to getting down on one knee.
But according to The Devirginator, for some guys it’s just too much pressure.
Generalized Douchebaggery.
“I don’t get it though!” I told The Devirginator. “The guy stuck around even after I told him about all my baby making stuff. Shouldn’t that have been WAY more scary than meeting my friends?”
According to The Devirginator, it’s possible that at that point he felt like he had already put the work in and decided he would stick around long enough to at least still close the deal.
“I’m telling you.” He said. “This one time I was dating a girl who I realized was completely and totally crazy a few dates in, but she was just so good looking that I couldn’t bail until after I had gotten her naked. She was so nuts, that when I spent the night there I would have nightmares about finding her standing over me with a knife. She scared the crap out of me. But I still kept dating her until I closed the deal.”
Generalized Douchebaggery.
And let me just tell you that it was in that moment that I became ridiculously grateful I have never dated The Devirginitor.
At least, not in my adult life.
Because as much as I love that boy with all my heart – man is he a douche!
When I explained to him that I had dropped the baby bomb two dates in, and that Mr. Fix-It hadn’t really laid much groundwork up to that point, we both agreed that this final theory probably didn't stand up to the facts. That it was more likely a combination of the first two, resulting from some issue in that past relationship that I will probably never actually hear about.
I may never really know exactly what went wrong here, or why Mr. Fix-It was suddenly triggered into defense mode in terms of entering relationship territory.
Despite the fact that we were otherwise clearly heading in that direction, whether I had said anything or not.
That was where we were going.
What I do know is that things between us were great one minute, and the next he was stammering and stuttering as he broke up with me in bed.
All because I mentioned meeting my friends.
What I also know is that the last text message he sent me Sunday night only really served to piss me off. Telling me what a “rad” chick I am, and that he hopes I find someone who treats me right.
As if I didn’t already know how rad I was. As if I was sitting around thinking that he was my last chance at love.
(Courtesy of Google Images)
Generalized Douchebaggery. I have no patience for it.
So now, it’s time to move on to the next.
I’m aiming for one with a slightly higher douche trigger point this time.
Because while I know that douche-y-ness will always rear its ugly head from time to time, I want to know it’s not going to be triggered quite so out of the blue. I want to know that the trigger itself is a little more stable.
I like the sentiment behind it. The love and togetherness. The true meaning behind the day.
But I can’t stand the commercialism of it all. It bothers me that an entire nation of people spends money they don’t have on gifts people don’t really want. I find it frustrating that the days following Christmas are just as busy as the days leading up to it – with people returning gifts and using up gift cards. And it irks me that the gift giving, and decorating, and jolly fat guy in a suit seem to trump the true spirit of Christmas in many ways.
I know. I know. I’m a scrooge.
If it makes you feel any better though, I’ve always been a scrooge. This isn’t a new thing resulting from the last year. I promise!
In my defense, I always said I would embrace those things once I had children and a family of my own. In my entire adult life, I have never decorated for Christmas (and I finally have most the people in my life to a point of understanding that while I am all about spending time with them – I have no interest in exchanging gifts); but I always said that once I had kids, my attitude regarding the holiday would change.
For them.
Because I would want to give them the magic.
I feel like so many of the nuances of the holiday itself are for kids after all. It is a day meant to brighten the eyes of little ones.
And so not having any little ones of my own (and not being sure of when or if that will ever happen), I suppose there is a little bit more of a sting to this year’s festivities than normal.
If you’re feeling the infertile holiday ache as well, check out my newest post at Fertility Authority. Thanks for Nothing Santa.
Because sometimes, Santa just doesn’t bring you what you want.
In other news, I think we’ll take a hiatus from the Live Infertility Chat this week. Let everyone spend some time with their families (or recover from the holiday blues). We’ll pick up again next Sunday though. Same time, same place.
And until then – lots of love to all my fellow infertiles. I know this time of year is hard, but just know;
And the times I must have left this good guy in the dust with his head still spinning in much the same way mine has been these last few days.
I never claimed to be perfect. And I definitely have a past history of being a serious commitment-phobe.
This guy though – he was one of the first really good ones to come into my life. One of the first to truly treat me well. To truly care about me.
Unfortunately, my issues always got in the way and eventually we just settled into being friends.
He never held it against me; my inability to commit. In fact, this is probably the one man in my life who seemed to always understand me and where I was coming from. Who seemed to always have patience with me; no matter how crazy I was being.
Now, before you all start getting too excited; he started dating someone shortly after our last breakup (almost 5 years ago) and to the best of my knowledge, they are still together. I met her several times back when we all lived in San Diego, and she was always incredibly kind to me. He’s a good guy though. And he always maintained a friendship with me, despite how many times I had screwed us up.
It’s been over a year since we’ve caught up, and in dealing with my confusion over my recent and unexpected dumping, I started to think about him.
And how many times I had left him in the same position.
So yesterday, I contacted him. Let him know that he still crosses my mind from time to time. That he still holds a place in my heart.
Not in a creepy “I’m trying to steal you from your girlfriend” kind of way, but in an “I’m only now realizing how badly I screwed up way back then” kind of way.
Because who doesn’t like to know that someone who hurt them once upon a time still reminisces about what could have been.
So that was my random act. My going out on a limb to brighten someone else’s day.
Even though it kind of brightened mine a little too.
Talking to my old friend, who reminds me that good guys still exist.
A used car salesman shooting rainbows up my butt and telling me everything I wanted to hear.
(Courtesy of Google Images)
A man with a lot of flash, and zero substance.
I was expecting to be wooed.
What I got, was so much better than expected.
When you think about doctors doing free phone consultations with patients, you can’t help but wonder “what’s in it for them?”
And that thought was at the forefront of my mind today as I entered into my phone consultation with Dr. Cook.
What’s in it for him?
Well, obviously; money.
Another surgery to bill for.
This surgery is, after all, his bread and butter.
And so I was expecting to be wined and dined. I was prepared for the sales pitch. For the inevitable pressure to commit now to the thousands of dollars surgery is going to cost.
He didn’t do that though.
In fact, I was surprised by how gentle spoken Dr. Cook was. How receptive to my questions. How concerned over my general well being.
He even took the time to ask about my past donations, and to inquire how I was feeling about those now.
He was very kind.
And he was also very informative in terms of my questions.
The way he explained excision surgery to me was as a treatment option, not a cure. He said that with cancer, you may see 70% of patients go into remission and never have problems again. And that is a success. He said that we have to look at endometriosis the same way. We have to look at the women who go on to live pain free after these surgeries as the successes. While recognizing that every woman may not have the same results.
He explained that the problem with most endometriosis surgery is that the doctors are pulling off the layers of bad tissue, but still leaving the roots behind. Much like a weed though, everything needs to be meticulously removed in order to avoid recurrence.
I have never had everything removed.
There has always been tissue left behind. Endometriosis that the doctors just couldn’t get to.
Roots given every opportunity to bloom again.
Dr. Cook assured me that his number one goal in surgery is to get it all. Every last bit of endometriosis. He explained that he is meticulous and determined in this goal. Committed to leaving nothing behind.
And as such, this surgery would last 4-5 hours. Whereas both of my past surgeries have been done in under 2.
In his entire time doing this, he said that he has only had 6-7 patients have a recurrence within the year.
Those sound like good numbers to me.
Because if I could buy myself even a few years pain-free at this point, it would be a win as far as I’m concerned.
A few years to get my life back. To rebuild. Reestablish. And reevaluate what I want from the future.
A few years to clear my head.
Now, of course Dr. Cook believes that with the right surgery I could feasibly go on to never have any issues again. But I’m being realistic about this. I’m recognizing that the likelihood of my getting that kind of luck at this point probably isn’t great.
But a few years?
You have no idea what I would do for a few years.
Especially when it means a few more years with my lady parts inside of me, to come to terms with whatever it is that needs to come next.
I am expecting a call from the financial office tomorrow. They are going to contact my insurance company, and then let me know what this would all pan out to cost me in the end. From there, their office is closed the 23rd-2nd, giving me a few weeks to really weigh out in my head what I want to do here.
I haven’t made any set in stone decisions yet, but I liked Dr. Cook. I liked the way he talked to me. Or rather, the way he didn’t talk down to me.
And I liked the concern he showed for me regarding the aspects of this outside the realm of just endometriosis treatment.
The concern for my feelings regarding those two children out there with my DNA, and the now failed rounds of IVF.
It was in responding to his questions about my well being surrounding those events that I remembered something vital though.
I have no regrets.
There will always be the voice in the back of my head telling me that going through the egg donor process was the catalyst to all the rest. The timing is just too close in my mind, and knowing what I do now about how my particular case of endometriosis responds to fertility treatments; I can’t help but believe that donating my eggs is really what kicked off this battle.
But I still have no regrets.
As much as my heart has ached over the last two years, I have no regrets about donating. How could I? There are two beautiful children in this world because of that choice I made.
Had things turned out differently, and had neither couple I donated to ever conceived, I might feel otherwise.
But that first couple did conceive. They did create two perfect little lives.
I know now more than ever what that must have meant to them.
And no matter what, I can’t ever bring myself to regret it.
Then with my own IVF cycles, as much as I hurt now over their outcomes, I know that I wouldn’t do it any other way.
If I could go back and stop myself from taking that path, I wouldn’t.
Because I know that I needed to know. I needed to know that I had done everything in my power to conceive.
And even now, I do not regret trying...
I am not a woman with regrets.
I am instead a woman who believes that every step I take in this life is leading me somewhere. Guiding me along the path I am meant to tread.
A path I truly believe is rapt with happiness at the end.
I just have to be willing to fight through the thorns and brave the mountains first.
I have no regrets.
And as with every other difficult decision I have ever had to make in my life, I know that I will make the right choices here.
The ones that will lead me to exactly where I am meant to be.
Living the life I was meant to live.
With no regrets.
And as long as I can remember that, everything else will be OK.
