Not One For The Boys

I've been doing a lot of reading.

Submerging myself into different theories and ideas.

Because honestly - that's all there is. Theories. Postulations. Conjectures. Assumptions.

But nothing concrete.

I feel like I've been given a clean slate. Like right now, in this moment, I am endometriosis free. And I feel like it's my responsibility to do whatever I can to keep it that way. To preserve the work Dr. Cook did for as long as possible. To read and learn and treat my body as good as I can, so that it doesn't come back. So that a year from now I'm not curled up in the same crying mess of pain I was just a month ago.

But the problem is - there is nothing out there that is known for sure. Nobody knows what causes endometriosis. Nobody understands why some women can have it with relatively few symptoms, while others can have it attacking every organ in their bodies. Nobody can explain why the “treatments” work for some but not others. It’s all just a bunch of… guessing.

And here is the part where this conversation is going to take a turn most men will want nothing at all to do with. I’m telling you now; you’re going to want to turn away. Nothing from this point forward could possibly serve you in any way in the future.

Because I’m about to start talking about tampons.

I have been a tampon user my entire life. Pretty much since that very first period. And I've never had any concerns about them at all. At least, not until the last few years. Not until I hit a point where my cramps and pain were noticeably worse when I had a tampon in. I had a lot of theories as to why this may be. Mostly, I convinced myself that the cotton was absorbing at such a fast rate that it caused the shedding to happen quicker than it otherwise would. I was convinced that the tampons I was using were like extra strength sponges. At the height of my period, I simply couldn’t use them anymore. Tampons were the difference between being able to grind my teeth and make it through the day, and being completely and totally incapacitated. So even though I loathed pads (and the mess they made), I started resorting to using them at least in the first few days of my period every month. The times when the pain was most severe.

I honestly hadn’t thought much about why tampons may be making things worse though. And I have to admit that in the days following my surgery (when I exhibited the amazing timing of starting my period within 24 hours of waking up in the recovery room) I lamented the fact that I wasn’t even allowed to use tampons. I was annoyed that I was stuck in bed, in pain, with a pad stuffed between my legs at a time when I didn’t even want to be wearing underwear.

I was a classy wench I tell you. Me, my hospital grade mesh panties, and my maternity pads.

Classy class.

Needless to say, I wasn’t doing much thinking in the days surrounding that first post surgery period. And I was so hopped up on painkillers anyway, that it would be almost impossible for me to gauge how that period compared to periods past. I’m still waiting for the one on the horizon to see if there is much of a difference in pain.

But in the meantime… I’ve been thinking. Mostly about tampons. About some theories I’ve heard mentioned in the past regarding retrograde menses. The idea that endometriosis may actually be caused by period blood backing up into the body when a tampon is blocking the usual exit.

So this weekend, I started googling. Wondering how much information was out there regarding this theory. How concrete some of the evidence may be.

Imagine my surprise when one of the first sites to pop up with information belonged to none other than my favorite doctor.

I sat there reading through the information Dr. Cook had compiled, growing more and more horrified with each paragraph. Things I had never even considered were outlined in such a way that I could no longer pretend that tampons were this harmless product that everyone and their mother used without issue. I was suddenly confronted with the onslaught of chemicals I had been shoving up my hoo-ha for the last however many years, and I was honestly shocked.

How is it that tampons are marketed as such a safe product when they are full of bleach and chlorine and dioxin? How is it that we are fooled into believing that there is nothing to worry about in using them, when clearly – they contain chemicals most of us would never think about putting inside our bodies if we actually knew the truth?

Why is it that we as consumers (myself included) are so uneducated about these things? So naïve to the dangers of products we use every single day without thought?

Needless to say, my disgust only grew as I continued to read.

The information and studies related to endometriosis in particular were limited (as always), but there was one study that stood out to me involving monkeys (yeah, I don’t even want to think about who’s job it was to shove tampons up a monkey), and those that were using tampons had almost double the endometriosis occurrence when compared to those who didn’t.

Honestly, reading about the chemicals was enough for me, but combined with the monkey data? I was sold.

In my new (endometriosis free) life, I will not be using tampons. It has been decided. Done and done.

Because the truth is – I am now cringing at the thought of how many years I spent putting those things inside of me. Sure, there are plenty of other possible factors to my case. A family history for one. 13 years as a vegetarian who ate lots and lots of soy for another. And 2 different rounds of egg donations and pumping myself full of all the hormones involved certainly didn’t help. I’ve said before that I think the extremity of my case had a lot to do with a perfect storm. I pretty much did everything wrong (obviously having no idea at all that I was doing anything wrong), and it all kind of blew up at once.

But now that I have this clean slate, it’s my duty to educate myself. To not make the same mistakes twice. To read and research and learn, and to pay attention when certain theories start to make sense.

And knowing what I know now – the tampon theory is kind of starting to make sense.

Of course, that leaves me with a few less than savory alternatives. I briefly considered purchasing myself a Diva Cup, but the truth is – just thinking about the mess involved in that really skeeves me out. I just can't wrap my head around the idea of collecting my menstrual blood in a tiny little cup... Something about the whole thing just seems very very wrong to me. Plus, I can’t convince myself that a Diva Cup wouldn’t result in the same retrograde threat that tampons pose. So that’s out.

And much to my dismay – most pads contain many of the same chemicals that tampons have. Granted, that’s got to be better than actively shoving those chemicals inside of you, but… Still not worth the risk in my mind.

So today on my lunch, I went out and hunted down some natural pads. Even though I have boxes upon boxes of tampons at home. And at least one box of pads as well. It didn’t’ matter. I was on a mission. No chemicals. No scary stuff. Just straight cotton.

(Courtesy of SeventhGeneration.com)

I found them easily enough, and then laughed at what a hippy I’m becoming as I walked to the checkout stand – picking up a package of dove chocolate on the way. Crossing my fingers and sending up a simple prayer that tomorrow won’t be the day I learn about all the ways in which chocolate can lead to endometriosis.

Because the truth is – a girl can only take so much.

Knowledge is power.

But I guess there are some things I would just rather not know!

There Should Be a Warning

I need a life.

I'm fairly sure my healing has carried over into this weekend, because the truth is – I haven’t done much of anything. Cleaning the house really has been my biggest accomplishment. Other than that, I have been sleeping and eating. Eating and sleeping. Throw a little movie watching and book reading in there, and you have effectively summed up my far too lazy weekend.

I would bet that new roommate thinks I’m a grade A loser. I actually showered last night solely because I didn’t want her thinking that I was a shut in who also had hygiene issues. Even though had she not been here – I probably would have festered in my own filth all weekend as well.

Yeah, I'm classy like that.

I told Loo that we have to do something fun next weekend. Something to redeem myself in the eyes of new roommate. Because this is just embarrassing.

Beyond that though, my now almost 3 weeks of healing has left me practically devoid of anything to write about. I am going to work and coming home. Eating and sleeping. Reading and writing. Nothing exciting or noteworthy at all.

I have become a hermit.

And I need a life.

But seeing as it’s already mid afternoon on Sunday and I have no intentions of going anywhere or doing anything at this point – gaining said life is probably going to have to wait until next week.

After all, I wouldn’t want to overexert myself.

In the lull of healing, I have been wasting hours upon hours away watching movies. On Friday I came home to find Kick-Ass in the mail (which I added to my queue based solely on the recommendation of Brooke Davis). I have to admit - I loved it. I did have to keep reminding myself that it was a movie and that Hit Girl wasn't a real little girl being abused by her psychotic (if not well meaning) father, but besides that? I loved it. And in true Brooke Davis fashion - it also kind of made me wish I could do a little ass-kicking of my own. What do you think? Could I pull off some super-hero tights and a cape?

After relishing in my super-hero fantasies, I moved on to a little instant viewing. Yesterday I was horrified and appalled as I watched The Lottery. I thought about doing something great in the name of public education. Then I remembered the whole lack of energy (or desire to do much of anything at all) issue, and decided against it. Choosing instead to start up the next movie on my instant viewing queue.

Yes, this has been my life. Pathetic, right?

Today though, I watched a movie that struck a chord. I’m not going to name it here, solely because I am about to give away the entire plot point and I don’t want to ruin it for anyone else with obscure tastes in the random movies available on Netflix Instant Viewing. But suffice it to say… I was kind of left wishing that movies came with an infertility warning.

That’s right. I unwittingly watched a movie with an infertility plot line. Nothing in the initial blurb gave any indication at all that infertility was a part of the story line, and when it did crop up - I was completely caught off guard.

There should be a warning for that.

Either way, it was a cute movie. Boy meets girl. Boy falls for girl. Girl falls for boy. But girl is clearly holding back. Boy proposes. Girl turns him down and ends the relationship. Boy is crushed. Girl is crushed. Boy writes book. Girl packs her bags and plans on leaving the state. Boy chases her to the airport. Boy is too late. Boy goes home and finds girl on his couch. Girl confesses that she couldn’t leave without telling him the truth.

Nothing we haven’t all seen before, right? Except… the truth girl had to tell boy was that she was infertile. That she would never have kids. That she cared too much about him to take that away from him (boy also happened to have a nephew and niece who he was very close with – making his future desires to be a parent clear). She felt he deserved to have that dream. That because of her infertility, he deserved better than her.

Also, it turns out that her ex husband actually left her because of her infertility – which explains these deep dark scars she has surrounding the whole thing.

I should have been rolling my eyes at this point. It was so overdramatic and contrived and… I was sobbing. Literally sobbing. At a romantic comedy! One that from what I can tell went straight to DVD. Not only straight to DVD, but also straight to Netflix Instant Viewing! And there I was, crying like a baby.

Remember yesterday when I said the crazy out of control emotions were getting under control. Um, well, yeah… maybe not so much.

And I repeat – there should be a warning.

Of course boy said all the right things. That he loved her for her. That they would adopt. That he didn’t want a life without her. He reassured her, and they continued forward happily ever after. End of story. All is well.

Except… is it? Is it really?

Or does she continue to feel that guilt for the rest of their lives? When they run into walls in the adoption process (as most couples do at some point or another), does she hurt even worse knowing that he is hurting? When she looks into his eyes, does she regret not being able to give him a child with those same features? When she is faced with his desire to be a parent and knows that she can't give him that with the same ease someone else would be able to, does she continue to feel less than? For the rest of her life, is she always faced with the nagging concern that perhaps he would have had a happier life with someone else? Someone fertile?

I have to admit, as much as I wanted to throw something at this chick and her insecurities surrounding infertility, I too have been finding myself gravitating lately towards men who are more or less indifferent to the idea of children. I don’t know what it is. Two years ago, a guy who wasn’t absolutely sure about having babies in the future would have been a deal breaker for me. Now, I think I would possibly shy away a little from a man who was strong and sure about his desire to be a daddy. It’s hard to explain, but I think there is this part of me that can’t imagine putting someone else through this. A piece of me that doesn’t want to be responsible for inflicting that kind of heartache upon someone who loves me.

I realize how silly it is to worry about something like this. And the truth is, I don’t even think I’ve really been worrying about it that much. I just think it’s this thought that has been lingering in the back of my subconscious, and this stupid movie brought it to the surface for me.

And really, a warning would have been nice!

I don’t know what the future holds. I hope and pray that it involves me being a mother. Somehow, someway; just being a mother. But if I met Mr. Right tomorrow and he was sincerely passionate about being a father, I honestly can’t say that I wouldn’t be a little hesitant. That I wouldn’t worry about how he would feel years down the line if I couldn’t give him what he wanted. If I couldn’t conceive, no matter what interventions we took, and if our attempts at adoption only resulted in hitting the brick walls that I hear about so many adoption hopefuls hitting. Could I really drag someone else through that grief? Through the sadness I myself have felt over the last year?

Could I even realistically put myself through it again?

The truth is, I don’t know. I would like to think that I wouldn’t let it hold me back the way this girl did, but… as much as I was annoyed by her; I also understood. There’s something to be said for not wanting to drag somebody you care about into your mess.

Of course, there is also something to be said for a good old fashioned warning.

I’m thinking I might have to write Netflix. Let them know that on top of their violence and profanity warnings, a simple infertility warning might be warranted as well.

Because if I am going to be lying around in bed being good to myself, I don’t want to be bombarded so unexpectedly with a plot line that hits a little too close to home.

Just to be safe, I think I’m going to watch Kick-Ass again.

(Courtesy of Screencrave.com)

I’d rather be identifying with Hit Girl over Infertility Girl any day.

My Belly Button Has Shrunk (and Other Need To Know Facts)

I realized this morning that I hadn’t really given any updates on my healing since the immediate days following surgery. No real information at all besides the fact that I’ve returned to work.

And there might be some of you actually a little curious as to how I’m feeling since the great endo removal of 2011.

My biggest concern right now? I’m convinced that my belly button was sewed up too tight. Seriously. I think it’s smaller than it ever was before. I’m fairly sure that after being sliced and cinched back together now for 3 different surgeries, it is quickly disappearing. I’m afraid that if I ever have to have surgery again, I won’t have much belly button left after the fact. It will just be a tiny little pin hole that is unrecognizable as what it once used to be. When I described this to my dad, he seemed to think it was a good thing. I had to explain to him that a shrinking belly would be a good thing, but that a shrinking belly button is just… weird.

And yes, this is something that really has been a point of concern for me. So, if that is the top of my list of worries – it should tell you how well everything else is healing up!

I’ve still got a little bit of discomfort on my left side. Mostly surrounding the incision site itself, but I’ve also been getting pinching and pulling just underneath my rib cage, which I’m sure is related to the endo that had to be removed from my spleen up there. I wore jeans comfortably for the first time on Friday though (up to that point, I had still been unbuttoning my pants anytime I was in anything besides sweats), and I think to most people it would appear that I’m moving around just fine. I was even going up and down the stairs at work yesterday with ease.

The feeling below my belly button is starting to return, but it still feels odd in the area that was previously numb. Almost as though I had burned myself there and the skin is healing? It’s nothing catastrophic or overly painful at all, just a little sensitivity and tenderness to the touch. I’m assuming that has something to do with the nerves repairing themselves and that it’s completely normal. I guess the best way to describe it though is that the area itself just feels a bit raw.

My abdominal muscles in general have definitely been a little sore. As if I worked out a bit too hard and am suffering the consequences. I think that parts a little odd, since as far as I know – I don’t think anything would have been done to my muscles. But I definitely feel the pull there when I try to get up too fast or do anything that would otherwise engage those muscles. Again, nothing that I would even describe as painful… Just enough of a reminder that my stomach isn’t quite yet back to normal.

I lost 6 pounds after surgery. For the first 10 days or so, I honestly couldn’t eat much at all. I would have a few bites of food before feeling completely full. That burrito I was so sure I would want immediately after surgery? Yeah, I didn’t have it until last night… And even then, it was a much smaller version than what I had originally been planning on. But over the last few days my appetite has started to return and I’m finally eating normal sized meals again. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before that weight packs back on. Oh well… all good things must end eventually!

My energy level is the only thing that’s still lagging. I made it through full days at work just fine this last week, but I definitely started dragging around 2 every day. Yawning and struggling to keep my eyes open even though I've been sleeping a lot more than usual. I know that’s all part of the healing process, and I’ve been doing my best to get enough sleep, but the truth is that even now I am having to fight with myself over the possibility of a nap… I'm going to be really happy when I start feeling “normal” again in terms of energy.

Those crazy emotions I was experiencing last week have more or less subsided. I swear to you, there were a few days there when I was in tears from the moment I woke up to the moment I went to bed, and I couldn’t even explain why. I know there was a great deal of work done on my ovaries, so I think it’s fair to assume that that combined with the almost 5 hours of anesthesia did a number on my hormones, but I am still proud to proclaim that there have been no tears in the last week. Which is good, because I am not a big fan of the random crying spouts over nothing!

Teeny was actually out of town from the time I got back until this weekend, so I haven’t had any acupuncture at all. I’m getting anxious to see her again on Wednesday, as I know she’ll be able to help with both the issues with my energy as well as any lingering hormonal fluctuations. The plan from here on out is to really rely on her and some herbal treatments to keep the endo from coming back. I’ll also be consulting with Dr. Naturopath and running any new ideas by Dr. Cook. There are some who have asked if I plan on going back on some sort of hormonal birth control as well, and the simple answer is – no. I will not be doing anything to medicinally alter my hormones anymore. We tried to treat the endo with birth control initially and it did absolutely nothing. Lupron was a similar story – only with worse side effects. The plan I have come to with Teeny, Dr. Naturopath, and now with Dr. Cook on board is to treat my estrogen dominance as naturally as possible, but to really work towards getting my body to function normally all on its own. No more hormonal treatments at all. Just pushing my body to do what it’s supposed to do naturally. It’s definitely a bit of a scary prospect to imagine pulling away from western medicine entirely from this point forward in relation to treating this disease, but I know it’s the right choice for me. The medicinal options did nothing to stop the endo, and only worked to make me feel worse. I know that for me, I have to at least give the natural therapies a chance. And having Dr. Cook fully support that endeavor and acknowledge that it is probably the best path for me has only made me even more confident in this decision. From here on out though, only time will tell.

I’ve signed up for a Pilate’s boot camp starting on March 14th. I’ve never actually done Pilates, but it’s something that has come highly recommended to me in relation to an exercise routine that could actually aid in combating this disease. I don’t yet have clearance to start working out, but my next phone consultation with Dr. Cook’s office is on March 9th, and I will be running the idea by them then. I’ve already verified that I can cancel or postpone the boot camp if I’m unable to get clearance for any reason, but I am anxious to get started. I know it’s not something I would be ready for tomorrow, but I’m hoping that in a few more weeks it will be something I will be ready to take on.

At the present, my biggest goal is to clean the house today. I haven’t done any cleaning at all in over a month, and I’m finally feeling good enough to think I could take on a little mopping and vacuuming. To put that into perspective though – my condo is only 780sf and I’ve got a roommate occupying about 280 of that who is fully capable of cleaning up after herself. So in reality, it shouldn’t take me longer than an hour to clean. And don’t worry – I have no intentions of getting down on my hands and knees to scrub anything!

Of course, if you want to worry, you are more than welcome to come over and clean for me! I especially loathe toilets!

For the most part though, everything is moving along according to plan with my healing. I’m still not 100%, but I’m feeling better every day. I won’t be running a marathon anytime soon, but then again… I wasn’t likely going to be running a marathon anytime soon before either!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I really do need to turn my attention back to my incredible shrinking belly button.

It probably just looks like a normal belly button to anyone else.

But I know different.

And I’m telling you; that poor thing has taken a beating.

Cha-Ching

The federal government really came through for me today. I opened up my bank account for a quick check on the funds available, and was beyond enthused to see a big chunk of change added in from good old Uncle Sam. My refund finding its way to me only 11 days after filing.

(Courtesy of savingstoolbox.com)

It didn’t hurt that today was also payday, so it’s fair to say that my bank account officially had more money in it than it has had in… a long while.

I didn't hate seeing those numbers for once!

Of course, I wiped it all out quickly enough in a swooping payment towards the baby making debt, but… it was nice while it lasted.

And I can now officially say that I have paid off one of the accounts I borrowed from. The line of credit at my bank is free and clear as of this morning. I was also able to throw a good chunk towards the credit card as well. I’m hoping to have that paid off in the next few months, and to then really turn my focus on paying off the loan from Seattle Reproductive Medicine as well as the money my incredible grandmother gave me.

It sounds like a lot. In truth, it is a lot. So much in fact that I would be embarrassed to write the total number here. Suffice it to say; it was a big number. One that still makes my head hurt to think about. One that makes me want to throw something at the wall when I remember that there are people in this world who get pregnant without even trying.

More money than I spent on my college education (all 7 years of it). More than I spent on my car. More than anyone should ever spend on anything in just 1 year of their lives.

But, it is what it is. I know now that I needed to try. That I needed to know. That I needed to give myself this shot, because if I didn’t… I would have always wondered.

And now I know. I tried. I failed. And I'm paying for it.

But I am proud to proclaim that I have already paid off a quarter of the debt I accumulated in the last year. And that I have a plan (is anyone surprised to hear there's a plan?) in place right now to have the rest of it (or at least, most of the rest of it) paid off by the end of the year. The goal is to be debt free by the time next May rolls around, so that if I do decide to pack up and leave – I can do so without owing anyone anything when I get on that plane.

And the truth is – I don’t think that’s a totally unrealistic goal. In fact, I actually think this is one thing I’m going to set my mind to and accomplish. I have a good job, I make decent money writing on the side, and bringing a roommate into the mix is going to be a huge help. One year from now I hope to have every aspect of this endeavor behind me. A distant memory that I can move forward from. One that doesn’t continue to pinch my wallet from month to month for any longer than absolutely necessary.

And today was a good day for that endeavor.

It’s going to take some sacrifice. Some nose to the grindstone effort. Maybe even a little bit of obsession in terms of sticking to the plan.

But at the end of the day, I am going to get there. I am going to get this debt paid off, and then I am going to forget about it.

Moving onward and upward.

And hopefully outward… to lands far far away and beaches literally crying out for my toes in the sand.

One year.

Totally doable.

And then on to bigger and better things...

Obsessed

I have an obsessive personality.

That’s what Dr. Headshrink told me yesterday anyway.

And I’ve been obsessing about it ever since.

Seriously though – being told that you’re obsessive is not generally something one wants to hear from their shrink. It’s kind of… disturbing. We already know that I have stalker tendencies, and that I’ve convinced myself that I was pregnant when I clearly wasn’t, and that I am far (far) too wordy for my own good.

And now I’m obsessive as well?

That’s a whole bunch of crazy wrapped up with a neat little bow I tell ya!

To be fair, she wasn’t really referring to one instance or situation in particular. She was just pointing out that I tend to obsess. That it’s not unusual for me to set my mind to how I think something should be, and to then fixate on that idea. Focusing on nothing else while I try to manipulate the world around me to look exactly how I want it to.

I obsess. And pick, and twist, and push; all in an attempt to get my way. To achieve the outcome I desire. The one I’ve got my heart set on.

When things don’t go my way, I honestly have a really hard time contemplating why that may be. Such a hard time in fact, that I typically become consumed by the need to understand what it is I may have missed.

Failing to admit defeat and recognize that I just can’t control everything.

People are not mathematical equations and life isn’t like a puzzle where it’s just a matter of finding the right piece to bring everything together.

Sometimes, there just is no right piece.

And that’s when I struggle. When I start to obsess. When I have it in me to become consumed.

Because even now I can admit to you that I am still a person who is of the belief that if you try and work hard enough – you can accomplish anything. I am someone who likes to think that I can achieve any goal I set my mind to. That it just takes finding the right solution. The missing piece that clearly I must have overlooked if things still haven’t worked out my way.

I promised myself that this year I was going to let the baby dream go. That I was going to move forward with my life and trust that no matter what – everything is going to work out in the end. I promised myself that I was going to back away from the heartache of all this and just start focusing on the things in my life that I can control.

And maybe I actually have accomplished that. I can still honestly tell you that I don’t see myself doing IVF ever again. I can admit that my feelings there could possibly change over the next few years, but as of right now – I have no interest in pumping myself full of hormones with no guarantees again.

But... There is still this part of me lingering on the details. Trying to figure out what went wrong. Where it was that I failed. Why it is that people can get pregnant every day without trying, but that I can’t. Not even when I try my hardest. Not even when I do everything right.

I obsess. Picking at the last year and trying to figure out what happened. What I missed. Why it all turned out so differently than I had originally imagined.

And now, in the absence of baby making to focus on, I am finding myself fixating on other areas of life. Suddenly determined to lose weight and get in shape. To put money away and pay off all my debts as soon as possible. To pack my bags and get out of the country.

To run away.

Since coming to the travel conclusion over the weekend, I have been obsessed with that option. Researching tickets. Looking up hostels. Trying to pinpoint the best time of year to leave in order to have the best possible weather at all of my preferred destinations.

It’s possible that I’m becoming a little consumed by the prospect. Simply shifting all my previous baby making obsession over to the goal of travel.

And it’s funny, because I was initially offended yesterday when Dr. Headshrink called me obsessive. She said it with a smile, but it still felt like a judgment. For the record – she fully supports my desire to just get up and go. But as I was describing my plans surrounding travel (and a few other aspects of my life), I think she could see how invested already I am becoming in these plans. In these hopes and dreams for the future.

How easily I am allowing some of these things to take over for me.

I wanted to fight back. To tell her that no, in reality I am quite laid back and cool. That there is nothing at all consuming me at the moment, thank you very much!

But in reality, I knew that wasn't true.

Still, obsessed feels like such an ugly word. A word that should only be attached to a real psycho. You know, like the kind of girl who would photoshop her face into other people's pictures.

And I think we all know that I would never do anything like that.

OK, so maybe I would… but I still refuse to believe that’s all that weird!

Either way, I think it’s fair to say that Dr. Headshrink may be on to something. It’s possible that I’m a little obsessive. That I have it in me to fixate and become consumed by my own plans. Struggling, and fighting, and searching for the right piece – even when no such piece exists.

It’s possible obsessed might be the right word to use.

But for the record – I prefer determined.

Or driven.

Or even goal oriented.

In fact, while we’re at it – I’m thinking we should just go ahead and call me confident.

Confident.

It sounds so much better than obsessed.

And when you think about it – I would have to be pretty darn confident to so thoroughly believe that I can mold the world around me to appear how I want it to.

So from now on, just so we’re clear – I’m confident. Not obsessed.

And if you refuse to agree, I might just have to find a way to confidently change your mind.

But you know – not to the point of obsession or anything.

Because this girl:

Oh no. She's not obsessed or singularly focused at all.

As Seen On TV

I think we all know that what we see on TV is rarely a representation of real life.

Even reality TV is typically skewed and edited to the point of being ridiculously unrealistic.

That is, of course, with the exception of Big Brother. The best reality television show of all time.

(you know – just in case the casting agents are reading right now)

But yeah, for the most part – television is a far cry from reality. One only has to look at the depictions of infertility on TV to know that pieces of the puzzle are always missing.

On Friends, Phoebe did IVF and got pregnant on the first try with triplets. She stood on her head, and got her two pink lines the same day as her transfer. No two week wait for her. Nope. Just easy peasy, wham, bam, thank you ma’am – you’re knocked up.

Again on Friends with Monica and now on Grey's with Meredith we are introduced to the term “hostile uterus”; a chronic condition I’m not sure I have ever heard of a single “real” woman being afflicted with. I'm pretty sure it's a made up diagnosis.

And on One Tree Hill last year, Brooke got the news no girl wants to hear.

The news that she was infertile.

Only, we’ve never actually been told what exactly it is that’s wrong with her.

Just that she can’t have children.

Ever.

Now, this is (admittedly) one of my favorite shows. I know it’s on the CW. I know it’s made for teenagers. I know I shouldn’t be as invested in it as I am.

But in my defense – I’ve been watching it since I was a teenager.

And I love it.

About 7 years ago, the One Tree Hill concert tour came to town. Michelle Branch was headlining, but Haley (Bethany Joy Galeotti) was going to be there as well. I was still living in Arizona at the time, and a good friend and I decided we just had to go.

We were the only people in the crowd over the age of 14.

That is, if you don’t count the mom’s who had been dragged along.

After the concert, Bethany Joy and a few of the other performers set up a table and were signing autographs. My friend and I concocted a plan. We were grown women. Twenty-one years old. The only grown ups at the show. And we knew all the best bars in town. These famous people didn’t. They needed us. We were going to start talking to them, and invite them to go out with us. And they were going to think we were so cool that they simply wouldn’t be able to resist.

Yes, that was really our plan.

We intentionally went to the very back of the line because we wanted to be the last people to speak to them. We were that convinced that this was all going to go our way.

In reality, when it was our turn, we both froze. The only grown women in line to get autographs, and we could barely remember our own names.

So really, my reaction to K. Bell years down the line shouldn’t have come as a shock to anyone. Apparently, I don’t do well around famous people!

The point is though – I love this show. I have loved this show for a long time.

And now, they have an infertile character. One of my favorite characters in fact. You would think I would be over the moon!

And some weeks, I really am. Brooke will make some flip comment and I’ll find myself grinning because I know it’s something that would totally come out of my mouth. One week Jamie asked “Aunt Brooke” where babies come from, and she kind of grimaced and sarcastically said “Not from me.” I seriously sat there cracking up. It was perfectly timed and exhibited the same type of sense of humor I really do try to lend to this whole infertility gig.

But other times, I’m just annoyed. I want to know more about her condition. More about why it is the doctors are so sure she won’t ever have children. The only things I can think of where a doctor would be so adamant that there wouldn’t even be room for discussion border along the lines of hermaphroditic conditions. And I just don’t like thinking about Brooke with undescended testes instead of ovaries.

Then again, Brooke also gives me hope sometimes. She has this new husband who is so incredibly supportive of her condition.

(Courtesy of cwtv.com)

Good old Julian. I have to admit; I have found myself dreaming about Julian. He is sweet, and funny, and just dorky enough to be adorable. Plus… he is passionate about her. Last week he looked her in the eyes and told her he wanted to adopt with her. That he wanted to raise a child with her. That he didn’t care how or where or when they got their baby – he just wanted to have a baby with her.

And my heart melted. Literally, melted. I have a lot of fears about adoption. A lot of things that honestly leave me wondering if I’ll ever actually do it. Lately, I’ve even been trying to wrap my head around the idea of being child free. A lifetime of traveling and doing what I want when I want. I’ll be honest when I say that I find myself losing my ability to breathe a lot when I try to contemplate that scenario. But still… I worry about adoption. About it’s future role in my life.

If I had a guy like Julian in my life though? One who was so sure and so strong and so willing to do whatever it took to raise a child with me?

Yeah, I’m pretty sure all those fears would melt right away.

I’m wondering where I could find myself one just like him. Contemplating calling up the As Seen On TV Store and asking if they have any bearded, green eyed versions. Curious how much the upgrades would cost me.

I want myself a Julian.

Of course, last night (just a week after Julian made this grand proclamation) they were selected by a birth mother to adopt her unborn baby. Apparently living in TV land means that you also get to bypass the paperwork, social worker, and payment phase of adoption and skip right to the good stuff. No years of waiting, or lawyers, consultations, and psych evaluations necessary. Just step right up and claim your baby.

No wonder the general public has such an unrealistic idea of how easy adoption is. No wonder people seem to think that jumping to adoption after infertility is such a simple and available decision to make.

Because in TV land – it really is.

And at this point I would also bet $1000 that Brooke ends up pregnant within a few months of the adoption going through.

Which will probably wind up making me throw my remote at the television.

I wish I lived in TV land.

I wish I lived there with Julian.

And I think I might actually wish I was Brooke Davis.

At the very least though, I wish that life was as simple as seen on TV.

Baby Making Roulette

I’m ovulating. Releasing an egg. Fertile.

Or at least; as fertile as a girl with stage IV endometriosis and 2 failed IVF cycles under her belt can get.

But the point is; I am absolutely ovulating.

And that simple fact has pained me.

It’s the first time I’ve ovulated since surgery. Probably the only time I’ve ever ovulated when I haven’t also had a body full of endometriosis. For the most part, everything in there is actually clean and healthy and disease free. For once; disease free. One could argue that right now, today, in this moment; it’s the best possible opportunity for me to get pregnant on my own.

You know, if I were still holding out hope for that kind of thing.

Here are the facts: I have one tube. So that right there already cuts the chances of a natural pregnancy in half.

That one tube is pretty good and scarred down, but it still allows for fluid to travel through it. The biggest concern with that tube would be ectopic pregnancies, since it’s not exactly a smooth road for an embryo to travel through. But it’s there. Viable. Functional. Whole. At least… kind of.

Unfortunately, that one tube is on the side of the ovary that's been the most damaged by this disease. The ovary that on each and every one of my ultrasounds, the tech struggles to even find. The one that rarely has follicles, and was slow to produce even on the crazy onslaught of hormones involved in IVF.

The last time I was brave enough to ask for percentages, I was told that the chances of my ever getting pregnant on my own were less than 5%. Basically, we’re looking at the same odds as someone getting pregnant while on the pill or using a condom. I am my very own personal brand of birth control. Built right in. Permanent, and unrelenting.

Yet here I am, wishing I was a whore. Knowing that there is no man in my life at the moment, and not caring. Wishing I could go out, show some leg, and just pick one up to get the deed done. To give that egg currently being released at least a fighting chance.

Which is funny, because I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t even be allowed to get down and dirty right now anyway. I didn’t actually ask how long I would have to be off sex after surgery (mostly because there is no sex to be found in my life at the moment) so I have no idea how long I should be waiting. But I figured it was a mute point, because by the time I meet a guy worthy of getting acquainted with in that way again… surely I’ll be healed! Only 2 weeks after surgery though, and while my incisions and ovaries are still a bit achy? I’m pretty sure that doing the naughty would not be advisable.

Yet here I am, still wishing I was a whore. Wishing I could convince myself to have a few drinks and see what I get. To dial the numbers of boyfriends past and see who’s up for a little game of baby making roulette.

I would be honest with them of course. Tell them why I’m using them and what I’m hoping to accomplish. I think most the men in my life would take me up on that offer though. They’re a group full of gamblers I tell you. And with odds like that – they would take the bet.

And meanwhile, I would be hoping, wishing, and praying for the scales to tip in my favor. Legs in the air asking for forgiveness for my momentary whore-dom. Hoping that there's an exception for slutty behavior when it comes to girls who just don’t want to waste a chance.

The other option would be stockpiling a supply of donor sperm in my freezer. Then once or twice a month, I could just turkey baster the stuff up there myself at the first hint of ovulation. Taking matters into my own hands so to speak. At least then I wouldn’t feel like I was blowing off a chance every single month when the tell tale signs appear.

(Courtesy of Random Movie Club)

Do you think that would work? Do people do that? Keep sperm in their freezer next to the chicken breasts and ice cream? Thaw it out themselves and use cooking utensils to blast it into the lady bits?

Is it even normal to think this way? To contemplate inseminating myself month after month, just so that I could feel like I had tried?

And how exactly would I explain sperm in the kitchen to potential suitors?

"Welcome to my kitchen. Please excuse the sperm. Hopefully with you here now, it will no longer be necessary."

It’s silly. Silly, and ridiculous, and ultimately; useless. With odds as low as I’ve got, whoring myself out really wouldn’t be worth it. Neither would spending thousands upon thousands of dollars to store sperm in my freezer. I don't have the funds to waste on any more of that stuff, even if it is liquid gold. In the end, it would all likely be fruitless. And then I would just wind up feeling like a failure. Month after month of failure.

And who needs that?

But the truth is, I’m sad. Sad that I’m not in the position to do anything at all about my ovulation, and sadder still that even if I could; it likely wouldn't matter.

I try to convince myself every day that I am going to be just fine if I can’t ever get pregnant. That I will survive and thrive. That I will be happy and strong and fulfilled no matter what.

I try to convince myself that none of this really matters.

But the truth is – I want to be pregnant. I want to be a mommy. I want to not be wasting chances.

And I kind of wish I was more of a whore.

My Addiction

I like to believe that I don’t have an addictive personality.

When I was 18, I started smoking. Just socially at first, mostly because I had a boyfriend who smoked at the time and I liked having an excuse to go out and sit with him whenever he needed a smoke break.

Yes, I was full of all kinds of self-esteem and inner strength at that point in my life.

Either way, it initially started out as an occasional thing.

And then, it was a little more than occasional.

Until finally, it was daily. I was even buying my own packs.

Then suddenly one day something clicked and I thought to myself “What the heck am I doing?!? I hate cigarettes!” And I quit. Just like that. No fan fare or drama. I was simply no longer a smoker. Not even occasionally. Not even every once and a while. Not even after a few too many drinks.

OK, that’s a lie. I’m pretty sure for a while there I still smoked out at the bars if I happened to be drinking with smokers.

But beyond that – I didn’t smoke. I never missed it. Never craved it. Never yearned for a drag again.

And I like to look to that story as an example of the fact that I don’t have an addictive personality.

Forget the years spent battling an eating disorder, or cutting, or drinking far more than was necessary on a regular basis.

(Side note: Holy crap I was a train wreck! How did I ever make it to adulthood in one piece?!?)

Yeah. Forget about all that. I didn’t get addicted to cigarettes, so therefore – I don’t have an addictive personality.

Except… I think I might have an addiction I’ve never really owned up to before.

One that does not come equipped with a 12 step program or weekly meetings.

One that is little known, and rarely talked about.

One that kind of makes it clear what a huge dork I am.

Hi. My name is S.I.F. and I am addicted to greeting cards.

Seriously.

I am a girl with a drawer full of cards. For any occasion and purpose you can possibly imagine. And I can regularly be found rooting through that drawer for the perfect “just because” sentiment.

I just love cards. I love sending them. I love receiving them. I love surprising someone with a card when they least expect it.

I love cards.

I have birthday cards and thank you cards. Goofy cards and naughty cards. Cards that say “I miss you” and cards that don’t say anything at all.

I love cards.

And as such, I really need some sort of intervention. Because today, I found myself heading into a Hallmark store. Navigating directly towards the Fresh Ink display (my brand of choice) and walking out with $50 worth of cards.

$50!

What kind of a person really needs $50 worth of greeting cards?

Especially when you consider the fact that I have at least 30 in my card drawer already as it is!

I did not need more new cards, but… I couldn’t help myself. My one big goal for today was to send off a “Thank You” gift to Dr. Cook and his staff. Something to truly show my gratitude for all they did in helping me to be able to afford this surgery, and in getting me in so quickly.

I wanted to send a “Thank You”, but I realized as I was driving that I had forgotten to get a card out of the drawer. And this simply was not acceptable.

Now, why I couldn’t have been content picking up one card and calling it a day, I’m not sure I’ll ever know. But the sad truth is – that one card I needed turned quickly into twenty before I proceeded to the checkout.

And now, I have a card drawer that is literally overflowing with cards. More than I could ever possibly need. Quite possibly a lifetime supply of cards.

After the Hallmark store, I headed over to Alaska Wild Berry. This is one of my favorite places to get gifts for people out of state, mostly because people from out of state are always excited to get something “Alaskan”. After putting together a basket of my favorite things, I proceeded to checkout and set it all up to be sent to Dr. Cook’s office sometime next week along with the card I had picked up along the way.

The absolutely necessary card, that also came with 19 absolutely necessary friends.

I’m trying not to feel bad about this, but I’m seriously laughing at myself right now. I had no need at all for these cards, but once there in the store staring them down – it was like I couldn’t resist.

I’m especially amused by the handful of lovey-dovey cards I managed to throw into the mix. Because really – who am I planning on sending romantic sentiments to at any point in the near future?

The good thing about cards is that they don’t go bad. And that my momentary card insanity didn’t exactly break the bank. It was ridiculous and unnecessary, but I’m sure I will put all those cards to good use at some point or another.

Either that, or one day I’ll open up my own card store.

Because if you can’t beat an addiction, you might as well embrace it.

Falling Behind

I have fallen behind.

Really behind.

Almost 3 weeks behind.

And I tried to catch up today, but… it just isn’t happening.

I brought my current bible study along with me to California. I had every intention of keeping up. Of reviewing the lessons and maintaining my pace with the rest of the class. But as you might imagine – I wound up finding myself more than a little overwhelmed while there.

Beyond that, I was so hopped up on pain killers for at least a week straight that I’m not sure I could have taken anything away from the study even if I had tried.

But now, here I am. 3 weeks behind, and struggling to rebuild my interest in the study enough to catch up with the rest of the class for the remaining few weeks.

Only – I fear it isn’t going to happen.

Am I the only one who has moments in her spiritual journey where she just isn’t feeling it? Where the words aren’t speaking to her at all?

I feel awful admitting this, but… I’m there. There are times when I feel so connected and so motivated that all I want to do is read the word of God. And then there are other times when it honestly feels like a chore. When I feel like I am forcing myself and getting absolutely nothing out of it in return. And today - I am there. I sat this afternoon pouring through 5 different lessons in my attempt to catch up, and I have to be honest – I don’t think I got anything at all from them. I’m fairly sure that even though it didn’t seem as though my mind was wandering as I was doing them, I was in fact a million miles away.

Away from God. Away from His word. And away from the task at hand.

Unsure of how to get back. How to re-engage myself and find the motivation to catch up. To relate. To learn.

I’m a bit worried this study may be a wash. That I may have to bow out and hope that something else catches my attention soon. Speaks to me. Pulls me back in.

Because right now, the truth is that I am drifting. Not in my faith per se, but in my commitment. In my desire to connect and learn and grow spiritually.

I feel… bored.

(Courtesy of Google Images)

And again, I ask; am I the only one who has ever been there?

Around The World

I had a dream last night. A dream in which I quit my job, sold my house and car, donated most of my belongings, and then… left. Hopped on a plane and spent a year going from one location to another. Around the world. Everywhere I’ve ever wanted to go. A year spent traveling. Learning. Growing.

Healing.

I woke up this morning with that itch. The all too familiar travel bug. A long stifled lust for seeing the world.

(Courtesy of Google Images)

I used to spend hours upon hours planning away at statravel.com. It was a true heartbreaker for me when I turned 27 last year and officially aged out of their discounts and deals.

At the time though, I literally had an entire around the world trip planned out. To the tiniest of details. I figured then that I could do it all for around $10,000. That I could travel, and eat, and sleep, and see the world for about that sum if I did it right. If I was smart and frugal – which I knew I could be. Especially abroad.

My destinations were picked and my visions for the future mapped out. When I graduated from college, I was going. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

I was going to see the world.

And then, one of my best friends at the time had a baby. And… everything changed. I had always known I wanted to be a mother, but the truth is – I had never felt any kind of rush in doing so. I figured I could travel, and play, and get all of that other stuff out of my system first. I figured I could live the life I wanted to live in my 20’s, and then start thinking about settling down in my 30’s.

But now? Seeing someone I cared about (someone my age) with a baby. Settling down. Starting a family.

I wanted that. I wanted that more than I had ever wanted anything. I wanted to stop partying and drinking and playing around. I wanted to find Mr. Right and fall in love. Get married, and have lots and lots of babies.

Suddenly, all my hopes and dreams shifted. And as much as that trip around the world still appealed to me – it now felt like a time waster. Like time spent goofing off instead of working towards my real goals.

And so, I put it on hold. I still worked towards graduating from college, but instead of getting on a plane to Costa Rica when that diploma came through – I packed up my bags and moved to Alaska. I started working towards settling down. And I shoved the travel bug aside.

A lot of you are probably surprised to read this now. To learn that pregnancy was not always my number one goal. But those who know me best – they remember. They remember the girl who dreamt of traveling. Of seeing the world. Of just getting on a plane, and going.

They remember the girl who had an entire around the world trip planned out.

And suddenly this morning, I remembered her again too.

Could I do it now though? Could I still be that girl?

My feelings on adoption are still up in the air. My aching over those failed cycles still very much so palpable. And the truth is – the only man I have ever loved (the one I'm fairly sure, at least on some level, I've been sitting here waiting for) may very well have moved on. Coming to terms with the fact that the second chance I used to believe we would eventually get may not be as inevitable as I once thought has been mind boggling to me.

Life feels on hold right now. As if I’m waiting for something. Sitting on pins and needles hoping for the answers to all the questions I’ve had over the last year. But unsure of when (or even if) those answers will ever present themselves.

Maybe it’s time to stop waiting. Adoption can happen at any time. Love will happen when it is meant to. And eventually – my heart will heal.

Perhaps it’s possible that it’s meant to heal on the other side of the world though.

Costa Rica to Ireland. Ireland to Greece. Greece to Thailand. Thailand to Australia. Australia to New Zealand. New Zealand to Fiji. And then from Fiji to home. Wherever it is I decide home should be at that point.

I would still be a year away from being able to do anything. I know there are those thinking right now “No way! Just do it! No time like the present!” but, I spent the last year doing things with that mentality, and it only served to dig me into a heap of debt. I would need a year to get out of that. To pay off especially my grandmother, who I dearly love and hate owing. Beyond that though, I bought my home under the 2009 new home owner’s credit. Meaning; this has to be my main residence for 3 years or else I have to pay that money back. It would take about 3 years for me to have enough equity in this place that I wouldn’t lose money on the sale too. So Alaska will be home until May of 2012 at least.

But… it’s not like I’ve never spent a year working towards a goal before.

I would be 29 when I left. I would turn 30 in some foreign country. I’m honestly not sure that I could imagine anything more perfect. Well… I could imagine something more perfect (love, babies, happily ever after), but as far as consolation prizes go? This is a pretty good one.

And suddenly… I’m planning.

Thinking about taking that other path. The one I bypassed the last time around.

Maybe something will happen in the next year that changes these plans. Something bigger. Something better. Something more in line with those original hopes and dreams.

But if not? If nothing magically appears in front of my face big enough to make me want to stay?

This time next year I might just be gearing up for the biggest adventure yet…

Why I'm Here

My biggest fear over the last few days has been falling.

I have been terrified of losing my footing in a parking lot. Slipping, and sliding, and tearing my incisions right open.

It’s not a crazy or irrational fear. I live in Alaska. It’s wintertime. And I’m a klutz.

One could only assume that the chances of my falling are high. And normally, I’m not too worried about it. It happens frequently enough, and usually without too much bodily harm. I can typically pick myself up off the ground and go on about my business just fine.

But now? Now it would hurt. In fact, I’m pretty sure a good enough fall would land me in the hospital. Bleeding out and screaming in pain after what would inevitably result in my insides being torn in half.

OK, so maybe I’m being a little overdramatic, but yes… I have been afraid of falling.

Which is why I was less than enthused when I woke up this morning to a few inches of fresh snow. I typically love a new layer of snow. It cleans everything up. Brightens the world outside.

But as I drove into work with my CR-V slipping and sliding along the road, I couldn’t help but worry that today would be the day my feet would fly out from underneath me and my still healing stomach would be torn in two.

I gingerly shuffled through the parking lot to enter work as I wondered how much longer the snow would keep up. Not wanting things to get much worse before it was time to drive home for my 3 day weekend.

It was during one of my many peeks outside to see if the snow had stopped that I discovered this guy:

A baby moose. No mama in sight. Close enough to reach out and touch if I had been brave enough (which I wasn’t – this little guy was still bigger than me!)

And it was in that moment that I remembered why I love it here. It doesn’t matter how often it happens. How regularly nature presents itself front and center for me here. I am always blown away by how incredible this place is.

I truly love Alaska.

When it was time to clock out for the day (my first full 8 hour day – thank you very much), I packed up and rejoiced a little over the 3 day weekend ahead. I then walked out to discover a co-worker scraping all the snow off my car. She said she didn’t want me to be reaching to do it myself.

I work with some pretty amazing people. I am surrounded by some pretty amazing friends. And I live in a pretty amazing state.

Sometimes I forget why I’m here. I find myself missing my friends and family in the lower 48, or feeling like I don’t have anything really tying me to this place and this town at all. I fret over the goals I had for myself when I moved up here (to settle down, fall in love, and have lots and lots of babies). The goals that I am now (almost 3 years later) still nowhere near accomplishing. I start to wonder if I wouldn’t be better suited somewhere closer to “home”.

And then I remember that this is home. This is the home I chose. The home I love.

Days like today (with the fresh snow and baby moose and random acts returned) always help to remind me why I’m here.

And with summer just around the corner…

I do believe that life is about to start looking a whole lot brighter.

The New Addition

It’s a step that needed to be taken.

One of many meant to get me back on track after the last year.

Meant to erase the expectations of “the nursery” and assist in paying down the hefty debt accumulated by those failed baby making attempts.

(Debt the IRS will also be helping to pay down, thanks to a big fat refund that was accepted on Monday. IVF wasn’t good for much last year, but at least it helped me with my taxes this year!)

The boxes have been packed though, the keys exchanged, and the lease signed.

New roommate is moving in today.

She really is a sweet girl. Easily the best of the applicants I met and showed the room to. A young college student, working and going to school, with an accent that makes me think she just has to be a good person.

Because yes – I am a sucker for accents!

The best part? She only needs a room until the end of the semester, at which point she will be moving home.

So if I find myself truly loathing having a roommate – it will only last until May.

And I can put up with just about anything for a few months.

I am both dreading and looking forward to this new addition in my home. On the one hand, I actually do really like living alone and having my own space. I like knowing that any messes are mine, and that everything in the house is where I would have put it (because yes – I am a bit of a control freak). On the other hand, I have had amazing roommate situations in my life and have walked away from those situations with incredible friends. And sometimes, it’s actually nice to come home to a less than empty house. Plus – I’m kind of excited to have someone to watch scary movies with. I’ve got a few coming up in my Netflix queue, and the truth is – it never turns out well when I watch them alone. A lesson I don't seem to learn unfortunately, and one that inevitably results in multiple nights spent lying awake listening to all the noises in my house and attempting to predict how long it will be before the bad guys/monsters/demons/ghosts come to get me.

But if I have someone to watch them with me? Someone sleeping in the next room who the bad guys/monsters/demons/ghosts would likely go after first (thereby, giving me fair warning to get up and run)… I'll sleep like a baby.

I don’t even care if this girl likes scary movies or not – she is totally watching them with me. House rules.

Beyond all that – I’m kind of in a funk. I hate to admit it, but I've been a bit of a train wreck the last few days. Definitely more emotional than I’m accustomed to, and without any real explanation as to why. I’m crying at the drop of a hat right now though, and it really does need to end.

The problem is – I can’t do any of the things I would normally do to pull myself out of said funk. Working out is out of the question right now, the sun is still not at full force in the Alaskan sky, and I honestly just do not have the energy for a girls night out just yet. Even dating is going to have to wait a few more weeks, because as much as I am jonesing to get out there and get my flirt on – there is nothing cute about a girl gingerly protecting her mid-section as she describes her still fresh incisions and the healing process involved.

No, it’s best if I stay contained in my little cocoon for a few weeks longer. But the hibernation is doing nothing for my mood.

Having a new roommate to befriend might just do the trick though. It might just be the thing to get me smiling and laughing again. At the very least – it will surely be the thing that ends the tears. Because I do not cry in front of strangers.

So, here’s to hoping that new roommate turns out to be clean, and quiet, and considerate. That she and I become fast friends, and get along with ease.

(Courtesy of Google Images)

Short of that, here’s to the next few months flying by.

And a wave of inspiration regarding what to do with that room next hitting me by summer.

Random Acts: Day 30

As I escaped work yesterday (desperate only for the comfort of my bed) I decided to take a second to drop off a Random Acts disk now that I’m back home. I pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant near my office, and quickly placed a disk on the window of a little green car parked in between a couple big trucks.

For some reason, I just don’t think the owners of any big manly trucks are going to truly appreciate my musical compilations!

The next song on the lineup is one I’ve played here before. I love the imagery of the video, and the words behind the music speak so much to my life right now. I think we’re all fighting for a lives a little bit each day. All striving for more. For better. Brighter. Happier.

Oren Lavie, Her Morning Elegance

The Best of Intentions

That’s what I had today. As I set my alarm for 5:30am; there were the best of intentions. As I pulled myself out of bed earlier than I’ve gotten up in days and hurdled myself into the shower; there were the best of intentions. And as I forced breakfast down my throat (even though I wasn’t even kind of hungry) before driving off to work; there were the best of intentions.

Around 10am however, those intentions changed. Fast.

It turns out that sitting up in an office chair is different than sitting up in your bed. That wearing a pair of nice work pants is different than rolling around in pajama bottoms. And that as sedentary as my job is… It isn’t sedentary enough.

I made it until 1:00. I then gracefully bowed out. Proclaiming my inability to make it through the rest of the day.

Thankfully, I have a truly amazing and understanding boss. One who is supportive of whatever I need in this time of healing.

Because the truth is – despite the best of intentions; I just couldn’t do it.

And here is the point I want to make: I know my body. Better than anyone.

I know my body.

There were those yesterday truly concerned about me pushing myself too hard too fast, and to them I just want to make this one point:

I know exactly how hard I can push myself. And exactly when it's time to pull back.

I have done everything in this process whilst following Dr. Cook’s rules. I had clearance from him to fly home on Friday; I didn’t do so until Saturday. Because I knew I wasn’t ready. I had clearance from him to start back to work on Monday. I didn’t do so until today. Because I knew I wasn’t ready. And as much as I thought for sure I would be able to handle a full day; I also was the first to admit it wasn’t going to happen as soon as I realized how much more difficult sitting at a desk was than I had anticipated.

I know my body.

And yes, I checked out of the hospital earlier than the good Dr. had originally anticipated, but he wouldn't have let me go if he thought it was that bad of an idea. He would have put up more of a fight if it truly was unadvisable. I had made it clear from day 1 that I hated hospitals, so I think we both knew that if there was any way at all for me to leave early; that's what I was going to do. I no longer wanted the morphine drip, and at that point - there was really no reason to keep me. I was walking to the bathroom on my own, getting the deed done, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I would sleep better in a quiet hotel than I would in a noisy hospital while hooked up to an IV. I don't regret leaving the hospital early at all, because I know it was what was best for me.

I spoke to Dr. Cook’s office today for my first follow-up phone consult. Everything I am feeling and experiencing is normal. They reminded me again that the endometriosis that was removed from throughout my body was extensive. That it had spread deeper and further than expected. And that even though my incisions look the same as they did for my last two surgeries – this surgery was not the same. In fact, I was informed today that most other doctors would have opted to open me completely up for this procedure. That most would not have been able to do what Dr. Cook was able to do laparoscopically.

I was reminded today how truly blessed I am to have found this phenomenal surgeon. One of only a handful in this country who would have even attempted to remove all the bad tissue he was able to remove. And perhaps one of the only capable of doing so with such precision and care that I'm in the position now to even be contemplating returning to work.

But I was also told to continue trying things as I felt ready. Listening to my body and pulling back if my attempts felt too difficult, but to continue trying nonetheless.

I am not taking any of this for granted. I know the gift I have been given in this surgery. I know the blessing it is going to bestow upon my life here in the very near future (as soon as I do manage to heal all the way up). I know that I need to be easy with myself now, so that I can truly enjoy the benefits later.

In that same breath though, I also know that I am not a girl who will ever milk anything. That no good will come to me from staying in bed longer than I need to just because I can. That my mental health is just as important as my physical health.

And the truth is that in order for my mental health to thrive; I need to at least be trying to re-enter my life.

Even if I fail only half-way through the day.

I need to be trying.

And I need to be setting goals and moving forward. One foot in front of the other.

(Courtesy of Google Images)

I have no intentions of starting an exercise routine without my doctor’s consent. No intentions of pushing any harder or faster than he thinks I should. But… I do intend on pushing. On forcing myself to try. On testing the limits to see what I am and am not capable of as soon as I am given permission to do so.

Because, that’s who I am. I learned a long time ago that coddling myself really served no good purpose. There have been 1000 times where I could have curled up in a ball and allowed endometriosis to consume me while popping pain pill after pain pill to get through the days, but I chose not to do that. I chose to endure. I chose to fight. It wasn’t easy, but I truly believe those choices fared better for me than simply succumbing to the pain of this disease. And so I have to admit; I will continue to make the same choices even in my healing. Because it’s who I am. Because it’s who I want to be.

And so tomorrow, I will get up again. I will try again. And it’s possible that I’ll only make it a half day again. That I won’t be able to accomplish much more than I did today. That I will be more than thankful for Friday to come and go as well, so that I can collapse into the comfort of a 3 day weekend.

But it’s also possible that I will discover tomorrow to be easier than today. That I will realize the discomfort isn’t quite so strong. The exhaustion not quite as gripping.

It’s possible that tomorrow I’ll make it 6 hours instead of 5. Or that I may even reach the end of the day without thinking once about leaving early.

And if that happens, it will be something I wouldn’t even have realized I was capable of if I had chosen instead to stay curled up in bed clinging to my discomfort in fear of re-entering the real world.

You never know until you try.

And I intend to continue trying. To continue moving forward with the best of intentions.

Knowing full well that if whatever I’m trying turns out to be too much, I can always step back and reevaluate.

Intent only on trying again another day. Again, with only the best of intentions.

Until eventually, it no longer feels like trying.

It just feels like living.

Stepping Back

I have been grasping.

Reaching.

Digging at straws.

Trying to fit into a world I no longer really belong to.

As I wrote this week’s post for Fertility Authority, I found myself stumped. Unsure of what to write really. Unsure of how I could contribute anymore.

The truth is, I’m no longer submersed in the land of IF. I’m not actively trying, and I’m finding myself shying away from the topic as a whole. Wanting very much so to take a step back and redefine my life.

This has been coming for a while I think. For the last few months since my November failed cycle. It feels odd to still be focusing so much on infertility when the truth is; I’m no longer actively doing anything to eradicate that infertility. And I’m not sure that I ever will again.

So… I’m stepping back. This week’s post at Fertility Authority will be my last, and I’m putting the live infertility chats on hold for a little while as well. Obviously, it is still an issue that is near and dear to my heart, and that much isn’t going to change. I think infertility and endometriosis are inevitably going to be topics that continue to crop up here from time to time as I try to figure out the next steps for my life. It’s only natural that there are still going to be times when I will want to focus on both issues right here in this space. But the weekly forced immersion into it was just getting to be a bit too much for me. It was making it difficult for me to take that step back I need right now. That breather that I think is necessary for me to figure out what comes next.

To all of you here reading because you share the infertility connection – please know that I am not abandoning you. I am still going to be “Single Infertile Female.” I am still going to be a 27 (soon to be 28) year old woman trying to put the pieces of her life together in the abyss of infertility. The community will still be a place welcoming of all women from all walks of life looking to talk about anything and everything – from infertility, to breastfeeding. IVF, to issues in the workforce. I am still interested in your stories and lives. I just… I need to start taking my own story in a different direction. My own life needs to be rebuilt on a different foundation. And I can’t do that while still allowing infertility to be such a major focus in my life.

It’s possible that at some point this will all change. I’m not sure right now that I could ever see myself actively trying again, but I’m not completely closed off to the idea at some point in the future under the right circumstances. That point is not now though, and so for now –I need to accept that. And move on, focusing on some of the other facets of my life.

I hope you all understand, and are still along for the ride.

Because trust me… I still plan on it being a wild one.

Just without the needles, and hormones, and sperm purchases.

Meaning – I’m going to need to find a new brand of excitement for myself!

And soon…

Enough is Enough

I took another day off work today.

But that was it. No more. Enough is enough.

Tomorrow, I am going back to work.

I think one week is perfectly adequate healing time for me to now be able to return to my desk job just fine.

Besides, last night was the first night I rolled over in my sleep without being woken up by searing pain in my left side. I think the end of the hot poker effect is probably a good sign.

And the truth is – I think I need to get out of this bed. Out of this funk. And back to my life.

Where I have responsibilities. And goals. And distractions.

Lots and lots of distractions.

I really am surprised that I needed this extra time though. The truth is, I was pretty positive that I was going to be more than ready to jump right back into work on Monday. After all, I had both of my last two surgeries on a Thursday and was pretty much ready to return to work by Sunday. With surgery on a Tuesday this time – I had no reservations at all with thinking I would be back to work by Monday.

But… I have to admit that the difference between this surgery and those last two was like night and day. My first two surgeries were pretty much a walk in the park. I was sitting up and visiting with friends the night of surgery. Moving around just fine almost right away. Off pain pills in less than 24 hours.

This time though… I felt like I had been hit by a truck. And I looked it too! I’m not exaggerating when I say that those first few days were rough! That I was shocked by my own inability to function. To get out of bed on my own, or eat, or talk to someone for more than 15 minutes without feeling physically exhausted by the whole thing.

Here we are though, a week later, and I am finally starting to feel like something closer to normal again. Finally feeling like I can sleep without fear of moving in the wrong direction. Finally confident in my ability to make it through the day without pain meds. Finally convinced of my own endurance when it comes to getting up in the morning and putting in a full 8 hours.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m pretty sure I’m going to come home tomorrow night exhausted. And wanting nothing more than my bed. But I also know I’m going to be able to get through the day just fine. That I’m here; healed enough to return to my daily activities. Even if not yet with as much gusto as before.

It’s only a matter of time though. I’m already working up a plan in my head for the point in time a few weeks from now when I’m feeling 100%.

A plan for what comes next.

The truth is – it’s probably been a year and a half since I’ve worked out with any kind of consistency at all. Me. A girl, who while never coordinated, still used to be fairly athletic. A girl who used to run miles on the beach daily. Who loved biking. And hiking.

A girl who just loved to be moving.

Who was fit. And toned. And in shape.

Now… that shape is pretty much just “fluffy”. I haven’t gained any weight in this last 2 years, but everything has definitely settled differently. Less gracefully. Softer. Muscle turned into fat now dying to be turned back into muscle.

So, that’s the goal. I’m going to be making a visit to the local Core Pilates studio and purchasing a package of visits. And starting hopefully in March, I am going to kick this body back into gear.

Because, enough is enough.

I have been sedentary, and docile, and unassuming. It’s time to get a little arrogant though. Time to reclaim my body as my own. Time to take it back.

Time to start over.

So, there’s the plan.

Tomorrow: Work.

Two weeks from now: Core Pilates.

The rest of this year: Mine.

But, it’s going to start with me setting the alarm tomorrow. Getting out of bed, and taking a shower. Putting one foot in front of the other, until it all feels normal and natural and right again.

I am getting out of this bed and getting my life back.

Enough is enough.