Hello Blogland. It’s been awhile. And while I haven’t written much more than the quarterly (and now annually) performance evals for my staff as well as politically correct email after email … It’s not like I didn’t have the need or desire to write.
Storm Clouds gathering at the Mayan Ruins of Tulum
Like how, for the first time in, oh … I don’t know, 14 years, I wasn’t too wrapped up on how much the holiday season was about having a child in which to bestow such happiness and wonderment on. While part of the reason was because I was so busy between work and traveling back and forth from Detroit … I think it was honestly because I didn’t feel the need to separate myself from the friends and family with kids as I have in the past. It was rather … liberating, may I say.
Or how a year ago earlier this month, I celebrated my 1-yr work anniversary at my current place of employment. This means, of course, that it’s officially been a year since I’ve moved to Chicago.
That Sunday before my “anniversary,” Hubby and I spend the morning in bed. And as we lay there, all nice and snuggly underneath four layers of blankets, we recalled what it was like for us a year ago that day; how I watched him from our second story apartment window drive away from me back to our home in Michigan, where he would live until April.
And so it begins to rain on the coast of the Caribbean Sea
Hubby & I hugged a little tighter after that brief memory; and rightly so, as I recall feeling as if my heart had broken into a zillion pieces. Especially since we’d only see each other on the weekends after that. But Thank G*d for modern technology; specifically, video iChat, which allowed me to literally fall asleep “next” to him … even though we were separated by hundreds of miles of roads and, well, a gazillion miles worth of cable for such an internet connection.
Looking back on that first day of work last year, I still can’t believe how I managed to get through it without falling apart. New city, new job, new place of living … oh, and no car, too. Any one of those things could be considered a major stressor in life, but then throw in the fact that Hubby wasn’t physically there to hold my hand through it? Yeah, like I said … amazing I made it through a whole day, let alone three whole months before we were “living” under the same roof again.
It’s amazing how much one could draw strength at times when it’s needed most. Early 2009 was definitely one of those times. What I can’t understand is how strength can come in many different forms; especially at times when it seems as if things are the bleakest.
What? There's a beach down there?!
Last year, I drew strength from knowing that I was going to do everything possible to make this “new life” successful. I had to make it work; simply because I knew the consequences of it not working would be to move back to Michigan. Not that I wouldn’t do it (or be unhappy about it) if things came to that … I just wanted to try my best so that I could gain some momentum on success in my life.
So what or where did I draw strength from during my lowestpoint in my IF journey? Good question. Those days I honestly don’t know how I put one foot in front of the other. Because even though I tried my “best” to be successful in creating a family … well, we all know the end results. And how does one find strength from inside when the end result would never be 100% clear? Where the “consequences” of not being successful were just as, if not deeper and darker than the pain felt at the very beginning of the IF journey?
The short answer is that I don’t know. All I know is that, even though my IF journey ended with living child-free, I somehow managed to find a small glimmer of light, a slight silver lining around the edges of the storm clouds of infertility. And I managed to find some strength to find my way out of the darkness.
And I hope that any other IF-ers that read this knows that, even in its worse days, somehow that strength is buried deep inside; it’s just a matter of remembering to use it.
This post has been a long time in coming. Truthfully, this should have been written a few months ago. However, between preparations for the audit at work and having just recently had theconversation with Hubby a week ago, the timing just didn’t seem right.
A year ago earlier this month, I was in Chicago interviewing for the position that I now hold. The very same one that has given me much stress and headaches over the past 11 months. The same one that has made me realize exactly how strong I really can be … without the hormonal emotions getting in the way.
I specifically mention the “hormonal emotions” for a reason. That’s because when I look back during those active “baby-trying” years , I can nowsee how much strength I needed in order to get me through that period.
Except I can honestly say that I never feel that I was strong at all during that time period. I felt as I was living day-to-day, hoping that somehow I would catch a break from all the “hard work” I was putting into starting my family.
Whereas with the “challenges” I faced this past year … well, they didn’t feel like a day-to-day struggle. There was always an end in site for each new challenge I faced. From the very beginning of “Operation: Move to Chicago,” there was a goal in mind that was achievable:
Find an apartment; check.
Start new job; check.
Survive living alone in new city for three months with seeing Hubby only on the weekends; check.
Get through six months at new job without being fired from “My way or the highway” boss; check.
Live through high profile work audit with dignity intact; check.
Everything I faced since moving here was (relatively) successful; with that bright light guiding me to the end of a dark tunnel.
Unfortunately that same bright light was never there when facing the darkness that is infertility. And, in my case, definitely not successful … at least in the way that I defined success.
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There’s this memory I have from back in my high school years. It’s back when Disney began to start re-releasing classic movies on VHS tapes. The idea was so that a person could own these movies before they were put back into the “vault” of classic Disney animation.
My mother totally bought into that smart marketing ploy. In fact, she bought many videos including The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, and … if I can recall, Sleeping Beauty. AND she wouldn’t even open them; storing them away in her dresser, in her own personal “vault.”
“Not fair,” I remember telling her. Especially since I loved Ariel and Belle. “Couldn’t we just open them up and watch them once?”
“No,” she had told me. She was saving them for her future grandchildren. So that she can sit down and watch these movies with them, whenever they came over to visit.
This memory, as inconsequential as it may seem to others, is one that cuts me incredibly deep. It’s a reminder of how I’ve failed to fulfill my parents’ dream of becoming grandparents.
Never mind that I already felt horribly bad that my body was not able to give my husband a child of his own. This specific memory reminds me that I’ve probably disappointed my parents as well. That I haven’t been able to give them the grandchildren that they’ve always wanted.
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I’ll be honest that one of the many reasons Hubby & I moved to Chicago was start fresh. There had been way too much emotional Infertility baggage that I had been carrying around for years. And although I had been working very hard at purging that baggage, I could never fully put it away … at least into a place within me that could make things manageable.
So putting some physical distance between myself and the baggage (which held waaay too many memories of hurt and disappointment), as well as the physical location where most of these memories occurred, was something I felt I needed to do.
And it’s with the blessing of my very supportive husband that we found ourselves moving out-of-state; away from the only “home” I had ever known. All this is in effort to be exposed to new people and to be open to new challenges. To have a fresh outlook on where Hubby & I stand in our quest to have a family.
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Next October will be my 20th High School Reunion. Part of me is interested in seeing where everyone is at in this stage of life; to see how far they’ve come since we were teenagers. Then there’s the rebel in me that thinks, “Pshaw … HS Reunions are so ‘Peggy Sue Got Married’! We must break this cycle at once!”
And then there’s the Infertile (with a capital “I”) in me. The one with no children. The one with nothing exciting to show for my life over the past 20 years, other than a degree (only undergrad, to boot!) and a good job. I’ve no kids to brag about; I’ve no incredible 3,000 square foot house to talk about. All I have is a decent walk-up apartment in the city and fur children that shed hair all over the place, including my clothes.
At least I have an incredible husband who I can show off and brag about.
As it is, I’m still debating on whether I want to go or not. However, what I doknow is that a bunch of the HS friends that I still keep in touch with, will be planning a more low-key get-together some time next year. That should, at the very least, be a “milestone” something to look forward to next year.
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I’ve had the pleasure of (finally) seeing my new family physician, not once but twice in the past few months. One was the quick one-over, “Hi, nice to meet you” -type of visit. The second was my yearly female parts check-up.
Both times my physician asked me if I was interested in pursuing further treatment for my infertility. And both times, I told my physician I still wasn’t ready to make that decision. I was in the midst of still adjusting to my new job in a new city.
And I needed more time to separate want vs. need, hope for the future vs. more disappointment, treatment vs. acceptance.
Let me say it’s extremely strange to go from living in one State where In vitro Fertilization (IVF) is not covered, to currently living in a State where it now is. To now have that option to choose what course of treatment that Hubby & I would like to pursue in creating our family.
For those that don’t know, infertility treatments are sometimes not covered by health insurance in certain States. There may be some aspects of treatments that are covered (such as the work-up and, at times, the medications), but for the most part infertility treatments — and specifically IVF is not.
The Infertile RN in me thinks it’s utterly cruel to allow coverage for the work-up of the infertility diagnosis and then turn around and not cover the treatment for it. Even though IVF is not a “guarantee” that one would be successful in starting a family, there’s still that little bit of chance that it becomes successful in “curing” that person’s infertility.
I relate it to treatment for cancer. Much like chemotherapy and/or radiation therapy is considered standard treatment for a person with such a condition … it’s never a “100% guarantee” that the cancer would be “cured” or go into remission.
It’s that double-standard in treatment of a health condition that bothers me the most about the lack of coverage in IVF treatments. Because, quite frankly … the RN Case Manager in me (the one who works for a health insurance company) strongly believes that people have the right to choose how they would like to pursue treatment and have the Health Insurance that I pay for assist in coverage for that treatment.
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This January, it will be a year since I’ve lived in Chicago. And April will mark the official date that Hubby & I will have lived together in this bright new city (well, new to us anyway).
During this past year, Hubby & I have had a chance to open our hearts and minds to different possibilities. We’ve had the opportunity to accept where we’re at when it came to reassessing our options in creating our family.
We’ve talked about IVF and the impact it may have emotionally for me … Both if it wasn’t successful and if it actually was. But even though we know the option of IVF is available to us in the fine State of Illinois, both of us have decided not to pursue that route.
We’ve also had the opportunity to discuss adoption more in depth. To decide if this was the right path for us to take. And the more we thought about it, the more we decided that this was also something we wouldn’t be a 100% comfortable with. (Okay, I admit it. It’s me. I’m the one who fears that I’ll just end up being disappointed again. And I fear that I’d get stuck down that rabbit hole of darkness once again.)
So what does this all mean? Well, readers. It means that Hubby & I have accepted that having children at this moment is not in our best interest. It means, that we have accepted the fact that we may never have children. (Okay, maybe it’s more like *I* accepted this fact, because Hubby was light years ahead of me in this thought.)
This means that we’ve consciously and deliberately have made the choice to begin living life child-free.
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It’s taken me more than 12 years, but I think I’ve finally reached some closure in my infertility journey.
Yet even as one door has closed in my life, I’m still learning to live with the reality of this decision. My infertility is no longer a daily struggle, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have those “moments.”
And those “moments” are the reason I choose to continue writing on this blog. Except now, instead of this blog being about the longing to have a children, it will be about trying to let go of this longing. About learning to look forward to my new future with Hubby. The new journey we’ll be taking together.
It’s about trying to break free from these Apron Strings.
“Poor Me” … that was the headband that Sr. Barbara, the Third Grade teacher at my small Catholic school, would make one of 25 or so kids in my class wear for an entire day at any given moment. It was “awarded” to any classmate whose behavior she deemed appalling.
Imagine a headband like this, sans feathers, that had "Poor Me" written across it ...
Lucky for me, I only found myself wearing that headband maybe once or twice during that year. Okay … maybe three times. There was that incident where Sr. Barbara caught me jump-roping outside during recess without my school uniform on. Relax Mom … I had shorts on underneath that lovely plaid jumper, so I wasn’t completely running around in my day-of-the-week underwear. The correct day-of-the-week underwear, may I add. (At least I think so …)
Punishment like that would never fly in today’s classrooms. It’s (rightly) deemed too humiliating to present to a young child at such an impressionable age.* But that doesn’t stop other children from humiliating a fellow classmate. For instance, Nancy who got “caught” by others digging for gold might suddenly be called “Nose-picker Nancy.” Which, I suppose would be better than being called “Paste-eater Peter.” (I was unfortunately given the nickname “Dummily”)**
Other school-ground embarrassment can also include the feeling of being isolated or singled-out. Perhaps it’s something as silly as refusing to play with a certain individual during lunchtime recess because he/she ate tuna sandwiches for lunch every day. Or it could be as typical as choosing a particular person last in gym class for your team just because he/she wasn’t athletic/graceful enough.
Whatever humiliation is endured at that time, it’s cruel that — even as adults — we still act in such a manner. At times, playing the “Isolation Game” is blatantly obvious: A co-worker may avoid another co-worker for some incredibly vague reason or another. Or a fellow peer may request to be taken off certain projects just so that their name isn’t associated with another employee. Personally, I think it’s sad and childish that certain adults still feel they have to act out in this manner. ***
Then there are those instances where inadvertent humiliation takes place. These are the moments in which one person unintentionally says something that results in the embarrassment of another person. These, if the offender actually realizes that he/she said something off-color … well, these would be known as the “Open Mouth, Insert Foot” moments.
Allow me to use the example in which a skinny friend goes out to meet with her weight-conscious, always-on-a-diet friend for dinner. Skinny Gal orders the largest and fattest piece of red meat out there, while Diet Gal sticks to her plain salad with dressing on the side. And after finishing the meal and despite knowing how self-conscious her friend is about her looks, Skinny Gal states, “G*d, I feel like a cow!”
Heh. An ancient depiction of "Open Mouth, Insert Foot"
And then there’s this scenario. It involves either a well-meaning family member or an “infrequently seen” friend. This person proceeds to make the mistake of reach out for the belly. That action is closely followed by the statement, “Wow. You’ve gained weight! Are you pregnant?”
Yeah, that one’s definitely not my favorite.
I’ve had many of those “thought you were pregnant” moments over the past 13 years of marriage. It doesn’t help that I definitely gained a bit of weight since being married. Nor does it help that I had taken all those meds during those active baby-making “science project” years. And my latest excuse is that I’ve been totally stress-eating since my latest work issues began in June.
But my weight issues aren’t the basis of this latest rambling. Nor is it about feeling humiliated, whether intentional or not. Rather this post is about feeling once again, as if I’ve been left behind.
You see, today I read one of my HS friend’s FB statuses, indicating that her 9-yr old daughter would be going away to overnight camp for the first time this week. And I thought about the strange combination of pride and sadness she probably felt letting her “baby bird” fly away from the nest for a bit; even if it was for no more than two days. And this is probably what started the chain of events and line of thinking leading up to this post.
While I love FB, there are some days where I just want to bury my head in the sand and forget that such an addicting social-networking site ever existed. It has been a wonderful tool for me to catch up with those friends from my “school days.” It has done wonders with keeping in touch with Dr. Bro and Dr. SIL as well as any of my cousins who keep a FB accounts.
Then there are those aspects of FB that make it appear as if I’ve literally been left behind. And today is definitely one of those days. Especially when it comes to seeing friends post pictures or videos of their children. It makes me want to post pictures as well; ones of my “supposed” children. And it makes me want to update my status (via Twitter, of course) with witty statements about what my imaginary kids are up to. It’s moments like that where I feel like I’ve been a “total slacker” in my life. Where I’m just not at the same point in life that my other friends are. That I’m kinda just “stuck” in the marriage phase of my life.
Oh yes, I know realistically that what I’m feeling is pure crap. And I know that despite the fact that I don’t have children of my own, I’ve been pretty successful in my life in other ways.
Yet, there’s this small nagging voice inside my head. It’s the voice that remarkably sounds like a hybrid of my parents and a third-grade version of myself. It’s the one that tells me that I can’t just be average; that I must strive to be the best in everything I do. That I should be a step (or a phase, in this case) ahead of where I’m currently at. That I should always be the one at the top of the class; ahead of all my classmates in everything I do.
Good thing my devil voice doesn't sound like Homer
And that nagging is swiftly followed by the voice of that little red devil on my left shoulder; the one that says, “Face it, Em. You’re so far behind in what you’ve planned for yourself in life. You might as well give it up.” And it’s the same devil voice that tells me that, even if I do have kids now (whether it be my biological child or adopted child), I’d never be able to “catch up” to the rest of those parental peers in my age-group.
It’s, quite frankly, the same voice that tells me I’m a failure for not even being able to pass a pregnancy test. (No multiple choice; just True or False … )
It’s at those moments where we feel like I’ve been instructed to put on a “Poor Me” headband and head to the back of the class. Because, given my conscience lately, Sr. Barbara would have told me to.
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* No wonder I have self-esteem issues to this day.
** No thanks in part to my brother, The Dork.
*** But when there are reality TV shows out there that foster such behavior, it’s amazing that the whole world isn’t all about the backstabbing and talking-behind-the-back
It’s that time of year again for me. College Football Saturdays, fresh apple cider and hot donuts, and fall TV season premieres. Oh, and knitting. For some reason, I tend to pick up the “sticks” (aka knitting needles) and a fresh “batch” of yarn around this time of the year.
This year, instead of sticks I’ve picked up the “hooker.”
Uh … I didn’t say A hooker … I said THE “hooker.” As in a crochet needle.
Geesh. Get your mind out of the gutter.
Crocheting always reminds me of my Grandma Rose. In the years that she lived with us, and for decades after, I can’t recall a time where she didn’t have her crochet needles and ball of yarn inside her bag. She’d pull it out at various times; many times just to keep her hands busy.
Grandma had told me that she picked up crocheting to help with her debilitating arthritis; that it helped loosen her joints, which I can clearly remember looking incredibly swollen and misshapen. While I believe that she took up the craft for that very reason, I also believe that she continued to do so because creating something was incredibly satisfying. (I can’t tell you how many the heirloom tablecloths she made for every one of her children and grandchildren!) That, and the repetitive activity of pulling yarn through slipknot after slipknot was especially soothing.
That’s the reason I’ve enjoyed knitting and crocheting. The simple notion that continuously “picking” or “hooking” or “throwing” yarn over needles to produce a piece of art is calming. It’s a way for me to relieve some stress and yet still feel fulfilled that I’ve actually madesomething out of a skein of yarn.
Yet, while I love to knit and crochet, I only do so with an end project in mind. Otherwise I’d be making waay too many cup cozies or pot holders than any one of my family and friends would ever need. (Yikes!) So with the recent news within our circle of family/friends, it should come to no surprise as to what kind of project I’m currently working on.
After five years of knitting/crocheting hats & booties or blankets for various family members or friends, you would think that I’d be able to forget about my own issues and focus on the project at hand. And many times I can … In fact doing such projects and keeping such a blog is a very personal form of therapy for me. But there are those moments in the midst of making such creations where my childless situation hits me square in the chest.
But then my thoughts somehow switch to the very good friend of mine; the one that taught me to knit. And I remember how lucky I am in other aspects of my life.
Or, like last Thursday on the bus ride home, I remember my Grandma Rose; who taught me the basics of crocheting years and years ago. I remember each piece she’s ever created especially for me. And how much they mean to me; now even more since her recent passing.
And I remember that what I’m currently making is meant to bring up these emotions. Because feeling such sadness reminds me the importance that Hubby and I had placed on trying to have our own child … and exactly how strong our love is to have survived everything we’ve gone through.
