I actually had a hard time trying find a least favorite song. I think it’s because I inherently believe all songs have redeeming qualities.
(Huh. Come to think of it … I think anything or anyone in the world has some redeeming qualities. You just have to look for it … )
Take Rebecca Black’s song “Friday” … This is that song and video that went viral on the internet after critics and viewers on “the webs” claimed that it was the worst song ever written. So yes … I was one of those fools that clicked on Rebecca’s video and watched in horror as the song played out. And I confess that I thought that it was a pretty bad song.
Like the hat? We also had his golf putter and a TV remote placed with him!
I saw my Dad the other night. Well … actually, I saw him in my dreams anyway.
I guess it was only a matter of time that Dad would show up in my slumber. After all, it’s been 4 months and he’s (obviously) been weighing heavily on my mind since then. Except his presence in this dream took me completely by surprise.
~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~
Dad appeared to me in a dream that involved staying at a hotel in Las Vegas for a conference with some co-workers (both past and present). In the dream, a former co-worker confronted me regarding a statement I had made about being excluded from some team activity. She had asked me if this was going to affect our working relationship. And just as I was about to answer her, I looked up from where I was seated and saw my Dad standing right by the hotel room door. Plain as day; wearing a set of khaki trousers and a dark red collared sweater … something I could see him wearing whenever we’d go out to dinner together.
But Dad wasn’t alone. He was with a person, whose face looked so familiar; perhaps a family friend from back in his home town that I had met at one of those Canadian “reunion” picnics we’d go to every year. Whoever it was, I couldn’t place the name.
As soon as I saw Dad, I jumped out of my seat and ran up to him and wrapped my arms around him tightly. “I’ve missed you,” I told him.
“I know,” Dad said to me. “I’ve missed you, too.” And then we started talking as if he’d been on a trip back to the Philippines, rather than being physically gone from the earth. What we had talked about, I can’t really remember; but I do recall feeling sad when he told me that they had to go now.
“Okay,” I told Dad. “I’ll walk you guys to the elevator.” And so we walked down the hall and I watched him and this family friend step into the elevator. As the elevator doors started to close, I started to feel panicked; my heart began to race and I suddenly felt bereft.
So I stuck my hand out to stop the elevator door from closing and jumped in. Except when I got inside, my Dad wasn’t there. I looked about the elevator and saw the family friend that had previously accompanied my Dad. I asked where Dad was, but all I got was a shrug of the shoulders.
Once we got to the hotel lobby, I got off the elevator and decided to wait for another elevator car to arrive; thinking that Dad had jumped onto another car instead. After a couple cars came up empty for Dad, I walked towards the hotel entrance intending to sit on one of the couches in the lobby and cry. After all, I had this sick feeling that I’d never get to see him again … even though in the dream it felt like he was just going to walk around the Vegas Strip.
But as I walked toward the lobby, I felt a tap on my shoulder. And when I turned around, I saw my Dad standing there. He engulfed me in another bear hug and said, “You didn’t think I’d leave you, did you?”
I nodded my head, the tears streaming down my face. “I’ll always be with you,” Dad told me. “Don’t ever forget that.”
And that’s when I woke up.
~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~
Strangely, my pillow wasn’t wet with tears, even though my eyes felt as if they had been crying. And the rest of my body just felt extremely tired. And sad … extremely sad. I had remembered waking up briefly in the midst of the dream to tell Hubby that I saw Dad. But by the time I woke up after the dream was over, Hubby had already left for work.
During our last trip to Vegas ... Dad was "pole-dancing" on the tram! LOL!
So instead I told a good friend that I had met for lunch later on in the day. This friend had also lost her father earlier last year and had been there to comfort me during the days following Dad’s death. Without giving her any details about the dream, she told me that it was my Dad’s way visiting me; of showing his presence to me. And we left it at that.
Later on that evening, I told Hubby about the dream and what my friend had said to me. In between the sobs I had let out, he held me tightly and wished that he could make the pain go away.
Then over the phone, I relayed the same thing to my Mom. She too, believed that my Dad had come to visit me and in turn asked me whether or not he looked happy. At first I had told her that Dad’s belly appeared fuller, and we both laughed. “Obviously he’s being fed well up there,” my Mom said, both of us knowing how much my Dad loved to eat.
But then Mom asked me again, “Did he look happy?” After all, other than some “random” events that have taken place at the house, Mom had yet to see Dad face-to-face.
I thought about it for a moment; thought about our conversation and the words Dad had said to me in the hotel lobby. And I answered, “Yes. He looked content.”
“That’s good,” Mom had said. “That just means he’s at peace.”
And as strange as that statement sounded, I believed Mom. And it comforted me … especially knowing that my Dad said he’d always be with me.
I apologize in advance for the snarkiness of this note. I’ll be honest with you and tell you that I’m currently going through one of overall emotional downslides right now.
Because really — truly — if you are my FB friend, I honestly like you.
What I mean is that I don’t randomly “friend” a person unless I have a legitimate connection to any of you. And I follow your status updates and photos and notes that you all post because I’m genuinely interested in your lives.
But today I have a beef. And I must emphasize that it’s the Infertile childless woman in me that is really upset.
You see, I love that I get to live vicariously through my FB Moms … love that I get to see pictures of the youngin’s in their various milestones in life. I absolutely love that I get to read about random stories that truly make me chuckle.
And when I start to see FB status that ask me to honor all those Mothers out there for the hard work they do every day, I don’t complain. Because I know from watching my own Mom how difficult it is. And I know from reading and hearing about your lives how much you all deserve recognition.
But people … Must I remind everyone that there’s a National Holiday out there that celebrates this? One that happens every single May? One that, year after year, reminds me that I’ll never be on the receiving end of such love and adoration?
Please don’t get me wrong … I’m not asking anyone not to be proud of who you are or what you have in life.
If anything, I’m just asking that you remember — in your quest to be recognized and acknowledged for all the little (and not so little) every day things you deal with … that there are women, like me (who have desperately wanted to become Moms), that will never be able to partake in this recognition.
And that, as a woman … there are few other things (outside of a stellar career or ground-breaking discoveries) that an every-day woman can be recognized for. That … despite the need to find an identity for yourself outside of being a Mom … that you do indeed have some sort of socially recognizable identity.
So please … On your quest to show pride for the wonderful Mother you’ve become … also remember those women who won’t be able share in your own experiences. And that there is an entire world out there of women (one in eight, to be precise) that are struggling to have even a sliver what you have … Women that struggle to find anykind of every-dayidentity.
Because I can’t speak for other Infertiles out there … but being a Mom had been an identity that I’ve always wanted to say I owned. One that, even after so many years of giving up my dream of Motherhood, I still mourn the loss ofevery day.
Thanks for … at the very least … reading.
And now I’ll head back to my regularly-scheduled, self-imposed seclusion. Better that I stay quiet and contained for now, lest I offend even more people … including myself.
There’s this episode of “How I Met Your Mother” that Hubby & I recently watched. It’s the episode in which Robin meets up with her Canadian High School boyfriend; a boy who broke her teenage heart in his van after playing a gig with his band, The Foreskins**. She confesses to her friends that the minute she set eyes on him, she suddenly felt like she was sixteen again; complete with the excitement and butterflies that a “first love” could only elicit. But not only that, Robin found herself acting exactly like she did at that age.
Marshall, in his wise ways, had developed a term for this type of behavior. He called it “Revertigo” … a phenomenon in which a person reverts back to his or her former self when around certain individuals from their past. In this episode, he uses Lily as an example; having her invite her old high school friend, Michelle, who brings out the “gangsta” in her whenever they’re together. But once separated from one another, they revert back to their normal selves.
Hubby and I could not stop laughing during the entire episode.*** It was something that we both know happens to me when I get together with my Canadian cousins. When we get together I somehow slip back into this version of myself that I can only call “The American Cousin” — all brash and outspoken with a hint of arrogance (not intentional, of course). But not only that … for some strangeinsane reason, I also find myself speaking in a Canadian accent; complete with long O’s (as in “sooorry”) and unconsciously adding “eh?” to the end of all my sentences.
Seriously. We could be in the heart of the continental U.S. and I could suddenly be mistaken for a Canadian!
The thing is, when experiencing “Revertigo,” every fiber of you begins to revert back to that place and time. All the good and the bad. All the excitement of being at the age that you were and all the insecurities you may have experienced at that time.
Proof that I was a GleeK in high school
This Saturday is my 20th High School Reunion. And while I debated for a verrrry long time about whether I’d attend, I finally decided that I would skip out on the festivities. I can say that I did it for a number of reasons. The easiest being that I didn’t feel like shelling out the money to see people I really didn’t know that well twenty years ago. Or that I only wanted to see certain people from my graduating class; ones that I’m not even sure will be in attendance.
I’ll admit that both of those reasons areindeed true; and — in my eyes — valid, as well. But the primary reason is this: I’m just not at the best place that I want to be in my life at this exact moment. I don’t (nor will I likely everhave) the children that I know most of my classmates already have. I don’t have that beautifully maintained home with a well-manicured lawn that my suburban counterparts will also likely have. And I certainly don’t have the job / degree / success in my life that I thought I’d have by this time in my life.
But I was also a HS Hottie (along with future-SIL), too!
And seeing that this past spring and summer were beyond stressful**** I’m feeling just a leeetle insecure with myself.
If the phenomenon known as “Revertigo” is true; then all those insecurities and lack of self-confidence I currently have at this point in my life will be twenty-times magnified … like everything tends to be during those “puberty years.”
Oh, I’m not naive enough to know that my classmates likely feel the same way about themselves in some capacity or another. If anything, I certainly believe that most of us, in our late-thirties, feel like we haven’t accomplished everything that we thought we would have over the last twenty years.
No, really. I simply don’t want to attend for this simple reason: I’m trying to avoid feeling andacting as if I’m in high school again. And seeing that I’ve had a few major curveballs thrown at me over the past six months, I don’t know if I’d have the strength to combat this bout of “Revertigo.”
Class of 1990
One more thing and I’ll go back to being a 38 year old Gen-X slacker … my lack of desire to attend my high school reunion, by no means indicates that I don’t want to see those people I considered close friends during my teenage years.
The way that I look at it is this: If I hadn’t already found you via Facebook (or any other means of communication) … this simply means that you don’t want to be found. And I can respect that need for privacy. And if we were meant to find our way back to one another, then we’ll find each other when the time is right.
To me, friendship is all about every day life; and there shouldn’t be a need to make a big formal deal about it.
** “There were four of us. And we didn’t wear any shirts.” At least that’s how the band name was explained. LOL!
*** Mainly because Robin’s ex-boyfriend was played by James Van der Beek of “Dawson’s Creek” fame.
**** A quick recap:
I got fired from the job I moved to Chicago for; the one that I hoped would help heal me gain some of that self-confidence that Infertility robbed me of.
I found out that Dr. Bro and Dr. SIL have finally made the decision to (successfully) procreate.
I recently started and am currently training for a new job that will take my career in a different direction.
And in the midst of job-hunting, debated on a move backto Detroit only to decide to stayin Chicago (but move to a smaller apartment); much to the chagrin of family members that wanted us to move back “home.”
Oh … and being unemployed certainly didn’t help our financial situation, either.
My previous boss once said to me, “You don’t have to get everyone to like you.”
This is the same boss who, in the midst of all the chaos at the end of this past April, didn’t do a thing to help me out. The same boss who worried the whole time that I’d find the job horrible and go running back to Detroit.
But, as difficult as my position at this company would get, I actually enjoyed my job. I found that it challenged me in ways I hadn’t been challenged before. And up until the day I was sent home (and eventually told to stay home), I found myself gaining a little more confidence in myself … confidence I had lost so much of when going through the roller coaster of Infertility.
Megan from Bottoms Off and On the Table wrote a post that really resonated with me. In her post she talks about how busy she’s been at work and how, perhaps, she’s using work as a self-imposed coping mechanism while deciding on the next step of her Infertility journey.
And, oh … could I ever relate to this.
Reading her post reminded me of “stepping down” from my previous supervisor position in Michigan in order to concentrate my energies on IVF. After all, I had already been through years of conservative treatment and months of medicated cycles … all with disappointing results. By then I was so exhausted by the monthly cycles of treatment, which included multiple trips to the various doctor’s offices for lab draws and pelvic ultrasounds, only to be concluded with yet another negative pregnancy test.
And how I even managed to keep track of all the supervisor duties I had during those years, I’ll never remember. But what I do know is that once I decided to become a “regular” staff member (instead of supervisor), I suddenly felt as if I had more breathing room … at least enough to allow some positivity and hope into my life before heading into IVF territory.
After our IVF failed, I admit I began to slack off at work; an obvious sign that I cared little about anything during those first months of incredible depression. Then I discovered that throwing myself into work helped distract me from feeling like a complete failure. Flash forward a few years, and now I found myself moving to Chicago to accept a position that I’d hope would advance my career. I, once again became a supervisor; but this time for a high-profile group within a much larger company.
I did this for a number of reasons, but mostly I did this so that I could further my career. My thought was this: If I couldn’t give bear children because Infertility robbed me, then I might as well focus on the part of myself that I knew I could be good at. I might as well be a “successful” career woman.
And then … well, you know what eventually happened with that job. And the ultimate failure I felt from that fallout. What had angered me most was that I felt I went above and beyond my capabilities of being successful (and had been recognized for such accomplishments), but yet my previous boss never bothered to step up for me and fight for me; something she could have easily done. Except … well, this being the same boss who told me that I didn’t need to be liked, I rather think she had something against me. Personally, I think it’s because she had kids and was currently in school, which meant that she couldn’t completely “focus” in further her career …
As I’ve just completed my first week at my new job, I have found myself contemplating the lessons I’ve learned from my last job; what I should take away from that experience. And since I had four months to mull over the past year and a half, this is what I came up with:
There’s no need to “make up” for my inability to bear children with trying to more successful in other ways. Because it’s more important to focus on being happy with who I am and the strong(ish) person I’ve become … even though it’s nowhere close to where I though I’d be at this time in my life.
And
My previous boss was right. I don’t have to get everyone to like me. Because it’s not about being “liked.” Rather, it’s about being respected … which should really begin with respecting myself. And how can I respect myself if I continue to measure myself on my inability to have children? My life isn’t supposed to be all about whether I or not I failed in the “kids” department. I should be about my accomplishments and about remembering to give myself credit where credit is due.
There’s this 
Hubby and I could not stop laughing during the entire episode.*** It was something that we both know happens to me when I get together with my Canadian cousins. When we get together I somehow slip back into this version of myself that I can only call “The American Cousin” — all brash and outspoken with a hint of arrogance (not intentional, of course). But not only that … for some strange insane reason, I also find myself speaking in a Canadian accent; complete with long O’s (as in “sooorry”) and unconsciously adding “eh?” to the end of all my sentences. 
