I’m sitting here reading some of my wonderful Infertility Friends’ blogs trying to post some responses. And as I sit here, my hubby is giving me sideways glances as he tries to play NBA Live on our PS2.
I know why he does this. And it’s one of those things that I’m both very grateful for and yet slightly bothered by.
You see the reason he’s doing that is to check on me. To make sure I’m okay after I was told some wonderful news tonite.
And while I am absolutely happy and excited that my longtime friend is pregnant with her third child, I can’t help be just a little sad for myself. Which, I’m wondering if I’m being just a little bit of a hypocrite by telling my friend not to be sad for me. (Because I know you still are, my dear friend!)
The thing is, I know Hubby is merely checking to see if I’m still emotionally intact. After all, in my previous blog post, I just happened to mention how my SIL’s news one year ago this Saturday sent me into a major tailspin. And how a couple days ago, I told him that every year I will now associate the Michigan/Ohio State game as the day I hit rock bottom. (Come to think of it, I just told my friend the same thing earlier this evening before finding out about her pregnancy … Woops. Insert foot in mouth.) And trust me, I am so very grateful (not to mention lucky) to know that Hubby cares about me THAT much to keep an eye on me.
Another Random Cool Picture
However, I do want to let him (as well as my dear friend) know that I’m okay. I do admit to being a little sad for myself; however, I will bounce back. After all, I am a much stronger person than I was a year ago.
So thank you, dear Hubby and my dear friend, for your absolute love and concern. I am forever grateful for both of you and of your support for me.
If it weren’t for either of you in my life, I wouldn’t be the stronger person I am today.
I have been a little busy lately. Probably a good thing, as I do need to keep myself busy otherwise I will start to overanalyze things like I typically do. And then, well … that just gets me in trouble. (I swear, there is something to be said about thinking “too much.”) However, this time around, I’m keeping myself busy is for a good cause.
My Newest “Nephew” Jakobi
Last year, a co-worker and I read an article in our work newsletter that talked about a couple of other employees in another one of our offices who knitted and crocheted quite a few baby hats and donated them to a local hospital’s Neonatal and Special Care Nursery units. Since the two of us knit, we thought that the following year we would try and do the same thing.
And over the course of the year, we did forget about it. It wasn’t until the most recent events concerning my nephew, Liam, that I once again remembered our plan. Since we had quite a few knitters and crocheters in our office, we decided to include them in our plans as well. We also thought that instead of limiting our project to premie and newborn hats, we would extend it to chemo caps for those kids in the Pediatric Oncology floors.
Since presenting this idea to our other co-workers a few weeks ago, we have received an overwhelmingly warm response. We had such a great response that we’ve even designated our lunch time on Mondays to work on our projects and to get tips or exchange patterns for different designs. (We’re a pretty big group in our cafeteria that our group has been given the nickname “Needle Nuts.”) And as of this past week, we have well over 20 knitted or crocheted premie hats and chemo caps in a variety of different colors and styles. It’s been like Christmas for me every day, as there is always a new item added to the box next to my desk.
“The Therapeutic Blanket Project”
Doing this project has become therapeutic for me… especially given the fact that I’m actually knitting hats for babies that won’t ever be my own. I always thought it was ironic that I was a knitter. After all, there’s a common misnomer that knitters were either grandmothers or mothers who would knit things for babies or young children. And here I was, the childless wonder.
I started knitting a few years ago simply as a diversion. And when I found out that my SIL was pregnant, I knew that I was going to knit a blanket and hat & booties for this child, even though I knew it would just about kill me. But I finished that project (unofficially known as the “therapeutic blanket project”), and I felt really good about doing it too. (It’s just too bad that Liam never got to use them.) After that, I went on to knit a newborn hat this summer for my cousin in Calgary who was due in September.
And now … I’m heading up our holiday needle craft project at work. To be doing that is a big step for me. For so long I felt so down on myself (and there are still quite a few days that I do) and quite honestly, clinically depressed. Every literature I ever read about trying to snap out of depression was to do something for others; the theory being that if you helped others less fortunate, you wouldn’t feel so down on yourself. And it’s a really good theory. However, try telling that to someone who could barely take care of herself, let alone help someone else out. Nearly next to impossible, I tell you.
But now that I have a little more energy, I do feel that I am able to help others out a little more. And that’s a good thing … for this Needle Nut.
I love autumn. It’s my favorite season of the year. There’s something about it that appeals to all my senses. The air smells crisp … which then reminds me of pumpkin pie and caramel apples. The leaves change to bright beautiful colors and once they fall, they are just so much fun to stomp on just to hear the crinkling sound. And of course, there’s the change in weather … Indian summer is great, but I do look forward to the drop in temperature just so I can start wearing my sweaters again.
Fall always invokes many memories. The absolute geek in me remembers being excited to go back to school so that I could crack open those new books and break in those new supplies. There’s also the annual trip to the cider mill to get fresh cider and hot donuts and/or to the apple orchards to pick fresh apples. And of course, there is always college football.
Over the years, I’ve started to associate certain songs with certain seasons. Most people associate certain scents with memories, but I’ve always been one that tends to gravitate to the music that has surrounded me during the periods in my life. I describe it as my own personal soundtrack to my life.
For autumn, there is something about The Cure that sticks out in my mind, particularly the “Disintegration” album and specifically the song “Pictures of You.” I’m sure it’s because I remember seeing them in concert during the fall of my senior year in high school; and the song has this haunting melody that reminds me of saying goodbye to friends that have graduated and were heading off to college for the first time.
And speaking of college, another song sparks memories of that first weekend of college and moving into my dorm room. “Life in a Northern Town” by The Dream Academy reminds me of leaving that sheltered environment of Catholic school and expanding my horizons. I remember this song being played by a person I had just met and was surprised that this particular person would like this song as well. It reminds me that you can never judge a book by its cover.
Then there’s “Hands to Heaven” by Breathe. Every time I hear this song I remember my first date in my Junior year in high school. It was the Homecoming Dance at my school and I was escorted by none other than the person I would eventually marry nine years later. Can you believe back then we were going to the dance strictly “as friends?” I think it’s rather interesting that the chorus to that song starts out as “So raise your hands to heaven and pray / That we’ll be back together some day.” Hmm… must have been a foreshadowing of what was to come.
And the last quintessential song for my Fall Soundtrack is none other than the song of which my blog title came from. “Apron String” by Everything But The Girl has been a song that has been part of my life since I was in high school. The first time I ever heard it was by listening to the soundtrack for the John Hughes film, “She’s Having A Baby.” Not that I really liked that particular movie, but John Hughes, in my humble opinion, always had a knack for picking such great songs for any of his films. Anyway, this song reminds me of fall simply for the fact that I remember playing that soundtrack over and over one autumn season.
It’s funny how “Apron Strings”, as a song has always been part of my life. First, during that one autumn season that I played that song over and over again. Then, as I began to fall in love with my husband one spring day during a trip to Ann Arbor my senior year in high school. And finally as I have struggled emotionally over the past ten years with infertility.
My husband came up with the name of the blog, I think, strictly on the fact that he knew that this was probably my most favorite song in the world. What he didn’t expect was that this blog and that song would be pretty much the running theme for what I “needed” to blog about. I’ve had people ask me why I decided to name my blog “Apron Strings,” as the common reference to actual apron strings is about either being tied to one or needing to be cut from one.
For me, the song “Apron Strings” is all about longing. When put in context with infertility, it becomes specifically a longing for a child. If you haven’t had a chance to read the lyrics to the song, feel free to read it here. Then let me know what you think.
But getting back to the whole Autumn soundtrack, music has always played a part in my life. I’d like to know what other songs people associate this season with. There’s some R.E.M. songs that I can think of as well as some U2 songs (hmmm … perhaps “October”?). Or perhaps it’s something as silly as a song from the “Grease” soundtrack. Come on … I can hear you humming a song in the back of your head … let’s “hear” it in writing!
Mmmm … all this talk about autumn has got me craving some warm apple pie and of wanting to snuggle under a warm blanket with Hubby. I’ll be catching you guys later!
I didn’t know this, but October is National Pregnancy and Infancy Loss Month. My Mom, a devout Catholic, told me this information last week after reading her church bulletin. Apparently, the Cathedral of the Most Blessed Sacrament (which is also the Archdiocese of Detroit’s “home parish”) was holding it’s annual mass for those couples who have lost their baby or for those couples who were trying to achieve pregnancy. She had called me thinking that my sister-in-law (SIL), Janet, and I might be interested in attending the mass. I told her that I would talk to Janet and then call her back the next day if we decide to go.
Right away, I knew my decision was going to be based on whether my SIL wanted to go. It’s not that I don’t have any spiritual faith or that I don’t believe in a higher power. It’s more because the past 10 years of infertility have caused a “rift” between God and myself.
Let’s start with a little background. As I mentioned before, my mother is a strong believer in her Catholic faith. Growing up in our household, God was always present in our daily lives and activities. The weekends revolved around when we were going to mass. We would spend summers volunteering to do “Meals on Wheels” through our Church and any Catholic holiday helping out with preparations for our Church. Every night, we would read a chapter from the Bible. And because religion was very important to my parents, I attended Catholic school up through high school. I consider myself truly lucky that my parents invested their time and their money in bringing me up with such a strong faith background. And I truly admire my Mom for all that she continues to do on a daily basis for her faith.
And there’s me. After twelve years of Catholic school and the freedom of going away to college … well, of course I detoured and explored life without organized religion. It’s not that I stopped believing in my faith or stopped practicing the basic morals of what I was taught growing up. Rather, I stopped going to mass weekly and only went when it was absolutely necessary. I also stopped my habit of saying my nightly prayers. Let’s face it, college life (and even post-college life) was just more interesting and religion was put on the back burner.
However, even back then I always knew that I would return to my faith. The one thing that Hubby (who is also Catholic) and I always said was that when it came to raising our children, we wanted to provide them with the same faith and morals that we were taught growing up. And when that time came, we both knew we would whole-heartedly return to our faith.
So imagine what has gone through my mind these past ten years as pregnancy never came. Now most people would have turned closer to their faith. And at first I did. I returned to my nightly prayers and attempted to go to mass weekly. My prayers for a family initially started out as “Please God, I ask that you provide me with the family I’ve always wanted.” As the years went on, it became “God, I know I’m a good person but I don’t understand why you’re testing my faith. Why can’t I get pregnant?” Eventually, I just became very angry at God. Why would He do this to me? Why does He allow other people to become parents when they don’t deserve to be? If God has a reason for doing things (as everyone has a way of telling me over and over AND OVER again), what “reason” did He have for making me feel so sad and miserable and GUILTY for feeling the way I do?
So when the opportunity to go to this mass came along, I wasn’t jumping at the bit. However, I knew that this would be a good thing for my SIL, especially since her loss is so recent. After a bit of discussion, we decided to meet up for breakfast on Sunday and head down to the Cathedral, sans husbands (my hubby had to work and hers is not of the same faith).
Overall, I am truly glad that we went. My SIL had the opportunity to place Liam’s name in the Book of Innocence, in which prayers will be said for these babies’ souls. A prayer was said to all those parents who lost their infant and each family was given a rose and a rosary blessed by Cardinal Maida. A prayer was also said for all the couples wishing to become pregnant or adopt a child. We were individually prayed over by the bishop with an actual relic of St. Gerard and given his medallion to continue to pray to him so that St. Gerard would “intercede” to God on our behalf. It was pretty emotional being up there and being surrounded by the beauty and strength of the Cathedral. And I do admit, I certainly did feel God’s presence that day.
However, there was one thing that truly bugged me. This mass was sponsored by the archdiocese’s Natural Family Planning program. Which makes sense, given the nature of what this Mass was about. What had bothered me was the handout they provided on all their methods for Natural Family Planning. Not that I have anything against it, but obviously I wasn’t able to get pregnant using that method. At the very bottom of their handout, it made mention about the Catholic stance on infertility procedures. The basic gist of what they said was that certain infertility procedures are appropriate; however, those procedures that involve a third person in the creation of a child is morally unacceptable.
So wow. My first response on that? Holy Mary, Mother of God … I sinned. And I sinned REALLY badly. And apparently that’s the reason why my IVF cycle failed. So guilt was my first reaction. The second one was that of anger. Why the bloody hell is it considered immoral? I tried everything under the sun to try to procreate naturally and it didn’t happen. So are they telling me then that if pregnancy didn’t happen “naturally” then it’s God’s will that I remain childless? And yet … (here it comes again) there are people out there who don’t deserve to have children?
Okay, so logically I know my first reaction was irrational. And the second one is indeed justified. But it’s that type of thing that leaves me feeling disappointed in my faith.
Despite all that, I do admit that I’ve been trying to work on returning to my faith. As of recently, I have started meeting with a Stephen Minister through a local Catholic Church who just sits and talks with me about all this anger and guilt that I feel, especially about my infertility and my fears about the adoption process. Perhaps one day, whether I continue to pursue having a family or not, I will fully, without any reservations, return to my faith.
Hmm … I wonder if the Catholic Church knows that the week of November 4-10 is National Infertility Awareness Week. And I wonder if they’ll have any events that commemorates that week?
A couple weeks I stumbled onto a picture that I had tucked away inside my dresser. At the time I tucked it away, it was the intent that I would someday look back at it and think, “Wow. I can’t believe how far I’ve come since then.” As it happened, that day I was busy looking for something else and I pulled the picture out and put it on top of my dresser (actually, on my mirror) and then went about my business.It wasn’t until yesterday when I was talking to a newly acquired friend, about my recent find that it hit me as to what the picture actually was. The picture I found happened to be the picture of my “would-be babies,” the embryos that were implanted into my womb during my one attempt at in vitro fertilization (IVF). As I was telling my friend about the snapshot, I felt myself begin to cry yet once again.
I relived that period of my life yesterday afternoon as I told her my story and my struggle. She’s heard bits and pieces about it before, but never to the extent as I did yesterday. She had previously heard about the treatment I went through, all leading up to the IVF cycle. And she certainly heard about all the wonderful medications I had to inject into myself each month and especially during the IVF cycle month. But what she never heard (nor anyone else for that matter) was how emotionally spent I was after each monthly disappointment… especially after the failed IVF cycle.
What I had told my friend is that when I looked at that picture, it reminded me of how different a person I was since that period of time. And even how much more different a person I was since starting my infertility journey ten years prior.
Ten years ago, I saw myself as a pretty optimistic person. A “glass is half-full” type of person. If pregnancy didn’t happen, then it just wasn’t meant to be just yet. Almost a year later, I began to become cautiously optimistic. And by the time I had my first hysteroscope, my mindset was of “let’s just get the task done.” At my lowest “pre-IVF” point, I was definitely very pessimistic about any chance of ever getting pregnant. By that time I had already had done enough ovulation charting, had more than enough Clomid cycles followed by even stronger injectable medication cycles, and had enough surgeries to last me a lifetime. It was at that time I became a”glass is half-empty” person.
So when Hubby and I finally decided to try the IVF route, I knew I had to change my attitude. And although I knew that IVF was never a guarantee that I’d be able to get pregnant, I had to think positive. In fact, I couldn’t just think positive, I had to put every effort into making sure that I was going to be successful at becoming pregnant. It was actually not as hard as I thought, especially with all the hormones I was pumping into me. I knew then that if I had even a shred of doubt, I would fall deep into the abyss of pessimism.
So imagine how far I fell once I found out my IVF cycle was unsuccessful. I certainly did plunge deep into that deep pit of despair. There was the initial shock and disappointment, followed closely by hysterics for the next couple weeks. Anything at that time set me off into waves of sadness and tears. A year after the failed IVF attempt, when we made the decision to let our one frozen blastocyte “go,” it was like reliving all the emotions of the year prior.* And in that moment, I knew I would never be able to go through another IVF attempt. It was just too emotionally and physically painful for me to ever have to go through again.
After a period of time, I just became “numb.” Crying seemed to be useless, and to tell you the truth, very humiliating. After all, in my culture, crying is only appropriate for a set amount of time. After that, crying is just considered a sign of weakness as we are taught to quickly “get over” our loss and “move on” right away. So after awhile, I learned to stifle my pain and pretend as if nothing was wrong. I pretended to be “over” the failed IVF attempt and let people believe that I was just content with my current situation. I also let others believe that eventually my Hubby & I would be working towards adoption. And truthfully, I tried to convince myself of that for the next three years.
However, as the past three years went by, I unconsciously knew that something was missing. By all standards, I looked like I was okay, but inside I felt miserable. I probably would have continued to go on feeling like this if it wasn’t for the news that we received a year ago next month. That news was of my sister-in-law’s pregnancy. And well, if you’ve read my previous posts (not to mention the most recent posts of Liam’s life), you’d know that I didn’t handle the news very well. As of recently, I’d like to think I managed the most recent events rather decently, but it’s only after I spent this last year talking (and subsequently blogging) about the gamut of emotions I’ve been through.
So where am I at now? Well, obviously I’ve been crying a lot lately (cultural behavior be damned!). In fact, I think I’ve cried more this past year than I did over the last ten years, since I started this crazy infertility journey. I know for a fact that all the events that have transpired over the past year is responsible for the river of tears (not to mention the trails of tissue paper) that follow behind me. And while it’s been a terribly difficult year, I do have to admit I feel I’ve grown a little more emotionally stronger from it. I would think that just by being able to post my “baby picture” shows that I am. (At least I hope so).
Wow. I can’t believe how far I’ve come since then.
* For a quick overview of our IVF history, we had 13 eggs retrieved, 8 of which were fertilized using ICSI, 3 of which “matured” enough, 2 of which were implanted in me. The lonely one that was left was frozen for the possibility of later doing a “frozen cycle.” What we didn’t expect was that we’d only have one blastocyte mature out of the 13 eggs that were originally retrieved. As there isn’t much success rate in doing a “frozen cycle,” let alone with only one blastocyte, Hubby & I elected not to proceed with that next step.
