Keep on keepin' on...

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Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is that quiet voice at the end of the day saying, 'I will try again tomorrow!' (M. Radmacher)

March 30, 2011

The bravest person I know

"It is very hard to be brave," said Piglet, sniffing slightly, "when you're only a Very Small Animal."

I tried another therapist to help me with my new found anxiety and frequent panic attacks. This was not an easy thing to do, especially after my first ill-fated attempt at therapy. Thankfully, my new person is very good, I think. I definitely felt very comfortable with her - and strangely enough, I know almost nothing about her, including the fact that I have no idea how many children she "gave birth to." She really listened. Seems a good quality in a therapist, but my first one was rather deficient in that area.

After going through everything and her asking me a lot of questions, she really believes she can help me and that there are some various techniques I can try. But she strongly believes I should take medication, as well, to help with these anxiety issues. My primary medical doctor wants me to take them, too - I already have the prescriptions from her. But I just don't want to.


Shouldn't I be able to get through this on my own? Shouldn't my faith be such that I don't need medication to help me through?
Does this make me a bad Christian? Am I not casting all my anxiety on Him? Or does this mean I'm giving up? Does this mean I can't hack it in this crazy, beautiful, terrifying world?

I have never - ever - felt ANY of those things about any of my friends who needed this kind of help - Christian or otherwise. So why should I feel differently about it for myself?


I told her - and she thought this was "beautiful," (her words) - that I always joke that I'm the bravest person I know because I've always been afraid of so many things, but I always do them anyhow. I've never let (unreasonable) fear stop me from doing something, such as flying. Lately, with these panic attacks happening so often, I've been sorely tempted to let it all stop me... I haven't yet, but it really scares me how close I am to doing just that. How many more panic attacks can I handle before I just give up and stay home?


But I still do not want to take them.


I take other medications, for my PCOS. I took Clomid, I did IUI... I may eventually do IVF. I take prenatal vitamins. I drank raw herbs (aka sludge) from the acupuncture doctor, for Pete's sake... My work is all about the miracles of modern medicine, even... So why is this different to me?

She says it's not an issue of faith. It's not a personal failing. It's a brain chemistry issue. Thing is, I believe that. I do. I just wish it felt like it was a brain chemistry issue. To me, it does feel like just another failing. I can't get pregnant, I can't keep from gaining weight, and now I can't even handle life without flying into nutty panic attacks?? What next? I can't cook dinner anymore? I can't tie my shoes? (Wait, I always wear slip on shoes... sigh.)

So, she talked about how hormones influence brain chemistry, and how all the issues I've had over the last years, between infertility and PCOS - both of which are obviously very hormonal – plus, the major stress (cortisol hormone) of some very difficult financial issues we faced over the previous few years, have likely affected my brain's ability to make serotonin. While I would love to fix myself with faith, bravery, and trying to change my behavior, she says that the problem is that my brain chemistry is likely just off balance... I could take the meds to get that back in balance, and then it should help my brain produce its own serotonin again. In the meantime, we'll work on better coping strategies. She thinks I should only need the meds for maybe 6 months to a year. Not forever. I suppose, theoretically, this all means I can maybe be more back to normal, whatever that means for me...

Anyhow, it does makes sense. I get it. I just don’t like it.
She said that for me (the bravest person I know), the brave thing to do now is take the medicine - get the help I need, even though it scares me and I don't want to do it. I think she's playing me now... using my own words against me. That's only a fair maneuver when I do it! But I do think she's probably right.

Ar and I talked it through last night, over some delicious Mexican dinner. Soooo. I guess I'll just start taking the meds tonight. I hope they help. I hope they don't make me crazier. I hope that I don't need them forever. I hope this doesn't make me more of a failure...

I hope, I do hope. Infertility, anxiety, and panic have not taken those away. T
hey also haven't made Ar look at me any differently, he loves me all the same. I am certain that they also do not make God love me any less. For these I am so thankful.

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”
(2
Corinthians 12:9)

March 22, 2011

The number five

When peace like a river attendeth my way....

Five. Not only is five another ef word, five is the number of pregnancy announcements in my department of 30, since the beginning of this year. The most recent announcement came just last week. Five. That makes for a 17% pregnancy rate in my department. These are all first time pregnancies and they are all 10 years or more younger than I am. There is no where, during the very long work week, that I can go to not see them. And when I see them, all I can think of is what I just can't do - the joy that Ar and I seemingly will never share. The life I can't know. Yet I have to somehow manage to get out of bed each morning, breath, do my job, supervise my staff, and generally function in the world. I have to do these things well -- without letting on that I feel like the walking dead. This seems such an impossible task; it's taking all my energy. All around me is the talk. The incessant pregnancy talk, the planning, the excitement, and the (five) showers. The painfully insensitive comments. The sadness, the desolation, the secrecy and shame, the insane desire to run and hide, to escape, to pop all their balloons, and to smash all their baby shower cupcakes! (Confession: I decline to attend the showers, but.... well, I'd hate the leftover cupcakes to go to waste... that would just be wrong.)

Coincidentally, five is exactly the number of years we've been actively trying to conceive. It was five years ago this month, in fact. I didn't think it would just happen, but I didn't think this...

And five. It was just a few minutes after five o'clock today that I knew my period started. Again.

Boy, could I ever go for a cupcake right now! Or maybe five....

In related news, five multiplied by seven is the number of pounds I've gained in the last eight months.... when the panic attacks and anxiety issues suddenly started. Great, between the extra weight and incredible stress, now I've decreased my fertility even further. Nice work.

When sorrows like sea billows roll...

What does this all add up to? Heck if I know. But I'm sitting here at midnight, next to the most beautiful roses that Ar surprised me with the other day, while I listen to him snoring peacefully away in the next room, and I'm writing this sad story because at the bottom of all the goodness present in my life, I am just sad. I am anxious and sad - and I don't know how to be better. I don't know how to be me, anymore. What if I can't ever be me again?

I'm trying to get better. I've seen my doctor about the panic attacks. I'm going to acupuncture to help me relax, and I even saw a therapist. That was not an easy step to take. And boy, she was a real peach:
She: "So, I suppose it will make you jealous to learn that I gave birth to six children."

Me: "Uhhhh?"

She: "You shouldn't compare yourself to others, though - maybe God has something else in store for you. Not everyone has kids."

Me: "Uhhhhhhhhhh....!?"

Yeah, Dr. Bob Hartley she was not. But I truly enjoyed the "gave birth to" part. Heaven forbid I should think for a moment that she had adopted any of her six children... She went on to fill me in on what they do. I also know all about her mother, her own anxiety issues, her research, and her thoughts on computer games. Also, she was very helpful in letting me know that one person in her family (but not blood related) struggled with infertility... for a whole six or seven months. Whoo - that must have been tough. Six months, eh. Needless to say, I won't be back.

And then, I stopped and picked up french fries on the way home.

Really? French fries? I've never been that girl. Really! I've only been that girl in the last eight months. I mean, I've always had some weight issues, but reasonably controllable - not like this. I'm a happy, celebratory eater, normally. And I don't eat that - I love good, fresh, delicious, real food. And I've never been a stress eater, but I picked up french fries. I don't know why. I do know that I felt even worse about myself when I left the "therapist," than when I went in. And I do know that it was very, very hard for me to go there - but I did it - yet somehow I managed to find a therapist nuttier than I am. Do I do anything right? So, yeah - getting french fries suddenly seems to be what I do now. And it has to stop. I don't want to be that girl.

I have made an appointment with another therapist for next week, hopefully that will go better. Hard to imagine it being any worse.

Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say... are hopefully teaching me to say....

Did I mention that when I woke up this morning, since my period was a couple days late, I was going to stop and pick up a pregnancy test? At least I didn't have a chance to do that before five o'clock...

Yep, I was going to pick up a pregnancy test. Kinda funny, huh? Not so much in a ha ha sort of way, though. Instead, I picked up some french fries.

So I don't know what all of this adds up to. All I know is that it's a mystery to me how constant and unrelenting despair continues to live alongside constant and unreasonable hope. Part of me wants the hope to go far, far away - as far as the east is from the west. Yet what is life without hope, even though the hope -unrealized- is so incredibly painful? At some point, I will either be a mom, or it will be too late. That thought hovers over my head like one of those dark clouds in cartoons. And so I know I must constantly choose the higher Hope. It is not that I must give up this particular hope sooner than necessary, but my truest hope must be higher still than that. I must remember to cling to the Hope of Hopes, which gives me life, and which will not abandon me - even in these dark days.
(Please, Lord, teach me to say) It is well, it is well, with my soul.


Romans 5:1-5: Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.

March 8, 2011

X always equals infertility

I bet we've been together for a million years.
And I bet we'll be together for a million more.
Oh, it's like I started breathing on the night we kissed,
And I can't remember what I ever did before....

For some strange reason, I often recall a very random line from Family Ties - you know, Alex P. Keaton, Mallory, and gang... Well, Alex's visiting uncle tells him to not worry about his Algebra test; he advises him to just remember that, "x always equals 8."

Lately I've had a strange understanding that for me, x always equals infertility.

It's just always there. Most people don't get that about me. I don't think anyone does. How could they, unless they've walked this path? I can seem fine. I can seem happy. I can seem myself. Maybe I am all of those things. Even so, x is always lurking just barely below the surface. Just waiting.

It's not fair - and I don't mean to me. It's not fair to... well, my hubby, Ar.

See, Ar is a pretty single-focused guy. Not much for the multi-tasking... He is constantly amazed at how many windows I can have open on my computer - and just seamlessly jet back and forth between them, managing a dozen ideas and tasks at once. I think that's where he notices my amazing talent the most. But I'm one heck of a multi-tasker, in general. I used to cook and bake for a living - and talk about multi-tasking... It's second nature.

It's a blessing - and a curse.

If I may offer such a broad generalization, none of this is probably mind-blowing stuff for most women. My point is that pesky x is always there... no matter how happy I seem, how many fascinating things we're discussing, what I'm doing, or where I'm going. X is there. I'm more familiar with x, than I am my own shadow.

My Ar forgets how prevalent x is for me. He doesn't mean to; it's not that he doesn't care, because he very much does. It's just that he's not like me. If he's happy, he's just happy. If he's having a stimulating conversation, he only knows that conversation, if he's driving - oddly enough - he's just focused on the road. Such strange and foreign concepts to me.

I don't want to brag, but I can cover eleven distinct emotions in the span of three minutes - all while making a chocolate truffle cheesecake, coconut stewed chicken, balancing the checkbook, playing Scrabble, and checking my work e-mail.

And just because I seem happy this second doesn't mean that he isn't going to say something seemingly very innocuous that in a fraction of a second reminds me of something that reminds me of something that reminds me of something that makes me instantaneously feel every single ounce of my raging infertility.

It's a game-changer.

And it's not fair, especially not to Ar.

One minute he's with the sweet (ha!), loving (definitely), fun (frequently), weird (always), interesting (occasionally), beautiful (he thinks so) woman that he fell in love with and married; the next minute, I've gone completely stark raving infertile on him. And it's just not fair to him, but x often catches me by surprise, too.

Should he have to run every single word he says through some magical infertil-filter to check if somehow it will make me think of something that makes me think of something that makes me think of something that reminds me how incredibly infertile I am?

Even if one argued that he should have to - since such a magical device as an infertil-filter doesn't exist (note to self: invent infertil-filter) - would he even be capable of such telepathic analysis? Would anyone?

...what would we do baby, without Us?

Thank God, I don't have to find out what we'd do, baby, without Us... Ar loves me anyhow. And I'm grateful. Would that I were worthy.

Sha la la la...


Song of Solomon 8:6-7: Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave. It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame. Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot sweep it away. If one were to give all the wealth of one’s house for love, it would be utterly scorned.

March 7, 2011

That three-letter word

Yesterday  was a fine day; I was productive and felt mostly happy.  Today was rather the opposite; I'm not sure why.  I was supposed to see my friend, who has four children.  Four.  And frankly, I was a bit nervous about it.  I hadn't seen her since she told me she was pregnant with number four.  On a side note, why people feel the need to tell me in person is beyond me...  They probably think it's the proper way to do it, but it's so not.  Please write me an email.  Send a carrier pigeon, hire a skywriter - I don't care, but don't put me through the incredible conflicting emotions I have about all this in person, especially not in public.  Let me just write back to you the words I know are right and good, but still feel the way I feel.  Don't make me put on that smile and say those right and good words with my mouth, all while still trying to choke down my lunch without bursting into weepy tears.  And above all, please don't yourself break into weepy tears about how guilty you feel for getting pregnant numerous times, when I can't even get pregnant once...

When this same friend told me about number three, it was at our favorite restaurant and she started sobbing inconsolably...  how unfair it was that it was her and not me and so on... and how she feels so guilty.  I appreciate that she cares, I do.  But it was a nightmare for me.   Sure, make infertile girl sit there and comfort you about you being pregnant with number three.  It was absurd.  Now, I'm sure that anyone who's had children feels more for her, than me.  You'll say, "oh, that poor thing - what with all the pregnancy hormones and what not."  I know, because I've heard it.

But really, if you're reading this and feel that way, just put yourself in my stirrups, for just a moment...  At the time, I was 37 years old, going through more invasive testing, following more than two years of heartbreaking infertility - that's:
  • 24 failed monthly cycles, 
  • coincidentally, 24 binges on chocolate cake and ice cream,
  • 730 basal body temperature readings,
  • 168 ovulation predictor sticks,
  • at least 24 big fat negative pregnancy tests - more on hopeful months,
  • countless tears shed, and
  • was just starting twice weekly acupuncture appointments.

Plus there had been a major set-back in my treatment plan. And I was just starting Clomid.   And there was no child to show for all this.  No product of our marital bliss, no pay-off for determination and perseverance.  Nothing.  And I was handling it all relatively ok, but to sit there and comfort her about this, was almost too much to bear.  But I did it.  And she wasn't just sniffling and moving on - no, she was weeping.  Weeping!  Inconsolably.  And I was stoically comforting her.                  

Did she have any idea how often I weep inconsolably?   Did she have any idea how incredibly sad it makes my dear hubby to have me so incredibly sad, and not be able to "fix it," not be able to comfort me?  Not be able to give me this one thing that I want so much? Shouldn't this comforting  have been the other way around?  Did she care how much I actually hurt, or just how guilty she felt?

It's not that I'm not happy for people with children.  I truly would not want her or anyone else to have to deal with this constant pain of infertility, this particular brand of emptiness.   But it always begs that little three-letter word...

Why?

Why them and not me?  Why can't we each have this?  I'm a win-win kinda gal, why can't we each have two?  Why not me?   Am I so awful?  Did I do something so wrong?   

Why, why, why, why, why!?!?!?  

So why try to get together with this friend?  Because she's my friend.  I've never been someone who gives up on friendships, so I won't let infertility make me a person who avoid friends, just because it hurts so much to be reminded of my own constant failure.

And why am I constantly failing, anyhow?  I don't know. What I have is "unexplained infertility," as they say.  And so I really don't know why.

Maybe I'm too fat.  And maybe I shouldn't have eaten that brownie, just because I had made a whole pan for my friend that had no place to go, because she had to cancel our get-together.  But at least I didn't eat the whole pan.  I only had one.  Big one.  But I shouldn't have.  What if it makes me more infertile?

It's so hard to get past looking for the reason why and scrutinizing my every action and thought. 

And maybe there just is no why.  Maybe not everything happens for a reason.   And would it hurt any less, even if it could be explained. 

Anyhow, my friend had to cancel at the last minute because of an ear infection with one of her four kids, and I understand - I do.  And she's now dealing with a new health issue, herself, and is having a rough time.  Her children are a huge comfort to her.  I'm so happy that she has them to be a comfort to her.   

But I wanted to see my friend, even knowing it would hurt me.  And it also hurt to not see my friend.  Because everything hurts.  Why can't I have kids to completely inconvenience me and take precedence over my plans?   Isn't there deep meaning in that inconvenience? 

So there I was, darling hubby out of town on business, my plans for my Sunday gone, and the pan of brownies I'd baked for her and her family still lingering...  And that new, familiar feeling struck once again.   That loneliness.  Those feelings of anxiety.  The feeling of being just a bit completely out of control.  That why.

Why do little people, who were never there, create such a hole? 

So, after my friend canceled, I checked Facebook... a nice diversion, right?  They should just call it Fertilebook.  Another pregnancy announcement and two more sonogram pictures of other very fertile  friends.  And I'm happy for them.  I am.  I think.  But why does it also make me so sad?   Why is it so hard to be at work, when 10% of my department is pregnant?  Why can't I just be 100% happy for my friends?  Am I the world's most awful person?  I think it's possible that I am. 

Do I think there are a limited number of children in the world and they took mine?

Is it the old green-eyed monster?

Is it that I hear the creaking of a door closing?

So all this to say, it ended up being a very rough day. 

There are a lot of whys in this world.  I certainly don't hold the exclusive rights to the word.  Or to these feelings of emptiness.  But I need to learn how to keep going.  How to hope, without letting the constant monthly let-down slowly gnaw away at my entire soul and being.   How to stop asking why all the time, looking for a place to lay blame.  How to accept whatever the outcome may be.  How to say in faith, without knowing the outcome, "It is well, it is well... with my soul."

I was recently reading again about how God promised Abraham that he would be a father by his wife Sarah.  And how Sarah laughed, because she was so advanced in years.  Much more advanced that I am - at least there's that... And I think, "I wouldn't laugh, Lord... I wouldn't disbelieve, just give me that promise."  I wouldn't laugh.  If I had a promise from God, I would believe it.  I would.  So, why not me?  Why don't I get a promise?

But the truth is, I do.  I do have a promise from God.  Lots of them, actually.  Sure, maybe not a direct promise that I will be blessed with children, but I do have promises-a-plenty.  Do I truly believe them?  Maybe I'm not laughing, but maybe I'm not truly believing them, either.  Aren't the promises He's already given me good enough for me?  Is He truly my ever present help in times of trouble, or only in times of trouble that don't include my infertility?

I spent nearly four weeks in Siberia, eleven years ago.  I remember sitting on a cement wall by the Angara River.  Our Russian friends would tell us to not sit on the wall because they (truly) believed that sitting on cement would cause infertility.  We laughed.  Hmm, I wonder if that's the reason why....

Luke 6:21: Blessed are you who hunger now, for you will be satisfied.  Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.

March 5, 2011

The letter ef and why I'm here

Efs, efs, everywhere there's efs, blocking up the scenery, breaking my mind. Do this, don't do that, can't you read the efs?  

It seems like everywhere I turn there's a ef.  The main ef I'm dealing with is a big one: Fertility - or, more to the point, the lack thereof.  Plus, I'll be Forty soon.  And I don't mean in a cute Meg Ryan "When Harry Met Sally" kind of way:

"And I'm gonna be FORTY!"  
"When?" 
"Someday!"  

Yeah, I used to think that was cute.  Now that someday is only a few months away, it's not quite so cute, anymore...  Now it just feels like a door closing.

I never thought I'd mind turning Forty.  I was never like that.  And everyone keeps saying, "oh, I loved my Forties!" and "oh, the Forties have been my best years yet!" and of course there's the old, "Forty is the new black."  But then, it's only people who have already managed to become parental units that say that.  And they just can't understand.  I don't blame them.  But where does it leave me?  Floundering, Fearful... Frantic.

I'm very nearly Forty.   And I'm inFertile.  We've been "trying," as they say, for Five years.  Futility.  And I'm aFraid.  I'm a woman of Faith, yet I am so aFraid.  

And I know how Fortunate I am! My hubby is truly a prince among men, and there's no doubt that he is with me For-all-our-days.  Many do not have what I have. 

I am so thankful and Full of love.  

And I am so sad and Full of anxiety. 

And I have nothing original or inspirational to say in a blog.  I've never particularly wanted to blog.  And yet here I am because I don't know where else to be.  I have many wonderful people in my life, yet probably none will be invited to read my blog.  I don't imagine anyone will ever read it.  I guess I just need to write it.

Psalm 23 1-2: The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters; he restores my soul.