Just over three years ago, my life changed forever. And no, it wasn't because of a pregnancy. That event wouldn't happen for another two years. I know this blog is primarily reserved for everything infertility but we are still on our break and, in all likelihood due to severe financial constraints while Jason is in school coupled with where we are emotionally, we won't be venturing down that path again while Jason pursues his doctorate (so thru 2015). But I have other things to say and since this is my "safe space," I plan to say them, infertility related or not.
As I was saying, just over three years ago, my life changed forever. Our life changed forever. Open heart surgery is no joke, and it was the most life altering, profound experience thus far in my 28 years. Lately, I've been feeling more and more that I need to talk about it, but in a way that is both cathartic as well as helpful to others, not just me rehashing the experience for the sake of reliving it. I have been through something most young people don't go through and I want to be there for someone else in a way that wasn't available to me. When I learned I would need heart surgery, I was filled with a fear that it truly hard to explain unless you have felt similar fear under similar circumstances. I had an amazing support group of family, friends and doctors but at the time, I didn't know anyone else with congenital heart disease, didn't know anyone else my age who had undergone open heart surgery, and felt so different, alone, and alienated. People tried but they couldn't truly understand, couldn't truly empathize. I yearned for a connection with another young survivor, even if just through a book. But no such book existed. At least not that I could find.
I graduated with a BA in Creative Writing. I have the skillset to embark on such a venture. I could write a book about my personal experience with heart surgery and life after. I could tell them what I felt, what I discovered, and how I arrived at feeling like myself again. I could write the book I wish I had been able to read during the darkest time in my life.
And I'm going to do it. I AM doing it.
It's been a long time coming, but it's time. I began working on the prologue on Monday night and wrote 4 pages, single spaced. I am so excited, so invigorated. I haven't felt like this in years. My writing has fallen by the wayside since I graduated 6 yrs ago. Some people write more when they're going through emotionally difficult life challenges, but it seems I am not one of those people. My creative juices dry up. For years, first with the infertility, then with the heart surgery and recovery, and eventually both, I could not find motivation or inspiration anywhere. I would write a poem every now and again, but they were far and few between. I am currently working on a children's book but the passion isn't quite there yet as it is with this project. With this book, I find myself looking forward to working on it. I daydream and brainstorm about topics to discuss and how to approach them. I write down chapter title ideas when they pop into my head and I feel a surge of excitement simmering below the surface just anticipating my next opportunity to write, to put it all down. It is overwhelming in some ways, too, because there is just so much. But I know that if I can just get it down on paper, and rework it bit by bit, that it'll get to where I want it to be. That it will become the ray of light for someone else that I so fervently wish it to be.
I want to reassure someone else out there that it will get better. That in time and with hard work, both emotionally as well as phyiscally, it gets better. I want them to know that what they feel is normal and real and important. That if they can just get through the surgery itself, through those first weeks of recovery, and focus on the bigger picture {LIFE} that one day, it will be okay again. I cannot guarantee that they will be the same, because I can't. Because they won't. An experience such as this leaves you forever changed. Everyone's situation is different and eveyone will experience it differently and "come out on the other side" in different ways. I needed a pacemaker. Others won't. I needed an ablation. Other's won't. But they may need things I didn't need. Maybe another surgery, maybe they'll struggle with chronic depression, maybe they'll need intense therapy, or maybe the surgery won't turn out as they had hoped and their prognosis will continue to be dire. But I want to try to be that hug they need, whatever their situation. Because I've been there, I've lived it, and I understand.
I am finally writing a book. And it fills me with an emotion I'm unaccustomed to feeling. I think it just may be Purpose. For a long time, especially when floundering through the hell of infertility, I felt as though I lacked purpose. My body wouldn't do what it was "meant" to do. I felt cheated. I felt angry and bitter. I lost a bit of myself. But I feel it coming back. Maybe this is another thing I'm "meant" to do. I haven't given up on having a family, but for now, I have found purpose, have found something that excites me, and makes me feel alive. And my goodness, I am so very grateful.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Friday, November 9, 2012
Grateful Life
Many friends are posting a different thing they are grateful for each day on Facebook, which is inspiring and fun, but since I tend to be wordy, I think I'll use this space to put my thoughts on the subject all in one place. Truly, I am thankful for this life.
I know that's quite all-encompassing and vague, but how fortunate am I to wake up each morning and experience another day? 3 yrs ago, I feared I wouldn't be so lucky. How blessed am I to have loving family and friends, to be supported and encouraged in all of my endeavors and dreams, to have shoulders to lean on during the trying times? I have a roof over my head, food in my cupboards, books on my shelves, music in my life, and I live in a country and in an era where I'm free to be ME. Sometimes (and truthfully, it tends to be more than just sometimes), I get bogged down by the things I wish I had, and I know that's normal because we all have dreams but I'd like to try and be more thankful year-round, find the good in the every day and though it's challenging, focus on what I do have instead of what I don't.
I could go on, but you get the idea. It's this life, this one, beautiful life, that I'm thankful for. All of it's up's and down's, it's triumphs and disappointments, the big and the little, they're special and unique to me and I'm so very grateful for it all. Thank you for being a part of it :)
I know that's quite all-encompassing and vague, but how fortunate am I to wake up each morning and experience another day? 3 yrs ago, I feared I wouldn't be so lucky. How blessed am I to have loving family and friends, to be supported and encouraged in all of my endeavors and dreams, to have shoulders to lean on during the trying times? I have a roof over my head, food in my cupboards, books on my shelves, music in my life, and I live in a country and in an era where I'm free to be ME. Sometimes (and truthfully, it tends to be more than just sometimes), I get bogged down by the things I wish I had, and I know that's normal because we all have dreams but I'd like to try and be more thankful year-round, find the good in the every day and though it's challenging, focus on what I do have instead of what I don't.
I am grateful for my husband, for my parents and family, for my friends, for my furry babies who make me smile, and for the chance to be a better me every day. I'm thankful for the joy I get from cooking and baking, for the anticipation of snow this winter, for my pacemaker which keeps me tickin', and even for my curly hair that looks "fancy" when all I've done is wash it. I'm thankful for poetry, for my love of writing, for children's books, for beautiful abandoned barns, for Christmas music and Christmas trees, and for hot showers after being out in the cold. I'm thankful for my memories, for the hope of a bright future, for the opportunities that await me if I just get off my butt and chase after them. I'm thankful for all that my parents sacrificed for me growing up, for my education, for gardening, for crafts, for the beauty of the ocean, for my favorite spot in the Wilcox property back home, for my emotions and my ability and willingness to feel them. I'm thankful for the good times I've experienced, and I'm thankful for the hard times because they, too, molded me into who I am. I'm thankful I have goals, I'm grateful for the wisdom others have shared with me, and I'm thankful for the relationships in my life. My health, my job, my car, the library. Cookies, the smell of coffee brewing, going out, movies, laughter, photographs, warm fuzzy blankets, mascara, pumpkins, autumn, earrings, various shades of red, flowers, the sound of a wind-chime, that surge of confidence when you look in the mirror and like what you see staring back.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Birthday tribute to my Angel Sister, Amanda Lauren
Dear Amanda,
Today, you would have been 31. Happy birthday to you, dear sister! 31 years ago, you were chosen to walk among the angels instead of live a life here with us on Earth. The more of life that I experience, the more challenges faced, I realize more and more the immensity of your loss and the effect it had on all of us, even those of us who came after. How our lives would have been different. Had you lived, I may not have been. Mom and Dad tried for so long to get you, suffered so much heartache and sorrow, that you would have been their miracle baby. Would they have had the desire, the will, to try for another? Would they have mustered the strength to take the risk, possibly enduring further heartache? It is an odd thing to ponder. Still, you are indeed a miracle. It is an honor to share a middle name with you, but as you know, we share far more than that. I believe you are with us every day, in our hearts and in spirit. You are so very loved. Always.
This summer, Mom showed me the only picture of you that she has, the ultrasound picture of you at approximately 7 months, just 2 short months before you were born sleeping. I’ve grown up knowing your story and honoring your memory, missing you even though we’d never met, but that picture brought me to tears because there you were. Heart beating, little body growing, very much alive, captured forever in time in that one photograph. It upsets me that the doctors or someone in the room when you were born didn’t take a picture of you for us to keep. It would have been hard to see but at least I could have seen you, and at least there would be another picture of you besides that one ultrasound and the ones taken of your tiny little white coffin at your funeral. Did you know that Grandma Kendrick kept a purple flower from your service pressed between her family Bible? She wore purple quite often and now I sometimes wonder if she wore it to honor your memory.
Even though we’ve never shared moments like other sisters do, I know I’ve been blessed to have my sister by my side. I know you’re there, always. I’m grateful you were there to greet our grandparents when they passed on, and that you get to spend time with them now and have gotten to know them and love them as I did here on Earth. I’m happy you were there to greet our little one when he/she left us just last year, gone far, far too soon. That was a comfort to me, and I know you know that. I know you were with me in the operating room three years ago, standing by my side, holding my hand, when no one else could be. And even though I’ve never seen your face, I feel as though I have. I envision you have long brown hair, probably thick and wavy like Mom’s was. But perhaps you would have cut it shorter as you aged. Would you have glasses? Maybe you’d need them but I think you’d wear contacts and I think you’d have Dad’s brown eyes. I think our noses would be similar but maybe yours would be smaller and a bit upturned like Mom’s and Grandma’s. For some reason, I think you’d take after Mom’s side more, like I take after Dad’s, so I envision you’d be taller than me. Would you be married or have a partner? Would I be an auntie? What would you do for a living? Would you be language/word oriented like me, or more math minded? Would you have played an instrument, or been more athletic? Would we have quarreled growing up, like siblings often do?
As I grow older, and especially around the holidays when people gather together with their families, I often think of you and miss you all the more – because you should be here too, you know? Really here, smiling right beside us in the family photos, arm slung around my shoulder or hugging me close, helping cook the Thanksgiving feast, exchanging gifts, laughing at old stories with our family, sipping a beer or a glass of wine, enjoying a slice of my famous pecan pie. And because of our own loss last year, I've come to understand more and more the pain of what would have been. That’s what hurts the most, I think, the knowledge that there is so much that you’ve missed, that we’ve all missed, with each passing year that goes by and you’re still gone. I wish you could know the love, the immense love, that we all share for one another, our family. At my lowest points, I’ve talked to you and I know you’ve heard me but what I wouldn’t have given to pick up a phone and call my sister, hear your voice on the other end telling me it was going to be alright, that I just had to take it one day at a time, that you loved me and were there. Maybe that’s an idealistic view of what our relationship would be like, because I really have no idea, but our family is close and always has been, so I cannot imagine we wouldn’t be best friends, that I couldn’t call you for support or advice. And maybe you wouldn’t have all the answers or even say all the right things all of the time, but I know you would’ve cared and would’ve tried your best.
So today you’re 31. Usually, I’d go to the cemetery to lay flowers on your gravestone, and tidy up your plot. Sometimes I’d go alone or with Mom or Jason but this year, I can’t go at all and that is hard for me. I know it doesn’t matter to you, because you’re in our hearts and always with us, but it means something to me that I won’t be there. Thank you for watching over us all, for being the beautiful soul I know you are. Thank you for being with me in spirit – and for being with Mom and Dad when they've needed to feel your love. I can’t see you but I know you’re there and when times have been especially hard, and when I have known great fear, you have been a comfort to me, assuring me through the wind or the rustle of leaves, the melodic tinkle of a windchime or the crash of the ocean upon the shore, that it will be alright. It will all be alright.
Much love to you today and everyday,
Me
Today, you would have been 31. Happy birthday to you, dear sister! 31 years ago, you were chosen to walk among the angels instead of live a life here with us on Earth. The more of life that I experience, the more challenges faced, I realize more and more the immensity of your loss and the effect it had on all of us, even those of us who came after. How our lives would have been different. Had you lived, I may not have been. Mom and Dad tried for so long to get you, suffered so much heartache and sorrow, that you would have been their miracle baby. Would they have had the desire, the will, to try for another? Would they have mustered the strength to take the risk, possibly enduring further heartache? It is an odd thing to ponder. Still, you are indeed a miracle. It is an honor to share a middle name with you, but as you know, we share far more than that. I believe you are with us every day, in our hearts and in spirit. You are so very loved. Always.
This summer, Mom showed me the only picture of you that she has, the ultrasound picture of you at approximately 7 months, just 2 short months before you were born sleeping. I’ve grown up knowing your story and honoring your memory, missing you even though we’d never met, but that picture brought me to tears because there you were. Heart beating, little body growing, very much alive, captured forever in time in that one photograph. It upsets me that the doctors or someone in the room when you were born didn’t take a picture of you for us to keep. It would have been hard to see but at least I could have seen you, and at least there would be another picture of you besides that one ultrasound and the ones taken of your tiny little white coffin at your funeral. Did you know that Grandma Kendrick kept a purple flower from your service pressed between her family Bible? She wore purple quite often and now I sometimes wonder if she wore it to honor your memory.
Even though we’ve never shared moments like other sisters do, I know I’ve been blessed to have my sister by my side. I know you’re there, always. I’m grateful you were there to greet our grandparents when they passed on, and that you get to spend time with them now and have gotten to know them and love them as I did here on Earth. I’m happy you were there to greet our little one when he/she left us just last year, gone far, far too soon. That was a comfort to me, and I know you know that. I know you were with me in the operating room three years ago, standing by my side, holding my hand, when no one else could be. And even though I’ve never seen your face, I feel as though I have. I envision you have long brown hair, probably thick and wavy like Mom’s was. But perhaps you would have cut it shorter as you aged. Would you have glasses? Maybe you’d need them but I think you’d wear contacts and I think you’d have Dad’s brown eyes. I think our noses would be similar but maybe yours would be smaller and a bit upturned like Mom’s and Grandma’s. For some reason, I think you’d take after Mom’s side more, like I take after Dad’s, so I envision you’d be taller than me. Would you be married or have a partner? Would I be an auntie? What would you do for a living? Would you be language/word oriented like me, or more math minded? Would you have played an instrument, or been more athletic? Would we have quarreled growing up, like siblings often do?
As I grow older, and especially around the holidays when people gather together with their families, I often think of you and miss you all the more – because you should be here too, you know? Really here, smiling right beside us in the family photos, arm slung around my shoulder or hugging me close, helping cook the Thanksgiving feast, exchanging gifts, laughing at old stories with our family, sipping a beer or a glass of wine, enjoying a slice of my famous pecan pie. And because of our own loss last year, I've come to understand more and more the pain of what would have been. That’s what hurts the most, I think, the knowledge that there is so much that you’ve missed, that we’ve all missed, with each passing year that goes by and you’re still gone. I wish you could know the love, the immense love, that we all share for one another, our family. At my lowest points, I’ve talked to you and I know you’ve heard me but what I wouldn’t have given to pick up a phone and call my sister, hear your voice on the other end telling me it was going to be alright, that I just had to take it one day at a time, that you loved me and were there. Maybe that’s an idealistic view of what our relationship would be like, because I really have no idea, but our family is close and always has been, so I cannot imagine we wouldn’t be best friends, that I couldn’t call you for support or advice. And maybe you wouldn’t have all the answers or even say all the right things all of the time, but I know you would’ve cared and would’ve tried your best.
So today you’re 31. Usually, I’d go to the cemetery to lay flowers on your gravestone, and tidy up your plot. Sometimes I’d go alone or with Mom or Jason but this year, I can’t go at all and that is hard for me. I know it doesn’t matter to you, because you’re in our hearts and always with us, but it means something to me that I won’t be there. Thank you for watching over us all, for being the beautiful soul I know you are. Thank you for being with me in spirit – and for being with Mom and Dad when they've needed to feel your love. I can’t see you but I know you’re there and when times have been especially hard, and when I have known great fear, you have been a comfort to me, assuring me through the wind or the rustle of leaves, the melodic tinkle of a windchime or the crash of the ocean upon the shore, that it will be alright. It will all be alright.
Much love to you today and everyday,
Me
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Angel anniversary
One year ago, we said good-bye. One year ago, we faced a reality that we weren't ready to face. A reality we would never have been ready to face. And today, we look back on the year and realize just how hard it was. How hard it still is. And how much has changed.
It's hard to believe that you would almost be 5 months old. What would you look like? What would your favorite toy be? What would make you smile? I just can't imagine. Partly because I really don't know, but mostly because it hurts too much to think about it for too long. So I've chosen, today being the exception, to not imagine those things. "What might have been" is too powerful a game to play.
We fought so hard for you, baby, so very hard. But in the end, you just weren't meant to stay. You were too perfect for this place, too beautiful and you belonged among the angels. I won't ever profess to know why, because I simply do not understand why we were blessed with you only to have the end come far too soon. But I do know this: you are loved. Beyond measure. We never got to see your face, or hold you in our arms, and we'll never get to watch you grow up and discover the person you would have been, the person you were meant to be, but you will forever be our little twinkie.
True, I find myself feeling sad today but it's not all about sorrow. There is joy, too. I feel blessed to have been given the gift of feeling life growing from within, if even for just a short while. My body began to change and with it, I changed. We changed. Even though you are not here with us today, little one, you left a lasting impression on our hearts. We love you, for always.
"Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart." -- Winnie the Pooh
It's hard to believe that you would almost be 5 months old. What would you look like? What would your favorite toy be? What would make you smile? I just can't imagine. Partly because I really don't know, but mostly because it hurts too much to think about it for too long. So I've chosen, today being the exception, to not imagine those things. "What might have been" is too powerful a game to play.
We fought so hard for you, baby, so very hard. But in the end, you just weren't meant to stay. You were too perfect for this place, too beautiful and you belonged among the angels. I won't ever profess to know why, because I simply do not understand why we were blessed with you only to have the end come far too soon. But I do know this: you are loved. Beyond measure. We never got to see your face, or hold you in our arms, and we'll never get to watch you grow up and discover the person you would have been, the person you were meant to be, but you will forever be our little twinkie.
True, I find myself feeling sad today but it's not all about sorrow. There is joy, too. I feel blessed to have been given the gift of feeling life growing from within, if even for just a short while. My body began to change and with it, I changed. We changed. Even though you are not here with us today, little one, you left a lasting impression on our hearts. We love you, for always.
"Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart." -- Winnie the Pooh
Friday, September 21, 2012
One year ago Wednesday
One year ago Wednesday, which was September 19, 2011 we found out that, at long last, after so much time and hoping and praying and wishing, we were expecting our first baby. I can remember the moment as if it were yesterday, and not a full long year ago. It was one of the happiest moments of my life, right up there with my wedding day. And as you know, it was not meant to last.
This year, I spent half of the day in the hospital. I had a random atrial fibrillation event that started on Tuesday afternoon (9/18) landed me in the ER and then CCU. I'm ok, they got my heart rate to stabilize and I was released late morning on the 19th but it was a hard day, for more reasons than one.
We moved to Bloomington, IN early last month so this was the first time I was in the hospital so far away from home, from our family and friends, from my trusted UCLA doctors. We did not expect this to occur and it took us completely by surprise. They don't know why it happened and it could happen again. It is not reassuring to feel like I'm a walking ticking time bomb. And it is beyond frustrating that, after nearly 2.5 years cardiac issue free, I'm back to being afraid. It really REALLY scared me. My heart rate was over 200 beats per minute by the time I got hooked up to the monitors in the ER and I was absolutely terrified. I cannot describe how it feels to feel your heart racing, faster and faster and faster, to feel your body start to internally panic, to feel your body automatically respond, and to not have any control over any of it. I went in to survival mode, trying to get up off the gurney, trying to push the nurse away who was attempting to put an IV in my arm to administer heart medication and ativan to calm me down, and I kept saying over and over again that I didn't want to die, please help me, please tell me what's going on, please help me, I can't die today. Needless to say, it was traumatizing. Again. I'm 28 years old. This is too much reality for someone my age, and I've been in this place too many times over the last few years. I'm over it. This is a lot for my husband and I to deal with. He was fantastic, as usual, reciting my heart health history to the ER doctor like a champ, while holding on to my hand, telling me I was going to be fine, telling the nurse to turn off the sound to the heart monitor because it stresses me out. He knew what to do. He was great. Even through his own anxiety about what was going on, he was my hero. But man oh man, this is just too much, you know?
Anyway, a whole year has gone by since that wonderful, glorious day. And I still don't understand why it had to end the way it did. I'm fairly certain I'll never know, and perhaps that's the way it's supposed to be.
This year, I spent half of the day in the hospital. I had a random atrial fibrillation event that started on Tuesday afternoon (9/18) landed me in the ER and then CCU. I'm ok, they got my heart rate to stabilize and I was released late morning on the 19th but it was a hard day, for more reasons than one.
We moved to Bloomington, IN early last month so this was the first time I was in the hospital so far away from home, from our family and friends, from my trusted UCLA doctors. We did not expect this to occur and it took us completely by surprise. They don't know why it happened and it could happen again. It is not reassuring to feel like I'm a walking ticking time bomb. And it is beyond frustrating that, after nearly 2.5 years cardiac issue free, I'm back to being afraid. It really REALLY scared me. My heart rate was over 200 beats per minute by the time I got hooked up to the monitors in the ER and I was absolutely terrified. I cannot describe how it feels to feel your heart racing, faster and faster and faster, to feel your body start to internally panic, to feel your body automatically respond, and to not have any control over any of it. I went in to survival mode, trying to get up off the gurney, trying to push the nurse away who was attempting to put an IV in my arm to administer heart medication and ativan to calm me down, and I kept saying over and over again that I didn't want to die, please help me, please tell me what's going on, please help me, I can't die today. Needless to say, it was traumatizing. Again. I'm 28 years old. This is too much reality for someone my age, and I've been in this place too many times over the last few years. I'm over it. This is a lot for my husband and I to deal with. He was fantastic, as usual, reciting my heart health history to the ER doctor like a champ, while holding on to my hand, telling me I was going to be fine, telling the nurse to turn off the sound to the heart monitor because it stresses me out. He knew what to do. He was great. Even through his own anxiety about what was going on, he was my hero. But man oh man, this is just too much, you know?
Anyway, a whole year has gone by since that wonderful, glorious day. And I still don't understand why it had to end the way it did. I'm fairly certain I'll never know, and perhaps that's the way it's supposed to be.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Yes, I'm still here
Moving is in full swing: mountains of boxes, stuff piled up in every available corner waiting to be placed in a box, lists of various tasks to be done here and there and everywhere. We are feeling the pressure, feeling sad about the reality of leaving our family and friends, but wading through each day like champs.
And we are on a break from building our family. Officially. And no, I'm not sure when we'll be "back." Honestly, I can't focus on that aspect of our life at the moment. We have to focus on us for a change, the bigger "us": our marriage, and "us" as individuals. Somewhere along the line we kind of forgot to really live -- looking back at the last four years, it has become crystal clear that our lives were on hold, waiting, waiting, always waiting. And it wasn't fair. We've missed out on so much and pieces of our true selves were buried deep under the mud and grime of infertility treatments and the despair that followed each and every failed cycle.
Life is too short, you know?
So I'm still here, just in a different place, a different capacity. My period arrived today, after a long 44 day cycle. I suppose it's fitting that I write on what I would have normally referred to as CD 1 -- only this time, CD 1 doesn't mean a damn thing. But I needed to write, because that's what I've always done on this day. I guess some habits are hard to break. And at the end of this cycle, I am going back on birth control. If we're not actively trying, my crazy cycle lengths are too crazy for me to deal with. 44 days was bliss in comparison to what I've endured in the past. Med-free, I was no stranger to 50 day cycles, 70 day cycles. Once, even a 91 day cycle. I felt like I was going bat-shit crazy. Nope. I refuse to do this to myself right now. I want to feel good, I want to be REGULAR. The best treatment for my PCOS is the birth control pill. In addition to regulating my cycles, my cysts will be managed, my lining won't get uber thick as time marches on between bleeds which keeps my risk of uterine cancer down {so many lovely things associated with PCOS}. So there you go. This infertile myrtle is taking charge, and taking the time to find herself again, which includes sessions with a health coach where we address my tendencies toward anxiety and my low self-esteem and skewed self-image. I'm not going to take my life for granted, not anymore. Each day is a blessing. I learned that in 2009 when I had open heart surgery but I think it took some time to really sink in.
Anyway, I've missed writing but really, there isn't much to say right now in terms of fertility. My life is not revolving around the pursuit of baby. It feels odd. It feels foreign, but also, it is liberating. Do we still want kids? Absolutely. But right now, after 4 long years, we are just tired and in need of a reboot. The next time I write, I will be doing so from a whole new state. See ya on the flip-side, and if you're still reading, thank you for your support!! When we come off this break, I hope you'll still be following along!
And we are on a break from building our family. Officially. And no, I'm not sure when we'll be "back." Honestly, I can't focus on that aspect of our life at the moment. We have to focus on us for a change, the bigger "us": our marriage, and "us" as individuals. Somewhere along the line we kind of forgot to really live -- looking back at the last four years, it has become crystal clear that our lives were on hold, waiting, waiting, always waiting. And it wasn't fair. We've missed out on so much and pieces of our true selves were buried deep under the mud and grime of infertility treatments and the despair that followed each and every failed cycle.
Life is too short, you know?
So I'm still here, just in a different place, a different capacity. My period arrived today, after a long 44 day cycle. I suppose it's fitting that I write on what I would have normally referred to as CD 1 -- only this time, CD 1 doesn't mean a damn thing. But I needed to write, because that's what I've always done on this day. I guess some habits are hard to break. And at the end of this cycle, I am going back on birth control. If we're not actively trying, my crazy cycle lengths are too crazy for me to deal with. 44 days was bliss in comparison to what I've endured in the past. Med-free, I was no stranger to 50 day cycles, 70 day cycles. Once, even a 91 day cycle. I felt like I was going bat-shit crazy. Nope. I refuse to do this to myself right now. I want to feel good, I want to be REGULAR. The best treatment for my PCOS is the birth control pill. In addition to regulating my cycles, my cysts will be managed, my lining won't get uber thick as time marches on between bleeds which keeps my risk of uterine cancer down {so many lovely things associated with PCOS}. So there you go. This infertile myrtle is taking charge, and taking the time to find herself again, which includes sessions with a health coach where we address my tendencies toward anxiety and my low self-esteem and skewed self-image. I'm not going to take my life for granted, not anymore. Each day is a blessing. I learned that in 2009 when I had open heart surgery but I think it took some time to really sink in.
Anyway, I've missed writing but really, there isn't much to say right now in terms of fertility. My life is not revolving around the pursuit of baby. It feels odd. It feels foreign, but also, it is liberating. Do we still want kids? Absolutely. But right now, after 4 long years, we are just tired and in need of a reboot. The next time I write, I will be doing so from a whole new state. See ya on the flip-side, and if you're still reading, thank you for your support!! When we come off this break, I hope you'll still be following along!
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Due date
Today, May 27th was my estimated due date with our pregnancy that we lost last October. It's kind of a bittersweet weekend, because my husband graduated with his Master's degree yesterday. In September, we were worrying/joking about what we would do if I were to go into labor during his graduation. Funny how life has other plans...
I'm ok today. After our loss, I thought this day would be so hard but in reality, I feel mostly wistful. What could have been, you know? I don't know. I wish things were different, that my belly was bulging to capacity with life but alas, it wasn't meant to be. I suppose it's sometimes just as simple as that.
I'm ok today. After our loss, I thought this day would be so hard but in reality, I feel mostly wistful. What could have been, you know? I don't know. I wish things were different, that my belly was bulging to capacity with life but alas, it wasn't meant to be. I suppose it's sometimes just as simple as that.
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