Advertisements
Tag Archives: depression

Don’t Let the Thought Possess You

13 Aug

I was very depressed as a teen, and throughout my 20s. The thing is I also suffered from terrible anxiety. I guess the “upside” to that (if you can call it an “upside”) is that I never once thought about self-harm. That scared the shit out of me.

Something changed when I lost Nadav though. A dormant switch was turned on in my head.

And sometimes, to this day, a thought creeps in. An invasive thought. An awful, terrible thought.

I had a bit of a wake up call a few months ago and saw my psychiatrist, and told him that I was having invasive thoughts.

He knows I’m a girl who likes her research. So he pulled out a study about invasive thoughts and read the conclusions to me.

I’ll save you the boring details, but basically the conclusion is that these things are common, especially amongst people suffering from depression and anxiety.

And that the thought tends to linger if you dwell on it.

That if you possess it, it possesses you.

That the best thing to do, when something like that creeps in, is to push it aside, acknowledge that it’s chemical and a lie, and if you’re not getting help already, to seek it. ASAP.

I guess Robin Williams succumbed to the chemical lie yesterday. He let it possess him.

I won’t eulogize him. I didn’t know him. But you should know that he WAS my childhood. That I have been deeply saddened by what has happened.

And I’ve spent the last 24 hours – amongst the stresses of work, a baby with a fever, and very little sleep – reflecting on what has happened.

Last night, as I went to shower, trying to wash my face so I wouldn’t wake up tear stained in the morning, I looked at myself in the mirror.

And I realized it’s been a while since I did that. I’ve been avoiding mirrors again.

And I realized I may not be as OK as I’ve been pretending to be.

And that as soon as the dust settles around this latest bit of chaos I will seek out help. Again.

And that having such a bright ray of light extinguished is what woke me up to the fact that I am, once again, drowning.

That I need to find a better solution.

I hope that if anything, his actions last night will inspire more people to seek help.

Depression is a fucking awful disease.

It never really has a cure. All you can do is be vigilant. Be vigilant, and don’t let the invasive thoughts possess you.

You are not alone.

Advertisements

Fertile World Problems

17 Jul

So today I saw my psychiatrist for the first time since going on bed rest. I made the appointment now in order to get things squared away in case I have to deal with postpartum depression (PPD), which I’m at VERY high risk for. I wanted to make sure that in case of a med switch, we had plenty of time to pull it off.

I left the appointment practically in tears.

So here’s the deal:

I’ve been on a drug called zy.prexa for the last 4 months. It was a good interim solution because it can handle high-anxiety situations as well as curb depression. Though it’s not usually prescribed for depression and anxiety, it’s known to work for people who are SSRI-resistant (or in other words people who the usual happy pills don’t work on – like me).

So I walk into the shrink’s office and pretty much the first thing I tell him is that I have GD. Immediately he says that it could very well have been caused by the zy.prexa. I knew that weight gain was a side effect (knew that all too well, thank-you-very-much), but I had no idea it could affect my blood sugar. He told me that he wanted me to stop the pill immediately, and manage through the rest of the pregnancy with the occasional xan.ax (ok during the third trimester as long as I don’t take any after week 38), and that’s it. The zy.prexa has too much potential to do harm.

He also said that he would recommend I never take the pill again because he’s afraid of the long-term risks for my health, and that it may cause diabetes for me in the long run if I continue to take it.

I have to say I was a bit relieved. I don’t regret taking the pill – it helped me keep my shit together, and if GD is a side effect of that, so be it, but I’m glad to know that there’s a chance my blood sugar will even out more now that I’m going off the pill. And there’s no way of knowing if the pill caused the GD or is just not helping a set situation. Either way I can see an upside to both having been on it, and now going off of it.

Then came the bombshell:

Shrink: “So after you give birth, I want you to breastfeed for a week, then we’ll put you back on a low dose of cym.balta”.

Me: “Ok… Wait… What do you mean breastfeed for a week?”

Shrink: “There’s not enough research out there about cym.balta. You shouldn’t breastfeed while you’re on it.”

Me: “WHAT?”

There was a continual back-and-forth about this but basically the conclusion is this:

I can wait it out to see if PPD hits before I start taking the pill (about three weeks after giving birth), but if I do get PPD, I have no choice but to stop breastfeeding immediately because I would never risk it with cym.balta in my system. I can’t get another pill because me and SSRI’s (zo.loft, pa.xil and the like) are NOT friends at all, and zy.prexa is too big of a risk, so I’m stuck with this one form of happy pill, and I can’t do anything about it.

The fact is that there’s a pretty decent chance I’ll get PPD. I have practically every risk factor in the book between my losses and my history of depression. And if I get PPD, of course it needs to be treated, which means I won’t be able to breastfeed. So now here’s yet another thing taken away from me, and I fucking hate it.

Look – I joked that if breastfeeding doesn’t come easily to me I’ll happily use cym.balta as an excuse to stop. But I have a feeling that may not be the case. What if I love it? How can I give it up if it comes naturally to me and B5?

When I called Shmerson and told him the verdict he pointed out that these are first world problems. That six months ago I would have killed to be in a discussion about the risks of breastfeeding while on SNRI’s.

And he’s right, but right now it doesn’t make this hurt any less.

All I can do now is hope that by some miracle I don’t get PPD. But realistically I know that chances of that are close to nil.

So yes, this is a “fertile world problem”. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to cry my eyes out over it. So excuse me while I go do that.

The Truth of It

4 Jul

Ababaderech (my friend who is pursuing surrogacy with his partner) called me today. He had read my last post and said he had something he wanted to tell me, but he wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to say it. Curious, I told him to lay it on me.

He said: I think it’s not 100% right that you’re categorizing your depression as a disease. I think you’re feeling like you’re in the shithole right now because the truth is that you are, for now, in the shithole. It will get better, but right now, things suck for you and it’s ok to feel it.

I can’t tell you the gratitude I felt toward him for saying that.

Finally – someone apart from Shmerson, acknowledging the truth of the matter: this sucks.

I think that there is a social expectation about “moving on” with a loss like ours. After a while, people just expect you to get better, and expect it to be an upward climb.

But the truth is that nothing in life is that linear, and things are far more complicated than that.

Lately, when I bring up my losses and desire for resolution to friends, family, anyone really – I get the same advice over and over again: Keep busy. Distract yourself and things will be easier.

Oh, if only it was that easy. I feel such a huge sense of frustration with that “advice”. I know everyone means well, but I just want to scream: DON’T YOU THINK THAT IF IT WERE POSSIBLE, I WOULD HAVE ALREADY DONE IT?

NO ONE wants to be distracted from this more than I do. I want to not think about having a baby almost as badly as I want a baby. I want to not dwell on Nadav just as badly.

But it’s there. It’s always there. There is nothing I can do to fix it. And it’s driving me nuts.

I’ve tried. I’ve signed up for summer classes. I’ve gotten manicures. I’ve forced myself to work. I’ve forced myself to socialize.

But there it is – every day. Nadav. My longing for a child. Right there. In my face and refusing to be ignored.

Tonight Shmerson and I talked it over a bit. We’ve both been down since we came back from our vacation. We’re both depressed. Funnily enough – we’re doing worse now than we were doing in March, when losing Nadav was still new and raw. In March, we were a well-oiled taking-care-of-ourselves machine. Now we’re tired. We’re down.

Shmerson and I both think that part of this downward spiral is a function of acknowledgment. That when Nadav’s loss was still raw for everyone we were held up. Taken care of. Our pain was acknowledged by the people around us. That acknowledgement made things easier on us.

Now, we are alone with our pain. We still have it and we always will. Even when others have long since moved on.

Today, at my weekly appointment with the Harley Hottie, we discussed my depression. He told me that we would try to help alleviate some of that next week.

I said: Don’t we already have too much on our plates?

He said: True. And  let’s be honest – 95% of your problems will disappear as soon as you hold a baby in your arms.

That’s 2 acknowledgements in one day. More than I’ve had in the last few months. That’s the cold hard truth of it. I am stuck in a ditch, and the only way out of it is a baby.

I am lost, my arms are empty, and no distraction will help make things better. I just wish people could see that and accept it.

Maybe then I would feel less guilty about not being able to fully live my life.

Maybe then it would hurt just a little less.

In a Ditch

2 Jul

I’m apparently not done wallowing yet.

I don’t remember the last time things were this bad. I’m having a hard time sleeping, concentrating, everything.

Classic signs of depression.

So yeah, nothing new to report here except that AF finally reared her head. Let’s hope the diet is doing it’s job and my body actually regulates itself. I did feel a little better once she came, but just a little.

So yeah – sorry I’ve been MIA guys. Hopefully I’ll snap out of it soon.

Friday I’m headed to the psychiatrist. I think the happy pills stopped working, because I WANT to snap out of it, I just can’t seem to do it.

Or in short – urgh.

 

Aftermath

7 Jun

First of all, thank you everyone for your amazing comments on yesterday’s post. Sharing your vices, giving support, and reminding me that I’m worthy of having some hope. I can’t tell you how much that means to me.

So here’s what happened after I hit “publish”:

I had a complete meltdown.

As in – I hadn’t had one this bad since about a week after we lost Nadav.

As in – panic attack, destructive thoughts, hysterical crying – the whole pile of crapnuggets.

I tried calling Shmerson and he wasn’t answering his phone. I knew I shouldn’t be alone. So I called my mom and she came over and we had a talk.

Amazingly enough – she really helped me get my head straight again. She’s not usually this good with crises but somehow she pulled it off. Yay mom!

After reading all of your comments, a lot of talking, and yes, a bit of smoking, here is all of the good that came out of yesterday (in list form, of course):

1. Douchenozzle is now officially my favorite word ever. Seriously. I just thought I’d put that out there.

2. I’m changing therapists. I love my shrink, and I’ve been with her for four years. But the fact that I still go to these destructive places, and the fact that I constantly have to “explain” pregnancy loss and infertility to her means she’s just not what I need right now.

I’ve seen what wonders a therapist specializing in IF has done for Cristy, and I really think I need someone now who understands what this feels like. So this Monday will probably be my last session. After four years, it’s time to move on.

3. I’m signing up for the accelerated Art Therapy program. One thing I didn’t share with you guys be cause I was very much in ZOMG THE DRAMA – land yesterday, is that when I met with the head of the program, she also said: Apply first, make decisions later.

So I bit the bullet and did my online application last night. Then I emailed her to tell her about it and she was THRILLED. She knows that things are still up in the air, and that’s ok with her and with me. What’s the worst that can happen? I get accepted to the program and can’t do it, and I start the next year with the regular program. That’s really not the end of the world.

This also means I’m going back to school in July! There are a bunch of pre-requisites that I have to take before the program can officially accept me, and I’m going to do them all in the summer (or as many as I can fit in anyway).

Here’s the crazy thing: Just this little act of filling out an online application has done WONDERS! Usually, when I try falling asleep, or just shutting my eyes for a few minutes of rest, my mind wanders to fantasies that usually include a baby in my arms. Today, my mind went to ideas for a thesis. If that’s not progress, I don’t know what is.

3. I am officially stopping the delusion that I can pull off quitting smoking cold turkey. Instead, I’m going to start by gradually cutting down. A bunch of you said in the comments – and you’re right – that one step at a time is the right thing. So yeah – I’m taking the long road for once on this.

4. I bought a new dress today. And I dyed my hair purple. And I ate some sushi.

5. The major takeaway from all of this is that in my hurry I kind of let go of some of the things that I learned from losing Nadav. I put on horse blinders and that was wrong.

I forgot that putting my life on hold – for any reason – does only harm.

I forgot that when it comes to infertility, no amount of speculation and planning will help the outcome, and sometimes, that planning can come back and bite you in the ass in the form of disappointment.

So when it comes to my life – I’m better off moving forward without letting the “what if”s get in the way of my “right now”s.

6. Hee hee. Douchenozzle. I seriously don’t know where I got it, but I love it. Oh! Turns out it actually has a definition! And now of course I must create a douchenozzle cat. I mean, really, how can I not? I owe it to the world.

Here you go, world:

You’re welcome.

Bloggity Blah

7 Oct

I know, I know, I didn’t post anything for Group Therapy Thursday yesterday. I’m sorry. But, alas, in my defense, it would have been a two question post. So you know, get on it if you want one next week. Maybe I should stop doing them? I don’t know, everything has been kind of making me feel down lately, and I’m wondering whether doing one once a week (or even at all) may not be interesting. I don’t mean to guilt you guys. But I’m wondering if I should keep it going…

Yeah, things are kind of blah. I’m so tired. Ori’s funeral was yesterday, and it was a beautiful ceremony, but it just felt so surreal. I went with Squish, and it was one of those situations where you can’t quite imagine you’re actually going through this. Standing there, watching one of your closest friends read a poem over her partner’s grave. Not technically a widow because they weren’t married, but a widow nonetheless. It was a mind fuck.

This was the second time in my life I was at a funeral of a musician who had died too young. The funeral brought me back to one I attended almost ten years ago. Standing there I felt overwhelmed, and tired. And old. Not like, senior citizen old, but my age old.

My friend – a widow.

And Steve Jobs died. And that made me sad too. I’ve been an apple freak since I first got a grape colored imac my sophomore year of college. The world lost some amazing people in the last few days, and that has left me feeling pretty heavy.

It also got me thinking about how the circle of life works, and about my unending need to be a mother. I guess the urgency of loss brought it back to the surface with a vengeance. I spent 3 hours in traffic on the way home from the funeral, and I spent some of that time talking to a potentially growing embryo in my body. I had an out-loud talk, telling it to find it’s way, to dig in in the right place. To grow strong so that it can see the home I’ve been working so hard to make for it. I felt like a crazy woman.

Even more than usual.

I’ve been feeling so stuck lately. Not depressed, just on hold. And I feel like the only thing that will unstick me is a baby. i hate that feeling. As much as I’ve embraced it in the last couple of months, it doesn’t make the stuck-ness any less sucky. Steve Jobs’ Stanford speech has been popping up everywhere, and since I first saw it a couple of years back, with every viewing I think to myself how I need to do what I love. So what do you do when the one thing in the world that you think you’ll love more than anything is so elusive?

At my therapists’ on Wed. she reminded me once again that there’s a whole full world of Mo outside of the mommy thing. That I shouldn’t ignore my ambitions and desires while waiting to be a mother. But my desire clouds everything else. To the point where I don’t truly know what I want, apart from this. And that frustrates me.

I’m 5 DPO, I’m going to hold off at least until 8 DPO to test (yes! the poll kinda worked!) but I so want this to be the month, and I’m scared that if it isn’t I’ll be upset.

I’m also scared that I get a positive. There’s a part of me that has become convinced that this next pregnancy is going to stick. But what if it doesn’t? I’ve been pushing that thought out of my mind lately, but the last few days it’s been creeping back in.

Urgh.

Yeah – this post has been a rambling downer. Sorry guys.

Buzz Buzz Buzz

24 Aug

This is a bullet point post. I do this not because I am lazy (well mostly not). I do this because, in the immortal words of someone: Heady-explodey. Today has been one of those days that I wish I had a pensieve. Stupid me being a stupid muggle. Ahh well.

So – it’s a list. I like lists. You like lists. Sometimes. I’m rambling. I’m tired. Buzz buzz. Here we go:

  • Thank you all for your comments on yesterday’s post. I think we’re gonna go the try try again route. I don’t think I’ll regret this in the long run. The fact is, that there simply isn’t enough info about my past losses. If we have a fourth (FSM forbid), then we will either know it’s an ectopic and take out Ole’ Righty, and then go for IVF, or we’ll have more info and then go blow the $300 bucks. For now, just like the Russian said, we’ve done all that we can outside of experimental treatments. RPL is a biyatch.
  • So now I really want to try again. Like, NOW. And Shmerson is concerned that I’ll go batshit just like I did last time. He keeps on saying (and he is right) that I can’t just spend my time wishing for a baby, because if that’s where all of my energy is, I will have an inevitable crash once we do get our little one. I know he’s right. And I’m really making an effort to work on me a bit more. I don’t THINK I’ll freak out as much as I did last time. But I’m not sure.
  • On the other hand I hear the tick-tock. My cycles are gradually getting longer and I’m ovulating later. I know what this means – my PCOS is kicking in and it’s only a matter of time before I stop ovulating again. In fact, the Russian said that if we don’t get preggo within the next few months then we should start considering Clomid. So yeah – tick tock tick tock.
  • I also kind of feel like if we’re going to have a fourth loss, I just kind of want to get it over with. I don’t know if it’s healthy, but it’s how I feel.
  • I’m just afraid that I want this for all the wrong reasons. And in my crazy buzz-addled brain I keep thinking that the reason for my three losses is because we jumped in for the “wrong reasons”. Urgh. This is stupid. Luckily we have about a week and a half or so before a follie pops so we don’t have to decide yet. In fact, I’m thinking that we shouldn’t decided. Just kinda do it and see what happens (though knowing me I’ll still be using pee sticks like there’s no tomorrow).
  • Enough of the TTC stuff. Moving on:
  • I’m going to Dr. Happy Pills tomorrow, and insisting on changing my meds. They work, in that I’m better than I was after my brain broke back in November, but I feel like they’re band aids, and are not doing what they’re supposed to. He insisted on zoloft, which helps with the depression (most of the time) but causes increased anxiety. So he added xanax. Then the zoloft pooped out (it was a low dosage) so he upped it. Then I started having trouble sleeping, so he added ativan to the cocktail. Now I’m tired. All the time. And I feel completely unproductive 90% of the time, and anti-social. I think it’s time to wave bye bye to Zoloft. I don’t know what we’ll do though, since very few anti-depressants are ok with the preggo. And I assume I will eventually be preggo and I’d rather not be preggo and in happy pill withdrawal. Lexapro was a complete bust when we tried it. Now I have no idea what to do. I’m afraid to go off them completely because of the brain breaking thing, which was no fun. I like my brain unbroken thank you very much. Even if it makes things a little hazy. Urgh. We’ll see what he says tomorrow.
  • Bleeding Tulip has a great post about decision fatigue up on her blog. It has made me realize that I suffer from a new disease that I have just invented: Chronic Decision Fatigue Syndrome. I think I want to do something about that. No clue what, but there ya go.
  • I no longer fit properly into any of my jeans. This is a bad thing. Muffin tops abide and they must be destroyed. Something needs to be done about it. I’ve started by taking a page out of WWH‘s book and making low fat breakfast smoothies. Non-fat yogurt, with fruit, agave syrup, and spinach. Yes, spinach. You can’t taste it and it has vitamins and stuff. Today, I had one at 10am and wasn’t hungry again until 2pm. And even then, I wasn’t THAT hungry. I think this may be good. We’ll see.
  • I want to go back to yoga. But again, i can’t seem to get my ass off the couch. I hope some form of new happy pill will help with the getting off of the couch thing. That would be good.
  • I have now officially started playing “find the infertile” on every single reality show I watch. Married? Over thirty and no kids? Infertile. Looks over 40 and has a 2 year old? Infertile. Puts her children in beauty pageants that include fake tans? Well – that’s just crazy. Nothing to do with being infertile. Just putting it out there.
  • I think that’s enough of my buzz buzz for one night. But I’m throwing in a cute bunny for good measure. Note: I do not own bunnies. That’s Marie‘s department. And hers have magical psychic powers and jump up and down to answer my big existential questions (well I’m actually not sure about that, but I take her word for it because a) it funnies me and b) I have no visual proof to the contrary).

One of Marie’s bunnies telling me that everything will be ok. Artist’s rendering. Not to scale.

  • However, I do find bunnies unbelievably cute and they make me smile. So here are two more bunnies. In cups:



Virtual Treasure and Angry Birds

1 Aug

Me: Ahhhhhhh!!!!!

Me: Stop it.

Me: No! I’m freaking out!

Me: Stop it.

Me: Poof! I stopped it.

Me: Good.

Me: Dude, I didn’t really. Come on, you should know better. Can I go back to screaming now?

Me: No. Tell me what’s wrong.

Me: You know very well. We’re going in for surgery on Thursday. SURGERY!

Me: Thousands of people do it every day.

Me: Don’t care.

Me: It’s perfectly safe. You’ll be asleep the entire time.

Me: With a tube stuck down my throat! That’s not sleep. That’s torture!

Me: You won’t even know it’s there!

Me: Ahhhhhh!!!!!

Me: What now?

Me: I won’t even know it’s there! No control! Can we run away? Please?

Me: No. We’ve got to do this.

Me: Why?

Me: You know what we’ve been doing the last few days?

Me: Watching too much reality TV and feeling useless?

Me: Yes, that.

Me: What about it?

Me: We do that when we’re depressed or anxious.

Me: No shit, Sherlock.

Me: Now what has been the primary cause of this depression and anxiety?

Me: You being a pain in my ass?

Me: No. Try again.

Me: Me being a pain in your ass?

Me: That too. But dig deeper.

Me: The baby thing?

Me: Yes. The baby thing.

Me: What does that have to do with us getting cut open and being completely in other people’s control for HOURS? HOURS!!!!

Me: Breathe. Remember last month when we were TTC and sitting at home depressed because we were scared of another ectopic?

Me: Yeah. That sucked. But that How I Met Your Mother marathon was nice.

Me: Yes, that was nice. But you also spent a few too many hours hunting for virtual treasure on FB.

Me: That was fun!

Me: No it’s dumb. It’s a waste of our time and… Well, I would say energy but it mostly involves clicking.

Me: Ok. I’ll give you that.

Me: And the fact that we got three stars on all the levels of Angry Birds Seasons?

Me: It was awesome!

Me: No. It was unsatisfying. It was us being depressed.

Me: But the birds! And the piggies! And the golden eggs!

Me: You’re deluding yourself.

Me: So? What’s your point?

Me: My point is – get through this week. Make it to the lap. Get through it.

Me: But I don’t wanna!

Me: Do you want babies?

Me: Babies?

Me: Yes, babies.

Me: Babies! Babies! Babies! Babies!

Me: See now I’ve got your attention.

Me: Babies! Babies! Babies… huh?

Me: This will help us get the babies.

Me: Are you sure?

Me: No. But it’s a place to start.

Me: You promise we’ll be OK?

Me: I promise.

Me: And can we at least spend some of this week trying to get 3 stars on Angry Birds Rio?

Me: Yes. I’ll even let you hunt for some virtual treasure. But after that – to the lap we go!

Me: Ahhhhhhh!!!!!!!!

Me: This is a lost cause….

Climbing

30 Jul

Have you guys ever been to a point where you are so overwhelmed that your head no longer holds thoughts- just a continuous buzzing?  Yeah, that’s where I’m at. Heady-explode-y.

So much stuff has been happening, I don’t even know where to start. On the same day we went in for the lap consult, we got an offer on our current apartment, which means we’re one step closer to moving into our shiny new place and I can start getting my nesting on. My lap is scheduled for this Thursday, and I’m spending the next few days running around doing all sorts of paperwork and pre-op blood work and doctor’s appointments. Things are insane.

On our way to the lap consult, Shmerson told me something that’s kind of been echoing in his mind. He says he feels like a 15 year old impersonating an adult. We’re buying and selling real-estate, we’re applying for mortgages, we’re going into doctors’ offices with binders full of my medical history. He’s writing emails to his professors asking for extensions because “his wife is going in for surgery”.

Freaky.

I feel the same way. I feel like a total impostor sometimes. I really do. How the heck can I act like an adult when I basically barely have any clue who I am? There are days that I just want to say “fuck it all” and just party. Or something. Ok. I’m not much of a party animal. But sometimes it’s just too much. I just want to hang out and have someone else worry about my tubes for a change.

But things only get stranger from here. With all of this going on,  I’m actually relatively CALM. I’m not in a hurry so much any more with the getting knocked up. Not because I want it any less. But just because I’m starting to realize that before I get knocked up things need to calm the frak down. We need to move. I need to get through this lap. I need to find a new job. Shmerson needs to get through his exams and find a new job. There’s so much to do. We need to get our stability on.

Today, Shmerson and I were talking. He told me that he wishes all of this sucky stuff hadn’t happened during our first year of marriage. He said: “Why couldn’t we have had like, 5 years of ignorant wedded bliss before all this crap happened?”

I answered in a particularly zen way: “If we had 5 years of ignorance, then we probably wouldn’t have appreciated them.”

The thing is – we keep on talking about wanting things to get “better” already. What is “better” anyway?

I don’t think there’s ever a place of perfection. And you know what? I’m not so much of a fan of the “Happy Ending.” Because then things end. I like this whole living thing, thank you very much.

So no happy endings for me. Happy being. Happy living. Not even that. Contentment. I think that’s what I’m striving for now. Calm.

Heck  – I’ll take a week without depression. A baby would be nice too. But there’s stuff to be done first.

Ok I’m rambling. This is going to be one of those long rambling posts so you guys may as well grab a cup of tea and settle in.

….

Are you back? Ok then.

I went to visit PM last week.  I held her little one in my arms for close to half an hour. Half an hour of complete calm and peace that proved to me that this is completely what I want.

And yet

PM is overwhelmed. She’s going through some serious crap. She looked at me with this terribly sad face and said “I’m not the same person any more”.

I’ve known her for 15 years. I knew she was serious. This isn’t the postpartum depression talking. Being a mom changes you. It’s a huge transition.

I’ve always known that but this is the first time I saw the “downside” of it. The intimate and dark part. The part no one really likes to talk about. Looking at her, and her amazing baby, I realized that it’s ok if we take some time to get our life in order.

I don’t want you to misunderstand me. PM is so happy to have the little one here. She loves him. But she’s mourning a part of her that is gone. The 15 year old that’s playing the adult. Now there’s no play. There’s just adult. That’s  a scary proposition.

***

Shmerson and I have both been guilty of trying to get too much done at once. There’s always a list. One hundred things that would make us better, happier, whatever.

But we both make the same fatal mistake over and over: We try to do it all at once, fail miserably, and then feel bad about ourselves.

What is “better” and how do we get there?

Well – you certainly can’t get there when you’re running around like a crazy person trying to do it all. No one is super human. There’s only so much you can do.

When Shmerson and I started talking about taking a break from TTC a couple of weeks back, I once again started a list. Lose weight, quit smoking (again), find a new job, exercise more, try to get a film off the ground (again), bla bla bla bla bla.

Up until now, I would have tried to tackle all of this. All at once. Now.

But here’s what PM taught me: Slow. The Fuck. Down.

At my shrink’s on Wednesday she told me something very simple: “Let’s just start with a job.”

Yeah, let’s. Let’s get through this lap and start with a job. One thing at a time.

You fall fast when you hit rock bottom. I hit rock bottom somewhere over the last couple of months. But the climb is slow. And it’s not always easy. But it has to be done to pull yourself out of the muck.

As much as Shmerson and I are overwhelmed right now, I recognize that we’re in the midst of a slow climb. A climb towards “better”, whatever that is. But we’re climbing. We’re not perfect. But we’re climbing. Hopefully, this time, one step at a time. And that’s as good a place to start as any.

To make up for this rather heady and rambly post- proof that I’m not the only one in the family with a bunny fetish:

Luna and one of her many stuffed bunny toys.

Debbie Downer

20 Jul

A post over on Keiko’s blog prompted me to go sifting through my archives a bit. I’ve been kind of off lately in terms of my blogging mojo. I’ve been wondering about it quite a bit. I used to post about once a day. Now it’s down to about twice a week. And it’s not that things aren’t going on. I have a life outside of the blocked tube, and it used to be that every little blip in my life would get written up here in some form. So what happened?

I think I have a tendency toward extremes. A lot of talk at my therapist’s office lately has been aimed at this particular space. Not in a bad way, per se, but in terms of how it had taken over my life almost completely. For example, in regards to my career, instead of examining realistic options, I would always just go to “I wish I could just make a living off of my blog.” My social life – all bloggy friends. My communication with real life friends – through here as well. It was taking over every aspect of my life.

So naturally, because I am a woman of extremes, as soon as this was pointed out to me, I immediately stopped blogging. Which really, is just plain silly. Balance. It’s a good lesson, don’t you think? Wish I’d learn it sometime.

I used to log on every night, pop on some Florence and the Machine and just type type type away. Even when I didn’t know where I was going with a post. Even when I didn’t have any readers, this space was a place for me to work through stuff. Lately it hasn’t been.

Honestly? I think it’s because I’m not working through stuff in general. I mean, I’m trying, but there are things I just don’t want to confront right now. I’ve been genuinely concerned about my own emotional well-being, and instead of working on it, I’ve just been obsessing quietly about it in my head. Which isn’t really healthy at all, is it?

I guess because now I know people actually read my ranty little musings I’m afraid of being a downer. Which is so stupid, because that’s just how I am in real life – always afraid to burden others – and I came to this place as an outlet for my feelings, a place where I won’t feel like a burden to others.

So I’m officially giving myself permission to post even if I am a downer in the near future. I apologize in advance. I’m going through some stuff.

Though I promise to throw in an occasional animated gif or snarky rant. Because you guys deserve a little something for putting up with my current Debbie Downer status.

Coming up tomorrow: I’m going to Twofer’s office to beg for a (possibly) unnecessary surgical procedure! We’re gonna come to a decision about Ole’ righty this week. It’s time. The stabbing pains in my lower abdomen demand it. Do they make animated gifs for stabby pains? I’ll have to look into that.

In the meantime, here’s an unbalanced bunny. Cause bunnies are cute.

Until tomorrow!

Head Games

11 Jul

Today I’m 14DPO, CD35. Aunt Flo hasn’t arrived (I assume because of the progesterone), and I have been spending the last five  hours refreshing the same window on my browser. The one that will, sometime tonight, show me this morning’s beta results. Usually the blood tests show up on the site at 6pm. Once they didn’t show up until midnight. It’s now 9:30pm and nada. There are butterflies in my stomach and my head hurts. I keep on running to the bathroom, doing the TP dance, looking for spotting.

I haven’t POAS in three days. I was all out of them at the house, and I didn’t buy anymore, convinced, that this was it. This month is a bust.

On Saturday night I had a freak-out moment. I don’t even know what triggered it. I was kissing Shmerson, and all of the sudden I felt like a fat useless blob. Like nothing. I had a panic attack. For the first time in a long time. In the bathroom, choking and gagging over the sink, I told Shmerson that I was done. I want my right tube gone. I can’t handle another month like this. This is hard enough as it is, so the less question marks the better.

Then Sunday rolled around and I decided to wait one more day for the beta. I saw a tiny bit of brown spotting in the middle of the day. Then the real head games started. Maybe that’s implantation bleeding? I’m still feeling nauseous. Maybe I’m pregnant after all?

So off I went this morning to the lab to get my betas taken again. After that was done I picked up a pee stick at the pharmacy and ran to the bathroom in the building. BFN. But this isn’t an early detection test. This isn’t FMU. There’s still a chance. Please let there be a chance.

Even though I know there’s really not much of a chance at all. Even though I know I’m just going through the motions and getting my hopes up for nothing. Even though I know that in a week or two, once AF has come and gone, I’ll be in Dr. Twofer’s office begging him to remove my tube, because I’d rather have one working tube than have two and risk another ectopic. One less question mark. One less head game to mess with me.

As I write this I keep on going back to that webpage and hitting refresh. Butterflies in my stomach each time I do. Knowing that it’s most likely going to be negative. Trying to ready myself for the blow, but knowing that when I see that negative test result, I’ll be crushed for the second time in 4 days. Because somehow I managed to get my hopes up again. Apparently I have a tendency toward masochism.

I’m afraid to hit “publish” on this post. It seems so final. What if I hit refresh one more time, and the results will be there, and they’ll be positive, and then I can erase this whole post and start again, announcing a pregnancy. Starting a whole new round of head games and anxiety.

But I have nothing else to write. So I’ll publish. But first I’ll hit refresh one more time.

***UPDATE: Half an hour later, and the results are in. I am, indeed, a masochist.

The Hardest Year of My Life

7 Jul

In July of 2010, at 8 weeks pregnant, I found out I had a Blighted Ovum.

In July of 2011, I went in for a blood test, hoping against all hope that this time things would work out perfectly for a change. I was wrong. I’m not pregnant.

Yes, the doctor said to go in again at 13 DPO just in case. But I seriously doubt the outcome will be different.

This year has sucked. I have spent most of it in limbo, depressed, on the verge of non-functioning. I don’t know how much more of this I can handle. I feel like I’ve climbed Mount Everest, and somehow still found myself at the foot of the mountain.

I don’t know how long it will take until I ovulate on the left again. I don’t know if it’ll work next time. What if my left tube just doesn’t work properly? What if there’s something wrong with me that we haven’t found yet? How much longer will I have to go through this?

Will I be right here, in this same exact place next July – only more tired, more desperate, and more hopeless? How many more two week waits? How many more losses before I either say enough is enough or I get to hold a baby in my arms?

Tonight I’m making sushi for dinner and having a nice long cry. This will be another night of hopelessness. One of hundreds that have already happened, one of who knows how many to come.

The List

24 Jun

Well, Shmerson came home for a blissful 10 hours. Oatmeal chocolate chip cookies were baked, shrimp and spinach basil Gnocchi was cooked, a couple of “deposits” were made happily, much cuddling was had, and now he’s gone for almost two weeks.

After the second “deposit” Shmerson and I gave my eggs and his swimmers a nice little talking to. We explained to his guys that they have to swim to the left, and they have to hang out for a while. We explained to little lefty that she needs to pop soon, and go down Ole’ Lefty to meet the swimmers. Hopefully they were listening.

I’m up against two torturous weeks now. I know saying the word “torturous” may be a bit melodramatic, but so be it. I HATE it when Shmerson’s away. I have a really hard time caring for myself when he’s not around – something that I know I need to change. I think if anything, that’s going to be my mission for these next two weeks, ignore the fact that I’m on my TWW and concentrate on things like actually cooking myself meals, meeting friends, cleaning the house, and getting some work done.

I went to Dr. Happy Pills today and he upped my zoloft dosage, because it’s been evident that right now it’s not completely doing the trick. Hopefully that will help me in this endeavor.

For now – I’m obsessively using OPK’s, hoping that Shmerson’s little guys survive until my follie decides to pop, and everything goes smoothly. Most of my regular readers know I like to make lists, so I’ve decided to share with you my list of things that need to go right for us to actually come out with a baby from this month. I’ve italicized milestones that we’ve never reached before for easy understanding, and because I’m cool and organized like that. Now – on to the list! Yay lists!

  1. Shmerson’s super swimmers need to survive until my follie pops.
  2. This means that my follie better pop in the next 24-48 hours.
  3. Little Lefty needs to go down Ole’ Lefty, and meet the swimmers, to create an actual embryo.
  4. Embryo needs to nestle in properly, in the uterus.
  5. Betas need to double properly.
  6. We need to see a heartbeat.
  7. We need to make it past 8 weeks.
  8. We need to make it to the second trimester
  9. We need the scans to show a healthy baby.
  10. We need the baby to hang out in my uterus hopefully for a full nine months. 
  11. The baby needs to come out healthy and whole. 
  12. I need to stay healthy and whole. 
I know there are plenty of other milestones on the way that I’ve missed. Right now I’m hoping we make it to number 4. Then I’ll hope to make it to 5. If we’re lucky, we’ll hit six and seven. Hopefully from there I’ll be able to breathe just a little bit.
I realized the other day that I’ve been pregnant 3 times, and I’ve never once seen a heartbeat. I hope I get to someday, and hopefully someday soon.
Sometimes I close my eyes and fantasize about what will happen when I finally go into labor one day. I imagine the nurse asking me which pregnancy this is for me. I’ll answer it’s the fourth. She’ll smile and tell me that I must be an old pro. I’ll tell her it’s my first child and make her squirm. For some reason I’ve been liking the idea of making others squirm lately. Don’t know why. I just hope that it really will be the fourth, and we won’t have to say 5th, 6th, 7th, and so on. I don’t know how much more strength I have for this.
But for right now all I can do is convince myself that Nachos for both lunch and dinner are not a healthy nutritional decision, and that staring at the second line on the OPK won’t magically make it darker.
That, at least, would be progress.

My Ironic Day

21 Jun

This post was meant to be titled “Experiments in Social Awkwardness”. But alas, per usual, things never end up quite like I expect them to.

Shmerson is away, and I started the day off with not really doing much of anything. I’ve been hella-anxious, and doing my usual self-destructive over eating (always a blast, with the guilt and the doughnuts. Though I do love those doughnuts) and general restless lethargy.

When 5pm rolled around, I headed over to Twofer’s office for an U/S. Indeed, the left follie is still going strong, and it looks like it will win the race.

But of course, Twofer had to warn me that it doesn’t mean it’ll go down the right (as in the correct, as in the left) tube. To make matters more complicated, his estimate is that little lefty will pop over the weekend, and Shmerson will only be able to come home for some good lovin’ on Wed.

Well, since his sperm was apparently born and bred on krypton, we may still have a shot. But honestly, I’m not feeling too optimistic, because even if his guys do survive the two days until my estimated pop, I’m pretty much convinced I’m going to end up with another ectopic. So far, my plea for success stories has brought two abysmal failure stories instead. So yeah, I’ve pretty much resigned myself to the fact that this is most likely a lost cause.

So I came home feeling rather bitter. Oh, and still sore over a week after that freaking HSG (seriously – is this normal? Twofer wasn’t surprised but it’s been 8 days! Give a girl a break!).

I was trying to get up the motivation to head to my yoga class, when finally, I let my bitter rise to the surface and left the house wearing my brand new badge of honor. Something I’ve been keeping around the house for over a week now, trying to find the right time to flaunt in public.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my Miscarriage T-shirt!

yeah, it's kind of a crappy pic, but it's all I could manage on my iPhone

In case you guys can’t make out the writing, it says: I had a miscarriage and all I got was this lousy T-Shirt.

(though technically it should be “3 miscarriages”. Ahh well)

This shirt was made on cafepress and ordered on a day when I was feeling particularly Loki-ish (don’t know who loki is? google is your friend!) and bitter.

Today I decided to try it out at my yoga class, fully expecting to cause a scene, and get a really funny blog post out of it.

Well, needless to say, I was thoroughly disappointed. Maybe people don’t look at T-Shirts often. Maybe they didn’t care. Either way, I didn’t even get a sideways glance.

To my Yoga Instructor’s credit, I proudly pointed out the writing on the shirt and he laughed his ass off. But I always knew he was awesome like that.

So, I left yoga feeling a bit better, having worked off some of the doughnut (mmmm….. doughnut), and headed off to scrape myself up some dinner (I’m useless at feeding myself when shmerson is not around).

Waiting at the pizza place (yes! I’m depressed! I know! Bad me!) I ran into an old friend, and what started as a fun experiment ended up pissing me off to no end.

I got the sideways pity glance. I got the patronizing advice. I got the “oh, poor you” look.

Never mind that I was cheery and pointed out the shirt myself. Never mind that I did not show any signs of distress. I left there feeling disgusted with this person, and with myself – the latter, of course, for no good reason. Why does my frustration with my body always have to end in self-destructive behavior? You’d think I’d know better by now.

Now – the big question is  – will I wear the shirt again? And if so – perhaps to a family function? Or a Bris?

Your thoughts are welcome!

*sneaks off to eat a doughnut and self-flaggelate*

The Power of Control

6 Jun

First, an update: Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner! Eggs in a Row got it right in the betting pool.  Spotting started today at noon. So she gets chocolate! Yay! Also – stop by her blog and leave her some love – she had a lap a couple of days ago.

Now on to the down and dirty business of my complete emotional breakdown yesterday. Yep. It was a hoot and a half.

I’ve been on edge for days and days. The fact that AF wasn’t showing up was stressing me out beyond belief, which made me even more stressed because I realized at one point that stressing myself out would make the bitch take her sweet time even more.

Then yesterday – the day I was SUPPOSED to get my HSG, I woke up to some devastating news. A dear friend had miscarried for the 4th time. She had gotten pregnant right after my last loss so she hadn’t told me about it to spare my feelings. She lost the baby a few days ago at 9 weeks. I felt terrible. My heart ached for her, and I couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt because if it wasn’t for my own crap, I may have been able to be there for her more. I love this woman so much and all I could do was stare helplessly at a screen and try to find some words of comfort, which felt like too little, too late.

At 4:30 I was supposed to have an appointment with a geneticist to get the ball rolling on a chromosomal work-up for Shmerson and I.

At the same time, I was cramping like crazy, AF wasn’t showing herself, and to make matters worse, I hadn’t been able to get a hold of Dr. Twofer for days. I had emailed, called, and nothing.

He needed to get me a consent form for the HSG (at that point scheduled for this Thursday) and he was MIA. I was freaking out. By 2:30 I had tried and failed miserably to get some work done, I had broken a glass, and I was going out of my skin. I decided to get the heck out of the house so as not to subject Shmerson to my wrath, and to walk around a nearby mall until my appointment.

Window shopping did nothing to ease my feeling of being on the verge (neither did the large fries). I don’t know why, but I was hoping the geneticist would at least let me feel like I was doing SOMETHING to control this whole frakked up situation.

The appointment went something like this:

Doc: So – why are you here?

Me: Three miscarriages. All in the first trimester.

Doc: Any live births?

Me: Nope.

Doc: Ok – my lab at the hospital will be sending you Form X in about a month, and then you take it to your health care provider, and they will convert it to Form Y, and then you and your husband will come in for blood tests, and about two months later, you’ll get an answer.

Me: Um.. Ok.

Doc: Just so you know – there’s about a 90% chance that these tests will not give you any answers at all, so you may as well keep trying to get pregnant. If you do get pregnant, give me a call and I’ll try to speed things up. Any questions?

Really – what could I ask? I thanked him and left the room. I walked down to my car, and started having a breakdown in the parking lot. I called Squish bawling my eyes out, telling her about my friend’s loss, about my own stupid body not cooperating, about Dr. Twofer disappearing. Then I lost it completely. I had my first panic attack in months while on the phone with her (thank FSM that I had a xanax handy). And I just kept saying “I’m done. I’m done. I’m done with this shit.”

She managed to calm me down enough for me to realize I needed a mommy pep talk, and after talking to my mom, I was finally in a together enough state to make the drive home, puffy-eyed and emotionally drained.

When I got home, I finally saw an email from Twofer. Turns out he was out of the country last week. But, since he’s not officially a doctor that works with my health care provider (remember, I went to him for a second opinion), he couldn’t get me the consent form I needed for the HSG.

So – an hour of being on hold, three conversations with random receptionists, and a couple of bouts of me suppressing throwing the phone at someone later, I finally realized that I had no choice but to bite the bullet and go to Dr. Blunt to get the frakking form. So I made an emergency appointment at his clinic and sped over there.

I disliked Dr. Blunt before. Now – I hate his guts.

I’ll spare you the details of the appointment. I caught him up on the third miscarriage. Told him I had gone to Twofer for a second opinion. Told him about my ovulation date, my last beta, and how I was concerned about AF not showing. Basically, he said that since AF hadn’t yet reared her ugly head, he wanted me to go get my betas checked to make sure I wasn’t preggo, and if I wasn’t, he told  me to go ahead and get the HSG as planned on Thursday.

Oh. Then he said: “You know what your problem is? You over-manage yourself.”

Or in other words – “I don’t get why you bother to do your research, keep detailed records, or educate yourself on your body and your options. You should just let us big male doctors run the show. And did I mention I’m hung like a horse?”

Ok – that last part was in subtext only. But I was livid.

I clenched my teeth (I still needed that frakking form after all) and said: “Well, I tried to just let things go and then I miscarried for a third time. So I’ll just continue to do things my way, thanks.”

(You freaking egomaniacal prick).

So I left his office, consent form in hand, vowing to never go there again unless I have absolutely no choice.

Because tomorrow and Wed. are a holiday here, I knew I had to get those betas this morning.

And guess what? I overslept today (thanks iPhone alarm clock and insomnia!) and missed the lab hours. I was hysterical. Knowing the clinic would never give me an HSG without recent negative betas, I called and pushed my HSG – again – to this coming Sunday.

20 minutes later, I go to the bathroom and see that I’ve finally started spotting.

I sat there and laughed. I mean, seriously- what else could I do?

(at least I know that pushing the HSG to Sunday now was completely warranted, since I’ll be on CD 6 and probably only a day or two after AF goes away again).

I have to tell you that the minute I had that consent form in my hand, and a solid plan and timeline in place, I already felt better.

Earlier in that parking lot I felt like I had no control over anything. It’s amazing what a wonderful illusion of control a tiny piece of paper in the shape of a consent form will give you.

This is what sucks about our situation. If I controlled the world, my lovely and amazing friend would not have had her loss. She wouldn’t have had her first one – let alone her fourth. If I controlled the world, pricks like Dr. Blunt would get humiliated (ohh! let’s play a game in the comments – fantasy ways to humiliate Dr. Blunt! I’ll start with having him march naked down a street full of infertile women, and have them pelt eggs at him while disparaging the size of his Schlong – now it’s your turn!).

Ehem.

Sorry – were was I?

Right. If I controlled the world, I would have a baby by now. None of the people I love would be in pain, or I could do something magical to make that pain go away. I would also do what I could for world peace and non-fat bacon that tasted exactly the same as regular bacon. But you know, I’d start with the pain of the people I loved first. (That and Dr. Blunt’s De-Schlonging).

But I don’t control the world, and all I have is a freaking consent form, a panty liner eagerly awaiting to be swapped away for a heavy pad and some tylenol, 6 days of waiting for my HSG, and a feeling of helplessness because I can’t make my friend’s pain go away.**

**Honey – if you’re reading this – and I don’t know if you are – I love you. I wish I could do something to make this better. For both of us. For every woman in this crappy situation. But especially for you. Remember that no matter what, I’m always here for you.

PS – just in case my friend is reading this – let’s also use the comments to send her some love, shall we? I’m not naming names out of respect for her privacy. Just call her Mrs. Awesome, cause she is. So: de-schlonging fantasies about Dr. Blunt and massive love for Mrs. Awesome in the comments… Ready… Go!

Virtually Me

26 May

We interrupt our pre-planned Anniversary Week Post for a bit of self reflection. 

I had my regular weekly therapy appointment today, and the same subject came up that has come up at practically every session for the last month.

Here’s a rundown of how it’s gone each and every week:

  • I bitch for a couple of minutes about being in limbo-land since That happened.
  • I then move on to beating myself up over not doing enough about my health and the fact that I’ve gone back to smoking (yes, I have, I’m sorry, please don’t be mad at me) and I barely make it to yoga once a week.
  • Then I spend another few minutes defending that, and saying, that really, I’m doing pretty Ok, all things considered. Especially compared to the last time.
  • I then proceed to beat myself up about not doing enough to promote my new internet content business, and not being able to find the motivation to get moving on ANYTHING that involves my career.
  • Then I talk about this blog. And the women I have met through this blog. A LOT.
Today my therapist finally called shenanigans. She said it was time to discuss what it is about this space that takes up so much of my time and energy, for better and for worse.
You see – I’ve kind of been skating around the issue here, because I’ve been skating around it in general, but ever since That happened I’ve barely left the house. I barely see my friends. I barely do much of anything outside of blogging, reading other people’s blogs, emailing fellow bloggers, and skyping with my bloggy BFF’s. This has become my life. A virtual bubble that I keep myself locked in. And really, it’s not only since That happened that I’ve been doing this. I’ve been doing this more or less since I first realized that I was part of a “community”. Since I found out that there was a little place on the interwebs with hundreds, if not thousands of women just like me.
And as my readership grew, as my friendships grew, as my google reader bloated up, I found myself detaching more and more from everything else. My full time job is this blog – at least in my mind and spirit it is. My part time job is the one that actually supports my family. This is not healthy. I know it isn’t.
So at therapy, we started to examine why this is. We were out of time before we got very far (most of the time having been already spent with my usual bitching and self-flagellation) but I’ve been thinking about it ever since I left our session, and tonight really started to put things in perspective.
Allow me to try to make sense of things:
I have friends. A lot of friends. Some of them I see once every couple of months, some of them I see and talk to more often. But all of these people love me and I truly love them.
But since more or less my first miscarriage last year, I’ve found myself getting more and more distant from most of them. I don’t reach out. I don’t communicate. I spend most of my real life isolated, and busy beating myself up for messing up one thing or another. For not being good enough.
On the other hand there’s here. If I had to say which version of myself was the “real me”, more often than not these days I would say the “real” me is not that self-flagellating hermit. The real me is Mo. It’s this irreverent, snarky, funny, open person. This person who supports and gives advice when called for, and is supported when called for.
This uncensored, open book. I love Mo. I love her dearly. She is the real me. The essence of who I truly am.
And yet, I’m not her in real life. I don’t live up to her. Mo isn’t a persona. She’s not a construction. Mo is the person I aspire to be in real life, but never really get there. I’m more real here than I am with my own freaking mother. I’m more real here than I am with my friends (so it’s lucky most of them read this blog, so that technically I am real with them). This is me.
That self-flagellating hermit going through the motions of my life – she’s the persona.
Tonight was the first night I’ve really gone out since That happened. An old friend got married. I pulled out a little black dress that barely fit anymore, a pair of spanx (getting into those in my current hormone-fluctuating state was definitely a challenge), and my make up and hair dryer. I shaved the forest that’s been accumulating on my legs for the last month. I waxed and tweezed to make myself semi-presentable. I went to the wedding, and saw a bunch of friends. All of whom I love dearly, and most of whom I hadn’t seen in months.
Now, mind you, part of this is because Shmerson and I moved an hour north of Tel Aviv, back to my hometown, to regroup after our second loss, and most of my friends are in Tel Aviv.
But still – it’s only an hour drive away. And there is such a thing as a phone.
Everybody was genuinely happy to see me. I got a lot of “I’ve missed you”s and “I love you”‘s tonight.
But I also realized why it’s so easy for me to escape and run back to my bubble. Because in the inevitable beginning “how’ve you been?” and “where have you disappeared to?” conversations, I had to tell everyone about That. The first two losses were already known, but I had to tell them about the third.
And I got that look from every one of them. You guys know the look I’m talking about. That sympathetic, slightly uncomfortable “I love you and I’m sorry but I don’t know how to comfort you” look. I hate that look. I love the people who gave me that look, but I still hate that look. And here is the crux of it all: I had to tell them about that, so I had to deal with “the look”.Because I can’t lie to people I love. I had to tell them, and all the while I felt like shit for being such a fucking downer. For making them have to face the crap that Shmerson and I are facing.
This is how I feel with all of my friends. I feel guilty. I know they want to be there for me. I also know that most of them don’t know how to be there. I want to be my real self, the irreverent, snarky, honest, and confident Mo that so many of you read every day. But that’s impossible. Because my “real life friends”  don’t know what to do when the honest comes out. They don’t know how to deal. It’s not their fault. They really do try their best, and I love them for it. It’s just how it is. Or maybe they do know how to deal, and I just don’t give them a chance because I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t know.
So I escape. I escape into this little virtual bubble where I’m the real me. Where having a conversation with one of my bloggy BFFs can easily shift from discussing my cervical mucus to talking about a good book within seconds, and without a second thought. Where I don’t have to deal with the guilt of being the downer. Where I don’t have to hide my losses and my pain, and at the same time I can show my sense of humor. I can beat myself up over crap. And for some reason a bunch of people find that interesting enough to read. And all of you accept me for who I am. It’s not that my “real life” friends don’t. I just think that for them, it’s much messier. They haven’t been where I am. They try their best. I love them for it. But I sense that sometimes, they just don’t know what to say or do with me.
In “real” life – I criticize every word I say, and everything I do. Here – a badly written post is no big deal, and there are some posts that I’m so proud of, that I spend hours or even days high on the feedback of writing something good, or particularly funny. I don’t have that kind of confidence when it comes to the work I do for my clients, or even the feedback I give to my students.
Here – I don’t have to TRY. I just am. Whatever comes, it’s accepted. Without “the look”. Without that feeling of helplessness I sense from even my closest friends “in real life” when I say words like “Beta” or “HSG” or “ectopic”.
My dad gave me shit the other day about the important place that this blog has been given in my life. He told me to “get over it already” and to stop “pouring salt on the wounds.”
Maybe he’s right. Maybe being here on some level perpetuates the fear. Perpetuates my constant need to deal with my losses.
Or maybe – just maybe – this place is my saving grace. It’s my safe haven. It’s the one place where I am strong enough to love myself and forgive myself for my fuck ups. It’s the one place where I’m unapologetic. Guilt-free. I am who I am, and I feel loved for it.
Don’t get me wrong. I know that my “real life” friends love me for me. But I feel like a burden to them. It’s my own self-flagellation that limits my friendships. I love my friends dearly, and I think it’s because of that fact that I sometimes can’t bring myself to “burden” them with my situation.
Tonight, at the wedding, I really wanted to let loose and dance. I couldn’t bring myself to until the very end, just as Shmerson and I needed to leave. I spent the last 15 minutes or so dancing like a maniac. Hugging my friends. Feeling the love, so-to-speak.
I wish that was how I was all that time. That version of me is easy. That version of me doesn’t point at her two butterflies and wonder aloud whether she needs to get a third. That version of me doesn’t feel guilty and constantly isolated from the world around her.
But that version of me is a mask. Every day, in my real life, I wear it. Around my parents, around my clients, my students, and most of my friends – except the ones who read this blog and know what’s going on. And with them, I just feel guilty. I feel like a pill. Like a burden.
Here in this virtual bubble – to quote my therapist – I feel “held”. Accepted. I don’t have to deal with “the look”. I don’t have to deal with uncomfortable silences that arise when people who love me just don’t know what to say to comfort me.
I feel like I’ve rambled on here quite a bit. But here’s my point: I know I have to find a balance. I know this little virtual bubble I’ve created for myself is not a healthy one, because I’ve taken it too far. I know I need to step outside. Deal with “the look” and find a way to be Mo in real life. Because that’s who I am. That’s who I want to be every day. And frankly, I’m sick and tired of being a hermit.
I just don’t know how the hell to do it. Because I feel guilty. Because the real world doesn’t “get it” the way you guys do. Because in the real world, I am different from everyone around me. I am grieving. My body is betraying me. I’m at war with myself.
Here – I belong. I am “held”.
So I give it over to you, dear readers – have you found yourself falling in too deep in this virtual bubble of ours? Any advice on how to bring out my inner Mo in real life and strike a balance?
I await your usual depth and eloquence. Not just my bloggy friends – to my “real life” friends who are reading this – I know it can’t be easy to read. I want to hear (or read) what you have to say.
Thanks. I love you all. Truly.

Anniversary Week Post 5 – I Want My Husband.

24 May

“You can only bring one person in with you.”

It’s the end of July. I have just been diagnosed with a blighted ovum. I’m at the hospital to get a D&C. Both Shmerson and my mother are there. At patient intake that is what I am told.

One person.

I look at both of them. I know they both want to come. I am scared out of my mind.

“My husband. I want my husband.”

That’s the moment I realized that I was truly married.

I mean – I think a lot of people who get married never really get MARRIED. But Shmerson and I – well, we were about three months into our marriage. And we were a family already.

This was the first of many realizations about love, marriage and family that I have had in this last year. This first year of marriage. This year of depression, anxiety, loss, and growth. When you get married, even before you have children, remember – you are already a family.

This choice – my husband over my mother. This choice proved to me that I was truly a ‘wife’ now.

I didn’t have to force myself to make that decision. It was my husband. Of course it was my husband. I didn’t even blink.

“I want my husband.”

I think that’s been the crux of our first year of marriage. We are truly a family. We have truly learned what that means.

***

It’s November 19th. We have just decided to move back to our old studio apartment in my hometown, to take things easy and regroup after our second loss in three months.

I haven’t been sleeping. I haven’t been functioning. I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night screaming.

3:30am. I’ve had another panic attack. My third or maybe fourth that day. I go to another room to watch something stupid on my computer to try to distract myself and tire myself out so I will be able to sleep. We have a lot of packing to do. The movers are coming the next day.

4am. I feel a bit calmer. I go into the shower. I don’t even know what sets off another attack. But all I see is a dark gaping hole and horror. Complete terrifying horror. I collapse in the shower, screaming. The water still running.

Shmerson, who was fast asleep in the other room, runs into the bathroom. My screams have woken him up. This isn’t the first time, either.

He turns off the water, grabs a towel, and wraps me in it. He hugs me and tells me that he loves me. That’s all he can do, really.

A month later I’ve finally come to my senses enough to understand that I can’t go on living this way. I break down and find a psychiatrist. The panic attacks finally stop, and I start this blog.

And through all of that, through all of this – there is my husband. Cheering me on. Telling me he loves me. Telling me I’m beautiful despite the extra 20 pounds that three failed pregnancies and months of anxiety and depression have added to my already plump figure. Despite the fact that I spend half of my time a total and complete mess. And I sometimes take it out on him. He tells me he loves me and that I’m beautiful.

Through all of this – he is there.

April 2oth (wow, i can’t believe it’s only been just over a month. it feels like eons) was the first time I’d ever had to spend the night in the hospital. I was scared out of my mind. I didn’t know what was going on. Shmerson didn’t leave my side for a second. And when they kicked him out of my room at 2am that night, he slept on a cot in the hallway. Just so I would know he was there.

This is the man that I have married.  A man who has been with me through the hardest year of my life. Probably of his as well. A man that still makes me laugh, that reads this blog every day and has become a huge supporter and a part of this community that I have found for myself. For both of us. A man who takes it in stride when I unceremoniously announce to him that in a year we’ll be flying to the States to attend a wedding of a woman who I’ve never met in real life, but who I love like a sister. Who celebrates with me when another announces her pregnancy after more than a year of trying. Who emails back and forth with another, talking about Whiskey and inviting her to crash on our futon. Who gets it. Who gets why I need this space and cherishes it as much as I do.

A man that bravely stood up a couple of months ago and wrote openly about our losses on facebook, because he wanted to be there to support others.

My husband.

****

When you get married, there are always little nuggets of doubt. My brother is divorced, and just leading up to our wedding, I was kind of freaking out. I talked to my brother about my fear. About loving Shmerson, but worrying that maybe that wasn’t enough.

My brother told me that we were perfect for each other, and I should calm the fuck down.

He was right.

My body and my soul have been through the ringer during this last year. I have been at the lowest points possible. The literal depths of pain, despair, and grief.

I have also grown, and learned, and tried to find meaning through all of this.

I often talk about that. About finding meaning in this insane roller coaster of a year. Trying to find a “why”.

I don’t know why. There are very few things I know. In fact, I feel like each time I’ve got things figured out, I get bitch slapped and realize that I probably know nothing.

But there’s one thing I do know: We have gotten through this. We continue to. We continue to love and support each other through this. Our first year of marriage will always be this sad pit of grief and despair.

But it will also be the year that we learned how to be a family.

The year that we learned how to compromise our plans to help each other, and still be happy within that compromise.

The year we realized that we will be amazing parents, because now we will love and appreciate a healthy baby more than we ever thought possible.

The year that we pulled each other out of the muck and mire of loss and depression.

The year that we learned just how strong we really are.

The year that we started the new tradition of high-fives and saying how much we rock when we get stuff done, or find a healthy compromise and make tough decisions.

As I wrote these last few sentences, I started crying. Shmerson had just gotten out of the shower. He sat next to me on the couch, buck naked. He put his arm around my shoulders and said:

Next year we’ll have much happier stories to tell.

I hope so. I really do. But even if we don’t, I know we’ll get through it. As a family. Because that’s what we do. Because we rock. *High Five*

Tomorrow – Shmerson insists on telling his side of the story. 

Life Lessons from How I Met Your Mother

17 May

****Spoiler Alert! if you haven’t seen the season finale of How I Met Your Mother and you don’t want to be spoiled, don’t read this. 

This little space of the blogoverse has been devoid of my true feelings for a while now. I’ve been stopping, starting, and stopping posts over and over again for the last couple of  weeks, and each time I get stuck. I can’t seem to put anything into words.

So – spurred on by – of course – my unending addiction to pop culture, I think I’m ready to break my silence on what’s been going on in my head.

But first – a quick word from our sponsors medical update. Twofer consulted with the specialists, and they decided to start with the least invasive procedure first. So, I looked at the calendar, guessed (educated guess of course) when AF will be making her appearance, and scheduled the HSG for June 5th.

Now – back to our regularly scheduled program blog post.

I’ve been going around feeling defeated. For some reason, I thought, perhaps, getting the procedure scheduled would make me feel better. But it didn’t. It made me feel worse. Because what if the HSG shows a blockage? Then I have to wait FSM knows how long to get whatever procedures scheduled and done. And what if it’s clear? Then we’re right back where we started, freaking out and hoping for the best once we start trying again.

It’s a lose-lose. And it all sucks.

Which brings me back – somehow – to last night’s How I Met Your Mother. For those of you who don’t follow the show, here’s the important stuff you need to know for the sake of this post:

The longest lasting couple in the show, Lilly and Marshall, spent the beginning of the season trying to get pregnant. They were kind of having problems, and went to a fertility specialist. Then it all got put on hold when Marshall’s father passed away. Oh, and after that Marshall became unemployed. So yeah. Lilly and Marshall had a crap-tastic year.

At the end of this episode, Marshall has seemingly blown a job interview, because he’s on the verge of getting sick from food poisoning. He gets home,  completely broken, and rants about how the last year has sucked for him.

Watching this, all I could do was smile and nod. Hell yeah. This last year has been the suckfest to end all suckfests.

In ten days, Shmerson and I will be celebrating our one year anniversary. And gearing up for what may or may not be a battery of tests and procedures, and for what may or may not be another round of trying without actually knowing what the hell is up with my body.

I can pretty much say that Shmerson and I have had possibly the suckiest first year of marriage possible.

Don’t get me wrong – I love him more today than I did on the day I married him. But we spent our two month anniversary recovering from our first loss, our 5 month anniversary recovering from our second, and we’ll be spending our one year anniversary still recovering from our third, knowing that now – whether or not we get any clear answers, we’re facing even greater challenges ahead.

You’re bang-on Marshall. This last year has sucked!

As the episode draws to a close, Marshall finishes his rant and goes to lie down, convinced that he will be spending the night puking his guts out.

He falls asleep, and wakes up the next morning, realizing that he’s made it through the night,  a huge smile on his face.

At that moment Lilly comes to him and announces that she’s pregnant.

We leave the couple at the end of the season, with Marshall’s father still gone, him still unemployed, but there’s sunlight streaming through the window and a ray of hope.

As viewers, we know these guys are going to be fine. That’s kind of a thing with HIMYM. We’re hearing this story from “Future Ted” – a man who’s all grown up, and we see flashes of “old” Lilly and Marshall, as happily married as ever, and presumably with a few kids to boot.

I think that’s both the problem and the wonderful thing about TV. There’s a structure. There’s a comfort. On one hand, it gives us hope, but on the other, it sets up unreasonable expectations.

Although I have to say – that in the case of HIMYM, the producers aren’t afraid to get dark and deep at times. It’s a sitcom, yet they take creative risks. If you’re not a viewer of the show on a regular basis, I would still recommend you watch the episode where Marshall’s father passes away. It’s beautifully handled. Masterfully. The people who make this show are truly artists. And what I love about it is that they even manage to make the cliche’ not completely cliche’.

But once again, I digress. Back to Marshall and Lilly, their crappy year, and why it made me want to blog.

This episode of HIMYM kind of hit a fast forward button. They covered a few months in the course of one episode. Kind of skated over them, explained what happened, and then moved on to the important part of the story.

That’s TV. And especially this show. They love the fast-forward button, The story is told in retrospect, so the viewers already know the outcome.

And sometimes, that’s what I wish my life was. I just want to fast forward through the part where Shmerson and I wait nervously for a diagnosis. I want to fast forward through a first trimester. I want to fast forward and get to the good parts.

I sometimes wish my life was like HIMYM. I still want to live it, but I want a narrator in my head – a “Future Me” – telling me that everything will be ok.

I guess it’s a little like what Shmerson wrote about the other day. I want to know that there’s a grand plan, and I’m not sure if there is one. I know I’m still – on a lot of levels – a victim of fate, or randomness, or whatever. I don’t have a female Ted narrating my life story, telling me that everything is ok.

And that’s what frustrates me most of all. I want one. I really do.

I keep on trying to make sense of things. See a path ahead of me. If X happens then by September we will be here. If Y happens then by this time next year….

And on and on it goes.

As I sat there watching Marshall and Lilly embrace over her pregnancy, I thought to myself that I’ll be seeing this scene again come September, when HIMYM kicks off its next season. Where will I be then? Will I watch it with a newly swelling pregnant belly? Will we be in the same place we are now? Or worse – with more losses and frustration under our belt?

In my head, I was saying “By the time I see this scene again I will be pregnant. And it will be a healthy pregnancy.”

And I guess it gave me some hope. But as I write this I know that thinking this won’t make it true. A few months ago I was convinced Shmerson and I would be celebrating our one year anniversary happily knocked up. That didn’t happen.

So I can’t say where I’ll be when I see that scene recapped in next season’s premier. I can HOPE I’ll be stroking my pregnant belly, maybe crying a tear of joy remembering this blog post. If I had a female Ted narrating my story that’s what I’d want her to say.

But I don’t have a narrator. I don’t know where we’ll be. I don’t know what the grand plan is. That’s what is so terrible about this process. I hope that one day I’ll be able to embrace not knowing and enjoy the moment. But for now – I hate it. I hate not knowing what lies ahead.

Ahh well, at least all it takes for me to put my feelings into words is one episode of a well written television show.

It’s not much, but it’s something.

Envy, Atheism and Neil Gaiman

12 May

Hi Everyone. It’s Shmerson again.

So I’ve been feeling like shit for the last week or so. Yesterday Shmersonette told me I should write a post about it. I replied that a post about it will be the shortest post ever: I FEEL LIKE SHIT. Then I had the last 24 hours to think about it.

I feel like crying all the time. I try to distract myself and it works: when I’m not at the University, or at work – I watch something stupid on my phone or computer. Or do some chore or other. When Shmersonette’s around I feel better. But when I have none of those things, it’s horrible. I’m not even talking about “when I’m alone with my thoughts” because it has nothing to do with thoughts. I don’t think about something and then get that bad feeling. I just look away from my phone and through the window of the bus and get that feeling – the thoughts only come later.

I think subconsciously I was waiting for Shmersonette to calm down a little so that I may freak out. I also think I am now feeling all 3 miscarriages at once, because when the first two were happening, I focused on Shmersonette, and relatively I didn’t feel anything close to what I feel now.

I see a pregnant woman on the street and I want to punch her in the face. Not really, but I’m pissed. And I’m not a violent person at all. I just think that she’s a stupid bitch who does not now how lucky she is. Also, these last few days I saw some pregnant ladies and they were all skinny – seriously, no pregnant butt, no pregnant thighs, not even pregnant boobs. And they were all just doing their job, or riding the bus, as if there isn’t a miracle happening in their body.

Of course, I’m just being mean. Some of them might have gone through IF or MC. Still, when I see one, I just decide that they don’t appreciate what they have, and we should be the ones having that baby. Now I’m reminded that an old friend once told me she had to take hormones for some reason, and the doctor told her that a side effect is thinking about sex a lot. “how much exactly is a lot?” she asked, to which the doctor replied “as much as a man does”. And she did. “Is this really how your minds work?” she asked me. So now I ask you ladies: Is THIS how YOUR minds work? Thinking about babies all the time?

I’ve been thinking about Neil Gaiman today. He’s one of my idols. For those of you who’ve never heard of him, he’s a writer. He’s written comic books, short stories, novels and scripts. By the way, the next Doctor Who episode? He wrote that too. He really knows his way with myths and legends, and because of him I’m currently doing a minor in Mythology.

Neil Gaiman in a TARDIS

So I was reminded of a short story he wrote. It is called “The Wedding Gift” or something like that. The story is hidden inside a prologue he wrote for a collection of short stories called “Smoke and mirrors” (Take that, people who don’t read prologues! How cool is that?). It goes something like this: A couple gets married. When they open their presents, they find a paper with a single sentence: “Will and Kate got married on a lovely sunday afternoon.” (Okay I don’t remember the characters names, and Gaiman IS british). They don’t throw it away. A few months later they look at it again, and see that there’s another sentence in it, describing what happened since the wedding.

Some time later, the sentences in the magical paper start to say mean things. Like one of them cheated on the other, or the other got sick. Those things were not true. They keep looking at the Paper every now and then. At a certain point in the story, one of them understands that it is a gift. Whoever gave it to them wanted to make sure that the bad things will happen to Will and Kate in the story, so they don’t happen to the real Will and Kate.

Don’t get me wrong, in a lot of ways we’re the real, happy Will and Kate. Our relationship is getting stronger each day, and it was strong and honest to begin with. We’re on the right track in many ways. When we hear about another couple having a fight over some stupid, trivial thing we thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster we never do that. But in other ways, I feel like we’re the couple stuck in that story within story, the ones who go through the bad things.

It’s so easy being a believer. I used to be religious, and at the age of 15 I became an atheist. About a minute later, that was my first atheist conclusion: It’s easier and healthier to believe; in belief there’s order, fairness, a plan, a fate. You believe that there’s something writing your story. My next atheist conclusion was that I want to be a believer again. My third – that I can’t. Partly because I know how comforting and easy it is. But I wish there was some god (no capital g for you, you’re a noun now!) that I could blame. Now I feel we’re stuck in the story with bad things, only nobody is writing it.

When we were in the hospital, 3 weeks ago, before the results, we were trying to pretend it’s okay. We calculated the dates and decided that if Shmersonette ovulated like 7 days after her period, and got a BFP 7 days later (both unlikely, I know) then everything is okay. Then I said – if this is true we’re going home, looking for a charity fund we both like, and giving it 500 Shekels (150 Dollars more or less). That was a religious thing to do – I was making sort of a deal with god, or the universe, or whatever – but I don’t believe it works like that. It’s not that I want there to be a god. I just want to believe, even if there isn’t.

Neil Gaiman started as comic writer. His most famous series is “Sandman”, in which he took all religions and mythologies and blended them into one story, adding his own mythology: The endless; seven siblings, more powerful than gods, each of them responsible for a function that even gods comply to: Destiny, Death, Dream, Destruction, Desire, Despair and Delirium.

Most of the siblings act in accordance with their purpose. Except Dream, AKA Sandman, on which the series focuses – he’s grumpy and official. And Death is really cheerful and fun, you’ll love her. (Yes, Death is a she). So besides those two – destruction left his role, his domain and his siblings. Delirium used to be called Delight, but something went wrong with that. Now she’s a delirious manic-depressive little girl . Desire is a beautiful, charming man-woman, and so on.

But the point I was getting to is this: Desire and Despair are twins. Desire is kind of a bitch/douche, always plotting. Despair helps her/him, not because she’s evil – she’s just passive. So usually, Desire makes the first move towards someone – sooner or later he will belong to Despair’s domain. So that’s how I feel right now – a healthy pregnancy was our desire for a year now, and every time Shmersonette went through a miscarriage we wanted it more. but now, for now, I’m in Despair.

And maybe the answer is not to let Desire trick us like that. Sure, we will do the tests and then keep on TTC. I’m not sure how to phrase this without saying “just relax and don’t think about it and it will come” because that’s not what I mean. It’s more like we should not desire it, just do it. Stop TTC and continue to make love. stop doing things for the baby, but do the same things because we need to do them anyway – for ourselves.

Okay. This is really long. I’m done now. Thank you for reading.

Why I Don’t Hate Tina Fey

8 May

I have a confession to make. Seeing pregnancies on TV, talking about pregnancies, FB announcements  and all of that used to just mildly annoy me. Yeah I may have gotten a bit miffed, but not much more than that. Up until That happened, I didn’t quite get all of these women crying all the time, not being able to handle pregnancy. Yeah, it was a bit hard to see a happily ignorant knocked up woman. But I could handle it I was fine.

Well folks – it’s official. Those days are gone.

You know what led me to have my first cigarette since quitting? Going to see Rio on a Saturday afternoon with my brother and my nephew. *Spoiler Alert* (kind of) – at the end of the film the two blue birds start a family and have little baby blue birds. And the humans make themselves a bit of a family too. Watching this in the theater I wanted to break down right then and there. I held it in until we reached a restaurant and I could excuse myself and go to the bathroom. Then I sat there, in the middle of a burger joint surround by kids. Sitting on a toilet and sobbing like there’s no tomorrow.

A line was officially crossed that day. When my brother dropped me off after the quality family time I immediately lit up. And I sat on a bench and cried some more. Just for good measure.

Once you get to that spot there’s really no turning back. A birth announcement on FB yesterday sent me reeling. A preggo woman working at a convenience store makes me sob. I spent half an hour playing with a friend’s 2-year-old on Thursday and left her apartment only to collapse in the car.

I am officially there. I’m avoiding shows about pregnancy. I’m avoiding happy healthy mothers. I haven’t been on FB, twitter, or the blogs for the last 24 hours just because I can’t even fathom dealing with all of the mother’s day talk. Even if it comes from Infertiles.  And each time I have no choice but to deal – I go to a corner and cry.

Then there’s Tina Fey.

Let me back up for a second.

I love audio books. The last couple of years – I’ve spent more time with audiobooks than with paper books. It’s great for driving, for running errands. I just feel like it’s a good use of my “running around” time.

I have a subscription to audible which allows me one credit a month to download any audiobook I choose. This month I decided (despite it’s rather short 5 hour running time), to download Tina Fey’s “Bossypants”.

I love Tina Fey. Seriously. How could you not love her? The woman is brilliant, yet humble and self deprecating. She’s one of those people who you can just tell is down to earth, and who you’d love to watch “Ferris Bueller” with while eating some pizza. Plus – she’s one of the funniest fucking people on this planet.

But she’s also pregnant. At 40. And it looks like it happened naturally for her. That makes me kind of want to hate her.

But I don’t. I can’t.

Which brings me back to Bossypants. Today was an errand running day. Apart from a teacher’s meeting my day was made up mostly of getting the car washed and other mundane tasks. So when I left the house this morning, I started listening to Bossypants. I have now finished it.

That’s right. I couldn’t put it down. Or in other words – I couldn’t take those earbuds off. All day. Managing databases, cooking dinner – all done with Tina Fey’s jauntily narrated autobiography playing.

Today was the first day I have laughed out loud since That happened. And not once, not twice. Multiple, loud guffaws. Moments of pure and utter joy as Ms Fey described her non-existent beauty routine, and celebrated how adoptive mothers can so easily shut down smug breast feeding mothers (whom she likes to call teat nazis).

My day was made brighter by the musings of this amazing woman. I laughed, I laughed, then I cried.

Yes. Bossypants made me cry. I’m going to quote verbatim the last few paragraphs of the book (sorry but I promise it doesn’t give much away), where Ms. Fey talks about the anxious dilemma she has regarding having a second child (of course this was written before she got knocked up):

I have a great gynecologist who is as gifted at listening as she is at rectal exams. I went for my annual checkup and, tired of carrying this anxiety around, burst into tears the moment she said hello. I laid it all out for her, and the main thing I took away from our conversation was the kind of simple observation that only an impartial third party can provide. “Either way, everything will be fine,” she smiled, and for a little while I was pulled out of my anxious, stunted brain cloud. 

One time my mom babysat a set of the Italian Rum Cake Kids while their parents went to a wedding reception. This was the first time this nice couple had gone out alone since their children were born. Their parents dropped them off after the ceremony. Little Christo and Maria were still all dressed up. Christo wore a tiny black suit and a white shirt. Maria wore a red velvet dress and cried in the playpen from the moment her parents left until the moment they returned. My mom tried everything to console her, food… The end. 

After a couple hours of this, seven-year-old Christo was beside himself. He had never been babysat before. How long was this fuckery going to go on? His sister was hysterical. He paced around our living room, now in his shirtsleeves and black pants. Pulling his golden curls nervously, he looked like the night manager of a miniature diner who had just had a party of six dine and dash. He ranted to his baby sister in Greek, “ 

, vreh βρε Mapia!” This sent my mother running into the dining room laughing hysterically. I chased her. What? What did he say? Roughly translated it was “Oh! My Maria! What is to become of us?” 

His overdramatic ridiculousness tickled my mom in such a specific way that she was doubled over in the dining room, hoping the kids wouldn’t see that she was laughing so hard at them she peed a little. A phenomenon I now understand on all levels. 

They were going to be fine, but they couldn’t possibly believe it. 

That must have been what I looked like to my doctor friend. That must be what I look like to anyone with a real problem—active-duty soldier, homeless person, Chilean miner, etc. A little tiny person with nothing to worry about running in circles, worried out of her mind. 

Either way, everything will be fine. But if you have an opinion, please feel free to offer it to me through the gap in the door of a public restroom. Everyone else does.

And that’s when I started crying.

I don’t begrudge Tina the fact that for her, having a second child is merely a “decision”. If you read the book, I don’t think you will either. I think she’s way too aware and grateful for her particular lot in life. And for me, that’s enough.

Rather, in her words I see myself. She is an anxious and control freaky person. And she is telling me that everything will be fine.

And I feel like crap. I really do. And hearing Tina Fey saying that everything is going to be fine isn’t going to make that feeling go away. But still. I know she’s right (and so’s her gyno). Everything will be fine. Today I laughed. Maybe tomorrow I’ll have some hope again.

Thanks Tina. Happy Mother’s Day.

%d bloggers like this: