Tag Archives: Wedded bliss

The Three F’s

15 Mar

First of all – how awesome is my new header? It’s all Court’s doing.

All I told her was – “I want something that’s whimsical but not TTC related. Oh, and a bunny! And butterflies! I love butterflies! And purple!”

Boom! A few days later, I get the best. Header. Ever. In my email.

Court, you rock harder than pre-reality-show Ozzy Osbourne.

Also, I’ve bitten the bullet and registered mommyodyssey.com. My old blog URL still works, but feel free to update your links if you feel like it.

I’m still tinkering with the new design a bit, so don’t be afraid to tear me a new one in the comments, and things may be a bit wonky for a few days. Sorry.

In other news, you may have noticed that Eggs in a Row is down. Mel mentioned it on LFCA but just in case you didn’t get the news there, know that Rachel is fine. There was just some dramz, which she will probably tell you all about when her new blog launches. I’ll give you details of that when the time comes.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled blog post.

First, I wanted to thank you all once again for your emails, your comments, your tweets, and your *insert modern communication method here*s.

The love I’ve felt from all of you has literally helped me stay sane through all of this, and I am forever grateful I know I keep saying “thank you.” But thank you isn’t enough. So I’ll just keep saying it:

Thank you.


Over the last few weeks a theme has been emerging with my friends and family, and with you, my bloggy buddies.

Everybody keeps on telling me how strong I am. Which for me is kind of mind-blowing. I mean sure, I’ve managed some pretty amazing posts to honor my son on here, but that’s all him. And yes, I’ve gone back to work. But strong? I do not call 5 hour crying fits that happen once every 2 or 3 days on average strong.

Then I look around and realize that I guess the fact that I started working again 8 days after it happened is kind of impressive. And the fact that I actually manage to put together coherent sentences on a regular basis isn’t half bad either.

Considering the fact that a month ago – when Nadav was still doing the tango in my uterus, I was sure that if something happened to him I’d ask to be put into a medically induced coma forever, and yet here I am – well, I guess you can call that strong (was that not the longest run-on sentence ever? AK – you must now take stroke-prevention measures).

But the fact is I’m not strong, I’m strengthened. It wasn’t only Nadav’s Lessons that gave me strength, it was what I call the three F’s:

Family, Friends, and Farmaceuticals.

(Shut up spellcheck! I’m trying to make a funny through alliteration! I’m such a dork.)

One of the first things I did after getting out of the hospital was to head to Dr. Happy Pills. Apart from upping my anti-depressants, and renewing my script for Xan.ax, he also gave me a prescription for what he described as a “10-pound hammer”, for days when things were particularly hard. That hammer helped a lot when things became unbearable. I’m happy to say that I have barely used it since that first week, and that’s due to:

Friends and family.

My mom came over every day, and each day we took on a new “project.” Finding vases so I’d have a place to put all of the flowers I was getting. Choosing wallpaper to put the finishing touches on our home. Making the empty room into a functioning guest room, because no room should really be empty. Getting me paint supplies.

Each day I was dragged out of the house for some retail therapy with some sort of mission in mind. Sure, it wasn’t cheap, but it saved me.

Then there were (and are) my friends. Who came to visit, who kept me busy. Who called to check in, who let me talk when I needed to, and distracted me when I didn’t want to talk. They (you) continue to remind me that my life is full of love, despite my loss.

And of course, there’s Shmerson (who doesn’t start with an F so I put him in the “Family” category to keep my alliteration intact). He keeps telling me each day that I’m beautiful. When I curse at my body he reminds me of how amazing it is. He keeps it together when I break down. That continues to amaze me.

And the best part? The man has a serious knack for morbid humor. It’s tactless, it’s horrific, it’s offensive, and it makes me laugh my ass off. My favorite one was from a few days after we got home from the hospital. Squish came over and we ordered sushi.

Shmerson: Good thing you didn’t eat any sushi while you were pregnant, things really could have gone wrong.

I know. Gasp! That’s an awful thing to say!

Don’t care. It’s funny as hell.

Oh – BTW, Shmerson has been reading all of your comments and emails as well. He even opened a twitter account in English just for you guys. You should totally follow him. He’s hilarious.

So yeah. I guess I’m strong. But it’s the people who surround me (with a little help from my happy-pill friends), who make me that way.

Ode to Shmerson

14 Feb

We interrupt this blogging hiatus to bring you a special Valentine’s Day post.

You’ve held my hair as I heaved over the toilet and we both cheered.

You’ve cleaned up my puke when I couldn’t make it there on time.

You’ve taken Luna out for every walk in the last 3 months.

You’ve stared at me protectively and ordered me to sit when you felt I was doing too much.

You’ve washed every dirty dish in the house.

You’ve cooked dinner while carefully avoiding the food I can’t manage to look at or stomach.

You’ve held my hand, and wandered through hospital corridors to make sure I felt safe while trying to help our baby boy.

You’ve cried with me when we’ve been afraid for him.

You’ve laughed with me, and cried tears of joy (and sometimes tears of fear) each time we’ve seen him on the ultrasound screen.

You’ve told me I’m beautiful almost every night, even while I was feeling fat and gross (and you looked like you meant it, which makes it all the more remarkable).

You’ve lamented not being a sea horse, so you could carry some of my burden.

Each time I’ve cried about my body failing me, you’ve reminded me that it’s working a miracle for both of us as we speak.

Each time I think it’s impossible to love you more, you surprise me and make me fall in love with you all over again.

Happy Valentines Day, my amazing husband. The father of our lost children, and of the little boy that will come into our lives in a few months. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.

PS – Thank you everyone who’s emailed and tweeted to check in on me. I’ve been terrible about replying, I know, and I’m sorry. I’m still in a bit of a coping-zombie-bubble. Hope to be back with all of you soon. Xoxo!

Happy Birthday Shmersonette!

25 Sep

Hemmo everyone!

It’s Shmerson again. Yeah, I know – long time no see. So, it’s Mo’s birthday! At least here it is. The rest of you will have to wait a few hours, but who cares? Right now, Mo’s drunk for the first time in 6 months, and I’m just happy, or drunk-by-proxy (designated driver thankyouverymuch) and we’re waiting for our favorite show to finish downloading, and I’m writing my Shmersonette a birthday post!

September was always a beginning of a new year for us. Because of Rosh-Hashana (the beginning of a new year according to the Jewish calendar) which is usually in September, the beginning of school year when we were younger, and also because its the month with both mine and Shmersonette’s birthdays.

But I feel like we already started our new year, on May 27th. Without ever deciding that’s how it should be, I think of our anniversary as our new birthday, our new Rosh Hashana.

Let me explain: our first pregnancy started right after our wedding, yada yada yada (it’s a happy post and you know the story), and our last miscarriage was a little before our first anniversay. But ever since then:  We had a very happy anniversary, I finally picked my major, and Mo made some career choices (still working on that), we bought a new and wonderful apartment  (BTW- we signed the contract exactly a month after our anniversary). We sold our old apartment (BTW- guess when the buyer saw the apartment for the first time- exactly two months after our anniversary). Shmersonette had that surgery, which is also a good thing. We ran some tests and they all look very good. Things are looking great. It feels as if really all of the crappy things decided to happen during our first year as a married couple, and ever since the beginning of our second year we’ve had nothing but good luck and achievements.

So we’re in the middle of the Shmersons-year, and I just wish it continues to  go as it’s been going. We’re going to move to a wonderful new apartment. I’m going to find a new job and so is Shmersonette. And sometime during the current Shmersons-year we’re going to have a BFP. This time it will be followed by seeing a heartbeat, feeling a kick. This time it’s going to end with a healthy baby. Not all of this will happen before May 27th, but some of it will, I truly believe it.

There’s something I wanted to tell you, Shmersonette. You say sometimes that you’re angry with your body for everything that has happened. I don’t think you should be.

What we’re trying to do here is unbelievable. It’s such a special thing to do that the Flying Spaghetti Monster, in its wisdom, decided that only women can do it. And only for about a third of their expected lifespan. Also, you can try starting it only during a few days each month. That’s how special it is.

And your body didn’t betray you. It was very very loyal to you. It told you things before the doctors knew. Three times it noticed that something was wrong, and three times it did what it had to do. I don’t want to think where we would be if your body wasn’t smart enough to notice something was wrong.  That doesn’t make what happened less sad for us, but it’s good to know that we can count on your body’s loyalty and the wisdom of the FSM.

I admire your body, and I’m sorry I can’t take some of your pain. I could never do for you  what you will eventually do for me. Isn’t this fact about your body amazing enough?

A few weeks ago, after a conversation similar to this post, I sent Shmersonette the lyrics to a song I like. It was written by Israeli singer-songwriter Noam Rotem for his wife who had cancer (she’s okay now). I give you that song, badly translated by me:

To the End of the Day

I want to get to the end of the day
Clouds in the sky meet in orange
There’s no need for a messiah or a rapture
Here’s what is promised when you’re with me

I see the flower and the human body
Stalactites of salt in caves by the sea
The way that snowflakes, like a magnificent puzzle
Are gathering piece by piece on the mountaintop

The way the grass shines when we make love
Every breath you take is like a musical note

I love every scar on that white body
As you bathe they shine in their beauty
Not letting me forget the creator’s wisdom
He heals and wounds, patches and breaks

As a star explodes and lights up the night
And all of it’s fireworks are freezing in the air
In letters of fire it writes the song for you in the sky
Because at the end of the day
Even it falls at your feet

Happy Birthday Shmerson!

2 Sep

My husband turns 29 today.

We went out to our favorite restaurant and toasted – wishing that this time next year, we’ll have another birth to celebrate. He toasted and wished us happiness.

I told him that the truth is – despite everything we’ve been through in the last year – we already are happy.

He agreed.

Happy Birthday Shmerson! You is my love!!!!

You told me tonight that you can’t believe you’re 29. That you still feel like a kid most of the time. It’s that part of you that makes me laugh, and reminds me that life doesn’t always have to be so serious. So don’t stop, ok? I love you.

Broken Until Proven Otherwise

30 Aug

Today was a wonderful day. Nothing big happened. I went out, washed the car, bought myself a summer dress on sale. In the evening, Shmerson suggested we take Luna out for a long walk. We’ve been trying to take walks lately – it’s good for health-type-stuff, so I hear.

The walk started a two hour conversation. I love it when Shmerson and I talk openly and honestly about our relationship. We do it often, but each time we do, it’s proof once again that I have married the right man.

I haven’t been doing well lately. I’m trying, but it’s hard to push forward and put on a happy face. I want to “live my life” but I can’t. This last year has been holding me back – keeping me trapped.

I’ve spent the last couple of weeks trying to figure out why this is. Why I can’t break free from this and just LIVE until we get our baby. I’ve realized that it’s something that’s ingrained in me. You see – I have this thing about me, which in the past I’ve viewed as an asset, but is now a liability. When I get my mind and heart set on something I go for it like a guided missile and don’t give up until I reach my goal. I’ve always been this way. For example, both my graduate and undergraduate thesis films were deemed “impossible to pull off” by my professors, because they were too ambitious. And in each case I gave said professors the finger and made them happen. This is who I am. When I want something, it consumes me completely until I achieve it. Nothing else exists. It’s not something I can control. It’s just how I do things.

So the missile that was let out of the gate three miscarriages ago is still flying, seeking its target. And it won’t stop until it gets there. Everything else be damned. No matter how hard I try to fight it. I’ve come to realize that there’s no point in fighting it, because it just makes me feel like a failure. So instead, I’ve started to embrace it.

In our talk tonight, Shmerson and I were discussing this very clearly. I wanted to share a part of this conversation with you, despite its intimacy. I share this with his permission. I share this because this is the part that no one talks about, and it needs to be talked about. This is the part where things get really ugly and complicated. I talk of course of physical intimacy. Also known in some circles as “Sex” (any real life friends reading this – feel free to skip the rest of the post if it makes you uncomfortable).

Our sex life hasn’t exactly been fireworks lately. It’s not Shmerson’s fault. I mean, seriously – he’s a hottie. It’s all about me. Every time we make love I see my physical scars. Every time I feel the weight of my losses. I feel broken.

So I don’t initiate unless I get a positive OPK. I’m scared to. It just makes my insecurities bubble up to the surface.

But of course not having enough intimacy makes me feel just as bad. Because I love my husband. I want to want to be intimate with him. I don’t want him to feel like our sex life is only about making a baby. It shouldn’t be.

Tonight I put my cards out on the table. In embracing my status as a missile I very plainly told him: I know this is a problem. I hate that this is how things are right now. I also hate the fact that there is only one thing that will fix this: A baby.

To say anything else would be a lie. I could be a hypocrite and say that it’s wrong to put all of this on a baby. A baby won’t make things better. It won’t solve problems. It’s unfair to put so much strain on a child. It’s bad parenting.

But in this case – this would be a lie. The fact is, that I feel broken. I feel like my body has failed me. And until my body proves otherwise by carrying a baby to term, I’m going to continue to feel this way. That has nothing to do with a baby and everything to do with me.

I know what I’m saying here may seem controversial, or TMI, or whatever. But it’s my truth. My body is broken until proven otherwise. There is nothing I can do to control that. I know that the only solution in sight is a successful pregnancy. Maybe there are others. But the missile won’t let me look anywhere but there for the time being.

There’s no use in fighting it. I’ve tried to do that for over a year now. It is what it is. So for now – I’m giving in. I’m surrendering to it. I feel broken. I am broken until proven otherwise. So I’d like to prove otherwise as soon as possible.

Saying this so bluntly to my amazing husband scared me. I was afraid he was going to tell me that I shouldn’t feel this way and we should stop trying until I feel differently. But he got it. He understood. He knows that this is the situation until we reach a healthy pregnancy. And he’s ok with it. He’s not bitter. He’s not angry. He understands.

And boy – do I love him all the more for it.

I can be an asshole of the grandest kind 
I can withhold like it’s going out of style 
I can be the moodiest baby and you’ve never met anyone 
who is as negative as I am sometimes

I am the wisest woman you’ve ever met. 
I am the kindest soul with whom you’ve connected. 
I have the bravest heart that you’ve ever seen 
And you’ve never met anyone 
Who’s as positive as I am sometimes.

You see everything, you see every part 
You see all my light and you love my dark 
You dig everything of which I’m ashamed 
There’s not anything to which you can’t relate 
And you’re still here 

I blame everyone else, not my own partaking 
My passive-aggressiveness can be devastating 
I’m terrified and mistrusting 
And you’ve never met anyone as, 
As closed down as I am sometimes.

You see everything, you see every part 
You see all my light and you love my dark 
You dig everything of which I’m ashamed 
There’s not anything to which you can’t relate 
And you’re still here 

What I resist, persists, and speaks louder than I know 
What I resist, you love, no matter how low or high I go 

I’m the funniest woman you’ve ever known. 
I am the dullest woman you’ve ever known. 
I’m the most gorgeous woman you’ve ever known 
And you’ve never met anyone as, as everything as I am sometimes.

You see everything, you see every part 
You see all my light and you love my dark 
You dig everything of which I’m ashamed 
There’s not anything to which you can’t relate 
And you’re still here 

And you’re still here 
And you’re still here...


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”.


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.

Here Goes Nothing

27 Jun

I hope Today was a day of new beginnings.

I started to say “I hope”. But the truth is it was. At 8am, Shmerson came home, and we immediately left for the bank to withdraw every last little cent we have for the deposit on our new home. Then we went to the lawyer’s office and signed the papers. We are officially homeowners. Well, apartment owners. Same-same, right?

Now we have three months ahead of us of trying to sell our current place, applying for mortgages, and generally getting ourselves together. We’ll most likely be moving in around September – October.

Oh – and hopefully we also managed to make a baby.

Superstitions got the best of me today. On the way to the lawyer’s office the pop radio station started playing my favorite band – Faith No More. Something they do maybe once a decade. I decided it was a good sign.

When the contract was signed, we went home and well – you know, we got things done.

Shmerson smiled at me and said “Today is a day of new beginnings.”

I felt it. I believed it. I still do.

A few hours after Shmerson went back to the base (he’ll be gone until next Tuesday. Boo!), I felt little leftie pop. It was one second – but I knew it had happened. I stood up straight and still – hoping not to rattle anything around in there and hoping that she’d make it into Ole’ Lefty safely.

I spent most of today convinced that this is it. Bargaining with the universe again. I mean, how perfect would it be? To conceive a healthy pregnancy on the day we buy our new home?

I secretly kept saying to myself: “If this happens, I will believe. I don’t know in what, but in something.”

Because it’s just too perfect. So perfect that I feel like this HAS to work. So perfect that I’m terrified that it won’t.

But for now I’m just going to get through this week, hoping against all hope that this works. Being grateful either way, that Shmerson and I finally have a place to call our own, with room for our future children, and this amazing balcony:

Our balcony. Ain't it pretty?

We signed the contract exactly one year and one month after our wedding day. 13 months of limbo, and of heartache. I just really do hope that this is a new beginning for us.

I mean, I know it will be. I just hope that it is in more ways than one.

Let the freaking out commence!

My Shmerson is the Bestest!

26 Jun

Quick one today because I’m exhausted!

So – Shmerson is still away at reserve duty. And here’s the kicker – tomorrow I was supposed to go in and make the deposit and sign the contract on the apartment we are going to buy. Alone. 😦

I had a crappy stressful day today (I won’t go into detail now – too exhausted) and then to top things off – I got a + OPK this afternoon.

I literally broke down. As if it wasn’t bad enough that Shmerson couldn’t be there with me tomorrow morning, there’s no way that even his krypton-born swimmers would survive 5 days. So I knew that this cycle was a complete bust.

I called Shmerson up BAWLING. He managed to calm me down, a little, but not much.

Then 5 minutes after I hung up with him he called me back – he told his commander the situation and… Drumroll…

He’s coming home tomorrow at precisely 8am for about 5 hours – we will sign the contract and make the deposit TOGETHER and hopefully lil lefty will hang on just a little before she pops and we may get a chance this cycle after all!

Making a baby right after putting a deposit down on our new home – wouldn’t that be just perfect?

Cross your fingers guys! Let’s all send restraining energies to little lefty! You’re already a couple of days late. You already waited till CD 20. Please just hang on till CD 21 ok? Be a good little eggie. I promise you’ll get enough progesterone courtesy of the lovely little pills waiting in the bathroom cupboard. So take your time, k?

(wow that was just a bit too cutesy. sorry about that)

Everybody! Think restraint! Hang on there little one!

Isn’t my husband the bestest husband ever?

PS – once the contract is signed and the deposit is made I promise I will give more details on the place. For now, the atheist continues to be superstitious and I don’t want to jinx it!

Operation: Ole’ Lefty

18 Jun

So after calling two other doctors for second and third opinions, wallowing in self pity, and a long conversation with Shmerson, it’s official:

We’re diving in this month.

The thing is – the timing of all of this is making this whole thing basically look like a military operation. You see, on Sunday Shmerson is leaving for about two weeks of reserve duty. This means that technically, he won’t be home on the day my follie pops. Well, us being us, we have secured any and all contingency plans to make sure that since we’re jumping into this with both feet, we’re gonna do it properly!

Phase One: Shmerson will be taking the car over to the base. Yes, that leaves me with no car for most of the week. I have officially notified my parents that theirs will have to be borrowed as needed.

Phase Two: Shmerson called his commander and notified him that he will have to be “on call” to come home once my OPK is positive. Yes, the commander is aware of the fact that this is because I will be ovulating. Yes – this means we are perhaps just a bit TOO open with what’s going on with us. (In our defense, the first time I found out I was pregnant Shmerson was away for reserve duty and had to tell his commander that he needed to come home because he just found out his wife was preggo. When they ran into each other a couple of months later, Shmerson had to fill him in on the gory details of the loss as a result, so really – we’ve been in TMI territory with this man for a while now).

Phase Three: Just in case I pop on CD 14, and not 17-20 per usual, BD will commence on Saturday night at approximately 23 hundred hours(local time).

Phase Four: I POAS once a day to see where I’m at.

Phase Five: Appointment with Twofer on Monday to confirm left side ovulation.

Phase Six: Once positive OPK is obtained, Shmerson will hop in our car and make the 2-3 hour drive home in order to commence an additional BD (or three), before returning to base the following morning (pending confirmation from his commander).

Phase Seven: A TWW  with Shmerson away. Which means, inevitably, that I will be going out of my skull. Advice on how to keep myself thoroughly busy and distracted during that time will be much appreciated.

Phase Eight: Freak out.

How I Met Your MO There

25 May

So today I’ll give you my view of what Shmersonette described in the previous 5 posts. But a little about me first.

I’ve always believed in honesty. It’s not always a good thing. In some relationships, I scared the girl away because I was too honest. See, another thing was that I would fall in love really fast. And because I was honest, I would say it. I didn’t like playing games, teasing, playing hard to get. I couldn’t play it cool around a girl I was in love with.

9 months before I met Shmersonette, I went to South America for six months. It was a trip to see the world, but as always it was also to change myself. I did a lot of thinking and gained self-confidence. I can really say that had we met without me going there, it wouldn’t have worked between us.

So I decided to be less honest. Wait with my feelings. play games. I also had doubts about love. I thought maybe I was expecting too much. I wondered – am I like a person who never had ice cream, and when they describe ice cream to him as “heavenly, orgasmic” he takes it too literally and is later disappointed? Maybe all those poets and novelists who wrote about love were exaggerating. Maybe love is just friends having sex. Maybe if I stopped expecting so much I wouldn’t be disappointed and hurt anymore.

Of course, none of it is true. Writing those things now makes me sad for myself  back then. But at the time, I thought I was growing up.

I also thought I should change in other ways. I never had sex outside of a serious relationship with strong emotions. I started to think maybe I should loosen up, and have meaningless sex. I decided to date girls just for that and ‘for the sport of it’.

Still, I learned some things. For example, I noticed how we prefer the thing we know, even if it was bad for us in the past. I always knew what I wanted in a girl. She had to be intelligent, with a sense of humour and independent. But usually I found myself in a relationship with someone not-so-smart, not-so-funny and dependant. ( I like to put it in PowerPuff Girls terms: I always wanted Blossom with just a little bit Buttercup, and found myself with Bubbles). So I realised it was a cycle; you go there because you know it, and you prefer it over the unknown. And every time you go there you just make it more likely that next time you choose, you’ll choose the known over the unknown. Until the point when it’s not even a choice anymore. And I realised that the first step to get out of it was to acknowledge it.

I didn’t like Bubbles-girls because they tended to look up to me, and I don’t like that. I also didn’t like looking up to girls. I believed in equality, I believed both people in a relationship should feel just as lucky to have each other. I think that on How I Met Your Mother they said that every relationship has the person who settled for less and the person who got more than deserved. I don’t think it’s healthy in the long-term.

A short while before I met Shmersonette I dated a girl for a short period of time. I tried implementing my new ideas, expecting less, playing it cool, etc. and they collided with my other new idea – she was totally a Bubbles-girl. I ended it. We didn’t have meaningless sex, and I’m happy for that.

Two weeks later, it was my zero date with Shmersonette. As she already told you, it was very special. As I was driving home after I dropped her at her place, I thought “what if she didn’t enjoy this as much as I did? What if she tells me it was nice but it’s not going anywhere?” and I thought that if that happens, I’ll probably know how that Bubbles-girl feels about me right now.

I used to have this dream: I meet a girl and we’re together. We barely need to speak. There is no suitor and “suitee”. We just like each other very much, and are happy. People around us think we’re strange, or that we’re going too fast. We don’t care. I used to hate waking up from that dream.

By the end of our Zero-Date I knew I finally found her. I was perfectly honest, and so was she. We didn’t play games. After our third date, I was walking back to my car, very happy. I thought of how perfect it all is, and then I thought this is much like that dream. Then I got to my car and saw a parking ticket, and smiled. This would never happen in a dream.

On our real first date, she said: “There is something you need to know about me. I’m a little messed up”. I told her it’s okay, great even. I like messed up. I’m a little messed up myself. (She didn’t believe me back then).

She was right- she IS messed up. And today, she knows I am too. And every now and then, during hard times, she says something like: “Is it okay that I’m so messed up?” and I always remind her of that conversation.

On one of our first nights together, we were talking. Then I thought of something stupid. See, I have a weird sense of humor not everyone gets. And I knew that if I said what I thought out loud she won’t get the joke and would think I was weird. This voice in my head was like “don’t say it you’ll ruin everything” but I said it anyway. And she cracked up laughing. And yes, that’s the origin of our private sense of humor and our private language.

The first time I told her I loved her was also very strange. I blurted it out less than a week after our Zero-date. And for a second I thought “There you go again, you’re too honest, too quick, you just scared her away like you always do”. Then I thought “well, screw that” because I knew I meant it. And I knew that all that crap about playing games, not being honest and so forth was BS.

I’m so happy it happened that way. I think the strongest thing about us is that we’re perfectly honest with each other. We can’t go to sleep after a fight without making up. We can’t keep a secret for more than a minute. It’s great.

During our first week together, I met up with my brother and sister. I told them about her. I told them that when I’m driving with her in the mountainous  roads of
Haifa, and every time the road goes down I go “wheeeee!” and then she replies “must. kill. moe.” they both said: you should hold on to her and never let go.

Between our Zero date and Valentine’s day, we saw each other almost daily. Met each other’s friends. When I had to stay at my place and study, she showed up with pizza. Some other night I woke up to watch a lunar eclipse. She came with me. After Valentine’s day, I practically moved in. My roommates started calling me “Garry the imaginary” behind my back, because I was never at my apartment.

About the period of time when Shmersonette was waiting for me to propose. (About 6 months from when the subject was brought up to when I proposed): I have only this to say: I always knew we would get married. There is a difference between knowing you’ll get married and being ready for it.

I’m proud to say I chose the wedding ring myself. A week before I proposed, we went to Paris. I decided not to propose in Paris. I wanted it to be were we live. I wanted to be able to take the kids there. I felt like when you propose you should be close to home, in a place that means something to you. And I told her it would not happen in Paris, and why. See, at the time she already knew I was going to propose. And during the time in Paris she found out it was going to happen in less than a week. See? We can’t keep secrets.

Mo’s note. I thought it was probably going to happen, but I’m a hopeless pessimist. Or at least I used to be. Now? Who knows.

About a month before I proposed Shmersonette said that if she wanted to propose (She didn’t really, and I didn’t want it that way either), she would buy tickets to our favorite singer  – Shalom Hanoch’s concert in Ceasaria, and pull some strings so that she gets on  stage and proposes to me in the middle of the show. I know. Totally not us (and totally Mr and Mrs No balls). Then I thought of doing the same thing – only without the rock concert. So I took her to that stage (it’s a 1500 year old Roman stadium) and proposed there.

It has been a strange year. I think you, as readers of this blog, are mostly aware of the bad things. But a lot of good things happened also. In a way, I’m glad we had to go through all of that this year, it was a test for our relationship and guess what? we passed. “A plus plus” passed.

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. 

Anniversary Week Post 4: The Proposal (?)

23 May

It’s the middle of July, 2008. Shmerson and I have been together for 7 months, and I am still freshly shocked from the Philly Freak Out of June ’08.

Shmerson is with my parents and I at a wedding of a family friend. The cocktails have been served and my mother has already downed two glasses of white wine. We get called to gather for the ceremony. We stand around the Chuppa. Shmerson and I are kind of leaning on each other, and my mother, without even noticing, stares longingly at the ceremony while affectionately petting Shmerson’s shoulder. Willing him to get off his ass and propose already. Shmerson takes it in stride and we casually mock my mother on the drive home. In fact, to this day we tease her about the “drunken two-ton unsubtle hint of July ’08”.

It was always pretty obvious to both me and Shmerson that we would get married. It wasn’t a question of yes or no, it was a question of when.

That July, I was 27, and Shmerson was 25. My uterus had started slightly screaming. But I was ok with waiting a while longer. Letting Shmerson take his time.

You see – in that way, we are very different. Shmerson is a very contemplative, slow-moving kind of guy. He doesn’t make decisions lightly. I on the other hand, have been known to decide to move to a different country in the course of 24 hours.

(I am happy to report that in the last few years, we have managed to balance each other out on the big decision thing)

S0 – back to July of 08. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t want him to propose. But we were only together for 7 months. There was time.

Fast forward to July of ’09. We are at my second cousin’s wedding. Shmerson and I comment on the decor, and sometime between the ceremony and the food we come up with the perfect idea for a wedding invitation (that idea came true – you can see it in my header).

No – he hadn’t proposed yet. But this is what we had been doing for a while now. Examining other people’s weddings and discussing what ours would look like.

And yet, no ring. I was 28 and Shmerson was 26, we had been together for almost 2 years and I was – well, I was starting to go a little nuts.

He knew it too. We even had several fights about it. He wanted to wait until he thought we were good and ready. I was a panicky crazy person and actually said stuff like – “What if we die tomorrow? Don’t you want to check “get married” off of your list?”

Yes – I used to think like that. Thank goodness for xanax and understanding husbands.

At this point, my conversations with my mother, on a daily basis, went something like this:

Mom: So – when is he going to propose?

Me:  I don’t know mom. And please stop asking because I want him to and I don’t want to give him any ultimatums.

Mom: Well – I have a diamond I want to give him for your engagement ring. Tell him that.

Sometime during our next “when the hell are you thinking of proposing?” fight, I mention the diamond.

Then, I literally start getting paranoid. Does he not really want to marry me? Is it because I gained weight? Maybe I’m completely wrong about this?

Nearly daily talks with Squish and Me0Me around this subject help keep my sanity. Barely. I somehow get it into my head that he’s waiting for a special occasion. Like my birthday.

So – around comes September 25th of 2009. My 29th birthday. The night before, Shmerson had taken me out to a fancy dinner. There was no ring in sight, and on top of that – I was a bit disappointed when the chocolate cake came out and there was no sparkler for me in honor of the big 2-9. I voiced my disappointment to Shmerson. About the sparkler, not the lack of a ring.

We throw a birthday BBQ the next day. I see Shmerson plotting something with Squish while checking the Chorizo sausages. I think to myself – oh – maybe now. Maybe he’ll propose here – in front of all of my friends.

Then Shmerson turns around with a big sparkler on a chorizo. Especially for me.

There was no ring on that sparkler.

I smiled, then I hit him. A bit too hard. I’ll cop to that.

A month earlier we had started planning a week long trip to paris. This was taking place at the beginning of October.

Paris. It had to be Paris. I mean – who wouldn’t propose in Paris?

I started getting sneaky. I searched his backpack one day. I found a ring box and a ring. A really ugly, really thick gold ring.

Oh dear flying spaghetti monster – please don’t let this be my engagement ring.

And we go to Paris.

We had a lovely time in Paris. Truly.

And we came back still NOT ENGAGED.

I was seriously about to lose it. Was he really that cruel? Was he going to wait until our 2 year anniversary in January? How the hell will I have time to plan a nice summer wedding in January?

This was getting to be too much.

Then – the last weekend of october, I knew something was up. I mean, it was kind of obvious. He had told me to pack. He didn’t tell me where we were going. But I knew I was going away for the weekend.

Shmerson and I suck at keeping secrets from  each other. It was obvious what was going on. I was just hoping that hideous ring was not part of the plan.

So, in the car we go. It’s a rainy day. Shmerson takes me to Ceasaria National Park – one of the most beautiful places in the country. He walks me to the bottom of the ampitheater – a place where I’ve seen some of my favorite musicians give epic performances. Now bare for the winter – just made up of ancient ruins overlooking the sea.

I don’t remember exactly what he said. But it was pretty fucking awesome. We both cried.

Oh – and the ring – well – see for yourself:

I’m not sure how much you can make out from the picture. But it was perfect. And he used my mom’s diamond after all.

It turns out that gold ring was an attempt to take something of his mother’s and blend it with my mother’s diamond. A lovely thought. But he had the sense to know my tastes and know that I would dislike whatever version of that ring he would have come up with.

Still – you have to love him for the thought.

We spent the next three days at a bed and breakfast (our favorite past time). Shmerson had called my boss and told him that I was taking a day off.

And yes, he was right, it was worth the wait.

I sometimes wonder if we had gotten married sooner, if perhaps, this whole baby-making thing would have gone a bit smoother.

I will never know. But one thing I do know – that had we gotten married sooner – we wouldn’t have been able to deal with this last year nearly as well as we have. We needed that time to grow as a couple. And we did.

So – we got married on May 27th, 2010. I was 29, Shmerson was 27. And it was beautiful.

Tomorrow – how our first year of marriage became arguably the worst year of our lives, and yet, on a lot of levels, arguably the best. 

Anniversary Week Post 3: The Whiskey Fake-Out

22 May

Welcome ICLWers! If you’re just tuning in, my husband, (aka Shmerson) and I will be celebrating our one year anniversary this Friday. In honor of that, and to get away from the nightmarish couple of months we’ve had (feel free to check out our TTC timeline to see what that’s all about), I’m dedicating this week to our amazing marriage. Just scroll down for parts 1 and 2 of the story. 

So, when we last left off, Shmerson had moved in, and the fur baby had been adopted. Just around the five month mark.

I had been invited to a wedding in Philly during the second week of June, and since I had introduced the couple and had the designation of “best dude”, of course, I planned to fly out. Plus – I hadn’t been to the States in  couple of years and was looking forward to seeing my friends.

Before I go on with this story – a little background. At the age of 19, I decided to leave Israel and study in the states. I did my BA at University Y in Philly, and my MFA at Grad School X in LA (the names have been changed to allow me to bitch openly – mostly about Grad School X. University Y is actually rather awesome).

So – that means I spent the majority of my twenties (7 years to be exact) a minimum 12 hour flight away from my family and my friends in Israel.

Now – during that entire time I didn’t feel homesick once. Don’t get me wrong – I talked to my mom every day, I missed my friends in Israel. But at that point, Israel didn’t feel like “home” to me (the States didn’t either, but that’s a different post for a different time).

If I look at it on a philosophical level, there was no real place that I felt at home.

Now – back to our story.

The plane ticket was bought. I was leaving for Philly the second week of June (forget the exact date), and flying back June 22nd – exactly our six month anniversary.

Shmerson is a Whiskey lover (to say the least) and I already had a dastardly plan to pick him up a bottle of Johnny Walker Gold as a present.

I was really looking forward to the Philly trip. I LOVE Philly. Seriously. It is one of the most underrated cities out there. If I was ever forced to live in the States again, I would totally live in Philly.

So off I went, packed and ready and arrived in Philadelphia. Shmerson had driven me to the airport, and we had brought Luna along for the ride. I had a really hard time saying goodbye at the security gate. Little did I know that I was headed into utter torture. Not only for myself, but for my poor Philly peeps who had to put up with my whiny ass.

I got on the plane, I cried.

I landed, happy to see the groom, we hugged it out, I got to the happy couple’s apartment, I got on skype with shmerson, and I cried. I told one of my BFFs about my incredible love affair over pizza, she was skeptical (AK I love you to bits and always appreciate your skepticism!), and I went back to the happy couple’s place. And I cried.

I didn’t just miss Shmerson, and our little apartment, and our new puppy. I ACHED for them. I LONGED for them.

From the second I landed in Philly, all I wanted to do was go back home.

This had never happened to me before. Ever. 7 years away from my family and friends in Israel, and I had never ACHED. I didn’t know what homesick was until that time I spent in Philly.

The wedding was lovely, of course. The plan was that after the wedding I would go to a family friend’s place for a couple of days before the happy newlyweds headed off to their honeymoon, and then I would spend about 4 more days crashing at their place, hanging out with old friends, maybe taking a train up to NY for the day, etc.

So I was up at the friend’s house when I got the call: The bride had come down with the plague. Better not to come back to the apartment for fear of me catching it as well. The honeymoon was off.

Now – most people would be pissed at this. I had made plans, I didn’t have money for a hotel or another place to crash, and I didn’t want to stay up at the PA burbs with a 70 year old woman. I mean, I loved the woman, but after a day – it’s a bit much.

But I wasn’t pissed. Not in the slightest. I WAS RELIEVED.

I picked up the phone, called my travel agent in Israel, and changed my flight. Screw my friends, screw NY, screw everything. I wanted my Shmerson and my fur baby and my apartment and I wanted them NOW.

On the way to the airport the next day I realized that I had a problem. Our 6 month anniversary was four days away. Should I give Shmerson his present early? But wouldn’t that make him feel bad? (Yes – this was the only thing that was occupying me. I didn’t even care about the extra 200 bucks I had to shell out to change the flight.)

So I put together a dastardly plan. At the duty free, I bought TWO bottles of whiskey. The JW Gold as planned, and a cheaper bottle of something I knew he liked well enough. I would present him with the cheap bottle just as I landed, and then on the anniversary day itself, he would get the good stuff – Surprise!

This plan of course went off without a hitch, and Shmerson loved all of his presents (yeah – I also did some serious clothes shopping for him at Target and Ross, because I can never say no to keeping him out of black velvet pants and in discount Rocker T-Shirts).

But you guys know that’s really not the crux of the story.

It took 10 days (well, actually one) of me being away, and driving my poor Philly friends crazy (sorry guys! I know I was obnoxious! Love you!) for me to realize something: I finally had a home. And it wasn’t the apartment. I had lived there for almost a year before Shmerson came along. It was the man that was waiting for me at that apartment, along with our amazing little puppy.

He picked me up at the airport, we drove back to our little place with me cradling our little puppy the whole way home.

That night, I slept like a baby, with the huge smile plastered on my jet-lagged face.

Tomorrow – “Why hasn’t he proposed yet? Oh, yeah. Ok.”

Anniversary Week Post 2: Valentine’s Day Becomes Moving Day

20 May

So Shmerson and I were moving at a pretty rapid clip. Our “Zero Date” happened on January 16th, and by January 22nd, there were already declarations of love on both sides. He had this ratty apartment with two roommates that was walking distance from his University, but we spent about three (maybe four) nights a weeks together at my place. By Valentines day, it was even more than that.

Then came Valentine’s Day itself. Shmerson planned a really nice evening out, and had brought a small rolling suitcase with him because he was planning on spending the weekend.

Oh! But before I continue this story – I must tell you of a shopping trip which happened a few days earlier. A legen- wait for it and I hope you’re not lactose intolerant – dary shopping trip. Just because it gave birth to a line that I will forever be trying to find a way to work into a script, but for now, I guess the blog will do.

I knew Shmerson was planning something big, so I decided to surprise him by wearing some sexy number under my dress. So Squish and I went lingerie shopping.

We were at a bit department store looking at lingerie, when we stumbled upon some ridiculously cute boxer and tank top sets with mickey mouse on them. And they were on sale.

We both looked at the sets longingly and debated. I mean, we love Disney, but at the time, Disney was being disappointing in terms of their films, plus – there was high school musical, and Miley Cyrus. So we were definitely in a moral dilemma about whether we wanted to pay into the big Disney corporate machine.  A heated discussion ensued. Finally, we decided that it was ok if we each bought a set, as long as we “wore it ironically.”

And that’s when the phrase “ironic underwear” was ingrained forever into my consciousness. Hopefully now it’s ingrained in yours as well. Use it well, dear readers, use it well.

Ok – back to our story. I bought a sexy red number along with the ironic underwear, and I was ready to go.

Shmerson came to pick me up with the rolling suitcase, and a stuffed bunny holding a heart in tow. Wearing black velvet pants. Yes. Black velvet pants. For him, at the time, that was considered “fancy.” I’m happy to announce that I threw away the black velvet pants during our first closet purge a few months later. But I forgave him the pants at the time, knowing that soon enough I would be doing most of the clothes shopping for him anyway. Men who buy black velvet pants are officially banned from shopping for their own clothes. (This is actually a very nice arrangement. I buy him semi-preppy rocker clothes, he looks hot, and he hates shopping anyway).

So, a nice evening was had. We went to this great little wine bar and got particularly smashed. The red lingerie was an unmitigated success. Shmerson slept over, and he never really left.

About a month later we realized that he had only gone to his apartment a couple of times to pick up stuff after valentines day.

So there never really was a “moving in” conversation. It was pretty much – “Oh, so I guess we live together now.”

“Yep, I guess so.”

“You Ok with that?”

“Yep. You?”

“Yep. Though – Maybe you should officially move out of that other place – you know, to save on the rent.”

“Yeah, I probably should. But let’s wait another month or so before I do. I think my parents would freak out.”


(He called them two days later anyway, told them we were living together, and they did indeed freak out. They asked him to keep the other apartment for a couple more months. And he did. But by that time we had already adopted Luna, so it really was just to appease them. They’re kind of conservative, in the – we’re not sure our son should move in with his girlfriend after they’ve only been together for a month – kind of way).

The first several months of our living together were pretty happy and uneventful. I do remember at one point realizing that I was playing the happy housewife and freaking out a little. I even wrote him a love letter which ended with the sentence: “You made me bake cookies!”

That is indeed a dramatic statement coming from a reformed feminist. And that was only the beginning of my descent into wanting to be a 50’s housewife. But I think that part of the story (which involved my screaming uterus, and we’re not talking about that) may be for another time.

Tomorrow – how a trip to Philly made me finally understand what “home” really meant. 

Anniversary Week Post 1: How We Met

20 May

So I’ve been bad about blogging in general. I guess existential crises easily explained by sitcom metaphors will do that to a person. Plus Shmerson and I apparently have the plague, because we’ve both been pretty non-functioning sick for the last week.

Still, I kind of don’t feel like talking about That right now. I know it and its repercussions will be taking up plenty of blog space here in the near future.

Instead, I want to focus on the fact that exactly 7 days from today, Shmerson and I will be celebrating our one year anniversary. This wasn’t the first year of marriage either of us imagined – running to emergency rooms, spending most of our time grieving.

But it has made us stronger, and I want to celebrate that with you this week. Starting with telling you all the story of how Shmerson and I became what our friends fondly call us: “The Shmersons.” Today, I’d like to tell you how we met.

Facebook. Yes. You read it right. Shmerson and I met through an app called “Are You Interested.”

If you would have told me a few years ago that I would meet my husband on a silly FB app used mostly for booty calls I would have laughed in your face. But so it goes.

Basically, the app works like this – you set parameters: Age range, location, and such. Then the app shows you pictures. You click on people who you think are cute. If you click on someone, and they click on you as well, you get a notification and you guys can start communicating.

Now – mind you, I was pretty jaded with dating in general, and online dating specifically at this point. It had become an endless parade of guidos and assholes. But I’m not one for singles bars, and I work from home, so I kept at it.

After two particularly disastrous weeks with a 40 year old divorced film director (and a pretty crappy director to boot) that I had met on Jdate, I log on to the app, and see this picture:

“Not too bad” I think to myself. Plus – I have a long hair fetish. I have since I was 10 years old and saw Mike Patton for the first time in the music video for Faith No More’s “Epic”.

My picture on the app at the time was this one:

Needless to say – this was during one of my relatively skinny phases. Not half bad.

So I clicked away, and immediately got a pop-up saying that we have a match!

Mind you, I was still jaded from the 40 year old filmmaking hack. But I checked out pony-tail guy’s facebook profile and was pretty ok with it. Coen Brothers fan, “Lost” obsessed, listens to Pink Floyd, REM and Radiohead, and studies at the Israeli equivalent of MIT – so definitely smart. Hopefully not a sex-crazed asshole, doesn’t look like a guido, and not a filmmaking hack. So that’s definitely progress.

So starts a month long facebook message exchange. Yes, a month. Like I said before, I was jaded.

And our relationship almost didn’t happen. And it’s all Karl Marx’s fault.

We were talking about music and books. I had mentioned having a secret love of 80’s hair metal, and that I loved the Harry Potter series, had just finished a book by Coelho, and I adore Paul Auster.

Shmerson wrote back something like (and I’m paraphrasing here): “I don’t really know 80’s hair metal, and I think the Harry Potter books are ok**. I don’t get why people like Coelho so much. As far as authors go, I really like reading Marx.”

Now – this is a moment in which I need to explain a bit about Hebrew. “Marx” is spelled exactly the same way as “Marquez” – as in Gabriel Garcia Marquez – author of one of the most beautiful books ever written – “100 Years of Solitude”.

But I read it as Marx (which when I finally told him about, made him burst out in a fit of laughter). Plus – he had just downplayed the harry potter series, and said he didn’t know hair metal.

I read that message and decided this long haired “Lost” obsessive was a pretentious a-hole. I mean, who brags about reading communist manifestos? That’s just weird. I had just had a short-lived relationship implode with another pretentious a-hole.

So I didn’t write him back.

And it would have ended there.

Except, Shmerson, who was usually incredibly insecure, decided on whim to persist. When I didn’t answer, he waited about a week and then wrote me a short message giving me an out: “Still busy with work?”

I gave in, I wrote back, and our FB courtship continued. To this day Shmerson jokes that if it wasn’t for his deciding to write that second message, well – who knows where we’d be. But such is fate. Or randomness. Or whatever I believe in (darn it Mo leave your existential crisis at the door today, will you?).

Aaaaaanyway, I remember that sometime during this month Me0Me came for a sleepover and I told him about this guy I was talking to on facebook. We hadn’t met yet. I said to him “I’ve been saying my first name with his last name to myself in the last couple of weeks. And I haven’t even met the guy. Isn’t that weird?”

I guess now that I actually do have his last name – it’s not that weird. At the time, Me0Me took it in stride. I found out later that, at the time, Shmerson was just about as jaded as I was, and had decided that most likely nothing significant would come out of our exchange, but hell – at least maybe he can get laid from this thing (mind you, in his defense, this was generally a very un-shmerson-like thought)***.

It was finally time to meet but neither of us wanted to put too much pressure on the whole situation. A band that I had recently directed a music video for was performing in town, so I suggested he come to the show, and “bring a few friends” if he wanted. Basically a non-date (today we refer to it as our “Zero Date” since we hadn’t wanted it to count as a date when we first planned it).

16 people showed up at that club. Luckily, Shmerson was among them (sans friends). After a rather lame set by the band, we hung out with them a bit, I took a couple of hits off their pot, playing it cool. Turns out Shmerson wasn’t a pot smoker. I really wasn’t either. Ahh well. After a while the band piled into their van and I suggested Shmerson and I hit a coffee shop. At that point we hadn’t really talked much.

We got to the coffee shop – and I basically knew it was meant to be the moment the waiter walked up to us and we both ordered cokes. Neither of us likes coffee.

We talked for several hours. One of those really awesome conversations. Sometime during it I decided that I am a 28 year old woman, and I’m done playing games. It was the most open and honest first date conversation I had ever had. We clicked immediately. After about 3 hours Shmerson dropped me off at home. And we had our first kiss.

At 3am I call Squish.

“He dropped me off 20 minutes ago and I can’t stop smiling.”

And just like that – I knew I had met the man I was going to marry.

Yes – through a freakin’ Facebook App.

It’s not knight in shining armor romantic, I know. But heck – at least it involves communist manifestos and a pot-smoking band, right?

Tomorrow – how Shmerson came over for Valentine’s Day weekend and never left. 

** I am happy to report that since that exchange, Shmerson has changed his mind and is now a big Harry Potter fan. I think it’s kind of hard not to be when your wife has read the books so many times she may have set a world record.

***Shmerson later told me that the “just getting laid” thing went straight out the window the moment we started to really talk. I mean – I’m sure he still was hoping to get laid, he was at the time a 26 year old man and that is very much a justifiable motivation. But to his credit, he didn’t even try to cop a feel by the end of the night. So I tend to believe him.

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.

Dear Body, You Suck.

3 May

You know how sometimes you think you’re fine and then you’re really not?

Yeah – I thought I was ok. Kind of. Today that theory was proven as wrong. Kind of. I don’t know. I just know that I hate my body.

I was feeling kind of out of it today – but all around ok. At least I was being productive. Getting the site for my business up, editing my showreel.

Then I started bleeding again. And well – it all went downhill from there.

I thought I was done. I have had only light brown spotting on and off for like, three days. I even told squish on the phone today that I think the bleeding is done with.

Two hours later I’m in the bathroom and we’re back to bright red.

I was planning on going back to yoga today and since I was still feeling ok I figured I’d go. If you remember – my yoga instructor has been made very aware of my situation in general with the miscarriages.

So I admit – I was dreading going in there today. Telling him that we had another one. Before leaving the house I put on my yoga clothes and looked at myself in the mirror. I think I’ve gained at least 5 pounds in the last two weeks. I feel bloated and fat. I think I may be back to 160 pounds. I’m afraid to weigh myself to fine out.

Just the act of getting in the car made me cry. Then I ran through the conversation in my head. I cried some more.

I paced back and forth in front of the studio. I cried.

I went in and of course he was awesome as usual. I told him what happened and he set up a mat for me in the farthest corner of the room, so that I could cry if I needed – or whatever I needed. He said to do what I could.

During the class he was extra sensitive. Turns out there were some early preggos in the class today. But he didn’t say “for the pregnant women” when giving his instructors. He said “for those worrying about an extra person.” I know that was meant for me. He came by a few times during the class just to check on me. Make sure I was holding it together.

And I was. But the thing is that toward the end of class I started cramping again. I felt a gush (sorry for the TMI). I went to the bathroom and it was like the red lady had shown up. Only I  know that’s impossible. My betas were at 83 five days ago. So this basically means that I’m in the midst of the miscarriage that refuses to end.

I left the studio crying. I went out and of course smoked a cigarette.

I came home crying. I bawled and bawled to shmerson. I told him how much I hate my body. How all this hard work that I’ve been doing for the last 6 months has officially gone down the crapper. And what’s the use of it anyway? Because we keep miscarrying.

And I don’t get how he can deal with being with me since I’m damaged goods basically on every single level.

I love my husband. He managed to talk me down. I’ll be going for a beta tomorrow morning. I hope to spaghetti monster that I’ll be down to zero, and that today is just my uterus catching up with my hormones.

Look – I know the logical side of things. Shmerson gave me a huge lecture on this: You shouldn’t be taking care of your body just to have a baby. You should be taking care of your body for you. And if you take care of your body “to have a baby” then each time you fail- heck – each time you succeed you will fall back on old destructive habits.

He’s right. I know. I get it.

But logic is hard to see when you look at yourself in the mirror and feel helpless in front of the broken body that you see in front of you.

How can you treat something with respect when it has betrayed you?

If anybody has an easy answer – now’s the time to give it.

Shmerson’s Post 2: Revenge of the Something

23 Apr

Mo’s Note: Hi all. I’m doing Ok, I guess. Still recovering. Shmerson is taking over blogging duties today. Hope you enjoy. My husband rocks, by the way. Just in case you didn’t notice. For everyone here from ICLW – well, this wasn’t what this month was suppose to look like. Read back a few posts and you’ll understand. And now, without further ado, my husband, fondly known as Shmerson:

I’ve been planning this post for several weeks now, and now it’s more relevant than ever. I was planning to start with an apology, since Shmersonette’s posts were becoming more and more optimistic, and this post was going to be a bit on the heavy side. Now I don’t need to apologize.

I want to start with telling you a little about my reserve duty. If you’re in the reserve, it’s from age 22 to 45, and your rank has nothing to do with how old you are. For example, I’m a lieutenant, so by the age of 23 I was giving orders to men in their late 30’s.

Those men in their late 30’s- I’m not smarter, more experienced, or more motivated than them. They’ve been doing this for years. Some of them have a second or third degrees. Some of them are very important to the company they work for. Yet, when they’re in the reserve, they are pinheads. I have to tell them what to do, motivate them, make sure we’re on schedule etc. And sometimes, I’m not motivated myself, or I don’t know what to do next- but I pretend and improvise. Why? Because I have to. Because that’s expected of me. Because that’s my ROLE. And they transform from multitasking geniuses to lazy pinheads because that’s their role.

Now let me tell you a bit about me and Shmersonette’s relationship. I’m more optimistic, rational and level-headed, and sometimes I become too hesitant because of this. She’s more impulsive, determined and sometimes anxious and irrational. We complete each other. I’m not sure how it’s been translated, but in the Hebrew Bible, God says before creating Eve that she “would help Adam by being against him” (my bad translation). That’s us. We balance each other.

But I wanted to write about roles. What I wrote earlier, about me being optimistic and rational, that is me, in general. The problem begins when I look at those characteristics as if they’re my role.

During the first pregnancy, when Shmersonette started bleeding, I calmed her down. She was jumping to conclusions. I told her not to google it, and that we’ll go to the clinic tomorrow and probably find out everything was okay. I googled it and found some results that showed that it happens in some pregnancies, and it’s not necessarily a miscarriage.

I truly believed all of this, but I also took on my role. If she’s anxious, I shall be calm. If she’s pessimistic I shall be optimistic. If she cries, I will not. Because, I thought, if she sees me cry now, or be anxious or anything, she will be more anxious. And I can’t let that happen. I have to “help her by being against her”. She looks to me and expects me to be her rock. At our wedding, in her vows, she said that whatever happens, she knows I’ll be there to catch her, and that’s what I try to do.

That may sound cute and all, but it has some disadvantages, which I will get to in a minute. Going back to our first MC, the next day it all exploded in my face. She was right (as usual, I guess). And I felt like crap. I think I already wrote about how men treat MC differently. My thoughts were not with the baby we lost. My thoughts were about how Shmersonette is in danger. And the fact that she’s in danger because of me (I know, it’s irrational, just as her blaming herself is. We always look for ways to blame ourselves. We’re Jewish).

And also, I felt guilty because I was wrong. It’s as if I had lied to her knowingly. I told her it was going to be okay. It’s not that I thought she’d be mad at me for calming her down, but I did feel like she would never trust me again when I try to calm her down.

When we found out about our second MC, I didn’t know what to do. I think I tried to calm her down and be optimistic, but this time I didn’t believe it myself. The thing I remember most is us waiting at the clinic. Shmersonette was stressed and I could feel it. I was probably just as stressed and I didn’t want her to feel it. So I did a terrible thing. I took a stupid magazine and started turning the pages. I say “turning the pages” because I didn’t read. I was too nervous. In some twisted way I thought it’s good- I’m pretending I’m not anxious, and that would make her less anxious. Of course this is total BS.

It hurt her. She felt as if I wasn’t there with her. I really wasn’t. I wanted to be. I was supposed to be. What I felt was very similar to what she felt, but I hid it. In a way, I hid it from myself, too. I tried so hard to “help her by being against her” I forgot sometimes I should be just like her- just as vulnerable, just as anxious. God is wrong sometimes (have I mentioned I’m a heathen too?).

Someone once told me about the difference between men and women. It’s a sexist generalization, but screw that. It goes something like this: men tell each other about their problems in order to get advice or a solution. That’s why men tell, and that’s how they listen and respond. Women share problems to get sympathy and understanding, and that’s how they listen too.

So I was stuck in this world where I just acted according to my supposed role, I pretended I was a rock but I gave no sympathy- when it was most needed. And now I want to say in front of the whole internets: I am so, so sorry, shmersonette.

I’ve been thinking about it ever since, and I’ve been writing this post in my head for a while. Four days ago I got the chance to see if I actually learned something, and I think I did. We went straight to the clinic, no arguing. I was optimistic at some points, but I didn’t pretend. I cried when I felt like it, and I did it in front of her. I told her how I felt. I think I learned my lesson.

I think I managed to be there with her, and still be her rock- not as solid, but more real and close. I still have a problem crying next to her, especially when she’s crying. And it’s not as if she’s never seen me cry. But I’m working on it. Some of the feelings have only hit me now –  72 hours too late. But this time, I was still focusing on being rational and effective, but I didn’t pretend. I was there. And thank spaghetti monster, I didn’t read a magazine.

The stuffed animal I gave Shmersonette at the hospital. That's me in the background - not reading a magazine. I was texting people to update them. I swear!

Third Time – Definitely Not a Charm (a recounting of the craziest 24 hours of my life)

20 Apr

Hi Everyone. I’m still kind of in shock, but thank you everybody for your tweets, emails, comments, everything. I am incredibly grateful for all the love and support.

I think I’m still a bit in shock – but I also know I have some ‘splainin to do, so I may as well just spill it. The last day has been very WTF, and I’ve been writing this blog post in my head as I went along. I seriously don’t know where I would be if it weren’t for this blog and the women in it.

So now, without further ado, a recounting of the strangest 24 hours of my life. Yep, strange is the best word I can come up with. Though crazy works too.


April 5th, CD 28 – The red lady shows up, or so I think. She’s shorter than usual, but I don’t give that much thought. She also causes a heckuva lot of pain on my right side.

After that, Shmerson and I continue our TTC routine, feeling rather optimistic.

(Fake) CD 13 – I take an OPK. It comes out positive. I am feeling great. What a lie. Finally, ovulation smack dab in the middle of a cycle. Shmerson and I BD like there’s no tomorrow. I actually call people excited about the news.

(Fake) CD 14 – Another OPK. Another positive. Strange. Never happened to me before.

(Fake) CD 15 – Another OPK. Another positive. WTF?

Which brings us to yesterday at around 3pm.

3pm: excessive googling – “3 positive OPKs in a row”

3:15pm: decide my body is just taking it’s sweet time, and that’s why I haven’t seen any EWCM. Go to the bathroom to check out where that’s at. Find blood.

4:30 pm: I don’t know if I can recount the logic behind it now – but on a whim, I take an HPT. It’s a BFP. I immediately start crying. I know it’s over before it’s even started.

4:35pm: Shmerson has seen the BFP. I’m crying. We’re both at a loss about what to do. I call squish. She says get your ass to the emergency room or an emergency clinic (It’s passover – so all actual doctors offices are closed). I email Elphie. I try calling Court. too early in the states and canada.

4:45pm: As shmerson is googling emergency clinics, I try calling Dr. Twofer’s Cellphone. No answer. I leave a teary “I have no idea WTF is going on” voicemail.

5:20pm: Shmerson and I arrive at an emergency clinic.

6pm: Doctor sees me. Sends me to the emergency room.

6:30pm: I try calling Court again. This time she answers and manages to keep me calm as we wait. In the car on the way to the ER I mention to Shmerson that hey – I guess I was right after all. Court and Marie both mention that to me as well in later conversations. Great minds think alike.

7:00pm: Go in to see the on-call OB/GYN. She gives me a beta kit and tells me to pee in a cup. Faint BFP. US is given. She tells me she sees nothing. In the discharge papers I see something about a problem with the corpus luteum in my right ovary. I still have no idea what that means, but I’m sure I’ll be googling it like a maniac soon enough.

7:45pm: Dr. decides that because of my history, this is suspected ectopic. She decides to admit me.

8:00pm I get my blood drawn. Shmerson and I try to figure out what to do with the dogs, since we’re also watching my parents’ dog since they’re in china for a month. Great timing, mom.

8:15 pm We call everyone that needs to be called, and off he goes to take care of stuff. I stare blankly at nothing for a while.

9:00pm: Shmerson returns from dropping the dogs at a friend’s house, and comes bearing clothes, my laptop, and a cell charger. I get admitted to a room. I find out that the lab is closed and I will not be getting any beta results until the morning. This is going to be a long effing night. Nurse tells me I need to not eat or drink any more just in case I need a D&C in the morning. I haven’t eaten since 4pm. And I’m freaking thirsty.

9:15pm: Visiting hours are over, but the room, with two other beds is empty. I beg shmerson not to leave me alone. I hate hospitals. Did I mention this was gonna be a long effing night? No wireless internet on the ward. Thank god I got an iPhone (finally) a few days ago. I email Dr. Twofer. He actually works at this hospital. Maybe by some miracle he’ll be there in the morning.

10:00pm: I go back to the google machine. Shmerson and I start analyzing dates. Either I’m 6 weeks along, or by some miracle I ovulated on CD4 and this is a perfectly healthy, very early pregnancy. We hope for the latter, of course.

1:00am: I get a new roommate, which makes the nurse kick shmerson out. He finds a cot in the waiting room area and tries to crash there for a bit. I talk to the roommate. She’s nice. Three kids, all through C-section. Wants a fourth. Diagnosed with Secondary IF and in with a major pelvic infection. I put on my “I’m an expert” face and actually manage to cheer HER up for a while. She doesn’t know any IFers. I feel useful.

2:00am: still can’t sleep. Hop on skype with marie. She keeps me company for the next two hours.

4:00am: finally collapse.

7:00am: Shmerson is back in my room.

8:00am: Blood Drawn for second Beta. Both Betas get sent to the lab.

9:30am: Get sent for second U/S. Nothing found. Doctor says there may be something there that looks like early implantation in the uterus, but he’s doubtful (in hindsight, I think it may have just been scarring from my first D&C last year). Wait for the betas and see what’s next.

10:30am: Dr. Twofer walks into my room. Yep – he is on call. He tells me he’ll be checking up on me. Thank god for Dr. Twofer. I finally feel relaxed enough to sleep a while. Hopefully by the time I wake up the betas will be back. Half asleep, I tell Shmerson that I’ve decided that I ovulated on CD 4 and this is an early pregnancy. I know I’m kidding myself. I don’t care.

12:00pm: No Betas yet. I’m getting pissed off and antsy. I’m thirsty and hungry too.

12:20pm: I go up to the nurse to see WTF is going on. She tells me there was no change in my betas and the Doc will be in soon. I ask her to update Dr. Twofer and go back to my room to tell Shmerson it’s over.

12:30pm: Doc finally shows up. Beta last night was 438. This morning it’s 436. They want to give me Methotrexate. I resist at first. Doc says he spoke with Dr. Twofer about it and they both agree it’s the best course of action to hopefully avoid rupture and surgery. I give in. Doc tells me they’ll be giving me the shot in a bit.

12:35pm: I collapse. I start crying and screaming. This lasts for about 10 minutes. The nurse walks in to ask what’s wrong. Shmerson tells her “this is the third time this has happened to us”. I continue to scream and cry. Shmerson cries a little too. He digs up a xanax from my bag and I take it.

12:45pm Dr. Twofer comes in again. Other Doc probably told him I was not happy about the Methotrexate. He tells me it’s the best option. That once my betas go back to zero I should call him and we’ll get a full scan of my tubes to see what’s up. He goes to shake my hand. I can’t because it’s covered in snot and tears. Why don’t they keep tissues in this freaking room?

12:50pm: I yell at the nurse to give me the freaking shot and get it over with so I can go home. She looks at me sympathetically. I tell her I feel like my body’s betrayed me. She gives me the usual “everything happens for a reason” mumbo-jumbo. She gives me the shot so we can – and I quote her – “kill it”. I cry a little more. Shmerson makes the calls to update everyone that needs to be updated.

1:30pm: I freaking want to go home. I feel ok so the nurse allows it. Tells me to keep an eye out for this and that side effect. Outpouring of support from you guys becomes a flood. I’m freaking tired.

3:30pm: I change the title of this blog again. My friend AK was right the other day. Project Baby is too cold. This sucks too much. Who knows what the right name is. For now, it’s bitter and I don’t care.

4:00pm: The dogs are back, we have some lunch, I collapse on the couch and fall asleep, though my phone continues to ring and my computer pings every 30 seconds with another thoughtful email or comment. I can’t thank you guys enough.


Either I’m in denial or this is easier than it has been before. I don’t know. I think it is a bit easier. Mostly because of you guys. Also because it all happened so fast, I never actually got attached to the notion that I was pregnant. I think that’s a blessing.


1) I should ALWAYS listen to my body. I’ve been having pain on and off in my right side for months. I should have insisted on some sort of scan. I’m sure that’s the obstruction that caused the ectopic.

2) I’m grateful to have the third time over and done with. This is hopefully a clean slate. Though I’m sure I’ll have moments of being completely pissed off and despondent over the next few days or weeks. Or whatever. I’m glad the third happened this way, and wasn’t dragged out.

3) I have the most amazing husband in the world.

4) My support system is huge. My friends “in real life” and my friends here. Total strangers who left a comment to show support. I am so lucky to have found this place.

5) I can’t believe I’m here. Lori over at RRSAHM, who recently went through unspeakable tragedy, wrote a few days ago how anxiety – the fear of an event – is oftentimes worse than the event itself. I think she’s right. I’m a three timer now. I need to update my story. My TTC timeline. Next ICLW, I will be writing “ectopic pregnancy” as one of the words describing this blog. It will become one of my “frequently used tags”. I use it for the first time in this post. This is my new reality. It sucks. But it’s not as bad as the anxiety I had predicted.

That’s about it guys. I’m gonna go order some dinner and cuddle with my husband and the dogs. I’m sorry if I don’t respond to the comments. I may be MIA for a few days, I may not. Who knows.

But I do know that you are all awesome. That every word you write here makes me feel just a little bit better.

Thank you all. i don’t know where I’d be without you.

My Cup Runneth Over. Or Something.

14 Apr

I’ve had a crazy few days, so my apologies for not keeping up with you guys, and only posting silly things about birthdays, fajitas and earrings. Things are still a bit nuts around here, but yesterday, amongst the craziness, Shmerson and I had a very serious conversation, which I wanted, in part, to share with you guys.

Yesterday in therapy I realized just why I want to be a mother so badly.

I mean, think about it. All of us IFers, RPLers, etc, get so obsessed with MAKING the baby, do we even let ourselves think about PARENTING that baby? And about why we want to be parents as badly as we do?

I think for some people, making a baby becomes an obsession. Because the flying spaghetti monster makes it hard for us to make babies, we want it all the more.

But apart from the “screw you I will make this happen” aspect of it all. WHY?

I’ve been examining the whole “why I want to be a mother so badly” issue quite a bit in therapy over the last few months. Yesterday, it hit me that it’s because I love to love. There is nothing I enjoy more in this world than loving other people. Being there for them. Helping them. My cup runneth over. Or something.

So having that on my mind, while running around yesterday, the subject came up with shmerson while we were in the car driving from one crazy thing to another.

I told him: I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I want to be barefoot and pregnant. Like, for the next 5 years. I just want to make baby after baby and cook for them and make a pretty house for them and be their mommy. I want to be a stay at home mom. And only a mom.

Now, of course, that’s impossible in our current financial situation. No matter what, even if it’s from home, I’m going to have to keep on working.

But a girl can dream, right (even if it is an outdated dream circa 1950 that is the complete opposite of the dream the same girl had not even 2 years ago).

Anyway, that’s where the conversation turned. To how my dream is impossible, and also about our financial situation as a whole in the past, present and future.

Sometime during the drive Shmerson said something very wise: Up until 10 months ago we handled our finances like a couple. Now we’re handling them as parents.

He’s right. With every single month that has gone by since my first BFP, Shmerson and I have become more mature, more focused, and more honest about our financial situation and our goals for the future in general. All in preparation for becoming parents. We are, in fact, becoming parents more and more with each and every day that passes.

Sometime during this conversation I actually had the thought that on some level, it’s a good thing that those two pregnancies didn’t stick. Because those babies would have been born into financial and emotional chaos. Now, when we finally manage to bring a baby into this world, that baby will be born to PARENTS. People that have already prepared financially and emotionally – as much as we can, for that baby.

Now, you know it’s not REALLY a good thing to have lost those babies, or to be infertile. Miscarriage and infertility suck, to say the least.

But think about it – we have the luxury of time. Of planning. Of learning how to be parents before actually becoming parents. (Not to mention appreciating the journey so much more once we get there).

Anyway, I think it’s pretty cool.

And I also think that I have an awesome husband for stating it that way. “We’ve been living as parents for the last 10 months.”

I love it. My cup runneth over. Or something.

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