Mind the Gap

I have a gap in between my two front teeth. It's not particularly noticeable (unless you are me, who notices it all. the. time). It used to be a much larger gap, but thanks to the magic - and pain - of orthodontics, it is now a dainty little thing at the bottom of the teeth that leaves curious bite patterns in apples.

image: flyzipper

I am 32 and Mr. X just turned 35. There is a gap of three years in our ages.

There is a cavernous gap in between my ears where, supposedly, my brain is supposed to be. I think it goes AWOL alot.

There is a yawning gap between me and my first cousins, due in large part to the extreme dislike my father has for their father, his brother. I don't really know my aunt and uncle.

By far my biggest gap, though, is the gap between what I expect will happen to me and what actually does happen to me. It is also the hardest gap to get over. There is no magic jump, no equation, no mathematical formula, or easy numerical explanation. It is a gap.

I know that I need to somehow bridge that gap, find the neutral ground, the median, the way forward through the center. The easy way, of course, is to stop having expectations. That's pretty hard to actually put into action. We are surrounded by reminders of what we should expect - the weather is predicted for us down to - literally - the nth degree, store ads tell us that we should expect to give presents to our fathers on Father's Day (and of course, contribute to the economic well-being of the nation), we even say that a woman is 'expecting' when she's pregnant. Expectations are all around us - both external and internal.

To be able to just abandon those one day is a Herculean feat and one that I don't think I am up for. So, now that I have eliminated the first option, what's next? First, it is to recognize that there is a gap - there will always be a gap between what we expect and what we get. Sometimes the gap will be teeny, other times it will be ginormous. Somehow knowing that there is going to be this gap makes it a little easier to accept it.

Then, well, still try to work on letting go of expectations. I can let go of expecting rain and getting none. It may be much harder to let go expecting that I will be able to carry a pregnancy the whole way through. But, I'll try.

That way, it will be one of the best surprises of my life.

Where Did All the Clouds Come From?

These past few days, I have been feeling what can only be described as 'emotionally delicate'. My equanimity of the past few weeks has abandoned me (I sincerely hope only temporarily) and I feel deflated, depressed and battered.
image: visulogik
Where did all of the clouds come from so quickly?

I suspect it started with my best friend's announcement of the birth of her first child last week. I am still thrilled for them, and am genuinely happy that she has a beautiful baby girl. I am also thrilled that I finished the quilt on time. But, - and there is always a but, isn't there? - I could not shake this feeling that she has embarked on a journey that so far, I cannot follow.

She is a mother. And I am not. And this hurts more than I want to admit to you and to myself. I have this profound sense of loss, as if I am re-experiencing my miscarriages all over again, whenever I think of it.

Why does this hurt and hurt so badly? Surprisingly, it is not the Green Envy Monster at all. It is just this deep seated ache, right behind my breastbone, dull and constantly throbbing just under the surface. There is also a little bit of shame mixed in, as if I feel like I have to explain why my body hasn't been able to do this one little thing so far. And the memories of all of the hopes that we had when I was pregnant for the first time. There is the crushing uncertainty of whether we will have that happy moment of carpet bombing our friends and family with pictures of what our love (and untold riches) created. They have all come rushing back - welling up into tears in my eyes and that familiar tweak in my nose just before I sneeze.

The result has been the usual depression - as if my body feels twice its normal weight and I'm being dragged down by gravity, but also copious amounts of tears shed over things that while sad are not really worthy of copious amounts of tears (case in point: I finished the biography of Marie Antoinette and was unconsolable at what she went through at the end). There is also the pressure, as if my head was in a vice, maybe from all of these feelings swirling around in there just trying to get out.

In short, I am a mess. I am a walking Cymbalta ad. I would like nothing better than lie in bed and stare at the wall, but, I don't. I have work to do, deadlines to meet, people to service. My mom is here and I can't bear the thought of ruining her visit with my depression.

I just can't seem to get past this myopia of each minute ticking past that I don't have a warm infant in my arms or a baby in my belly. And, right now, short of overdosing on kittens, I don't know how I'm going to get out of it. All I can see is what I don't have.

But, I will find a way. I always do. Most likely it will be a good cry and some careful sharing with Sweetie. I will also investigate whether my thyroid is somehow involved - my metabolism has been all over the place recently.

What do you, Dr. Reader, suggest I do to get out of this funk?

My Path

I've never been one for the idea that each person has a destiny set out before them. How can someone be destined to be a prostitute or serial killer when someone else is destined to be a nun or social worker? It belies a certain amount of short-straw syndrome where some people are "destined" to have crappy luck while others get to live idyllic lives, and apparently the person with the crap luck has no say in it. At the same time, I don't buy into the idea that we make our own destiny. I had no hand in being born into an incredibly stable house with lots of opportunities for education, advancement and overall growth complete with loving and well-adjusted parents.
image: maverickapollo
I prefer to think of my life as a series of paths. I may follow the one tread by those before me, or I may veer off into other directions. I may have company on parts of the journey and others I go by myself. I may choose the direction sometimes and sometimes the direction may choose me, but there is always motion.

I've had to remind myself of this a lot lately, though, because I've been having a hard time with the fact that there are those who got pregnant around the same time that I did and they are still pregnant. I feel angry that I can't continue that journey, I feel embarrassed that I somehow failed the test, and I'm annoyed at that sneaking little voice that asks, "Why her and not me?"

I've answered this question before, but apparently I have forgotten the lesson because I still seem to be asking it. So, I'm trying a different tactic this time around. Whenever I feel that question coming on, I just remember that her path is not my path. I may not know where my path will take me, but I do know which one is mine.

And for better or worse, my path right now doesn't include being pregnant. It does include having a Diet Coke, eating bleu cheese at lunch, gardening this morning and looking forward to a glass of wine this evening. And, I'm getting better at enjoying these things for themselves and not dwelling on what being able to have them means. Because, dwelling on it doesn't change it and never will.

It also feels so good to give myself permission not to dwell on it either. It frees me up to think about other things, dream about other things, and actually enjoy life. And you know what I did today? I laughed, out loud. It seems like it's been so long since I did that - a genuine, joyful laugh.

And it felt really, really good.

7,558

I wish I could say that this is how much we are getting in a tax refund (not even close since we aren't getting a refund at all and are actually providing a refund to the man), but instead I have to report that this is my HCG level as of this morning. I have to lose at least 7,553 more unit-thingys before I can be "pregnancy-free".* I did the math (well, I punched the numbers into a calculator which then did the math) and found that if the levels drop by half every 48 hours on the dot, it will take 22 days from today to get to baseline. Of course, nothing goes the way it is supposed to, so this is a wild guestimate.

I also made the mistake of looking at my records for my other D&C. A week after the procedure, my HCG was a whopping 350! Of course, the baby died about two weeks before we had the procedure, so during that time, I'm sure I did some serious dropping. In the end, it still took me 6 weeks to make it to below 5. Yikes.

Why does this bother me? Well, because even if we aren't going to see Dr. Uterus anytime soon, it would still be nice to think that there might be a chance for an oops. As long as the HCG is up there, the ovaries are not going to cooperate to make that happen. I know I shouldn't even be thinking about pregnancy, including an oops, but part of me just can't let go of the notion that I should be doing something to get knocked up even if that means just knowing that I might be fertile and having unprotected sex. Besides, part of me still dreams of being able to call up Dr. Uterus and say, "Guess what?! I'm pregnant and I didn't need you to get that way!" This is very indicative of how my day-dreams about pregnancy have changed over the years. I used to spend a great deal of time thinking of elaborate ways of telling my parents that I was pregnant. Now I fantasize about telling my RE that he's obsolete.

I did mention to the nurse that I haven't had a full-on period yet (just spotting) and she indicated that this usually equates to the levels going down faster. I won't read this as gospel, but it's encouraging. I go back next Monday morning for another draw. As a present to myself, I asked to be able to have all of my bloodwork after the D&C to be drawn at an off-site lab rather than going to the office each week and see all of the glum faces of the nurses who know what happened. So far, this has worked very well as the ladies at the lab don't know me, don't know my history and are extremely efficient. And, no glum faces. This and the Cadbury caramel egg I had after lunch totally made my day - well until finding out how high the level was. I think another caramel egg after dinner (which will also feature a nice Rioja from Spain) is definitely called for.

And, another benefit is that once the number goes down, maybe I can finally stop having hormonal rages (or "being pissy" as Sweetie calls it). Or maybe, I just won't be able to use that as an excuse for "being pissy".

*I won't bother to discuss how ironic this is. I'm at the point of just shaking my head.

Glutton for Punishment

When it comes to living with infertility in a primarily fertile world, I am a glutton for punishment. Article about nesting during pregnancy? I read it. Read an on-line chat about working part-time or full-time after the birth of a baby (I would kill for this choice!!!)? Tempted. Watching the episode of House Hunters where the family is expanding (number-wise, not body-wise) so they have to find a new house? I watched the whole thing, including every single freakin' reference to the fact that she's pregnant. I couldn't tear my eyes away.
image: amortize
So, why do I do this to myself? What do I expect to gain? At first, I thought I was doing it because I may gain some valuable information that I can use down the line. So, the article on soothing your baby seemed like a good read. Then, as time went on and we had no baby to soothe, it seemed less and less helpful. I suspect that I do it now to see if I've reached that point of equanimity where I can read about (fill in the blank) getting knocked up and not feel that twinge of absolute envy. I never manage to do it, though.

And, it seems as if motherhood and fertility is everywhere now- celebrities are popping out enough children to populate a small island, there is not one but two blogs dedicated to parenting and family on Washingtonpost.com, and of course, there is my love/hate relationship with articles in the New York Times, which has been documented on this blog already. The point is, it's getting harder and harder to censor out this kind of stuff, which makes it easier to punish myself.

It is impossible to go to just about any website and not get assaulted at least once with something - even a headline - that brings that familiar ache. But, I am making progress. I have started to give myself permission to skip reading those articles. For example, the article on going back to work after the birth of a baby? Self: you are permitted to skip it. It won't do anything except upset you, so you have a free ride to look right past it. Instead, go look at Cuteoverload. Stick your nose in the middle of a fragrant bloom and breathe deeply. Kiss a kitty. You'll find the urge to look at those articles is gone and you've gotten a wonderful respite.

In the world of infertility where control is so fleeting, giving myself permission to skip the things that I know will just upset me is one little way I can have some control.