Cattula

And So...

Just to clarify my last post - good friends of ours had a baby.  He is beautiful, precious.  He moved me to tears.  Babies.  I think they have that effect on a lot of people.

So, now we are moving on to a new doctor, with new forms and new procedures.  Fingers crossed.

Then Again...

So - that last post about being able to be around babies - well - all I can say about that now is Epic Fail.

Progress (At Least for Today)

This past weekend was wonderful - full of friends, laughter, and babies.  Yes - babies.  Not too long ago it was hard for me to be around them.  I loved to hold them and witness their changing moods, the sudden giggles, but deep inside me was a pain more sharply articulated by their presence.  I would find myself making note of where the nearest bathroom was and planning a graceful escape for when it became too much and I knew the tears would fall.

But this past weekend there was none of that.  Just pure, simple joy.  And part of me knows that has a lot to do with where we are right now.  Anyone who has tried to get pregnant for any length of time knows that hope is parceled out in two week segments.  The end of a cycle brings disappointment and anger and a feeling of "here we go again."  But the next two weeks are a time of promise - when anything is possible and this could really be our chance.  And that is where we are right now. 

I know if this cycle is a bust, it will be a little bit harder to hold onto that joy, to let go of that sharp edge of pain.  But I also like to think that, on some level, the thinking, writing, and crying I have engaged in has started to do its job - to let the pain fall away and make room for a deep and sustaining peace, no matter what may come.  I'm starting to think that I have grieved well.

The Here and Now

The danger of this blog is that sometimes I write sad posts and leave them up for days with no updates - which is far more a reflection of my laziness than my emotional state.

I'm feeling much better today.  The HSG was quick, relatively pain-free, and most importantly - revealed that everything looks normal.  So we are continuing on - and hopeful.

What I've learned in the past year and a half that we have been trying to get pregnant, is that life has an inherent uncertainty about it.  And I think the best way to look at our situation is not with blinded optimism or deep pessimism - but with an openness to whatever may happen - and a sense that we will be okay no matter what.  I think spirituality is learning to live fully in the midst of the question - because even if we have a child, there are no guarantees in life.  And I think you just have to embrace what you have today and know that tomorrow will take care of itself.

A Changing Sense of Hope

It all started when we were sitting on the couch.

"A baby?"  I said.

"Now?" he said.

"Soon" I said.

"Maybe" he said.

Or maybe we were lying in bed.  Or talking on the phone.  Truthfully, I don't really remember.  All I know is that at some point we were trying. 

And then a month went by.  And another.  And another. 

And they slipped into a year. 

And now here we are.  And I avoid this blog, because I think the stories I have to tell are too sad.  But I need to tell them.  Sometimes I feel as though my head is spinning.  Sometimes I feel as though if I keep recounting the facts they will change.  Time will become slippery and fluid and we won't have been trying for one year and four months.  We will have been trying for a moment.  A day. We will be filled with hope.

And yet we need to be filled with hope now, if ever.  Time presses on.  Tests are scheduled.  Plans are made.  And when I look into the future I can see two different lives.  In one version, we have a baby.  I work from home and am delighted to be there to hold my baby in my arms, so often.  In another, we stand up and walk away from this pain.  We decided to live our lives without children, to find what meaning we will.  I go back to school and become a social worker.  I help people face medical facts - I am the one who walks beside them, steadies their gate, helps them go on.

Both lives have value.  And I think it is important to see that having a child is not all there is.  I do believe we will go on if it does not happen.  I do believe we will be okay.

And part of me wants to do that now.  Part of me is done with the pain and has learned enough hard lessons.  But part of me wants to go on.  To call.  To schedule.  To wait for test results.  And to hope.  And for today the part that wants to go on is stronger than the part that wants to stop.  But I am aware that it could shift.  And I both yearn for and fear that day.

The Mighty Male Sperm

At the risk of over sharing, I'm going to talk about something that has always annoyed me: it's called The Shettles Method.

The Shettles Method is used to attempt to control the gender of the baby you conceive.  I hate it - not because I have anything against anyone trying to sway nature to agree with their preference - but because of the assumptions behind it.

The Shettles Method basically states that if you have sex several days before ovulation, you will have a girl.  If you have sex right at ovulation, you will have a boy.  The reasoning behind this is - male sperm moves faster, but dies quicker and female sperm moves slower, but lives longer.  Thus, female sperm will still be around several days later when the egg is ready, whereas male sperm will long since have spun themselves out and died an early death.

So there you have it - gender stereotyping beginning at the gamete level.

I would love to say this method is clearly wrong.  But some people with MD's from reputable institutions endorse it.  So what's  your opinion?  Gender stereotyping?  Or a clear, scientific statement of what you have always thought to be true?

The Alarm Clock: One Year Later

A post on a message board I like to visit reminded me of something I once wrote - and while it really wasn't all that creative - I sometimes see people refer to it.

When people ask if they are ready to have a baby, I liken it to an alarm clock.  The alarm clock may go off from time to time - meaning your desire to have a baby may pop up - but you may be able to push snooze.  Pushing snooze may mean you want to travel, go to grad. school, or just keep getting crazy drunk whenever you want to.  So you push snooze - and it works.  The desire to have a baby goes away for a while.

But the alarm clock starts to go off more and more often.  The time you are able to snooze gets shorter and shorter.  Until one day you wake up and realize you can't hit snooze.  You want to have a baby.  No reason to put it off sounds good enough: you are now officially ready.

Provided your spouse reaches this point too, you start trying to get pregnant.  But what happens when it takes longer than you thought?  Or what if you have a miscarriage?  Or more than one?  How do you deal with an alarm clock contantly going off?  It's loud.  It's annoying.  It makes it hard to concentrate.  Can you find a way to push snooze again?  Can you turn the volume down?

This is where I am.  And it's a hard place to be.  But it is not a place I am in alone.  Many, many people have walked this path.  Many people stand beside me now.

And I think about my alarm clock daily, and this is the conclusion that I have come to: I don't think you can push snooze again.  But I do think you can turn the volume down.

I turn down the volume by distraction, by laughing with friends, by choosing to focus on hope instead of despair.

Some days it works well.  Some days it doesn't at all. 

Some days are hard.  Some days are good.  But I know I am never alone.  I can use my pain to connect myself to others, who may not suffer the same struggles, but do suffer.

I have seen a lot of articles written on what not to say to people who suffer infertility or miscarriages.  I don't intend to cover that ground here.  All I know is that the question why is often a cry of pain, moreso than a request for an answer.  And I know that God is often a mystery.

The only thing I have learned is that even if I met someone who had the same diagnosis as me, and the same time frame, I wouldn't assume I know how they feel or what they need.  I have learned, through this particular pain, to ask people what they need, what works for them, how I can support them.  I don't know if I was meant to feel this pain to learn that lesson.  I find it better not to ask such questions.

But I do know I am one of many, and in that I take comfort.

Doomed

One of my favorite bloggers (who is too cool to have  ever read my blog - but that aside), who has two sons, revealed today what name they would have used for a girl.  And dammit, it is our name.  Now we are doomed - doomed to looked like copycats.

(And no, I will not reveal said name.  I am stubbornly holding on to whatever element of surprise I have left).

Warning: You May Not Want to Read This

I do realize that typing that makes you want to read this even more - after all, there might be something juicy in this post.  But there really isn't.  Just a lot of ranting so I can look back on this someday and see I made it through.

I've been going crazy lately - raking my brain over what to do.  You see, I hate my job.  It's lonely and unfulfilling, and most of all - some part of me (stomach, heart) drops every time I walk into the building.

In short, if God has a plan for me I don't think this is it.  I think I belong someplace where I can help people and feel useful.  I think I belong in a non-profit.

And voila! I have an interview this Tuesday (I guess because I sent in a cover letter and resume and all that jazz - but it could also be some strong universal force pulling me there - I don't count that out).  So problem solved, right?

Oh, if only life at cattula.com were so simple.

You see - the crazy job - the job that causes the heart/stomach drop - actually has some good things to it.  Like a flexible schedule which lets me go to work at 7 am - and leave by 3:30 p.m.  And if I have to work with a baby - I would rather have as much time as possible with them when they are awake.  My boss also says I might be able to work part-time or I might be able to telecommute.  I don't think the non-profit can offer me those things.  But I will ask.  (Don't worry - am smart enough not to ask until given offer.)

So I'm stuck in this cycle of contemplating money and purpose and time.  How do I get the most time possible to spend with my kids?  How do I do what I feel called to do in the world?  Why didn't I major in something more useful?

And how do I know that I'm even clearly thinking about anything - given that I had to give up the anti-depressants that keep me sane in the hopes of having a baby?

Hello out there!  Any ideas?

If so, just let me know.  Otherwise I'll be in the corner lamenting the fact that I ever became an adult.*

* And of course lamenting in the corner is code for wildly searching the Internet for an answer.

It occurs to me...

that fertilityfriend would be more aptly named fertiityfoe.

Oh, and remember all those bottles?  With all the pretty presecription pills?

I miss those bottles.  I really do.