Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Watchpot


I had a maintenance visit with my psychologist last week. First, let me premise it with this: I love that bitch. She is completely realistic, she uses the f-bomb, and she has no problem telling me when I'm being fucking unrealistic. SeewhatImean? She rocks. So I'm sitting in her office smiling through tears and trying to articulate the craziness inside my head when a statement bubbles out of my throat... it came quickly in a series of incognizant word vomit as I'm prone to do. I shit you not, it went something like this: 

I'm stressed the fuck out and I don't understand why idiots get pregnant even fat idiots and I stopped working out because I've completely crashed and burned and now the cellulite has taken over my thighs and I figure my husband wouldn't want to have sex with me anyway and I wouldn't blame him and not to mention WHY DO I HAVE SUCH A DRY VAG ALL THE TIME?!?! SHE NEVER USED TO LET ME DOWN!

A moment of silence commences and we make eye contact, both a little surprised at whatthefuck I just said, but then something really odd happens. We both start laughing. Like old friends, it was a hearty, lengthy laugh, until we're both laugh-crying. And she's making notes, so I ask, "did you get all that?!" She nods enthusiastically and confirms "yep, check, Koral and her dry vag, uh-huh."

We conclude that stress is a total cunt, but there are things we can do. $100 bucks later and I've got every moisturizer, home remedy, and vitamin on the market. For shit's sake, I may not be fertile but I'm going to slide my way all over this fucking city! INFERTILE GIRL COMIN' ATCHA, schlorrrppp! Sidenote: I'm still waiting for the "Zestra Rush" they market. So far, let's be serious, it feels a lot like like icy hot and nothing like a rush. I put it on to be all sneaky-like while I did the dishes. And you know what? Doing the dishes still sucked. Even with an icy, no hot, no icy, no wait, it tickles a little, no, it's hot, vagina.

So now that you've heard about my vagina (it's been a while), are you still with me?

Obviously, infertility has a way of creeping in and becoming all-consuming. Particularly when your mind is an asshole like mine and there's a constant stream of word vomit ruminating in your mind. A quick Google search of Type A personality produced these characteristics:

  • Time Urgency and Impatience
  • Competitiveness
  • Strong Achievement-Orientation
  • Certain Physical Characteristics That Result From Stress and Type A Behavior Over Years

Well mother-fucking-BAZINGA! It was never more glaringly obvious to me than when I was thrust into the uncontrollable abyss of infertility. Our infertility treaters looked at A and B - sperm and eggs. Both of which received an "A+" on their report cards. All prerequisite tests ruled out anything concerning. Our official diagnosis was "unexplained infertility." But, I don't like unexplained things, let alone ones I can't control. So what's a girl to do?

Make a fucking plan, that's what she does! Me and my newly moisturized friend slid into action (get it? badumcha!). I'm thinking outside the box and advocating a bit more for myself. Perhaps it's an act of desperation, but I'm keeping an open mind. Stay tuned for updates. That is, if my new nutritional approach doesn't give me horrendous shits for days and I can't leave the crapper.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

No, Really...

I've got to be honest, you guys. I've completely lost the ability to mask the emotion of infertility. Truth is, I've always sucked at hiding my emotions. I carry them with me in my heart,  and symptomatically, on my face. I'll tell you I'm doing just fine, but if you hold a stare too long or lean in just an inch, I will likely turn into tears. It's an uncontrollable reaction, and one I've come to loathe the most about this journey. Certainly, there are worse things than crying in front of your coworkers, or your husband for the 20th time this week, or even the stranger in a Dutch Bros. drive thru. But it's a bitch trying to convince others you're doing just fine as you're crying over your keyboard. Which explains why my space bar sticks...

No, but really, I'm fine.

The thing about infertility is that people naturally don't believe you. Well - intentioned people,  people that love you, they really don't fucking believe you. The term infertility holds distinctly different meanings depending on the ears upon which it falls. For me, the "in-fer-TILE" (please read with a dramatic emphasis on the word "tile" for maximum effect), infertility looks and sounds a lot like a big fucking question mark. Why them? Why us? When? How? Again? It's 1,456 questions and 2 answers: eggs look good, and sperm looks good. Great... but.... um, those other 1,454 questions over there? Oh, cool, we will just ignore those annoying bitches. Thanks infertility!

To those outside your ineffective cocktail of sperm and eggs, infertility takes on an entirely different definition.  In fact, I'm not sure the word exists in the vocabulary of those on the outside looking in. More often than not, the responses I receive have me convinced that I'm a crazy bitch and infertility isn't a real word. No, no. In fact, if I just believe, pray, relax, stand on my head, rub this oil on my vag, or "stop worrying so much," why, that pesky infertility diagnosis will magically vanish. Whythefuck hadn't I thought of that?! Thanks again, word-that-doesn't-really-exist!

I know everyone means well. And I don't begrudge those who toss their "helpful" advice my way, as they glance at framed pictures of their beautiful children, or regale me with the tale of their long, arduous fertility struggle... of 3 months.

But here's the thing.

I'm fine. And I'll be a lot fucking finer if you wouldn't bestow your wisdom upon me. I know you love me. I know you believe I'm being dramatic, or premature, or irrational. But the truth is, I'm none of those things. My perceptions are my reality. I live this reality each month as waves of optimism fill my heart, dreams float around my head, only to be reminded that it isn't happening this month. It is impossible to shelf an emotion because it no sooner falls out of the fucking box again.

Look, I know it makes you squirm in your chair when you don't know what to say. And I know you want to say the right thing. But you know what? Most of the time I don't need to hear anything at all. And I'm okay with that. And I appreciate a silent hug or understanding nod more than you'll ever know.

And I'll tell you what.... when I'm pregnant, you can give me all the other unsolicited advice you've been dying to tell me but couldn't because that made-up word of infertility threw you completely off.

Monday, September 15, 2014

Kill Switch

I spend an inordinate amount of time analyzing myself. While this trait has proven to be immensely useful in getting through just about anything, there are some days when I just want a break.

A break from my own mind, sounds crazy, right? But the 'me' inside just won't shut the fuck up. Ever. She's an obsessive worrywart with an affinity for downright overkill. Overkill on perceptions, overkill on emotions, just OVERKILL. Quite literally, I wear myself out and I'm left with nothing to give externally because I'm completely tattered internally.

Finding the Switch
MOD introduced me to the term "flipping the switch" when we were working on our rental property. We'd relax away the days, but when it came to working on the house, we'd "flip the switch" and get shit done. We'd get up early, we'd work late, and we'd git 'er done. When we were done, we'd flip the switch off and return to our Tahoe weekends, long hikes, and slowly meander through our days. Just the way we liked it. Just the way I liked me. I'd ride the ebb and flow with seamless precision.

Months turned into more than a year of that dreaded term - TTC (trying to conceive) - and I've completely lost sight of the switch. I'm in this continual overdrive with no brakes.

When we decided to get pregnant, I suppose I was coasting on the naiveté that it would happen quickly and without much thought. And for the most part, that's how it happened. A handful of months and that blessed second line showed up on the pregnancy test. But no sooner had I advertised it to the whole entire world, and we lost it.


A year and a half later, and I'm sitting in my dark office, listening to dark melodies, sobbing over yet another month of effort down the drain. I admit I have lost perspective of anything and everything. I'm defeated and fighting the urge to blame myself, disinterested in nearly everything, and passionate about damn near nothing.

Infertility sucks. It sucks in ways I hadn't imagined. It has robbed me of my self esteem, my passion for even the simplest pleasures, and my new savory relationship with my husband. Somedays, it feels as though it's severed my heart from my body.

And yet, I stare at the calendar once more, calculate dates another time, and take a breath to get back on this fucked up roller coaster. God I hope it's worth it and I can regain what it's cost us both.