Thursday, July 7, 2011
Monday, June 27, 2011
Honorary Doctorate
Oprah Winfrey is getting an honorary doctorate from some college. Yay for her. I like O. She's worked hard and the recognition makes me smile.
You know who should get honorary doctorates? Women going through infertility treatments. After all is said and done, they can hold their own in a conversation with any doctor about any fertility related issue and medical condition that even remotely will, may, or can happen during routine treatment. Not to mention any other complication or offshoot of some new problem connected to the condition. Including all the above, but also, details of procedures, protocol, surgeries, medications, recuperation and therapy (both mental and physical, with the knowledge of all the drugs and exercises that encompasses).
They should get the Honorary Doctorate especially if all this work and knowledge failed them. Actually they should decisively get it if all their attempts have failed. They should get this recognition at the very least to acknowledge their physical and mental struggles; reading all the documentation they could get their hands on, for instance, personal testimony, books and medical journals all while baby sittings someone else's child or trying to balance their infertility and keep their marriage together.
Isn't this what doctors go through in medical school and interning? At the end, don't they get a degree saying they learned all the required material, took all the tests, neglected the rest of their lives in order to accomplish this. one. thing? All the while paying enormous sums of money they will have to pay off for decades?
What's the difference?
Doctors get a degree that says they can now make a lot of money and now have the means to fix the lives they neglected and broke due to the sacrifices they made.
Infertile women get to live in loss, and debt with very little if anything to show for it (empty fertility drug bottles and used syringes and boxes of unused progesterone), except maybe their marriage is still intact...maybe.
If they get nothing else, they should at least get this. At the VERY least.
You know who should get honorary doctorates? Women going through infertility treatments. After all is said and done, they can hold their own in a conversation with any doctor about any fertility related issue and medical condition that even remotely will, may, or can happen during routine treatment. Not to mention any other complication or offshoot of some new problem connected to the condition. Including all the above, but also, details of procedures, protocol, surgeries, medications, recuperation and therapy (both mental and physical, with the knowledge of all the drugs and exercises that encompasses).
Isn't this what doctors go through in medical school and interning? At the end, don't they get a degree saying they learned all the required material, took all the tests, neglected the rest of their lives in order to accomplish this. one. thing? All the while paying enormous sums of money they will have to pay off for decades?
What's the difference?
Doctors get a degree that says they can now make a lot of money and now have the means to fix the lives they neglected and broke due to the sacrifices they made.
Infertile women get to live in loss, and debt with very little if anything to show for it (empty fertility drug bottles and used syringes and boxes of unused progesterone), except maybe their marriage is still intact...maybe.
If they get nothing else, they should at least get this. At the VERY least.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Grief
I’ve been thinking. Maybe I’m not an atheist. I’ve been questioning the existence of God for a long time. At one point I said, if there is a God, I think we are his long forgotten garden. He’s probably moved on to something more interesting or whatever. I guess what I mean to say is, if there is a God, I am pissed as fuck at him and I reject him. I’m breaking up with him. If I were with a man who treated me this badly, everyone would tell me to leave. The trust is gone and I’m tired of looking over my shoulder wondering when the next blow is going to come. The wounds inflicted will never heal, or if they do, it won’t be right. So, it’s over. Buh-bye.
The grief I am experiencing is suffocating. The first three days after the embryologist called, I didn’t get out of bed. The times I cried far out weighed the times I didn’t. Then I finally did get out of bed, and we went out to breakfast. I cried at the table. Here is what kills me. After all that crying, that feels like a release, like you are purging poison from your body, it makes you wonder, how can I still be this toxic. Shouldn’t I have been bled of all the venom? It’s so bleak to realize that pain is still pumping shit into your system.
The man took vacation that week to “help” with the transfer and implanting. I asked him if he wanted to do anything with the rest of the vacation and he decided we should go on a road trip. For those two days, my goal was not to cry that deep, sobbing, snotty cry. I didn’t. The tears were silent and in private. Stolen moments to bleed the venom. Now it’s no longer I wonder if I will cry today, it’s how many times will I cry today. I figure I’m doing pretty well if I can keep it under three. I haven’t yet, but we all have to have a goal.
I understand the grief, the loss of so much. Hope, biological child, what has defined our identities for so long. Who will we be now? My fear was how will I know when the grief has gone too far, when it is not longer healthy and healing. I was told, if it gets worse. My response, I can’t imagine it being any worse. I think if it got worse, I would black out from the pain. I can’t say for sure I’d cease to exist, but I can’t imagine being conscious. I think I’d be a vegetable. I already find myself wandering around the house and wonder, when did I get up or stop doing what I was doing and end up here. Sometimes, I come to and find I’m standing. Just standing in the middle of a room. I don’t know how I got there, when I got there or how long I was there. Not to mention locking myself out of the house. What’s happening? Has my mind fractured from the pain? I don’t know. Am I worried about it? No. Why? Honestly, I can’t be bothered. I can’t be bothered to do much of anything. Getting out of bed is an act of heroic proportions. Do I need antidepressants? Maybe. Will I use them? No. Why? I don’t want to feel better. I don’t want to feel anything. That’s what I want.
I know logically this will pass, and that thought makes me rage inside. Emotionally, I can’t see through it. It is so raw and painful; I just can’t see how it will ever heal. I am at a loss. I don’t know what to do. There are some moments I am for lack of a better word manic. Feels like a rush of adrenaline and I HAVE to do something. So, I do, and then comes the crash. Curl up fetal and cry until it passes. I try to regulate those moods with some learned techniques; sometimes I’m successful, most of the time not so much. The rest of the time, I’m apathetic. Those are my three emotions, Grief, Crazed and Apathetic. My other goal is to do one “big” thing a day. If I can do that, then, well I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s positive.
I’ve pretty much stopped talking to people. I don’t answer emails, phones, or post. I can’t face it. It’s not that I have a problem with them; I have a problem with me. I’m not strong or stable enough to face it. I know this because every time I do answer the phone, I end up hanging up and crying. It’s the same with any form of communication. If I am this broken, and I fell apart while talking to someone, it would be…“uncomfortable”…for the other person. I’m pretty sure no one is ready for that kind of responsibility. You think you are but trust me, you are not. I’m doing you a kindness. If you don’t believe me, fine. I’m doing me a kindness; I can’t take that kind of pain.
I’m not alone in my grief. My dear, sweet husband is struggling too. He is a stoic man, and I think many would be surprised at how sensitive he is. I think that most people wouldn’t know he was having such a hard time. I was such a freakin’ mess, I wasn’t seeing straight and I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sure of how he was feeling until I flat out asked him. “How do you feel about it?” He said something like, “I don’t feel much.”
“Because it’s just oh well? Or because it’s sad?”
“Because it’s so incredibly sad.”
At that moment, I saw the raw pain in his eyes and I knew I was not alone in the depth of grief I was feeling. I was scared that my pain was far worse than his or worse than it should have been. I mean I knew he was hurting because of other signs, such as not being able to make simple decisions. Me: “What do you want on the pizza?” Him: Look of complete terror at having to make that decision. When he’s upset, he drives more aggressively and much faster. This from the man who unfailingly drives in the slow lane. That was a lot of fun on our mountainous road trip. (Not) Then he called into work sick. This is that guy at work who is forced to take vacation time or he will stop earning time. Yeah, that guy. He stayed in bed or on the couch all day. I did my best to give him some space, because that’s who we are; we need a little space to process. The next morning, I was still in bed as he got up and ready to go to work. Before he left, he came and sat next to me, took my hand and said, “I’m sad.” And laid his head on my stomach. My already shattered heart was ground into dust. “I know.” I whispered, it was all the voice I had. “I’m sad, too.” We talked about all the loss we are encountering, and the man that he is, kissed me good-bye and left to work, back straight, head almost held high. I’m sure no one else would notice. He’s my hero.
On top of all that, I struggle with his sadness. I feel absolutely responsible. If only my body worked properly, we could have a baby. I can’t imagine how disappointed he must feel. I know how bad I feel that I can’t give him something that he really wanted. The guilt of my body failing at a critical moment is adding to the grieving pain. Suffocating, inconsolable and crippling.
What ignites the anger is we think we finally figured it out. We finally got to a place where we had a decent shot at it, and then to be canceled before it had a chance. It’s such a blow I’m surprised I can breathe. Sometimes I can’t. Now, it all comes down to money and it’s killing me. Since our insurance doesn’t cover treatment, we are shit out of luck. Money offers you opportunity and freedom.
I think this will count as my “one big thing” today. This was hard to write and I’m sure will take it’s toll. Actually, it already has. I’m tired and I’m going to go try to use my learned techniques and try not to go all fetal. On the other hand, maybe not, since I can’t really be bothered.
The grief I am experiencing is suffocating. The first three days after the embryologist called, I didn’t get out of bed. The times I cried far out weighed the times I didn’t. Then I finally did get out of bed, and we went out to breakfast. I cried at the table. Here is what kills me. After all that crying, that feels like a release, like you are purging poison from your body, it makes you wonder, how can I still be this toxic. Shouldn’t I have been bled of all the venom? It’s so bleak to realize that pain is still pumping shit into your system.
The man took vacation that week to “help” with the transfer and implanting. I asked him if he wanted to do anything with the rest of the vacation and he decided we should go on a road trip. For those two days, my goal was not to cry that deep, sobbing, snotty cry. I didn’t. The tears were silent and in private. Stolen moments to bleed the venom. Now it’s no longer I wonder if I will cry today, it’s how many times will I cry today. I figure I’m doing pretty well if I can keep it under three. I haven’t yet, but we all have to have a goal.
I understand the grief, the loss of so much. Hope, biological child, what has defined our identities for so long. Who will we be now? My fear was how will I know when the grief has gone too far, when it is not longer healthy and healing. I was told, if it gets worse. My response, I can’t imagine it being any worse. I think if it got worse, I would black out from the pain. I can’t say for sure I’d cease to exist, but I can’t imagine being conscious. I think I’d be a vegetable. I already find myself wandering around the house and wonder, when did I get up or stop doing what I was doing and end up here. Sometimes, I come to and find I’m standing. Just standing in the middle of a room. I don’t know how I got there, when I got there or how long I was there. Not to mention locking myself out of the house. What’s happening? Has my mind fractured from the pain? I don’t know. Am I worried about it? No. Why? Honestly, I can’t be bothered. I can’t be bothered to do much of anything. Getting out of bed is an act of heroic proportions. Do I need antidepressants? Maybe. Will I use them? No. Why? I don’t want to feel better. I don’t want to feel anything. That’s what I want.
I know logically this will pass, and that thought makes me rage inside. Emotionally, I can’t see through it. It is so raw and painful; I just can’t see how it will ever heal. I am at a loss. I don’t know what to do. There are some moments I am for lack of a better word manic. Feels like a rush of adrenaline and I HAVE to do something. So, I do, and then comes the crash. Curl up fetal and cry until it passes. I try to regulate those moods with some learned techniques; sometimes I’m successful, most of the time not so much. The rest of the time, I’m apathetic. Those are my three emotions, Grief, Crazed and Apathetic. My other goal is to do one “big” thing a day. If I can do that, then, well I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s positive.
I’ve pretty much stopped talking to people. I don’t answer emails, phones, or post. I can’t face it. It’s not that I have a problem with them; I have a problem with me. I’m not strong or stable enough to face it. I know this because every time I do answer the phone, I end up hanging up and crying. It’s the same with any form of communication. If I am this broken, and I fell apart while talking to someone, it would be…“uncomfortable”…for the other person. I’m pretty sure no one is ready for that kind of responsibility. You think you are but trust me, you are not. I’m doing you a kindness. If you don’t believe me, fine. I’m doing me a kindness; I can’t take that kind of pain.
I’m not alone in my grief. My dear, sweet husband is struggling too. He is a stoic man, and I think many would be surprised at how sensitive he is. I think that most people wouldn’t know he was having such a hard time. I was such a freakin’ mess, I wasn’t seeing straight and I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sure of how he was feeling until I flat out asked him. “How do you feel about it?” He said something like, “I don’t feel much.”
“Because it’s just oh well? Or because it’s sad?”
“Because it’s so incredibly sad.”
At that moment, I saw the raw pain in his eyes and I knew I was not alone in the depth of grief I was feeling. I was scared that my pain was far worse than his or worse than it should have been. I mean I knew he was hurting because of other signs, such as not being able to make simple decisions. Me: “What do you want on the pizza?” Him: Look of complete terror at having to make that decision. When he’s upset, he drives more aggressively and much faster. This from the man who unfailingly drives in the slow lane. That was a lot of fun on our mountainous road trip. (Not) Then he called into work sick. This is that guy at work who is forced to take vacation time or he will stop earning time. Yeah, that guy. He stayed in bed or on the couch all day. I did my best to give him some space, because that’s who we are; we need a little space to process. The next morning, I was still in bed as he got up and ready to go to work. Before he left, he came and sat next to me, took my hand and said, “I’m sad.” And laid his head on my stomach. My already shattered heart was ground into dust. “I know.” I whispered, it was all the voice I had. “I’m sad, too.” We talked about all the loss we are encountering, and the man that he is, kissed me good-bye and left to work, back straight, head almost held high. I’m sure no one else would notice. He’s my hero.
On top of all that, I struggle with his sadness. I feel absolutely responsible. If only my body worked properly, we could have a baby. I can’t imagine how disappointed he must feel. I know how bad I feel that I can’t give him something that he really wanted. The guilt of my body failing at a critical moment is adding to the grieving pain. Suffocating, inconsolable and crippling.
What ignites the anger is we think we finally figured it out. We finally got to a place where we had a decent shot at it, and then to be canceled before it had a chance. It’s such a blow I’m surprised I can breathe. Sometimes I can’t. Now, it all comes down to money and it’s killing me. Since our insurance doesn’t cover treatment, we are shit out of luck. Money offers you opportunity and freedom.
I think this will count as my “one big thing” today. This was hard to write and I’m sure will take it’s toll. Actually, it already has. I’m tired and I’m going to go try to use my learned techniques and try not to go all fetal. On the other hand, maybe not, since I can’t really be bothered.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
The Birth of Atheism
Monday morning at 10.20 a.m. the embryologist called to inform us the embryos didn't survive the thaw.
About 10.22 a.m. I became an atheist.
No, I don't want to talk.
We are taking off for a couple days.
Thanks for all your well wishes.
About 10.22 a.m. I became an atheist.
No, I don't want to talk.
We are taking off for a couple days.
Thanks for all your well wishes.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Aileen Quinn, Ke$ha, Foreigner and the Beach Boys, with special guest Marky Mark
Tomorrow, tomorrow, I...just kidding.
Tomorrow is transfer day. First big obstacle is our little Han Solos surviving the thaw. (~fighting the urge to sing Cold as Ice~) Then the big plunge. So here is the schedule.
Today:
Clean my house so I can chill in a tidy space.
Tomorrow:
Wake up in the morning feeling like P Diddy...sorry...let's try that again.
Today:
Clean my house so I can chill in a tidy space.
Tomorrow:
Wake.
Maybe try to get in to see the acupuncturist before my transfer.
Check in at RE's at 12.30 p.m.
Transfer at 1.00 p.m.
Go home and will the Han Duo to implant.
Tik Tok (I won't link again ;-) )
Two weeks later take a pregnancy test.
Will I pee on any sticks during that two week wait? Dunno. Depends on the time of day you catch me.
So here is where I ask for all well wishes, prayers, good vibes whatever you got! (~so wanting to break out in Good Vibrations both Beach Boys and Marky Mark style~ (I promise, I'll stop))
As always, I may post during the TWW but after the pregnancy test will be radio silence. Don't be offended, it's nothing personal...towards you anyway :-) .
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Telephone - featuring the Sheriff of Nottingham
Me: Hello?
Sheriff of Nottingham: Hello. Is this MWB?
Me: Yes.
SON: Hi. This is the Sheriff of Nottingham from your RE's office.
Me: Hello.
SON: I just wanted to let you know that you did WAY more ultrasounds than was allowed in our decree so you have to pay us for those.
Me: Oh. I see.
SON: Yes, by proclamation of the King, you owe us 15 cows, 50 goats, 100 chickens and your horse. Which is due tomorrow when you come in. OK?
Me: That's a lot.
SON: Well maybe you should call Robbin Hood, but I think he's busy robbing the rich to give to you folk. Guess he hasn't made his way to see you yet. Tell him I said "Hi" and I'm looking for him. Bye! *click*
Me: ~sigh~
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Randomness
OK. Since the last post, I've had a number of pithy yet remarkably enlightening thoughts that I wanted to blog but, alas, I have forgotten them. Trust me though, they were perfection.
The information: Started pills, stopped pills, started pills again, started Lupron, started Estrogen, waiting for ultrasound that might be delayed a day becuase I might have started my three times a day estrogen cycle a day late becuase I was a day behind on the calendar in my head.
Never watch Oprah when you are jacked up on hormone drugs. Trust me. It's a great big ol' ugly cry snotfest.
Advice for the one man who may be reading this, if your wife is hopped up on hormones, keep your shit right. Seriously, becuase if you make a mistake, baaaaaaaaaaby, she will unleash on you with all the power of all the hormonal women in history and THEN she'll cry. You'll have no recourse. Don't screw up. Trust me. It'll be easier for everyone involved.
Been a bad week for news. My uncle had a mild heart attack. He's doing fine will need some treatment, but he's ok.
My friend who I've known since the summer before third grade has to have brain surgery. Prognosis is good, but still. That sucks. I crocheted her a hat today. I'll make her a few more.
I forgot to schedule my Physical Therapy for Monday. Why the PT? I thought it would be a good idea to join a gym and the complimentary training session screwed my knee. Here I thought this would be a socially acceptable outlet for my Lupron induced rage. That'll teach me. I guess I should have continued to take it out on the other drivers.
Here are some pictures from my Acupuncture.
My cat got an owie on her nose which resulted in antibiotics and the cone of shame. We tried not to laugh becuase it really was sad, but it was also hilarious.
Well, that's all I got since I'm in a pissy, hormonal mood.
The information: Started pills, stopped pills, started pills again, started Lupron, started Estrogen, waiting for ultrasound that might be delayed a day becuase I might have started my three times a day estrogen cycle a day late becuase I was a day behind on the calendar in my head.
Never watch Oprah when you are jacked up on hormone drugs. Trust me. It's a great big ol' ugly cry snotfest.
Advice for the one man who may be reading this, if your wife is hopped up on hormones, keep your shit right. Seriously, becuase if you make a mistake, baaaaaaaaaaby, she will unleash on you with all the power of all the hormonal women in history and THEN she'll cry. You'll have no recourse. Don't screw up. Trust me. It'll be easier for everyone involved.
Been a bad week for news. My uncle had a mild heart attack. He's doing fine will need some treatment, but he's ok.
My friend who I've known since the summer before third grade has to have brain surgery. Prognosis is good, but still. That sucks. I crocheted her a hat today. I'll make her a few more.
I forgot to schedule my Physical Therapy for Monday. Why the PT? I thought it would be a good idea to join a gym and the complimentary training session screwed my knee. Here I thought this would be a socially acceptable outlet for my Lupron induced rage. That'll teach me. I guess I should have continued to take it out on the other drivers.
Here are some pictures from my Acupuncture.
My cat got an owie on her nose which resulted in antibiotics and the cone of shame. We tried not to laugh becuase it really was sad, but it was also hilarious.
Well, that's all I got since I'm in a pissy, hormonal mood.
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