Friday, October 1, 2010
Gone, but Not Forgotten!
Hi, all. Forgive me; I know I haven't posted here in ages. In the interest of full disclosure, I have another blog that is aimed at the infertility/loss community more than at family and friends, and I've been posting there, but have been downright lazypants about transferring over here the parts that would be of interest to you all. So I'm going to do some copying and pasting now, which will all go back into the past, because I think what I've written will make the most sense if I link it to the date when I wrote it. Stay tuned!
Lyrical Friday
My commute this morning took me a record 98 minutes in rainy, messy weather. With plenty of time at my disposal, I explored several listening options: NPR, audio book (Knives at Dawn, about the 2009 Bocuse d’Or cooking competition), and then music. I busted out the Indigo Girls’ Nomads Indians Saints, an awesome album and an underrated one, in my opinion. These lyrics jumped out at me from the end of the song “Hand Me Downs” and I wanted to share:
I am hoping precisely that. Sending all of you weekend love.
Give me hope, give me hope
That emptiness brings fullness
And loss of love brings wholeness
To us all
I am hoping precisely that. Sending all of you weekend love.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Good, but Not *That* Good
When I was two-and-a-half, I complained repeatedly that I had something in my eye. My folks, seeing nothing there, took me to the eye doctor, and it turned out that I needed glasses. Actually, at first they patched my stronger right eye in order to strengthen the weaker left one, *plus* gave me glasses. Yes, I was a child pirate.
When I was seventeen, I found a book on my psychology-major brother’s bookshelf, and within its pages read descriptions that reminded me of me. I took it in to my therapist (therapy was a required component of my training to be an adult New Yorker), and with her help, determined that some ways I had been feeling for years could be helped by anti-depressants.
Now I’m thirty-two, and I thought that maybe I had once again triumphed in self-diagnosis. Because, hey, if I got pregnant with Clomid (third cycle) and progesterone (first cycle), and Clomid can thin your lining, and I miscarried, and thin lining can lead to miscarriage, then maybe progesterone alone was the key to sustaining a pregnancy! Not so much. Or, at least, not the first time around. And in my impatient world, one cycle is decisive. Which is ridiculous, because if one cycle were enough to know anything about anything, then we would have stopped trying sometime early last winter. And that would have been utterly unreasonable.
So, while I may have been a toddler ophthalmologist and a teenage psychiatrist, I am not a thirty-something RE. Go figure. And, in fact, I’m thinking about going back to Clomid, in part because, well, I’m sort of afraid. Afraid that even everyone else who is struggling is going to get pregnant and leave me behind, snarky and barren, spending entire school years conjugating irregular verbs with middle-schoolers because I haven’t earned any maternity leave. Wow, that sounds bleak. I know it’s not a race, I know it, and yet…who wants to be last?
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Saying Goodbye
This is a poor-quality photo I took of a photo of my grandparents. I’m guessing it’s from their 60th wedding anniversary party, in 2003. They were quite a pair. We lost my grandmother, Granbea, in 2007, after a two-year bout with lung cancer, and now, depending on what you believe, they’re together again. At the very least, they’re buried next to each other. I don’t know what I believe, other than that I’m honored to have known them.
A lot has happened, and so, if you can forgive it, the bullet points:
- Papa’s memorial service was really lovely. My mom, aunt, dad, brother, and cousin gave variously touching and funny speeches about him.
- I said a few impromptu words about how there was a lot of lucky associated with my grandfather for me–that I felt lucky to have known him, that he gave me my mother and aunt, that he and my grandmother had each other, the way he would always pull us aside when we visited them or they us, to let us know how lucky we all were to be able to spend time together. And then I said it: how sad I was that N’s and my children would never meet Papa. Totally broke down on that one. A lot of it was the sadness and disappointment of not having gotten on that kid-bound road yet for keeps. My close family knew the whole of where my sorrow came from, while those not familiar with our story took the words more at face value–I hope that’s not wrong.
- There was some military fanfare at the burial, because Papa was in the Marines. They played taps, folded up the flag and presented it to my mom and aunt, and did a however-many gun salute. We’re not a big military family, and so this was really impressive to all of us! Papa would have been so proud.
- I got to meet a bunch of old friends of my grandparents’, and hear some great stories about my grandfather that I’d never heard before. Neat.
- Already-planned pre-Yom Kippur meal and post-Yom Kippur break-fast + what family friends brought over while we were sitting shiva = soooo much food. Jews know how to comfort, that’s for sure.
- I went to Yizkor, the Yom Kippur afternoon memorial service, with my mom. Another blogger helped remind me that this is a time to remember all those we have lost, and so I was glad to have the opportunity to give some special thoughts to the baby who was within me all too briefly.
- I went on an outlet-shopping extravaganza today, in hopes of stocking up on clothes for work, which I was sorely lacking. Those of you in my metropolitan area may be familiar with Woodbury Common, a behemoth of a…what do you even call it? A microuniverse? I did a decent job–and definitely got some good deals–but the battle is not yet over. Beautiful day, though; I caught some rays as I strolled from one store to another.
And now, bedtime, and the start of my first five-day work week at New Job. I’ll leave you with a sideways photo of some of Granbea and Papa’s silver, with which we set the table for Friday-night dinner (posting from my phone means I’m not sure how to rotate the photo).
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Sorry for the delay...
Written yesterday, editing and posting this morning:
I’m sorry it’s taken me so long. I meant to write yesterday, and then this morning, but I just never got around to it. We lost my grandfather yesterday afternoon. I’m so very glad that N, my brother, and I were able to go up and see him last weekend. My mother was also able to make it up on Sunday night, so it seems as though everyone got to say their goodbyes. Or, maybe more accurately, everyone got to say what they wanted Papa to be in the presence of their saying. I’m going up to Papatown tomorrow, the funeral is in the afternoon, and the family will be sitting shiva Friday and Sunday, Saturday being Yom Kippur. Silver lining? Well, I suppose there are a few. My grandfather was a great guy who loved and was loved by his family a lot, and lived a long life: he was 90 when he passed away. So what we’re looking at, while sad because it’s the end of an era, is really just an example of the cycle of life. I’m sad that he’ll never get to meet any great-grandchildren N and I would have provided. But it was his time. Really, though, the silver lining I was thinking of (yes, this is petty) is the fact that I will be missing Back to School Night tomorrow night, when parents come and sit in the teachers’ classrooms and we make presentations on our curriculum and expectations. Looking forward to not having to be at work until 8:30 PM, and therefore home at 9:30, and I always get nervous before meeting parents at a new school. So there’s that.
It’s Thursday now, and we’re on our way north. I send you all hugs and will have time to be in a little closer touch over the next few days.
I’m sorry it’s taken me so long. I meant to write yesterday, and then this morning, but I just never got around to it. We lost my grandfather yesterday afternoon. I’m so very glad that N, my brother, and I were able to go up and see him last weekend. My mother was also able to make it up on Sunday night, so it seems as though everyone got to say their goodbyes. Or, maybe more accurately, everyone got to say what they wanted Papa to be in the presence of their saying. I’m going up to Papatown tomorrow, the funeral is in the afternoon, and the family will be sitting shiva Friday and Sunday, Saturday being Yom Kippur. Silver lining? Well, I suppose there are a few. My grandfather was a great guy who loved and was loved by his family a lot, and lived a long life: he was 90 when he passed away. So what we’re looking at, while sad because it’s the end of an era, is really just an example of the cycle of life. I’m sad that he’ll never get to meet any great-grandchildren N and I would have provided. But it was his time. Really, though, the silver lining I was thinking of (yes, this is petty) is the fact that I will be missing Back to School Night tomorrow night, when parents come and sit in the teachers’ classrooms and we make presentations on our curriculum and expectations. Looking forward to not having to be at work until 8:30 PM, and therefore home at 9:30, and I always get nervous before meeting parents at a new school. So there’s that.
It’s Thursday now, and we’re on our way north. I send you all hugs and will have time to be in a little closer touch over the next few days.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Before my 4th-graders arrive...
…I only have a few minutes to write, but I’ll try and make this a quickie.
The weekend was really hard, as you may have gathered from my Saturday-morning post. Felt low, numb, overwhelmed, sad, had little appetite…the light had just kind of gone out. I was afraid that N was going to tire of me, because I was tired of being that way myself, and on the whole, so very tired. This is what happens when you don’t eat much. I told Doc Chinatown how I was feeling and started taking the little black balls of herbality he gave me as a result, and e-mailed Brit-therapist a couple times Saturday to let her know how I was feeling. I perked up somewhat on Friday and Saturday evenings (I decided this was because at night, it’s finally socially acceptable to feel as tired as I had been all day, and so I could stop fighting so hard to feel and seem right), but last night not so much. (4th-graders have come and gone; I continue writing, because I am required to be here until 4:20, even though I only teach until 3. Planning, shmanning; let’s blog!)
Yesterday, N and I went up north to have brunch with my brother and his family. I continued to feel mostly like a shell of myself. My brother knew I had been feeling crappy, and so he was understanding, but still. After we arrived, he told us that my grandfather, Papa, who lives farther north still, had taken another turn for the worse (this after a recent turn that meant he was staying mostly in the upstairs of his house with his caretakers and hospice nurses) and that our mom was on her way up to be with him. Initially, we had all planned to head up to Papatown, where my mom’s sister and her brood also live, for Yom Kippur, but suddenly it wasn’t even clear that Papa would last that long. And so after brunch yesterday, my brother, N, and I drove up to Papatown to see him. Papa was in bed, on a lot of drugs after the five seizures he’d had earlier in the day (five!), somewhere between knocked-out and asleep. We talked to him, told him we loved him and how lucky we were to have him as our grandfather, gave him a footrub as he was always cajoling us to when we were younger, and were sad to see him like that. A shorter version of the longer story is that Papa has a growth on his pancreas, but my mom and aunt decided not to put him through all that treatment would entail. He’s 90, and it just didn’t seem like a kind thing to do. So the focus now is on keeping him comfortable.
Anyway…I woke up this morning, and immediately knew that I felt better. Interestingly, my temperature had also finally gone back down lower than it’s been since I last ovulated. Prometrium, were you really fucking with me for a whole week after we parted ways? You sly bitch. I’m praying that I continue feeling like myself forevermore, because for most of these last few days, I’ve barely recognized myself, and that makes me so sad.
What melts my heart is the way N dealt with me and how I was feeling. I told him that I was afraid I would drive him away, which felt to shriveled-up version of me like a very real possibility. That my sorrow and un-funness would break that camel’s back and he would move on to greener pastures. Last night, after we left Papatown, as we were driving home from my brother's house, N said to me: “You know, I’ve been thinking about what you said, about worrying that I would leave you. People get sick, and their spouses take care of them. They don’t do it alone, but they pick up the slack. You’re sick right now; something’s wrong with Pumpkin, and we’re going to get it figured out.” Tears are welling up in my eyes as I type this. I finally got that I didn’t have to do this alone. I feel blessed beyond blessed. Did I mention that N has a master’s in social work? That doesn’t hurt either. Anyway, as we were talking, he suggested that maybe we should stop trying to conceive for now, stop stressing and measuring and timing and graphing and estimating and pill-popping. I said out loud for the first time that I’m not sure that a route to parenthood that involves pumping myself full of hormones is going to work for me. I just don’t know if I can handle it. If that makes me weak, then I’m weak. I think it just makes me me. It may be that other hormones will have different effects. It may be that going back to micronized progesterone, 100mg twice a day, will be better for my body and mind than Prometrium, 200mg once a day. Or it may be that it’s either going to be au naturel, a surrogate, or adoption. We have a lot to talk about and think about. And N seems on board to consider all options. Love that guy.
Okay, I’ll be let out of my pen soon. I’ll post this for now and maybe add something on that I dictate in the car. Thanks for reading; it’s good to be back.
The weekend was really hard, as you may have gathered from my Saturday-morning post. Felt low, numb, overwhelmed, sad, had little appetite…the light had just kind of gone out. I was afraid that N was going to tire of me, because I was tired of being that way myself, and on the whole, so very tired. This is what happens when you don’t eat much. I told Doc Chinatown how I was feeling and started taking the little black balls of herbality he gave me as a result, and e-mailed Brit-therapist a couple times Saturday to let her know how I was feeling. I perked up somewhat on Friday and Saturday evenings (I decided this was because at night, it’s finally socially acceptable to feel as tired as I had been all day, and so I could stop fighting so hard to feel and seem right), but last night not so much. (4th-graders have come and gone; I continue writing, because I am required to be here until 4:20, even though I only teach until 3. Planning, shmanning; let’s blog!)
Yesterday, N and I went up north to have brunch with my brother and his family. I continued to feel mostly like a shell of myself. My brother knew I had been feeling crappy, and so he was understanding, but still. After we arrived, he told us that my grandfather, Papa, who lives farther north still, had taken another turn for the worse (this after a recent turn that meant he was staying mostly in the upstairs of his house with his caretakers and hospice nurses) and that our mom was on her way up to be with him. Initially, we had all planned to head up to Papatown, where my mom’s sister and her brood also live, for Yom Kippur, but suddenly it wasn’t even clear that Papa would last that long. And so after brunch yesterday, my brother, N, and I drove up to Papatown to see him. Papa was in bed, on a lot of drugs after the five seizures he’d had earlier in the day (five!), somewhere between knocked-out and asleep. We talked to him, told him we loved him and how lucky we were to have him as our grandfather, gave him a footrub as he was always cajoling us to when we were younger, and were sad to see him like that. A shorter version of the longer story is that Papa has a growth on his pancreas, but my mom and aunt decided not to put him through all that treatment would entail. He’s 90, and it just didn’t seem like a kind thing to do. So the focus now is on keeping him comfortable.
Anyway…I woke up this morning, and immediately knew that I felt better. Interestingly, my temperature had also finally gone back down lower than it’s been since I last ovulated. Prometrium, were you really fucking with me for a whole week after we parted ways? You sly bitch. I’m praying that I continue feeling like myself forevermore, because for most of these last few days, I’ve barely recognized myself, and that makes me so sad.
What melts my heart is the way N dealt with me and how I was feeling. I told him that I was afraid I would drive him away, which felt to shriveled-up version of me like a very real possibility. That my sorrow and un-funness would break that camel’s back and he would move on to greener pastures. Last night, after we left Papatown, as we were driving home from my brother's house, N said to me: “You know, I’ve been thinking about what you said, about worrying that I would leave you. People get sick, and their spouses take care of them. They don’t do it alone, but they pick up the slack. You’re sick right now; something’s wrong with Pumpkin, and we’re going to get it figured out.” Tears are welling up in my eyes as I type this. I finally got that I didn’t have to do this alone. I feel blessed beyond blessed. Did I mention that N has a master’s in social work? That doesn’t hurt either. Anyway, as we were talking, he suggested that maybe we should stop trying to conceive for now, stop stressing and measuring and timing and graphing and estimating and pill-popping. I said out loud for the first time that I’m not sure that a route to parenthood that involves pumping myself full of hormones is going to work for me. I just don’t know if I can handle it. If that makes me weak, then I’m weak. I think it just makes me me. It may be that other hormones will have different effects. It may be that going back to micronized progesterone, 100mg twice a day, will be better for my body and mind than Prometrium, 200mg once a day. Or it may be that it’s either going to be au naturel, a surrogate, or adoption. We have a lot to talk about and think about. And N seems on board to consider all options. Love that guy.
Okay, I’ll be let out of my pen soon. I’ll post this for now and maybe add something on that I dictate in the car. Thanks for reading; it’s good to be back.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Saturday morning
I had a major baby dream last night. I guess I had been just a little pregnant–-not very far along-–and right after someone else had had a baby (maybe my cousin?), I suddenly popped out twins. It was somehow a relevant part of the dream that I had a fairly flat tummy just after giving birth, because it had been such a short pregnancy and my belly had never gotten big.
I started to dictate a post on the way home from school yesterday, but the text got erased. Grr, guess I need some practice. But here’s what I was going to say: teaching-wise, yesterday went pretty well. It was an effort to keep my eyes open during my drive to school, which was terrifying. My commute feels like this great big empty, and I don’t know what to do with it. And mornings on the whole are really tough: I just feel really lonely. From the time I wake up at 6:15 until homeroom at 8:25, I’m by myself. I’m sure this is true for lots of you, and maybe it doesn’t bother you, or you even like it, but I’m a sensitive one where loneliness is concerned.
So on the whole, mornings are feeling tougher than evenings. Yesterday afternoon and evening, I felt pretty fully functional, we had dinner chez some friends (how do you punctuate this? some friends’ house?) and I made dessert. This morning, I feel much lower, and there’s no commute ahead of me. More dread. More stirred-up digestive processes (is that euphemistic enough?). I might go back to sleep (around 9:20am here), but then I might just have to deal with the waking-up angst again later. Sigh.
I started to dictate a post on the way home from school yesterday, but the text got erased. Grr, guess I need some practice. But here’s what I was going to say: teaching-wise, yesterday went pretty well. It was an effort to keep my eyes open during my drive to school, which was terrifying. My commute feels like this great big empty, and I don’t know what to do with it. And mornings on the whole are really tough: I just feel really lonely. From the time I wake up at 6:15 until homeroom at 8:25, I’m by myself. I’m sure this is true for lots of you, and maybe it doesn’t bother you, or you even like it, but I’m a sensitive one where loneliness is concerned.
So on the whole, mornings are feeling tougher than evenings. Yesterday afternoon and evening, I felt pretty fully functional, we had dinner chez some friends (how do you punctuate this? some friends’ house?) and I made dessert. This morning, I feel much lower, and there’s no commute ahead of me. More dread. More stirred-up digestive processes (is that euphemistic enough?). I might go back to sleep (around 9:20am here), but then I might just have to deal with the waking-up angst again later. Sigh.
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