Hey Humble Readers...
I fully intended a different post for today, but something has pre-empted it.
I had a horrible nightmare last night. This morning actually, as I was woken from it by my alarm. I will say, when I told my Beloved about it, his initial response was to chuckle a bit.
You see, in the nightmare I was pregnant.
In the dream, I had just found out I was pregnant, and I was distraught. Beyond all the practical concerns (like the fact that the hobbit-hole is just too small and we're stuck here for the next couple of years, and that we have been systematically getting rid of all our baby stuff as Pip has outgrown it), I was terrified because I wasn't sure I could face another pregnancy and delivery. In the dream, I was racing to the doctor's office (which oddly was in the mall), praying that I wasn't really pregnant, and then at the same time battling guilt over not wanting another baby, and fearing that my not wanting the pregnancy would cause me to miscarry.
I know that there are many women who deal with so much more than I had to during pregnancy. But with the constant fear that dogged me, particularly during my pregnancy with Pip (inconclusive test results, fear of miscarriage, etc) and my health concerns (gestational diabetes, blood pressure issues, placenta previa), I am 100% happy with the assurance that I won't ever be pregnant again. Not to mention, the fact that I never ever want to experience a delivery like the one I had with Pip... the C-section from hell with little to no anesthetic.
I tried to shake off the fear and the anxiety that the dream elicited, but it took until my third lap of the neighbourhood on my walk before I felt the tightness in my throat ease and my anxiety start to let up. At one point, when I was passing the hospital (on the far end of my lap of the neighbourhood) I actually almost started to cry, just because I couldn't imagine having to make myself go back in there to have a baby.
I have a pretty good idea where the dream came from (not that it's been my first pregnancy dream since Pip was born). Call it the perfect storm of baby-ness.
When I transferred all of my clothes from my old dresser to the new last week, I came across a couple of old hpts. I thought I had gotten rid of all of them, but there at the back of my bottom drawer was a Ziploc bag with a couple from my pregnancy with Ginny. It was just a little jarring, because they triggered so many memories of how I felt when I first got the positives with my wee sweet girl, as well as how hard it was for me to throw away the positive tests I got from Emily and Olivia (our lost ones... those tests had been the only tangible link I had to the reality of their existence).
Also, two years ago tomorrow, we found out that Pip was on the way. We were thrilled, even though I was intensely anxious about how to handle a pregnancy and a 16 month old. I had no idea how that anxiety would increase over the coming months. My current cycle has followed that particular cycle almost exactly (was ovulating on my Beloved's birthday, just like I was two years ago), and the coincidence has been niggling at the back of my mind the last few days.
And lastly, tomorrow is also noteworthy because five years ago I was 11 weeks pregnant, and I woke up spotting. It was supposed to be my first day back at work after a week off. Instead, it was the day that I stopped trusting my body. Our Emily Hope would be four now.
I think all of these things, piled up together, contributed to the dream. But no matter what, it was a scary dream that I want to fade into oblivion.
AF is due by the end of the week, if not before, and honestly I've never been so ready for her to get here. The legacy of IF is a bitch...
Showing posts with label IF. Show all posts
Showing posts with label IF. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Monday, August 26, 2013
The Dirty Word: A Hobbit-ish Paradigm Shift
Hey Humble Readers...
Feminism was never on my radar. The idea of being a feminist, someone who burned their bra and participated in protests, and screamed about women's rights wasn't someone I wanted to be. Not intentionally, but through learned behaviour.
"Feminist" was as bad as the other "f-word" in my bio-family when I was growing up. Not that it was ever stated outright. Implications, unspoken lessons, and unwritten rules shaped who I was as a girl and young woman.
My bio-dad would make drunken comments about that 'femi-nazi' at the bank, the liquor store, or the post office who didn't serve him in the manner he felt he deserved. From my bio-mom I learned that women who spoke up or spoke out didn't get love, because the love of a man, any man, was better than being alone. Women were supposed to be sweet and agreeable, and never push too hard for what they needed because the man's needs were more important, and women get their worth from the man who loves them. From my bio-grandma, I learned that women are the caretakers, the cleaning ladies, and the child-bearers... and as such women didn't have the authority to speak up for their own well-being and safety, and that a woman wasn't equipped intellectually or spiritually to be able to teach boys over the age of 12 at church (seriously, she practically disowned me when I told her I wanted to go into youth ministry). Even the pastor who performed my confirmation tried to steer me into a 'more appropriate' career path, to be a Lutheran deaconess (ministry professional) rather than youth ministry, where I felt called.
My other family, the family of my heart, was much more vocal about rights, although they certainly aren't anything close to activists. There the anti-feminist message was more subtle. Mom would always look to the douchewaffle (formerly known as Dad) for the final word on a given situation. Not that I see that as a bad thing in and of itself... in any family there sometimes has to be someone to make the final judgement call. But given how things have played out in their relationship, I do see it as a power play that left my Mom in a vulnerable spot. Mom has always been a strong lady. I think she downplayed her own abilities to make the douchewaffle feel better about himself, and she did it so often that she started to believe it herself. As an aside, the douchewaffle actually said to me once when I was in my late teens or early twenties, when we were discussing donating blood, that women technically could donate more often because they 'get rid of their bad blood every month', of course implying that menstruation is somehow dirty and the blood from our uteruses is tainted (rather than just unneeded).
Throughout my college career, I was surrounded by strong women and men who taught me that spiritual giftings know no gender. That women and men are equal in the eyes of God. I was encouraged, challenged, and grew to understand that as a woman, a woman of faith, I had a role to play. In my church, in my family, in my world.
But still, I wouldn't ever have considered myself a feminist. That was still some kind of dirty word.
I have been blessed with a wonderful husband, who genuinely supports me in anything I do or want to do. He doesn't see value based on gender, but in the actions and accomplishments of the individual. He has never treated me as anything but an equal and a partner in all our endeavours as a couple and a family.
It wasn't until I was deep in the trenches with my battle with IF/RPL that I began to sense a change in my attitude toward feminism.
Part of it came from what I started to learn about reproductive rights, and what was going on south of the border. In Canadian politics, reproductive rights are not talked about all that often. The abortion issue was decided in 1988 when "the Supreme Court of Canada struck down the abortion regulation which allowed abortions in some circumstances but required approval of a committee of doctors for violating a woman's constitutional "security of person"" (Wikipedia). Since then, the issue is strictly avoided by Parliament, most of the time, and when it does rear its ugly head, it tends to get kicked to the curb pretty quickly. This doesn't mean, however, that there is availability or access everywhere across the country (there is no access to abortion in Prince Edward Island, and in New Brunswick it isn't covered under the provincial medical program). Assisted reproductive therapy is a different story though. The legalities are still a bit on the fuzzy side. Cloning is, of course, verboten. And it is illegal to sell gametes (sperm, eggs), but they can be donated. Surrogacy is complicated by both federal and provincial legislations, which don't always agree. Coverage of fertility treatments by provincial health care also varies across the country.
Part of my feminist awareness arose from a statement that I read on Mel's blog several years ago now, that opened my eyes in a way I never expected. She said that if we want to fight for reproductive rights as they pertain to assisted reproductive therapies, we MUST ALSO support a woman's right to choose. They are part and parcel. You can't have one without the other. I had to really think on that for a long time before I could say that I agreed. Would I ever get an abortion? No. Would I suggest it to someone? Not likely. Would I counsel someone against it? Probably. But I cannot, in good conscience, say that it is wrong for a woman to be able to determine what happens with her body. No one has that right, except the woman in question.
But the tipping point for me, when I felt that I had to change how I thought about feminism, was when we finally had children. And not just because we have a daughter, but also for our son.
I want them both to grow up in a world where their gender does not define their abilities, their opportunities, or their limitations. I want Ginny to be able to do and be whoever and whatever she wants to be. I don't want her to ever think of herself as less or more, simply because she has 'indoor plumbing'. And in the same way, I don't ever want Pippin to think of himself as fundamentally better or worse than someone by virtue of his genitalia.
I recently read an article about men's rights organizations (advocate for fair custodial settlements and for those who are falsely accused of sexual assault), about how their demographics are changing. No longer are their ranks made up mainly of fathers who just want equal opportunity to raise their children, but angry young men (primarily 18-25 year olds) who generally use threats of violence, usually of a sexual nature, against women who speak out for gender equality and equity. The article scared me a bit. I don't want my son to grow up thinking that feminists are all vitriolic man-haters, and I don't want my daughter to grow up thinking that all men are out to push women down and prone to violence. I have never liked generalizations like that.
I will teach my wee-lings that gender does not limit or solely define who we are. That we all have the right to determine what happens to our bodies. That marriage is a partnership between equals, not a battle to be won (don't get me started on all those engagement photos on Pinterest that imply 'the hunt is over', etc).
For better or for worse, this hobbit is a feminist.
Feminism was never on my radar. The idea of being a feminist, someone who burned their bra and participated in protests, and screamed about women's rights wasn't someone I wanted to be. Not intentionally, but through learned behaviour.
"Feminist" was as bad as the other "f-word" in my bio-family when I was growing up. Not that it was ever stated outright. Implications, unspoken lessons, and unwritten rules shaped who I was as a girl and young woman.
My bio-dad would make drunken comments about that 'femi-nazi' at the bank, the liquor store, or the post office who didn't serve him in the manner he felt he deserved. From my bio-mom I learned that women who spoke up or spoke out didn't get love, because the love of a man, any man, was better than being alone. Women were supposed to be sweet and agreeable, and never push too hard for what they needed because the man's needs were more important, and women get their worth from the man who loves them. From my bio-grandma, I learned that women are the caretakers, the cleaning ladies, and the child-bearers... and as such women didn't have the authority to speak up for their own well-being and safety, and that a woman wasn't equipped intellectually or spiritually to be able to teach boys over the age of 12 at church (seriously, she practically disowned me when I told her I wanted to go into youth ministry). Even the pastor who performed my confirmation tried to steer me into a 'more appropriate' career path, to be a Lutheran deaconess (ministry professional) rather than youth ministry, where I felt called.
My other family, the family of my heart, was much more vocal about rights, although they certainly aren't anything close to activists. There the anti-feminist message was more subtle. Mom would always look to the douchewaffle (formerly known as Dad) for the final word on a given situation. Not that I see that as a bad thing in and of itself... in any family there sometimes has to be someone to make the final judgement call. But given how things have played out in their relationship, I do see it as a power play that left my Mom in a vulnerable spot. Mom has always been a strong lady. I think she downplayed her own abilities to make the douchewaffle feel better about himself, and she did it so often that she started to believe it herself. As an aside, the douchewaffle actually said to me once when I was in my late teens or early twenties, when we were discussing donating blood, that women technically could donate more often because they 'get rid of their bad blood every month', of course implying that menstruation is somehow dirty and the blood from our uteruses is tainted (rather than just unneeded).
Throughout my college career, I was surrounded by strong women and men who taught me that spiritual giftings know no gender. That women and men are equal in the eyes of God. I was encouraged, challenged, and grew to understand that as a woman, a woman of faith, I had a role to play. In my church, in my family, in my world.
But still, I wouldn't ever have considered myself a feminist. That was still some kind of dirty word.
I have been blessed with a wonderful husband, who genuinely supports me in anything I do or want to do. He doesn't see value based on gender, but in the actions and accomplishments of the individual. He has never treated me as anything but an equal and a partner in all our endeavours as a couple and a family.
It wasn't until I was deep in the trenches with my battle with IF/RPL that I began to sense a change in my attitude toward feminism.
Part of it came from what I started to learn about reproductive rights, and what was going on south of the border. In Canadian politics, reproductive rights are not talked about all that often. The abortion issue was decided in 1988 when "the Supreme Court of Canada struck down the abortion regulation which allowed abortions in some circumstances but required approval of a committee of doctors for violating a woman's constitutional "security of person"" (Wikipedia). Since then, the issue is strictly avoided by Parliament, most of the time, and when it does rear its ugly head, it tends to get kicked to the curb pretty quickly. This doesn't mean, however, that there is availability or access everywhere across the country (there is no access to abortion in Prince Edward Island, and in New Brunswick it isn't covered under the provincial medical program). Assisted reproductive therapy is a different story though. The legalities are still a bit on the fuzzy side. Cloning is, of course, verboten. And it is illegal to sell gametes (sperm, eggs), but they can be donated. Surrogacy is complicated by both federal and provincial legislations, which don't always agree. Coverage of fertility treatments by provincial health care also varies across the country.
Part of my feminist awareness arose from a statement that I read on Mel's blog several years ago now, that opened my eyes in a way I never expected. She said that if we want to fight for reproductive rights as they pertain to assisted reproductive therapies, we MUST ALSO support a woman's right to choose. They are part and parcel. You can't have one without the other. I had to really think on that for a long time before I could say that I agreed. Would I ever get an abortion? No. Would I suggest it to someone? Not likely. Would I counsel someone against it? Probably. But I cannot, in good conscience, say that it is wrong for a woman to be able to determine what happens with her body. No one has that right, except the woman in question.
But the tipping point for me, when I felt that I had to change how I thought about feminism, was when we finally had children. And not just because we have a daughter, but also for our son.
I want them both to grow up in a world where their gender does not define their abilities, their opportunities, or their limitations. I want Ginny to be able to do and be whoever and whatever she wants to be. I don't want her to ever think of herself as less or more, simply because she has 'indoor plumbing'. And in the same way, I don't ever want Pippin to think of himself as fundamentally better or worse than someone by virtue of his genitalia.
I recently read an article about men's rights organizations (advocate for fair custodial settlements and for those who are falsely accused of sexual assault), about how their demographics are changing. No longer are their ranks made up mainly of fathers who just want equal opportunity to raise their children, but angry young men (primarily 18-25 year olds) who generally use threats of violence, usually of a sexual nature, against women who speak out for gender equality and equity. The article scared me a bit. I don't want my son to grow up thinking that feminists are all vitriolic man-haters, and I don't want my daughter to grow up thinking that all men are out to push women down and prone to violence. I have never liked generalizations like that.
I will teach my wee-lings that gender does not limit or solely define who we are. That we all have the right to determine what happens to our bodies. That marriage is a partnership between equals, not a battle to be won (don't get me started on all those engagement photos on Pinterest that imply 'the hunt is over', etc).
For better or for worse, this hobbit is a feminist.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
A Legacy
Greetings Humble Readers...
1leg·a·cy
noun \ˈle-gə-sē\
I mentioned in yesterday's post that I had recently been getting rid of my maternity clothes and some baby things. My closet was getting ridiculous again, and as we are most certainly not going to have any more wee-lings (my Beloved goes for his snip-snip next week Friday), it was time to move on.
And yet, it was hard. From January 8th, 2008 (the day I took my last bcp... some dates really do stick) until May 10th of this year, it has at times felt like every breath I've taken was somehow connected to building our family. And now I'm getting rid of things that I longed so desperately to need. Pippin is outgrowing so many things so fast... the bassinet, the baby bathtub, the cradle and his too cute little track suit. There won't be another wee-ling to need these things, and I'm 100% okay with that.
But it's still hard on my heart to get rid of them.
The finality of where we are right now on this journey has me thinking about a lot of things.
About my place in the IF community, about my role as cheerleader for those still in the trenches and as another voice to the world at large about what IF really is. I may not have the communication skills of someone like Mel or Keiko, but I can share my experiences and what I've learned from my fellow IFers. I can help my family and friends understand that IF is not only a physiological issue, but also a deeply emotional one. I can help them understand terminology, procedures, and the realities of outcomes (as opposed to the sensationalized stories in the media). And I want to be completely honest about our losses, be transparent about our journey. I want to help remove the taboo and shame associated with miscarriage and IF.
But perhaps, most important of all, I will educate my children.
I will teach both of them, Ginevra and Pippin, about the realities of fertility. I will encourage them to follow their dreams, and to seek out amazing experiences, but I will also teach them that the human reproductive system has limitations. And that they can and should take their time to be sure of themselves and their life partners. But I will also be honest and teach them that there will come an end date to attempting to have biological children.
Sure, sometime in the future, medical science may come up with better and more effective forms of ART, but I want them to understand their bodies and how they really work. I'm not going to leave it to the "if you have sex, you'll get pregnant" health classes in junior high to give them their only understanding of their reproductive systems. I'm going to teach Ginny to pay attention to her body, to learn to recognize her cycles and what they mean. I don't want Ginny's birthright to be being blindsided by her own body when she is trying to build her family.
And, I'm sure sooner rather than later, I'll tell them about Emily and Olivia... about the two babies we never got to hold, but loved so deeply. I'll tell Ginny about the dream I had about her, my beautiful dark haired blue-eyed dream baby in a pink dress, while I was still pregnant with Olivia. I will tell Pip about the role his daddy had in holding me together when I thought I was going to break into a thousand pieces.
This will be my IF legacy. This will be Emily and Olivia's legacy.
1leg·a·cy
noun \ˈle-gə-sē\
pluralleg·a·cies
Definition of LEGACY
1: a gift by will especially of money or other personal property
2: something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor or from the past
definition courtesy of miriam-webster.com
I mentioned in yesterday's post that I had recently been getting rid of my maternity clothes and some baby things. My closet was getting ridiculous again, and as we are most certainly not going to have any more wee-lings (my Beloved goes for his snip-snip next week Friday), it was time to move on.
And yet, it was hard. From January 8th, 2008 (the day I took my last bcp... some dates really do stick) until May 10th of this year, it has at times felt like every breath I've taken was somehow connected to building our family. And now I'm getting rid of things that I longed so desperately to need. Pippin is outgrowing so many things so fast... the bassinet, the baby bathtub, the cradle and his too cute little track suit. There won't be another wee-ling to need these things, and I'm 100% okay with that.
But it's still hard on my heart to get rid of them.
The finality of where we are right now on this journey has me thinking about a lot of things.
About my place in the IF community, about my role as cheerleader for those still in the trenches and as another voice to the world at large about what IF really is. I may not have the communication skills of someone like Mel or Keiko, but I can share my experiences and what I've learned from my fellow IFers. I can help my family and friends understand that IF is not only a physiological issue, but also a deeply emotional one. I can help them understand terminology, procedures, and the realities of outcomes (as opposed to the sensationalized stories in the media). And I want to be completely honest about our losses, be transparent about our journey. I want to help remove the taboo and shame associated with miscarriage and IF.
But perhaps, most important of all, I will educate my children.
I will teach both of them, Ginevra and Pippin, about the realities of fertility. I will encourage them to follow their dreams, and to seek out amazing experiences, but I will also teach them that the human reproductive system has limitations. And that they can and should take their time to be sure of themselves and their life partners. But I will also be honest and teach them that there will come an end date to attempting to have biological children.
Sure, sometime in the future, medical science may come up with better and more effective forms of ART, but I want them to understand their bodies and how they really work. I'm not going to leave it to the "if you have sex, you'll get pregnant" health classes in junior high to give them their only understanding of their reproductive systems. I'm going to teach Ginny to pay attention to her body, to learn to recognize her cycles and what they mean. I don't want Ginny's birthright to be being blindsided by her own body when she is trying to build her family.
And, I'm sure sooner rather than later, I'll tell them about Emily and Olivia... about the two babies we never got to hold, but loved so deeply. I'll tell Ginny about the dream I had about her, my beautiful dark haired blue-eyed dream baby in a pink dress, while I was still pregnant with Olivia. I will tell Pip about the role his daddy had in holding me together when I thought I was going to break into a thousand pieces.
This will be my IF legacy. This will be Emily and Olivia's legacy.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Bloggity Summer Camp: A Sackful of Ass-vice
Hey Humble Readers...
So I'm waaaaaay late tonight... I'm sorry. I was out "crafting" (read: shooting the breeze and drinking iced coffee with friends) and just got home a little while ago. I didn't actually do any crafting, but that's okay. After a day like today, I needed a break from my precious wee girl.
I know that teething doesn't really get any better until it's over, but certainly once these first couple of teeth break through, it must ease a little... mustn't it? (Lie to me, please) It's affecting her appetite and her sleep patterns. She napped a grand total of about 25 minutes today, and the rest of the time was either screaming or getting into things she shouldn't. It was a very long day.
Anyway, over at Bloggity Summer Camp, Calliope from Creating Motherhood has asked us, "What is/are the best piece(s) of advice you’ve gotten or can give others? Do you consider yourself a blogger that people would take advice from? Why or why not?"
The best piece of advice? I could certainly tell you about a lot of terrible advice I received from well-meaning folks while we were trying to conceive and dealing with our losses. From my loving mother telling me to stand on my head after sex to those who told me that it was for the best that my first two angel babies never made it... sooooo much garbage. But the best?
I would have to say it was a bit of pregnancy advice. I don't even recall who told me this, but watermelon really does help with morning sickness.
Am I a blogger that people would take advice from? I don't really think so, but maybe. I don't know what I could really offer advice on, except perhaps book or recipe recommendations. I would like to think that maybe somewhere along the way I've offered some little piece of info that someone has found helpful.
So I'm waaaaaay late tonight... I'm sorry. I was out "crafting" (read: shooting the breeze and drinking iced coffee with friends) and just got home a little while ago. I didn't actually do any crafting, but that's okay. After a day like today, I needed a break from my precious wee girl.
I know that teething doesn't really get any better until it's over, but certainly once these first couple of teeth break through, it must ease a little... mustn't it? (Lie to me, please) It's affecting her appetite and her sleep patterns. She napped a grand total of about 25 minutes today, and the rest of the time was either screaming or getting into things she shouldn't. It was a very long day.
Anyway, over at Bloggity Summer Camp, Calliope from Creating Motherhood has asked us, "What is/are the best piece(s) of advice you’ve gotten or can give others? Do you consider yourself a blogger that people would take advice from? Why or why not?"
The best piece of advice? I could certainly tell you about a lot of terrible advice I received from well-meaning folks while we were trying to conceive and dealing with our losses. From my loving mother telling me to stand on my head after sex to those who told me that it was for the best that my first two angel babies never made it... sooooo much garbage. But the best?
I would have to say it was a bit of pregnancy advice. I don't even recall who told me this, but watermelon really does help with morning sickness.
Am I a blogger that people would take advice from? I don't really think so, but maybe. I don't know what I could really offer advice on, except perhaps book or recipe recommendations. I would like to think that maybe somewhere along the way I've offered some little piece of info that someone has found helpful.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Life On The Other Side: Healing, Grief, & Friendship
Howdy Humble Readers...
***Warning... for those of my humble readers who read my blog to keep up with Beloved, Ginny and me in our day to day life, and who don't want to know about certain, ahem, parts of my life, you might want to skip this post. Just so ya know...***
I've been thinking about this post a lot over the last few weeks. Yes, this the the 'I'm-a-mom-now-am-I-still-an-IFer/RPLer?" post.
And I have known the answer for quite some time. It's a resounding 'YES'.
I have been blessed with a beautiful baby girl, and while her presence has gone a long way to heal certain hurts in my heart, there are places that I could never expect her to fill.
The baggage is still here, just a little bit lighter.
IF/RPL will always be a part of who I am. It's with me every time I wake up from one of those ridiculous nightmares, or when I stand over Ginevra's cradle watching her chest rise and fall. It's a part of why I'm dealing with anxiety in relation to our sex life... the idea that we could get pregnant again right away is not totally undesirable, but it is still shit-scary nonetheless. (It's the whole not knowing if/when I'll be ovulating and all that's stressing me out, among other things)
Thoughts of my identity as a mother and an IFer have been brought to the forefront even more so recently, as I have had a good friend go through the agony of a miscarriage (her second loss). Understanding the pain, physical and emotional, that she is dealing with is one thing, but knowing how to provide support for her from this side of the delivery room is another. How do I have the right to voice my care for her and my understanding, when I have just given birth? (And how self-centered is that? Worrying about me, when she's the one dealing with a loss... ugh! Sometimes I disgust myself.) My heart broke for her when I got her email after the ultrasound that showed an empty sac, and I remember how I felt about people with babies when I was going through it, and I didn't want to push in.
When we lost our angel babies, I was angry with people in my life who avoided me or the subject of our losses. But knowing what to say is a hard thing... harder than I expected.
*sigh* Nothing in this life is ever easy, tho, is it?
On a slightly different note, next week marks the second anniversary of our loss of Olivia Noelle. I miss her. I miss who she might have been. But it doesn't hurt quite as much as it did. It's amazing how so much grief and love can exist in a heart at the same time.
***Warning... for those of my humble readers who read my blog to keep up with Beloved, Ginny and me in our day to day life, and who don't want to know about certain, ahem, parts of my life, you might want to skip this post. Just so ya know...***
I've been thinking about this post a lot over the last few weeks. Yes, this the the 'I'm-a-mom-now-am-I-still-an-IFer/RPLer?" post.
And I have known the answer for quite some time. It's a resounding 'YES'.
I have been blessed with a beautiful baby girl, and while her presence has gone a long way to heal certain hurts in my heart, there are places that I could never expect her to fill.
The baggage is still here, just a little bit lighter.
IF/RPL will always be a part of who I am. It's with me every time I wake up from one of those ridiculous nightmares, or when I stand over Ginevra's cradle watching her chest rise and fall. It's a part of why I'm dealing with anxiety in relation to our sex life... the idea that we could get pregnant again right away is not totally undesirable, but it is still shit-scary nonetheless. (It's the whole not knowing if/when I'll be ovulating and all that's stressing me out, among other things)
Thoughts of my identity as a mother and an IFer have been brought to the forefront even more so recently, as I have had a good friend go through the agony of a miscarriage (her second loss). Understanding the pain, physical and emotional, that she is dealing with is one thing, but knowing how to provide support for her from this side of the delivery room is another. How do I have the right to voice my care for her and my understanding, when I have just given birth? (And how self-centered is that? Worrying about me, when she's the one dealing with a loss... ugh! Sometimes I disgust myself.) My heart broke for her when I got her email after the ultrasound that showed an empty sac, and I remember how I felt about people with babies when I was going through it, and I didn't want to push in.
When we lost our angel babies, I was angry with people in my life who avoided me or the subject of our losses. But knowing what to say is a hard thing... harder than I expected.
*sigh* Nothing in this life is ever easy, tho, is it?
On a slightly different note, next week marks the second anniversary of our loss of Olivia Noelle. I miss her. I miss who she might have been. But it doesn't hurt quite as much as it did. It's amazing how so much grief and love can exist in a heart at the same time.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Processing...
Greetings Humble Readers...
I'm in a bit of a quandary. It's not anything I need to make a decision about. It's not anything that is going to change the course of my life. I'm just trying to figure out how I feel.
Here's the situation: You remember the wedding that we went to last weekend? My Beloved's nephew? He and his new bride have been a couple for a lot longer than my Beloved and I (they were highschool sweethearts), have lived together for the last couple of years (since she got her degree), and they are now in their mid-twenties. The weekend before the wedding, we found out that they are expecting.
My Beloved found out at a small family gathering. She's due around the end of March. Of course, they weren't really trying, they were just 'winging it'.
I'm hoping that no one judges me for what I'm about to say, but I really need to say it. I'm happy for them, but I'm a bit... irked? saddened? (dare I say) angry?
I believe I have mentioned before, my Beloved is the youngest in his family... by a lot. His next oldest sibling is 9 years older than him, and there are four older siblings. His oldest brother is just a couple years younger than my mom. The youngest of grandkids is 16 right now.
I have always known that our child(ren... hopefully) will be more like great-grandkids, and that they will be closer with their second cousins than their first cousins. And I knew that it was bound to happen sooner rather than later, but I guess I was naive enough to hope that it might not happen so soon.
All day at the wedding, I found myself watching her... in my head there was a bitchy voice critiquing and judging. (OMG... did she just light a cigarette? How much wine has she had?)
I don't know if this is just plain bold-faced jealousy... or if this is an IF emotional response. Maybe it's just the pregnancy hormones. Maybe I'm feeling that our baby won't be as special. (my gawd, did I just write that?)
How can I be genuinely happy for them when I have all this baggage? And I honestly do want to be happy for them.
I feel like such a schmuck.
I'm in a bit of a quandary. It's not anything I need to make a decision about. It's not anything that is going to change the course of my life. I'm just trying to figure out how I feel.
Here's the situation: You remember the wedding that we went to last weekend? My Beloved's nephew? He and his new bride have been a couple for a lot longer than my Beloved and I (they were highschool sweethearts), have lived together for the last couple of years (since she got her degree), and they are now in their mid-twenties. The weekend before the wedding, we found out that they are expecting.
My Beloved found out at a small family gathering. She's due around the end of March. Of course, they weren't really trying, they were just 'winging it'.
I'm hoping that no one judges me for what I'm about to say, but I really need to say it. I'm happy for them, but I'm a bit... irked? saddened? (dare I say) angry?
I believe I have mentioned before, my Beloved is the youngest in his family... by a lot. His next oldest sibling is 9 years older than him, and there are four older siblings. His oldest brother is just a couple years younger than my mom. The youngest of grandkids is 16 right now.
I have always known that our child(ren... hopefully) will be more like great-grandkids, and that they will be closer with their second cousins than their first cousins. And I knew that it was bound to happen sooner rather than later, but I guess I was naive enough to hope that it might not happen so soon.
All day at the wedding, I found myself watching her... in my head there was a bitchy voice critiquing and judging. (OMG... did she just light a cigarette? How much wine has she had?)
I don't know if this is just plain bold-faced jealousy... or if this is an IF emotional response. Maybe it's just the pregnancy hormones. Maybe I'm feeling that our baby won't be as special. (my gawd, did I just write that?)
How can I be genuinely happy for them when I have all this baggage? And I honestly do want to be happy for them.
I feel like such a schmuck.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Confessions of a Bored Infertile
Good Evening Humble Readers... I hope this post makes sense, as I am very tired at the moment.
** Usual disclaimer ** If you are a reader who knows me irl, and have no interest in hearing about my 'plumbing', you might want to skip this post.
I'm feeling a little like Ross on Friends... I have to keep reminding myself that we are 'on a break'. I know that it is highly, HIGHLY unlikely that I'm going to need to even consider testing this cycle. Or next cycle. I mean we are using condoms after all... geez!
And yet, here we are... 12 dpo and I'm still fixated on the mild heartburn I had yesterday and of course the sore boobs. Ridiculous! I KNOW that AF is going to show up tomorrow. So, why can't I just let this obsession go?
In an attempt to distract myself from the "am I?" question running around my brain, I have spent some time pondering my ovulation charts. I've noticed something that I'm wondering about.
Throughout the winter and spring, each cycle I generally had 5-6 days of the good cm. In fact, there were a few cycles that I thought I was going to ovulate earlier than normal because I had early ewcm. The last few months I have had very scant cm... barely 4 days, and not in the amounts I have gotten accustomed to.
So, I'm wondering if this is a result of the testing I've had in recent months. The hysteroscopy, the HSG, etc. Or could it be because it's summer... it's hot, and I have not been as good about drinking my water as I should have? Because I was pregnant at this point last summer, I don't have any charts to compare.
Anyone have any thoughts?
Another thing that has been niggling in the back of my brain... my luteal phase. I know that it's not supposed to change all that much from cycle to cycle, but mine has continuously gotten longer. I have had 11, 12, 12.5, and now almost 13 day LP. I know that longer is better, and I think it might be a result of the vitamin B I've been taking for quite a while.
Again, I ask, any thoughts?
Ok... I think that's it for now. I'm falling asleep as I type.
** Usual disclaimer ** If you are a reader who knows me irl, and have no interest in hearing about my 'plumbing', you might want to skip this post.
I'm feeling a little like Ross on Friends... I have to keep reminding myself that we are 'on a break'. I know that it is highly, HIGHLY unlikely that I'm going to need to even consider testing this cycle. Or next cycle. I mean we are using condoms after all... geez!
And yet, here we are... 12 dpo and I'm still fixated on the mild heartburn I had yesterday and of course the sore boobs. Ridiculous! I KNOW that AF is going to show up tomorrow. So, why can't I just let this obsession go?
In an attempt to distract myself from the "am I?" question running around my brain, I have spent some time pondering my ovulation charts. I've noticed something that I'm wondering about.
Throughout the winter and spring, each cycle I generally had 5-6 days of the good cm. In fact, there were a few cycles that I thought I was going to ovulate earlier than normal because I had early ewcm. The last few months I have had very scant cm... barely 4 days, and not in the amounts I have gotten accustomed to.
So, I'm wondering if this is a result of the testing I've had in recent months. The hysteroscopy, the HSG, etc. Or could it be because it's summer... it's hot, and I have not been as good about drinking my water as I should have? Because I was pregnant at this point last summer, I don't have any charts to compare.
Anyone have any thoughts?
Another thing that has been niggling in the back of my brain... my luteal phase. I know that it's not supposed to change all that much from cycle to cycle, but mine has continuously gotten longer. I have had 11, 12, 12.5, and now almost 13 day LP. I know that longer is better, and I think it might be a result of the vitamin B I've been taking for quite a while.
Again, I ask, any thoughts?
Ok... I think that's it for now. I'm falling asleep as I type.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Infertility and a Crisis of Faith
Good morning, humble readers...
I will be the first to admit that my prayer life isn't what it 'should' be. My Beloved and I pray over meals, and we do go through times when we are very focused on praying... praying for our selves, for others, for our world leaders... but more often than not, my daily prayers are the last few semi-coherent thoughts that pass through my brain before sleep comes.
I should step back a bit and mention that I do believe in the power of prayer. I believe that God does miraculous things every day. The fact that my mom is alive today, after five encounters with cancer, is a testament to the healing power of God.
So, what does it mean then, when a woman who believes in the power of prayer prays for her unborn child... and that child never actually happens?
During the 10 weeks of my first pregnancy, my Beloved and I prayed for our little one. Prayed that God would keep her healthy and safe, that we would be good parents, that we would be able to provide the secure home that she would need. And when we lost her, in the midst of our grief, we were thankful that God had blessed us with her for even a short time.
When we got pregnant the second time, some connection in my mind went a bit wonky. No one said this to me, it was purely my own misdirection... but I started to think that 'last time' I hadn't prayed hard enough. Instead of focusing on the positive (actually being pregnant), I started to play this tape in my head... 'last time' I failed physically, 'last time' I failed spiritually.
For the first 8 weeks of my second pregnancy, I was berating myself constantly because 'last time' I hadn't prayed enough, and I wasn't praying enough 'this time'. My prayers 'this time' took on a desperate intensity... make me a better person, help me be more faithful, make me good enough. And our 8 week ultrasound confirmed my deficiencies... in my mind. I failed again 'this time'.
At the same time as all this was happening, there was the logical part of my mind (that was probably shouting it's lungs out) that knew blighted ova are not a punishment from God for not praying hard enough, for not being good enough. I knew that. I know it. But that doesn't mean I felt it. My grief the second time around was harder, I think, because of all the self-blame I was heaping on my head.
Somehow along the way I had forgotten the most basic truth about prayer. Prayer does not change God. Prayer changes me. It opens my heart and mind up to God's leading, and brings me into deeper relationship with him. Prayer is the communication that feeds my relationship with him.
This past winter and spring haven't been easy. My prayer life still isn't what I would like it to be, but that tape that was playing in my head seems to have been stopped. I have been blessed with a good pastor who has walked this road (she had two miscarriages before going on to have twins), and a husband who understands one's faith journey goes through ups and downs, and sometimes having a partner on the road is all that's needed to keep moving forward.
My prayer for 'next time' is that I will be at peace. When and if I get pregnant again, I pray that I will find the joy in the moment. And if the worst happens again, I pray that God will help me to lean on his strength.
I will be the first to admit that my prayer life isn't what it 'should' be. My Beloved and I pray over meals, and we do go through times when we are very focused on praying... praying for our selves, for others, for our world leaders... but more often than not, my daily prayers are the last few semi-coherent thoughts that pass through my brain before sleep comes.
I should step back a bit and mention that I do believe in the power of prayer. I believe that God does miraculous things every day. The fact that my mom is alive today, after five encounters with cancer, is a testament to the healing power of God.
So, what does it mean then, when a woman who believes in the power of prayer prays for her unborn child... and that child never actually happens?
During the 10 weeks of my first pregnancy, my Beloved and I prayed for our little one. Prayed that God would keep her healthy and safe, that we would be good parents, that we would be able to provide the secure home that she would need. And when we lost her, in the midst of our grief, we were thankful that God had blessed us with her for even a short time.
When we got pregnant the second time, some connection in my mind went a bit wonky. No one said this to me, it was purely my own misdirection... but I started to think that 'last time' I hadn't prayed hard enough. Instead of focusing on the positive (actually being pregnant), I started to play this tape in my head... 'last time' I failed physically, 'last time' I failed spiritually.
For the first 8 weeks of my second pregnancy, I was berating myself constantly because 'last time' I hadn't prayed enough, and I wasn't praying enough 'this time'. My prayers 'this time' took on a desperate intensity... make me a better person, help me be more faithful, make me good enough. And our 8 week ultrasound confirmed my deficiencies... in my mind. I failed again 'this time'.
At the same time as all this was happening, there was the logical part of my mind (that was probably shouting it's lungs out) that knew blighted ova are not a punishment from God for not praying hard enough, for not being good enough. I knew that. I know it. But that doesn't mean I felt it. My grief the second time around was harder, I think, because of all the self-blame I was heaping on my head.
Somehow along the way I had forgotten the most basic truth about prayer. Prayer does not change God. Prayer changes me. It opens my heart and mind up to God's leading, and brings me into deeper relationship with him. Prayer is the communication that feeds my relationship with him.
This past winter and spring haven't been easy. My prayer life still isn't what I would like it to be, but that tape that was playing in my head seems to have been stopped. I have been blessed with a good pastor who has walked this road (she had two miscarriages before going on to have twins), and a husband who understands one's faith journey goes through ups and downs, and sometimes having a partner on the road is all that's needed to keep moving forward.
My prayer for 'next time' is that I will be at peace. When and if I get pregnant again, I pray that I will find the joy in the moment. And if the worst happens again, I pray that God will help me to lean on his strength.
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