Clothing-Specific Memories

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Sorting through clothing is a funny thing.  I know people who do not become sentimentally attached to their sweaters or jeans, who cull their collections regularly and who don’t overstuff their drawers, but I am not one of them.  There’s some clothing I can get rid of pretty easily: things that are stained, that obviously don’t fit, basic tees or undershirts that have reached the end of their usefulness, but there’s a whole separate class of clothing that lives in my closet that presents a bigger challenge.

Apparently, I’m not the only one who has this issue, something I was reminded of when I ran across this article, poignantly titled “What Do We Do With the Clothing of Grief?”  As the author recounts the sweater she bought so hopefully during a lost pregnancy, I couldn’t help but think of my own “clothing of grief”.

In my case, it’s the brightly colored peplum boiled wool jacket I wore to the doctor’s office the day there was no more heartbeat.  The black fleece pants that I wore throughout my pregnancy with E and wore to the hospital the day my water broke at 21 weeks.  The olive-green dress with embroidered cranes I wore the day after my brother died.  I don’t know why it’s that dress, the day after, that I associate so strongly with that tragedy, but for some reason, the two are inextricably woven together in my memory.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m ever going to make a decision about those clothes.  I did sell one piece, the sweater I was wearing the day I was diagnosed with PCOS that lay crumpled in a drawer for years, never worn again.  The others, however, seem either too practical (the fleece pants) or too much difficult to reacquire pieces that I really like (the jacket and the dress).  What’s really strange is that I had memories in the jacket in particular that are fairly happy memories before that day.

Perhaps it’s too much to ask that the clothing of grief be repurposed into something truly neutral, but I do sometimes pull out the pieces and wonder if I can find the courage to start wearing them again, make enough memories in them to imbue them with both joy and sorrow.  Instead of the clothing of grief, make them something more akin to the clothing of memory.

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The jacket, on a much happier day (visiting the Hoover Dam in Nevada)

Thanks to Mel for hosting and originating Microblog Mondays!  If you want more posts, head over to Stirrup Queens to read.

 

The Perception of Infertility Stories

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I recently finished reading Julia Leigh’s new memoir Avalanche, a book by turns interesting and difficult in its frank depictions of fertility treatment*.  At times, I found myself nodding in understanding or literally gasping at some of her recollections.  In any case, I was interested when I saw that the New York Times had picked it for a book review along with another book on infertility.  While I see articles and books on topics such as miscarriage and infertility appearing periodically – and perhaps more often than I once did – I’m trying to be hopeful when a major media outlet takes on infertility.  It’s a more common issue than people think and important to discuss.

Then I read the review.

Rachel Cusk doesn’t so much review Avalanche, for which she reserved the majority of her commentary and barely touched on author Belle Boggs’ work The Art of Waiting.  Instead, she used her column inches to write essentially an op-ed on how she perceives infertility and the treatment of such.

There’s a lot in the article that as a woman who has experienced primary infertility and gone through fertility treatments ranging from Clo.mid and timed intercourse to injected fertility drugs, IUI, and IVF I find breathtakingly ignorant, judgmental, and frustrating.  Others, including Elissa Strauss in Slate , Pamela Tsigdinos in Medium , and Loribeth at The Road Less Traveled have written excellent rebuttals to Cusk, taking on many of these points as well.

Cusk writes of women writing about undergoing IVF or fertility treatment “The woman writing about the travails of assisted reproduction, on the other hand, is in a somewhat curious position…This woman doesn’t – can’t – fear what having a child will mean for her hard won social and intellectual autonomy; she isn’t concerned with the right to express ambivalence toward this oldest and strongest of binds – indeed, she perhaps views maternal ambivalence as a somewhat grotesque luxury.  No, this woman is unambivalent: she wants desperately, blindly, to become a mother…”  In this, Cusk seems to less be critiquing Leigh’s book than she is offering some sort of categorization of all infertile women writers.  It feels dismissive and untrue.  I know I did not brush away lightly the concerns about what having a child would do to my career or life.  With everything I was putting on the line, I was more aware than ever of that conflict.  I had a lot of time to consider exactly how a child might impact my life and marriage – possibly more than some fertile people simply because of the extended time and effort required.

Throughout the review, Cusk makes references to infertile women selfishly chasing something that simply isn’t going to happen, almost a delusional state where everyone else can see the writing on the wall but the woman keeps pouring resources into it, defiantly refusing to see what is staring her in the face.

This is where, to me at least, Cusk misses the point entirely.  It is because of books and authors like Julia Leigh speaking up that women experiencing infertility have these varied stories to consider in making decisions about treatments like IVF.  From the time I was diagnosed, I had books such as Melissa Ford’s The Land of IF that examined the varying pros and cons of the options open to me once the doctor told me that I most likely needed medical help if I wanted to conceive.  Silent Sorority by Pamela Tsigdinos helped me to understand that IVF was no guarantee and encouraging me to do my own research.  It was also the book that reminded me, from early on when I did not have the luxury of knowing how this was all going to turn out, that no matter what, I could – and would – figure out a way forward regardless of how treatment ended. There were so many other books I read, all with different stories and endings, from Waiting for Daisy by Peggy Orenstein to Cracked by Miriam Zoll to Good Eggs by Phoebe Potts.

These women put it out there, shared their hard won experiences and wisdom, and because of them, I was better able to consider my options, empowered to set boundaries on the treatments I was personally willing to consider, and know that I had choices.  Not always good ones, certainly not always the ones I wanted, but these books (and bloggers) had a tendency to pull off the blinders I sometimes developed in the midst of treatment and help me reevaluate.  It was often good to be reminded that everyone has different feelings and reactions and resources to apply to various paths out of infertility as well as tolerance levels for procedures like IVF.

Avalanche is a multidimensional work that examines the facets of an individual experience and how infertility – and motherhood – are perceived in today’s world.  It’s a voice in the conversation surrounding the ethics and issues when fertility isn’t a given.  The voices and experiences are indeed diverse, but for me – and many of these writers – speaking about infertility isn’t a purely intellectual exercise, it’s an intensely personal, life-altering condition.  This is another place I struggled with Cusk’s review: I cannot speak about infertility with an airy, detached, academic quality.  It is the very real, wrenching memories of sobbing in ultrasound rooms, the physical scar tissue from PIO injections, the messy reality of bleeding.  Cusk displays an incredible amount of privilege by treating the subject as merely a thought exercise instead of treating it with compassion and empathy.

Cusk once wrote the following of a review her own book A Life’s Work received: “…for [the reviewer] was not judging the book as a book.  She was judging it as a social situation.”  Cusk obviously takes exception to such judgment when applied to herself.  It is a shame that she falls into the same trap when considering Julia Leigh or Belle Boggs and their experiences.

*Pamela Tsigdinos is hosting a book tour of Avalanche on Wednesday, September 21, which I am looking forward to participating in.  If you want to join in or read along, the details are at Finally Heard/Silent Sorority.  It promises to be an excellent conversation.

Thanks to Mel at Stirrup Queens for hosting and originating Microblog Mondays.  If you want to read more Microblog Mondays posts or submit your own, head over to her blog.  

Preserving A Space

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Over the last few months, I’ve played around with the idea of printing out my blog as an actual, physical book.  Not to work up for publication or for any sort of distribution, but because, well, it’s my life.  Certainly edited and condensed in some respects – many posts have ended in my drafts folder, countless sentences and paragraphs pruned, life outside of infertility often left undocumented – but definitely truthful and an accurate chronicle of the last several years.

It’s funny how the internet is at once permanent and constantly shifting, blogs and platforms and media appearing and disappearing at breakneck speed.  I went back recently to find a post that I loved from a blog, only to find the blog and post gone.  While I have no plans to move out of this space right now, I know I don’t want to lose the entries if one day the terms of service with the hosting or the platform itself changes or for any other reason.  Printing them out in a tangible medium feels somehow more permanent to me, more real.

In the end, it’s a big part of my story.  It’s the space where a lot of moments live that in real life are long gone.

So, my question to all of you is this: have any of you printed out your blog?  What service did you use?  How expensive?  How much difficulty or ease?  Any advice or stories to share?

This post is a part of Microblog Mondays.  If you want to get in on the action or read more, please head over to Stirrup Queens.  Thanks to Mel for originating and hosting.

That Thing With Feathers

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Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without words,

And never stops at all…

– Emily Dickinson

 

We never really did much natural cycling when we first started trying to conceive in 2012.  My cycles were so incredibly abnormal right from the start that we had done our initial testing, gotten the PCOS diagnosis, and started seeing an RE before the one-year mark.  Even when we’d do a few months between medicated cycles and then ART cycles, I didn’t have normal natural cycles.

Once I quit breastfeeding (or, more accurately, attempting to breastfeed), the spot-bleed-spot-bleed-no-normal-periods came roaring back for several months.  Since that was my normal before my daughter was born, I wasn’t particularly surprised, just frustrated.  In some deep, dark recess of my mind, I’d genuinely hoped that giving birth would “fix” my reproductive system.  I tried a bunch of supplements, stayed on met.formin, lost weight, and nothing changed.  I saw my OB/GYN, got a prescription for birth control pills, picked up a pack, declared myself done with natural cycles, and then in a fit of pique, decided to pull a Scarlett O’Hara: “I’ll think about that tomorrow”.

Every day thereafter, I reprised.  I kept up with the supplements and met.formin.  Until one day, the bleeding stopped.  I marked the date as cycle day 1 and shrugged.  I wasn’t too hopeful.  I had an ultrasound in December because I was having pelvic pain and wondered if I had a cyst.  My ovaries had the classic “string of pearls” appearance of PCOS.

I started spotting on day 21, but then on day 28, had an actual round of bleeding that was easily identifiable as a real period.  I marked the cycle again and waited.  The bleeding stopped in a timely manner.  Again, I had a period on day 28.  The acne also started to let up a bit.

Well, this is new.

In late February, we decided to see what would happen if we ditched any form of preventing pregnancy.  In April, unsure if my body was even making the right hormones or trying to ovulate despite having cycles, I ordered some cheap OPKs.  They’ve come up positive each month for an LH surge and are appropriately negative otherwise.  I have a basal body temperature thermometer, but with my odd hours (I work nights twice a week) temping has not clarified anything.

A couple of weeks ago, I realized my met.formin prescription was going to run out, so I called the RE’s office to get that prescribed.  Since I was on the phone with them, I figured that I’d go ahead and schedule my saline sonogram.  It’s a bit on the early side since we’re not planning to transfer until next spring, but I reasoned that if anything showed up as an issue, then we’d have some time to figure out next steps.

Today, I saw Dr. E, my RE, for the sonogram.  When Dr. E checked my ovaries, he noted that they don’t look polycystic the way they usually do.  I looked at the screen.  I know the appearance of my ovaries well, and the usual bunch of immature follicles was definitely missing.  Dr. E asked about my cycles, and I told him about the positive OPKs, regularity, and the supplements.  “Well, keep it up,” he said.  “It seems to be doing something good.”  He told me that it was hard to say given my history if I’d get pregnant naturally, but it was worth continuing and he hoped it would work out for us.

It’s somewhat promising as infertility situations go.  Definitely an improvement in many ways, but is it enough to actually get pregnant? Even with ICSI and a surfeit of eggs, we really don’t make a lot of embryos – and the ones we do make tend to be about a day behind.

I really want to be hopeful.  I really want to think that even after all this, the “old fashioned way” might be truly possible.  I really want to think that even if this doesn’t work out, one of the embryos will work next spring.  There’s no doubt I have seen (and had) longer odds and stranger things work out.

At the same time, I also know all too well the painful wounds that appear when hope flits away and reality unwelcome rushes back.  As I told Arthur recently, “Everyone keeps saying you need hope to live.  But in my case, it usually just f*cks me over.”

That’s where we stay for now in terms of infertility.  In the gray area between hope and not, possible and not, that unsatisfying non-answer.  What I keep reminding myself is that this is a season, not forever – and much of the rest of life is good right now.  Today, though, definitely lightens that gray a little and causes the ‘thing with feathers’ to stir.

Want to read more Microblog Mondays or participate yourself?  Please head over to Stirrup Queens and enjoy!  Thanks to Mel for originating and hosting.  

Alternate Routes

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When I started looking at nursing schools, I made a plan that looked something like this: get my associate’s degree in nursing (ASN) at the community college where tuition was affordable, practice for a few years, then go back for my master’s in nursing (MSN) after we’d had a couple of kids.  I knew that bachelor’s in nursing (BSN) was becoming more and more necessary for hospital, management, or critical care jobs, but I already had a bachelor’s degree in English and didn’t see much value in getting a second one.  I looked into MSN programs that would allow me to skip that step, found them reasonable, got my ASN, and started on having those couple of kids.

Ha.

In any case, after IVF bills, NICU, and knowing that we still have FET bills and a bit more time in TTC world, I am nowhere near ready financially or ability-wise to commit the time/effort to go after a master’s degree.  I’m not even quite certain what direction I’d want to go in for that master’s degree any more.  None of this mattered so much for a bit.  I was completely embroiled in doctor and therapy appointments, trying to get E to eat, and dealing with life as well as learning a new department at work.  I had a job, that was what mattered.

Into all of this entered a co-worker a couple of months ago who mentioned that one of the other local health systems was now pushing for all of their RNs to have BSNs.  While it didn’t threaten my position, I did sit up and take notice.  It marked the first time needing a BSN (or higher) had come up this close to home.  I saw the writing on the wall: it was time to talk about next steps.

At first, I re-researched the MSN programs.  Maybe I could fit it in somehow.  The research, however, more or less confirmed that an MSN was simply not in the cards right now, or really, for at least the next five years.  I took a deep breath, looked into BSN programs, and found an online one through my state system.  The price was reasonable.  Most of my credits transferred.  The coursework looked manageable with all of my other responsibilities.

I applied, got accepted, and plan to start in July.

It means I can wait until I know what I want to do for that master’s degree.  It means I don’t need to worry so much about jobs.  It means I can wait ten years or never go back to school if that’s what I want.

It’s not the route I envisioned originally.  As far as alternates go though, I’m pretty excited about this one.

This post is part of Microblog Mondays.  If you want to read more or get in on the fun, please head over to Stirrup Queens.  Thanks to Mel for originating and hosting!

Odds and Ends

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Watching the penultimate episode of Downton Abbey, Edith, speaking to her sister Mary, tells Mary that in the end, they will be the only two left who share the memories of their parents, their late sister Sybil, and of growing up together. It put into words a feeling I’ve been trying to articulate since my brother died, a very particular facet of that loss. In the end, I will most likely be the sole keeper of those family memories.

~*~

Listening to Arthur congratulate his brother this week on the birth of wonderful twin niece and nephew, it’s decidedly bittersweet. I’m so excited to be an aunt to these babies. We are glad for a safe birth at 32 weeks and babies in good health for their prematurity. I’m so happy E has cousins, and I know both Arthur and his brother hope to keep our families close. I am grateful for E yet again and the extraordinary circumstances that meant we were able to take her home. We are glad that E will know this uncle and aunt and their little ones.

My brother was surprisingly good with small children, although he would have been the first to deny that. He always took them seriously, listened to what they had to say, and as that’s often a rare quality in adults, they would follow him around chattering, excited to have found someone that heard them. I wonder what E would have told him, this uncle she will never know except in photographs and stories.

~*~

It’s one of the things that’s a bit hard about this birth, it comes as my period starts after the first sort-of two-week-wait I’ve had in a while.  We said we weren’t going to do this, but when my cycles suddenly regulated out on their own, we couldn’t resist. No intervention or fertility treatment, no idea if I actually ovulate, no idea if my left tube is open, just a very long shot on a natural cycle figuring it has been a year since my c-section, I’m not getting any younger, and we’re not doing any more fresh IVF.

Even though I know better, even with plans for a much better shot with an FET in the fall, I found myself half-hoping and with that small disappointment, I find myself counting the losses again: my own sibling, whether or not E will have a sibling, the long five day wait with nothing to do except sit by E’s incubator, watching the monitors alarm, wondering if E’s brain ultrasound would show bleeding before we could even consider holding her, the scariness mingled with her first kangaroo sessions as her oxygen saturation dropped and it took two nurses to get her into position, the twins I lost after the first IVF, the ectopic after my FET. I wonder about those lost babies, if they would have looked like E or her cousins?

I wonder if E will be left as the lone memory keeper for our family.

And I hate that this is what suicide and infertility and extreme prematurity have cost me, at least for now: unadulterated joy and happiness without complexity.

This post is a part of Microblog Mondays.  If you want to read more or participate, please head over to Stirrup Queens to check it out. 

A Wonderfully Geeky Valentine’s Day

I like both posts I messed around with today.  So I’m keeping them both, and double posting 🙂 – sorry for any confusion. 

Arthur and I have been trying to learn our new city. From the best routes to go from point A to point B to where to get groceries to finding a favorite latte, we’ve gradually begun to find the places that make it home.

On the list was a sweet shop several people had recommended to us but we hadn’t had a chance to try. For a Valentine’s Day treat, we decided to go and check it out.

The specialty of the shop? “Geek” sweets. They make all kinds of superhero, Star Wars, and Harry Potter confections, including chocolate frogs (that alas, don’t seem to jump), a truffle Darth Vader, and “zombie brains” (a green-tinted white chocolate shell with cherry cobbler filling). They also have a rotating menu of deserts they prepare in house and that can be enjoyed with drinks such as butterbeer or pumpkin juice.

This, of course, was right up our alley. I am a huge Harry Potter fan, and am fluent in Star Wars. We came home with the aforementioned zombie brains, a TARDIS, and two versions of the Millenium Falcon (smuggling peanuts with maple cream in one, nutella and bacon in the other). Quite a fun Valentine’s Day outing, and we look forward to one of these days going for one of their in-house deserts.

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No Lord of the Rings sweets, though. Perhaps one of these days they’ll make lembas. Hey, a geek can dream!