The Space

If you have ever spent time in a hospital, you will detect a rhythm.  Under all the bustling of the doctors, the nurses, the respiratory therapists, the entire infrastructure of acronyms that keep the thing running, there is a quality of silence, stopped time as people wait.  Even in the direst moments when everything is moving at full speed, there are pauses – waiting for lab results, specialists, OR rooms to become available, 30 seconds here, a breath there.

I didn’t really understand that rhythm until I became a patient myself, an object of all the bustling as opposed to performing it.  Sitting in the space, waiting, is hard, especially when you know that the result, the consult, the surgery, could change everything.  I often filled the spaces with books and blog posts and articles.  It’s strange how book or words can become a sort of friend in those places, buoying my spirits or just holding the space with me and affirming the mixed emotions in those moments.

Waiting was what I was doing in spring of 2014 after an unexpected result from my FET.  Pregnant but with far too many worrisome signs for confidence, Arthur and I had to decide whether or not to go ahead with a long-planned trip to attend a writer’s festival at our alma mater.  Several authors I admired were on the schedule to speak, we’d shelled out the money for tickets, hotel, and time off.  My RE gave his blessing to go ahead since we’d only be a few hours away and I knew where to go if the symptoms became more concerning.  So we went, hoping for a distraction from the seemingly interminable wait.

It was definitely the right decision, as hard as it was to make at the time.  I listened to lectures by James McBride, Ann Lamott, and so many others.  I went to the English department reception where I smiled, listened, reconnected with people, and shared stories.  All while simultaneously gritting my teeth as I’d feel the blood seeping out and the panic rising, then be blessedly inspired and challenged by new words, new books to read.

That’s how I wound up in a session with an author named Rachel Held Evans, who wrote a blog (and books) on faith, Christianity, and wrestling with (and eventually leaving) evangelicalism – a process both Arthur and I were going through, though in different stages -as well as a heartfelt and surprisingly funny second book on the meaning of “biblical” womanhood.  Arthur and I had read the book and had some good discussions.  After the session, there was a meet and greet and I told her how much I had enjoyed the book and admired her openness writing about faith, life, and menstruation.  I came closer than I want to admit to bursting into tears and confessing that I was really excited to be here but also probably going through a miscarriage and that I was really grateful for some of her writing, that the presence of her and these other authors had made this waiting just a little better.  Thankfully, my sense of manners and decorum kicked in to save me from serious awkwardness and oversharing, but I also suspect she would have been very kind.  The moment ended, we moved on.

One of her books kept me company a year or so later in the NICU as I waited beside my daughter’s incubator.  Arthur and I read it aloud as we put our tiny baby on our chests, sleep deprived, and needing healing words.  Her words kept me company in the empty space when my brother died.  Her words again encouraged us when we walked away recently from the denomination that married us and baptized both our children and were there for us during infertility and the NICU after a decision made at the denominational level to further exclude our LGBTQIA+ brothers, sisters, and non-binary in faith that Arthur and I found cruel and wrong.

Rachel Held Evans died on Saturday, May 4 after a sudden illness that led to complications at the age of 37.  It is for the people who actually knew her in her real life to mourn her in that intimate, deep way that comes with relationship and they are the ones that are truly bereft in this moment.  My heart aches for them as they move forward without her daily presence and grieve her great loss.

As simply a reader of her books and not someone who knew her personally, I’m just grateful for her words and quite sad that the lovely and luminous person behind them is gone from this world.  Those words held my hands and abided with me in some awful spaces.  They are and were a source of presence and balm.

While the many articles and obituaries have quoted Rachel’s final blog post on Ash Wednesday that is unexpectedly apt and poignant in the wake of her passing, the words from her book Inspired: Slaying Giants, Walking on Water, and Loving the Bible Again are ones I remember now and as a fellow reader they resonate deeply: “I know I can’t read my way out of this dilemma, but that won’t keep me from trying.”

#BecauseofRHE

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Responding to “Stuff People Say”

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Recently, I had the opportunity to go to a lecture by Dr. Alan Wolfelt, a nationally known speaker and author on loss, grief, and mourning.  I picked up the ticket at my suicide loss survivor’s group and played around in my head with the idea of going for a bit, but I’m glad that in the end, I opted to go.

Wolfelt related the story of being at his own mother’s funeral, sobbing, and hearing someone say “well, he’s a nationally known expert on grief, but he’s not holding up so well”.  It can be hard to mourn in a culture that expects an almost immediate resolution of the outward expressions of grief.  A few decorous tears in the days following a loss, but after that, calm, stoic acceptance is far more acceptable.

One of the best parts of the talk was when Wolfelt tackled the topic of “stuff other people say” and got into what he called the “buck up” messages.  These would be statements like “well, you had him for 38 years of marriage” or “at least she lived to be 89 years old”.  I’m sure anyone who has been through infertility/loss can add a few more to that list: “at least you know you can get pregnant”, “hey, you can sleep in/go to a movie/travel since you don’t have kids”, or “you have a good marriage/job/life, focus on that”.

Because I am a bit cranky on the inside at times, particularly when on Lu.pron or other hormone injections, the response in my head to those sorts of statements often ran along the lines of a rude, anatomically improbable suggestion.  My outward response was usually to smile weakly and change the subject.

However, I appreciated Wolfelt’s suggested rejoinder to these sorts of statements: “True, but not helpful.”

It’s very possible to feel gratitude in times of loss or grief for the good things in life.  But having plenty to be grateful for doesn’t necessarily mean that there’s no room to grieve a loss and feel/express the emotions associated with loss.

This post is a part of Microblog Mondays – please go see Stirrup Queens for more or to participate!  Thanks to Mel for originating and hosting.

Luck

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Ever since I called my RE’s office to set up the series of appointments to lead up to the final transfer, it’s been on my mind a lot.

Like, a lot.  As in a truly ridiculous amount.

I think a big part of it is the unknown aspect to the thing.  I’m truly privileged in the infertility world with my kids and can be happy whatever way life takes me, but the not-knowing part bothers me.  The other part that tends to get under my skin is that – other than showing up and taking medications as ordered – I have no real control over the outcome.

On the spectrum between the laid-back people and the iron-fisted control people, I am definitely a control freak.  Some of this stems from anxiety (as in the diagnosed type).  My brain has a not-so-marvelous tendency towards getting stuck and panic attacks.  I like predictability, stability, and known quantities – and privilege has allowed me some insulation from the unpredictability of life in other areas.  This, I suspect, is why infertility in general has messed with my sense of self so much.

Earlier this week, I ran across an article about socioeconomic privilege entitled The Radical Moral Implications of Luck in Human Life: Acknowledging the role of luck is the secular equivalent of a religious awakening.  Author David Roberts states: “It’s not difficult to see why many people take offense when reminded of their luck, especially those who have received the most. Allowing for luck can dent our self-conception. It can diminish our sense of control. It opens up all kinds of uncomfortable questions about obligations to other, less fortunate people.”

Infertility is nothing if not one giant game of luck.  Diagnoses, lack of diagnoses, economic status to pursue treatment or adoption, one partner or both, what doctors/labs one has access to, the quality/growth of embryos, whether or not those embryos implant, miscarriages, emotional resources – none of these are really factors individuals have control over.  Heck, when pursuing treatment, I know I don’t even have control over when I have to be at the clinic during cycles.

Acknowledging how little control I really have over my life circumstances – and how much good luck has played a role – is a bit unnerving.  Roberts points out in his article that “I get why people bridle at this point. They want credit for their achievements and for their better qualities. As Varney said, it can be insulting to be told that one’s success is in large part a lucky roll of the dice.”

It feels like – given the sums of money, emotion, and time that are in play during treatment – the outcome should be more predictable.  That anyone who rolls the dice (or wants to roll the dice) at anything related to infertility should be rewarded commensurately.

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

The Left Overs

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Last week I finally bit the bullet and made what I plan to be the first in the final series of appointments with my RE, hopefully culminating in a final embryo transfer around early-mid October 2019.  I mean, my RE is a good doctor and I like him, but I truly won’t be sorry to see the end of treatments and the clinic and all the attendant stuff.  I’m looking forward to moving on and coming to end of the infertility journey.

One part of infertility, however, isn’t going to be over anytime soon.  The reason I wound up at a fertility clinic in the first place, PCOS, still factors into my life, health, and daily living.

This is one of the parts of infertility that I really hadn’t considered much when I was in the trenches, mostly because in the trenches, it’s a day-to-day, minute-to-minute battle.  At this point, however, I’ve got a bit of breathing room to consider the future and that future continues to include PCOS.

And PCOS…sucks.

Mostly, it raises my risk of diabetes along with a number of other conditions, which means monitoring and care to ensure that I remain as healthy as possible.  For me, this means a daily dose of met.formin.  While it doesn’t work for all PCOS women, for me, it’s a miracle drug.  When my second RE put me on it prior to my second fresh IVF cycle because at that point, we were throwing everything reasonably possible at the infertility, I noticed my cycles regulated a bit and we got better egg retrieval and embryos.  After I gave birth to my first daughter, I went back on it to attempt to control the PCOS and boost my milk production, then continued on it and was surprised when, over several months, my acne abated and my cycles regulated.  Because PCOS is one of the big wild card conditions of infertility (some PCOS women have a terrible time conceiving while others, surprisingly, don’t have much issue at all), we were overjoyed when this led to our second daughter.

I managed without met.formin until I stopped nursing/pumping for my second daughter, but at that point, the PCOS symptoms returned with a vengeance – acne, wonky cycles, the whole nine yards.  I called my OB/GYN who was fine with putting me back on the met.formin and things have calmed down since.

I’m fortunate when it comes to PCOS because I have a fairly reliable external indicator about whether or not the PCOS is under control: acne.  If I’m breaking out massively, generally, I have cysts on my ovaries and the attendant issues.  I’m also fortunate that (so far) I’ve been able to find treatments that abate the symptoms considerably.

Despite the fact that my OB/GYN is good and I can somewhat see how well controlled my PCOS is, I know that I need a good primary care provider, especially since I’ll be able to stop seeing my RE (who has helped with managing my PCOS and been my back-up with that for years now).  At the moment, I’m starting to work on searching for the right doctor.  PCOS isn’t ending just because my infertility is resolving.

This post is a part of Microblog Mondays.  If you want more, head over to Stirrup Queens’ blog!  Thanks to Mel for originating and hosting.

Not Quite the Original Project, But…

Fun fact: pattern sizes are NOT the same as ready-to-wear sizes.

As a consequence, I am paused on dress-making, mostly because I discovered that I cut the fabric too small. One frantic call to my aunt (amazing fabric arts person) later, and I’m sending most of the project to her to help figure out because she’s pretty sure she can save things by putting in a gusset, but that’s outside of my skill set right now.

Did I mention that aunts are THE BEST?  Because they really are.

Instead, I pulled out some fabric I had bought a couple of years ago and found a free 1/2 circle skirt pattern online.  That looked a bit less intimidating, as it involves two pieces only.

I got working, and by the end of the day, I had a skirt for Older Daughter.  I even knew enough to put interfacing in the waistband (that the tutorial/pattern didn’t mention) to get it to look right and managed to get the invisible zipper in (mostly) invisibly.  The hem is slightly crooked, but I’m pretty pleased with the outcome!

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I figure I increased my skills and followed a pattern correctly.  Next step is making a skirt big enough for me and putting in a lining.  We’ll see how that goes…

 

Reading Thoughts

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I’m still considering a couple of Mel’s posts from last week about reading and diversity.  If you haven’t read them, they’re really interesting and thought-provoking and I highly recommend them.

They got me thinking back to my capstone senior English class in college, where my professor asked all of us to bring a list of around ten books we’d like to add to canonical literature.  We went around the table and at the end, she looked at all of us and said something to the effect of “Wow, a lot of white men.”  Then we talked about the influence of culture and dominant voices.

So I went back and looked through my reading list for the past couple months.

Fiction

  • Prep (Curtis Sittenfeld)
  • Norwegian Wood (Haruki Murakami)
  • Burial Rites (Hannah Kent)
  • Little Disasters (Randall Klein)
  • The Blind Assassin (Margaret Atwood)

Nonfiction

  • Anne Perry and the Murder of the Century (Peter Graham)
  • When We Were on Fire: A Memoir of Consuming Faith (Addie Zierman)
  • Killers of the Flower Moon: The Osage Murders and the Birth of the FBI (David Grann)
  • Squeezed: Why Our Families Can’t Afford America (Alyssa Quart)
  • King Leopold’s Ghost: A Story of Greed, Terror, and Heroism in Colonial Africa (Adam Hochschild)
  • The Blood of Emmet Till (Timothy B. Tyson)
  • Let’s Pretend This Never Happened and Furiously Happy (Jenny Lawson)
  • Inspired: Slaying Giants, Walking on Water, and Loving the Bible Again (Rachel Held Evans)
  • The Trauma Cleaner: One Woman’s Extraordinary Life in Death, Decay, and Disaster (Sarah Krasnostein)

Reading Currently

  • World of Our Fathers: The Journey of the East European Jews to America and the Life They Found and Made (Irving Howe)
  • Sisterland (Curtis Sittenfeld)

Eagerly Awaiting

  • Kingdom of the Blind (Louise Penny)

There’s no doubt that if I look over my general trends, I tend to read more nonfiction than fiction and when I do read fiction, I tend to read fiction by white women (Atwood, Sittenfeld, Kent, Penny).  With non-fiction, I definitely read a variety of topics, but again, mostly white authors even when reading about minority or POC topics.

Definitely time to work on diversifying my reading list a bit more.

This post is a part of Microblog Mondays.  If you’d like to read more, please visit Stirrup Queens.  Thanks to Mel for originating and hosting.

Meant To Be

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As one of those getting-rarer people who married their high-school sweetheart, people sometimes ask me if I knew he was “the one”.

Uh, no.  I met and started dating Arthur when I was 15.  That was entirely too young to seriously think of marriage.  I was a lot more worried about getting to a final round in speech team competition and trying to control the frizz of naturally curly hair than finding a marriage partner.

More than a few people who knew us back then, however, have told us that they knew we were going to end up together.  One of the speech coaches, also the yearbook adviser, put this photo/caption in the yearbook from my freshman year of high school:

Altered Speech Photo

This is at a speech team party, during an improv game.  My glasses and the frizz are, uh, fierce.  Please excuse my editing skills!

Now, around 21 years after our first meeting, it’s an interesting artifact to pull out every now and again :).

This post is a part of Microblog Mondays.  If you want more, please check out Stirrup Queens.  Thanks to Mel for originating and hosting.