I Survived

This morning I finally got around to taking that kickboxing class I wrote about two months ago.

In the past two months, the anger I felt right after the miscarriage got swallowed up by depression, as I was afraid it would. For those who haven't been there, I should explain that depression doesn't equal sadness. There's some sadness in the mix, but for me the main feeling is unrelenting exhaustion, plus mental fogginess.

I know what to do in this state: whatever I can to stay active and connected. But have you ever had one of those dreams where someone is chasing you and you have to run, except that you're running through mud or snow, and despite your best efforts you just keep slowing down? That's how it feels sometimes. Yesterday was about the worst it's ever been. I could feel my body and mind grinding down toward absolute zero.

Needless to say, I haven't exactly been getting much exercise. Not unless you count lifting big mugs of coffee. What possessed me to take a class so clearly beyond my comfort zone (735 calories burned in an hour, they say)? I knew it would kick my ass, and yes, it certainly did. But I knew I had to try, because sometimes an ass kicking is in order. Believe it or not, I mean that in the most compassionate way. Sometimes a grand (and foolish) gesture is exactly what I need to shake things up.

Not only was the class a challenge, but it was also out of character for me. I'm more a yoga-and-pilates type who likes to take walks in the woods. With each punch, I saw the red thread that's tied around my wrist, representing the Buddhist three refuges. The incongruity made me laugh. Then I thought of what I learned the other day: a red thread can also be an infertility symbol. With that thought, my taking the class no longer seemed funny or strange. I wanted to smash things.

So in that safe and imaginary context, I beat on infertility. I punched the OB who just sent a bill for our useless "follow-up" appointment: the equivalent of three hours' pay for me, for five minutes of his time. I threw a right hook at my ex, and a kick to everyone who ever asked when I was going to have kids, "since you’re not getting any younger!"

After unleashing all that stuff, I was exhausted, totally spent. "Alright!" the teacher yelled. "That finishes our warm-up!"

CAN we do it??

Haha, OMG, what have I gotten into here? I sucked down more water and somehow dredged up more energy. My goal was just to finish the class. It didn't matter if I had to modify some of the moves—the point was to keep moving.

That much I could manage to do. Will I do it again? We'll see. First I'd better make sure that I can still move tomorrow. Meanwhile, if the class blew a few cobwebs out of my body and mind today, I'll be very grateful for that.

ICLW

If you're here as part of ICLW, welcome! (If not, you're still welcome! And you might want to check out the ICLW list, since it includes a lot of great blogs.) I signed up for a second time because last time was so worthwhile.

You can read the basics of my infertility journey here, and my first post explains why I started writing about it.

What's new this month? I'm still sitting out the recovery time after a miscarriage, which means there will be more than a 5-month gap between my last cycle and next. I have mixed feelings about the next.

On one hand, I wanted to start trying right away, because last time (almost) worked and that was awesome—it felt like a miracle. Also, there's just no time to spare; I have severe DOR, and it's probably time to move on to the most aggressive options.

Which leads to the mixed feelings. Surely I'm not the only one feeling discouraged, afraid, and overwhelmed sometimes? When those feelings are at their worst, I want to curl up under the covers and avoid dealing with anything else that's painful (enough already!) ... even if there may be rewards beyond the pain.

So last weekend, in my best kind-but-firm "mom voice," I had a little talk with myself about the avoidance habit. It was an infertility intervention—a name I borrowed from this post at The 2 Week Wait, which says:

I know firsthand that it's easier to hope that things will work out somehow. That maybe next cycle, somehow, I'll get pregnant if I pray really hard or maybe I'll get pregnant while I'm in Disney World or maybe I don't have a problem and I just need to eat more chocolate.

No one wants to have an IVF. No one wants daily blood work or to be regularly intimately involved in vaginal sonograms. It sucks, it's not fun and it's not the way you expected it to be. The fact is though that if you're not getting pregnant, this is my personal urge to you to fight. Fight hard. See another doctor, get another opinion, be your own advocate and don't waste time avoiding what may be the very thing that can help.

That last sentence was just what I needed to hear. My own "intervention" involved several days of medical research and financial planning. (I've done all that stuff before, of course, but it's been a while.) It helped me separate feelings from facts. (Both are valid, but it's important to understand which is which.) It was unpleasant. It was also necessary. I now have a much better list of things to consider and to ask my REs.

So that's what's new. When I'm not obsessing about TTC options, I'm probably thinking about fostering options or just trying to maintain some sense of humor and perspective. Feel free to look around and comment on anything new or old. I'll pay you a visit in return. Sharing this journey with and learning from others has been one of the main forces helping me stay sane.

Happy ICLW!

Intervention

The time has come: I'm staging an infertility intervention on myself.

No more blogging, reading, or other great but time-consuming activities for me until there's a plan in place for my next cycle, which may start as soon as May 6. That may sound like plenty of time, but it isn't at all. There's a lot to consider.

And, frankly, I'd rather not. I'd just SO MUCH rather do almost anything else ... fool around online, spend an afternoon at the dentist, alphabetize my grocery-store coupons. Or take a nap. Oh yes, naps are a favorite escape when I'm feeling overwhelmed.

The thing is, I know that this avoidance doesn't mean that it's time to stop trying. It's not a subconscious way of telling myself that I'm done; it's a subconscious way of stomping my feet in protest that "This sucks!" Of course, this mature response does nothing but contribute to the suckiness.

Yes, I'm weary of starting over again so soon after the miscarriage, and afraid that some things that matter most to me may stay forever out of reach. There's a real temptation to numb out, to insist that I'll think about the next steps tomorrow ... or maybe, what the heck, the day after that.

So let's be honest here. I'm doing nothing but hurting my own odds by pretending that I can have BOTH things I most want right now: a nice, dreamy reprieve from pain today, AND a child in my future.

What could I be doing instead of avoiding reality? Some highlights of my to-do list:

• Decide on another natural-cycle IVF vs. stimulated IVF.
  • If natural-cycle, order a few drugs, like the trigger shot and antibiotics.
  • If stimulated, decide which RE (two options, although maybe I should get one more opinion...) and protocol to use. Decide whether to pay (*gasp*) for two discounted cycles at once. Order a boatload of drugs. Check limits on all credit cards. 
• Decide whether to genetically screen the embryo(s).
• Order my "other half" from the sperm bank.
• Research the Affordable Healthcare Act, to see if anything in there may help.
• Research more natural ways to improve fertility, to see what special foods or vitamins may boost my odds by 0.00001%.

There's so much more I could and did start to say about that first bullet. Then I realized that it would more than double the size of this whole post. There are so many issues hidden in there, and they overlap and intersect in ways that make my head hurt. 

So, for now, I'll just leave you with the simplified, diagram form:

April is the Cruellest Month

Since a friend quoted that line recently, I've had it on my mind … and had to roll my eyes at my own melodrama.

Seriously, though, this April has been hard. I would have been more than halfway to full-term now, and everywhere there are reminders of what should have been. This crazy profusion of sunlight and flowers and babies outside in strollers—lovely as it is—is also jarring. It makes me feel out of step with the world.

No, it's no longer winter in my heart. Now I see my state of mind and heart reflected best in the thawing mess of very early spring—the conditions of about a month ago. Remember? The first buds were venturing out, and some didn't survive the frosty nights. The ground was still littered with last year's leaves, plus the mud that might someday allow something new to grow.

Last weekend I drove my mother to a nursery to pick out some new flowers for her yard. I didn't expect to buy anything there for myself, not quite yet. But there was one thing that caught my eye and ended up coming home with me:

No, I can't keep living in the past. I need to move on and make the next TTC decisions very soon. (More on that to come.)

But moving forward doesn't mean that I'll forget.

Another Fostering Option: URM

This week I heard about something called the Unaccompanied Refugee Minor (URM) foster-care program, a network of specialized foster-care agencies. Kids in this program range from about 4 to 20, with most in their teens. They may have come to the US as survivors of war or trafficking (slavery). They may have come alone or with a caregiver who then abused or abandoned them, or who otherwise couldn't meet their needs.

Here's how it works:

"URM programs follow the same state or county laws and regulations that govern domestic foster care. The children in the URM program are eligible for all of the same services as an American born youth in a state foster care program… 

URM programs are funded by the Office of Refugee Resettlement, via the State Refugee Coordinator's office. This office oversees the administration of the URM programs. All URM programs are licensed and monitored regularly by their state child welfare authorities. In addition, LIRS and USCCB provide quality control and serve as an ongoing resource for the programs."

LIRS is the Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Service, and USCCB is the US Conference of Catholic Bishops. If I'm interested, the next step would be to contact them for more information.

And I am interested. I'm actually really interested.

I mean … not yet. We'll have to see where the TTC path leads first, because it's the one that's time-sensitive, and I dearly hope that it leads to a child of my own. But fostering in general, and this type in particular, doesn't feel like a substitute for having my own child. It doesn't feel like a consolation prize. It just feels like a very different path ... which I know I don't have energy to pursue very far right now, but which also (Thank God!) makes me feel some genuine excitement. I want to do BOTH of these things.

I'm still sorting out why I feel so drawn to the URM option and how much of that attraction is realistic. Some of it comes from reading Half the Sky a few years back. I stayed up literally all night reading that book, with its stories of women and girls forced into prostitution and exploited in the countless other ways that people can abuse each other. It was one of the most nauseating, heartbreaking, infuriating, energizing things I've ever read.

It was also wonderful to learn about the ways that people have been fighting back. I actually decided that night that if my dreams to have my own child couldn't be fulfilled, then my next step would be to spend a few months working for one of the groups in that book. Why not? I'd have no strings to tie me down; I'd be just the kind of person who could actually go and do it: working on contract, single, no kids of my own. Why not at least try to do something useful for someone's child? Meanwhile, it might keep me from drowning in self-pity at the time when I'd be most tempted.

And now … here is this option, right here in my own country.

I sense that my excitement is terribly naïve. I mean, I've never really pictured myself fostering a teen or pre-teen domestically, and now all of a sudden I'd consider fostering what's likely to be an even-more traumatized teen who speaks just a few words of my language? What on earth am I thinking???

What am I thinking? I'm thinking that I care. I'm thinking how many of the URM kids come from Central America, and how I have two years' worth of rusty Spanish that it wouldn't be too hard to resurrect. I'm thinking of these ads, and the fact that agencies provide some training. I'm thinking first of the reasons why it actually might work, which has not been the norm for me lately.

And I'm thinking, too, of the reasons why it might not work. My mind knows that there would be some special challenges, which I may decide I'm not truly able to meet once I find out more. And yet my heart still feels called—that's the only word that fits here—to take the next step and find out more anyway.

More Laughter

OK, now that the taxes and the cold are out of the way, I'm back to thinking about my previous post.

I still don't think it's done. There are some threads I can see but not quite knit together, some ideas that have yet to be fully formed. That's OK. It has to be, because it's where I am right now.

Maybe some things just need to be lived, without analysis.

And so, with no analysis (other than "Why not?"), I present to you: IF-related things that made me laugh this week.

   

64%

= how much of my gross income was spent on deductible medical expenses last year.

That's gross income, not adjusted gross. And it's not counting the non-deductible costs (another $4,000+) involved in Project Spawn, as someone else I know calls it.

On the bright side, I guess I will meet the threshold (7.5% of adjusted gross) for itemizing medical expenses this year.

*laughs hysterically*

Yes, it's tax time again. Preparing tax returns + reliving all of last year's traumas + coming down with a cold = NOT the most uplifting week I've ever had.

Bills, mostly.

Laughter

Lately my moods have been all over the place ... a fact that doesn't cause too much concern, actually. I figure that I'm still on the right track as long as I feel something other than that drained, depressive feeling that ebbs and flows.

Yesterday started with a sob-fest, after hearing a sad song that brought back memories, and ended with me laughing at a DVD of Bridesmaids. I always go for the Serious movies. Then, red-eyed and sniffling afterwards, I swear that next time I'll watch a comedy instead. This time was finally that next time. Bridesmaids was the prescription two friends gave me this week.

In the years they've been married, they've been through more than anyone else I know: major losses (different from mine), alcoholism, homelessness … then hard-won sobriety, followed by bad luck and—while doing everything right—more homelessness for months on end. I've seen them feeling very down at times, naturally.

But they can also LAUGH—also more than anyone else I know. When they're together, it's clear that their humor is a habit; they tease each other back and forth over little things like a couple of high-school friends. At the opposite end of the spectrum, nothing is too big and awful to have something funny hidden in it somewhere. I think their ability to just let go and laugh sometimes (OK, often) is a big part of what's helped them to keep going.

Another friend just returned from visiting loved ones in Cuba. In an email, she wrote, "The trip was magical, as is life when we allow it to be. In Cuba, there is no other way ... By necessity, people live in the moment and work with accepting and going beyond external circumstances with humor and love."

I'll be honest: I'm not great at the humor thing. It's the first ability to disappear when I'm feeling anything less than good. Not only does it feel like a stretch—at a time when I most want to contract and curl up, protecting my soft spots from further injury—but it feels almost morally wrong. Like laughing at a situation means accepting it.

And yet … that IS sort of what it means, isn't it? That’s exactly WHY it's so healing when I let myself let go.

Accepting something doesn't mean condoning it, just recognizing that yes, this is what is real. How can I ever hope to reach the Point B I'm so fixated on (or anywhere else I might want to end up), without first getting familiar with the landscape around Point A? I also have to acknowledge the scary fact that many important things will always be out of my control.

This week, in a context totally different from the one here, I heard one person give another this advice: "Keep telling your story. Just keep telling it, until the horror fades." It's true. The more I tell my story, the more the visceral horror fades, and along with it, the sense of dislocation ("This CAN'T be my real life!?") and being stuck at a dead end. It's possible to uncurl, stretch out a little, look around. It's even possible to laugh—not to cover the grief, but to keep the fear in my mind from shutting down my heart.

According to this article:

The root of the word courage is cor—the Latin word for heart. In one of its earliest forms, the word courage had a very different definition than it does today. Courage originally meant "To speak one's mind by telling all one's heart." Over time, this definition has changed, and, today, courage is more synonymous with being heroic ... Heroics are often about putting our life on the line. Ordinary courage is about putting our vulnerability on the line. In today’s world, that's pretty extraordinary.

When we're able to do it sincerely, from the heart, laughing in the face of disaster can be acceptance and uprising all at once (see Tig Notaro). It's immensely courageous.

I need more of it in my life.