So much unsaid

The last time I wrote a post for this blog was the first week of December. I wrote about how I'd really love to just tell someone flat out how inappropriate her asking me every month if I was pregnant was.

The ironic thing, I was actually pregnant at the time. I was five weeks six days pregnant. Miraculously our first round of IVF had worked. We would see our baby's heart beat for the first time two days later. And in two weeks I would have a D&C because our baby had died at seven weeks three days, one week before Christmas, one week before we had planned to surprise our families with the wonderful news we'd been gleefully keeping secret since Thanksgiving.

Two months later, a month ago Saturday, our second round of IVF would also miscarry.

Part of me wants to scream it all from the roof tops. Women need to know they are not alone with infertility. People need to understand why it is I won't go to that activity or can't do them that favor right now. I'm barely keeping my head above water most days, and the other days I'm only not drowning because my husband is holding me above water.

And the other part of me does not want to deal with the constant pity and questions and platitudes that don't do any good and often times actually hurt.

The two things I want right now are to be pregnant with a baby I'll get to wrap in a quilt and finish my dissertation proposal (in that order). But I'd settle for insurance coverage that covers more than just two IVF tries in your lifetime.

This was so not the post I planned to write today. Which means either you needed to read it or I needed to write it. I promise my next one will be happier.

Prayer and cramps

I have never been one of those people who has miraculously been healed of an illness; not really. I’ve prayed when I’ve been sick, and I’ve had relief either through medication or sleep, but I’ve never had the illness leave my body instantaneously. Don’t get me wrong! I have been healed in other ways—I’ve been strengthened beyond my capacity to endure emotional and mental burdens that would otherwise have crippled me, and I am profoundly grateful for that divine intervention. There are times I’m sure I wouldn’t be alive today had my prayers not been answered, but this little post isn’t about that kind of burden.

This post is about cramps.

I’m sure we’ve all had them at one time or another. I’m pretty lucky because mine are rarely very bad; mostly just uncomfortable and annoying. I can count on one hand the times when cramps literally had me down for the count, very suddenly and out of nowhere, over the last 20-odd years. Two of those instances, I had the luxury of finding out I couldn’t go to work before I got to work. This last one, I was already at work when it hit. Now listen, I rarely take sick days. The last time I took more than one sick day was last year when I had bronchitis and was coughing my guts out for three days. I might leave work early occasionally when I haven’t had enough sleep or need to see my doctor for something, but I usually tough it out pretty well. One day last week, I couldn’t. I could hardly move. By the time I’d been at work for half an hour, I was suddenly (it's never gradual in this case) in so much pain that I was nauseated, dizzy, shaky, and very pale when I gave up on Advil and looking up pressure points online and limped down the hall to throw up in the bathroom.

I’d been chatting online with my sister and had told her I was shaking and light-headed. She’d responded by reminding me I could take more painkillers and that she’d bring me some if I didn’t have any. I thanked her and told my coworkers I’d be back in a few minutes. I don’t know how long I was gone, but it was more than a few minutes. I remember facing the toilet in that public bathroom, praying that the pain would go away somehow so that I could stay at work and function normally. I kept praying as my body decided to keep my breakfast inside. I kept praying as I washed my hands and saw how pale and shaky I really was. I prayed more as I limped back to my office. I prayed as I saw that my sister had signed off. I kept praying that the pain would recede enough that I could think.

About 20 minutes after I got back to my desk, my sister came into my office with some painkillers and one of those ThermaCare patches for cramps (a GODSEND). She asked how many Advil I’d taken and how long it had been (3, an hour earlier, which should have kicked in but hadn’t made a dent) and suggested I take a fourth immediately and another one if the 4 didn’t take in the next 45 minutes. She told me to put the heat pack on as soon as possible and to keep her posted if it didn’t work, and then she was off to her own job.

I followed her instructions, choking down another pill before limping to the bathroom to put on the heat pack. I huddled over my desk, praying still, and felt that if I could, I should find a place to sleep for even 20 minutes. I talked to my coworker and told her I wasn’t feeling well (she wasn’t surprised, based on how I looked) and needed to lie down for a while but would be back before her meeting in 45 minutes. One of the bathrooms in the building has one of those anterooms with a padded bench, a shelf, a mirror, and a light you can turn off. I made my way there, set my phone to wake me up in 40 minutes, curled up on the bench, and tried to sleep. I never went into a full-blown sleep, but I dozed enough that my body was able to calm down and restore itself so I felt much better by the time my alarm went off. I checked my color in the bathroom mirror, realizing I was much less shaky and that the pain, although still in the background, no longer made me nauseated and dizzy.

I was able to get through the rest of my work day with only a little illness, and thanked my sister again when we met for lunch, which was cottage cheese (lots of protein, which I needed) and French fries we split (carbs, which I also needed). She said it was funny because at the time I told her I was shaking and dizzy from the pain, she had gotten distracted by something and was still online. Normally she wouldn’t have been in her office on the computer just then, but something made her stay. I had prayed for relief, and she had been able to see my need and provide help. If she hadn’t been there when she was, I don’t know if I’d have been able to drive myself home—I’m not a wimp, but I really don’t know if I would have made it all the way home, let alone out of the parking lot—and I know that I wouldn’t have been able to stay at work.

She was in the right place at the right time; angels didn’t come down from Heaven to take away that awful pain (I really feel for those of you with endometriosis!), but the pain was taken away because my sister was paying attention. Was my prayer heard? You bet it was! Was it answered? Definitely. I am so grateful for a Heavenly Father who takes care of me and for a sister who follows promptings.

Why I'm NOT a mom

Unexplained.

That's the one word answer to why.

After trying for a year on our own we were officially labeled "infertile" by the medical community. I'm never one for labels, but that one really hurt. And I've shed several tears about it.

Since the beginning of 2011 I've averaged one doctor appointment a week. Sometimes I get a week off but that generally just means two the following week. Try working your schedule around that. Every week someone is poking something into me - needles, speculums, ultrasound wands. I've actually mastered the art of peeing in a cup now too.

And after all that the answer came back - unexplained. Both of us work great. But for some unexplained reason we just aren't working together.

Every prayer I offer is a plea for guidance, understanding, and peace, as well as children. I've spent nights wondering if I'm not worthy to be a mom, which I know is crazy. I've cried that I can't fulfill the commandment to "multiply and replenish the earth and have joy therein." I feel broken. Even though medically speaking I'm not.

We have told a few people what we are going through, but that number is extremely small. The last thing I need is bad advice ("just relax and it will happen", "just stop trying and it will happen"). The last thing I need is everyone asking how things are going. A few people who need to understand my schedule a bit know just that I have some health issues we're working on.

I've lost my innocence about the miracle of birth. It's no longer something that my husband and I do together. It's something that's going to involve medical equipment and sterile things and more poking. The odds of us finding out we're expecting in the quiet of the morning (with my new found peeing in a cup talents) and being able to be the only people who know and revel in that miracle for a while are pretty much zero at this point. Now it'll be more poking, a blood draw, and a phone call.

We've lost a lot so far. I'm just holding on and hoping I don't lose my faith.

And that's why I'm not a mom.

Not my favorite Christmas

The first full day of my vacation to The Homeland was spent almost entirely in my pajamas, until I finally showered and dressed in normal clothes sometime after 5 PM.

Sounds divine, non?

Non. Not even a little bit. I didn't stay in my pajamas all day by choice. It just so happens that my arrival home the day before coincided with my father's arrival home from a 3.5 day hospital stay, and the next day it was my duty to be his primary caretaker.

Now, it was a scheduled surgery, not an accident, and he's going to be just fine or even more than in a few months. Yes, it was scheduled for the time I'd be home since Mom and One of My Siblings (the other missed Christmas with us this year) both work and the doctors said that it was either have someone available for him 24/7 for the first week or he was to go to a rehab hospital for post-op care.

Yay.

The idea was that we'd trade off shifts and no one person would have to shoulder most of the responsibility. Unfortunately, it didn't work out that way, and I took point with my mother close behind and Sibling a helpful, but a little more removed third.

That first day alone was awful. Dad needed something constantly, whether it was a machine adjusted, a urinal emptied (luckily, I stopped gagging about this the third time), food, meds, drinks, physical therapy assistance, and so on. He was finally okay on his own for my brief shower, but I cried before, during, and after said shower, partly because the whole thing was wearing me out and partly because I was so mad at myself for feeling so worn out and selfish, and it was only Day 1.

The good news is that it got better. Dad got stronger and gained more independence each day, and we sort of fell into a somewhat predictable routine. Despite everything, it was still mostly refreshing to be home. There's also something to be said about fighting and going through hellish ordeals with someone you're in a committed relationship with, something I don't often experience. You know that no matter what you say and do, you still love each other and WILL work it out. Of course, that makes some things sting more, but it still gives you hope.

Of course, I do wish that my dad had not once, but three times, not used his lucid moments to get after me and my lack of dating life. The last time was actually during Christmas breakfast and found me 1) swearing in front of my parents for the first time in my life (it was only "damn" and used for emphasis, but still) 2)storming off and 3)crying on the bathroom floor for an hour.

Not really a Christmas memory I wish to keep, but only one of the three of us in that conversation was on heavy medication at the time. He'll remember it happened, but he won't really remember all the details.

But like I said, it did get better. Even if neither my mom nor I had a full night's sleep (there were meds to given in the middle of the night) and taking care of a middle-aged post-op man is surprisingly like unto taking care of an infant, at least I was with my family. I did get out of the house a few times, and I showered, at some point, every day. Christmas itself didn't suck entirely and by the end of the week, there was far more laughter than tears. Plus, I never actually had to watch my dad relieve himself or bathe him, which would just have been embarrassing for both of us.

It was just a MAJOR adjustment to go from my solitary life to taking care of my father full-time, and not the vacation I was hoping for. I am most certainly glad I was able to be home for and with my family. If I had to, I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

I feel for those who have to take care of a parent or spouse full-time for more than a week. I don't know how you do it. I hope this experience helps me less self-centered the next time I have an opportunity to serve in a major capacity, or even a minor one. I know I learned quite a bit about communication and patience this week, I just hope I can keep those lessons with me.

I also wish my dad a very speedy recovery, and Mom and Sibling the patience to carry on without me.

How was your Christmas?

Fat

I graduated high school at a particular weight and more or less stayed there for the next three years of college. Then I went on a mission and ate food better than most I've ever tasted in my life. And I gained 25-30 pounds. My cheeks half way through looked like I'm filling them with air. It was very obvious I'd put on weight. Within a few months of coming home though it was all gone and I was back to the high school graduation weight (after eating unprocessed home cooking for 18 months, American food kind of sucked and eating wasn't a big interest of mine).

That was over nine years ago and during that time my weight fluctuated a pound or two in either direction, but basically stayed constant. I didn't necessarily watch what I ate really. I didn't exercise regularly. Every now and then I'd get it in my head to run a marathon and I'd work up to that. But I was just living life and enjoying it.

I haven't really stepped on a scale since getting married. After HP stubbed his toe on it one morning I put it in the closet. But my in-laws had one in the room we were staying in when we visited recently. It was one of those fancy digital ones. So I thought I'd stand on it just for fun. The darn thing was broken! It said I'd gained 20 pounds since we got married! What?!? Except HP said it wasn't that off for him, and he weighs himself pretty much weekly. This could not be right.

So when we got home I weighed myself on our scale, the one I've always used, after finding it odd that a pair of pants was a bit tight on my thighs, something I hadn't noticed before. My in-law's scale was off, but not by 20 pounds. I actually have gained about 10 pounds in the last six months.

How did this happen?!? After thinking about it, it's the same thing that happened on my mission. Since getting married I've been cooking a lot more unprocessed home cooked meals (it's much more fun to cook for two than one). And I'm not exactly watching portions because it all tastes so good.

I won't say I'm fat. Partially because we don't actually say things here. But also because nobody would let me. Weight is such a weird thing in our culture.

According to online BMI calculators (and those are super accurate), I'm still within normal ranges. But this isn't what I've known for so long. HP said he has noticed that I have more hips now than I did before. Which I said was fine, but my waist got bigger too so my curves didn't get any better.

All I could think about the rest of the day after weighing myself was that my waist is bigger and my gut sticks out now. I hate that.

I'm not going to diet. Diets seem to imply short term changes rather than life style changes. Instead I'm going to start watching my portions more. I don't need that fourth taco and I don't need that third plate of waffles. And maybe, if this stupid heat will pass, I'll start exercising more.

In the mean time, my pants were all starting to wear out anyway.