You know all that stuff I said I had to get done? The press releases, article, dissertation bits, etc.? I'm more or less done with it all. And yesterday's training royally kicked my sad butt to the curb: A 5 k up and down our lovely hilly streets followed by 1500 m in the pool. Who thinks this stuff up? Why have I put myself at the mercy of these Y sadists?
I woke up this morning feeling oddly hungover for someone who hasn't had a drink since Tuesday evening (my folks were in town, and Mom made me one of her killer gin and tonics). As if my quads and gluts had sneaked off in the night and gone on a bender. No matter how much water I drank, I was still thirsty. It took me hours to begin to feel human or to eat, even though I was starving.
Somehow in all this, however, I did my man a favor. We were out of sugar, so I rode my bike 2 miles or so to the grocery store because he desperately needed to finish a project before heading in to work. It felt like my body was already in such an odd state that a bit more strain really wouldn't make any difference, as if I'd clambered up a sheer cliff to a plateau where it didn't really matter what I did. The bike ride functioned like the hair of the dog: I could finally eat something (a Boca Burger and celery and some blueberries) and think straight.
Tomorrow? A 55 minute bike ride plus 2-3 mile run. At 7 am.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Line 'em up!
Since I have nothing better to do with the huge hunk of my brain that was once devoted to obsessing about IF and TTC, I've decided to engage in some wild speculation about treatment plans.
First, an aside. My man is funny. Though he's the one who so desperately wants the biokid, he doesn't seem to grasp that IF treatment is really, really expensive. It keeps conveniently slipping his mind. When I remind him of certain projected costs associated with stuff we've talked about, he sort of goes, "Oh, yeah." As if he's expecting never to have to really deal with that aspect of this whole situation. This, along with some other little blips I've noticed, makes me wonder what joys await him once the shit hits the fan. Once we get a negative cycle or five.
I'm thinking that the next academic year is likely the one when we'll have to go for the gusto, burn through all our assets, and see how many cycles we can fit in. There's no way in hell we can do IVF more than three times, and that's with begging, borrowing, and stealing thrown in. So, all told, I could be done with having to worry about this all by next year. So line 'em up and I'll knock 'em down. Just like I'm doing with my dissertation and training.
Isn't that funny? I never think about actually getting pregnant and having a baby. Just getting what seems to be the requisite treatment over with. A baby seems like too bizarre an outcome, though it's the end we're supposedly pursuing. I think about how to move on after we're broke, I'm fat and sick from the drugs, and my guy is forced to confront his dream of reconstituting his broken family. I never think about who my child might be or how I'll be with this new person in my life.
That's just too theoretical and abstract for me, really.
First, an aside. My man is funny. Though he's the one who so desperately wants the biokid, he doesn't seem to grasp that IF treatment is really, really expensive. It keeps conveniently slipping his mind. When I remind him of certain projected costs associated with stuff we've talked about, he sort of goes, "Oh, yeah." As if he's expecting never to have to really deal with that aspect of this whole situation. This, along with some other little blips I've noticed, makes me wonder what joys await him once the shit hits the fan. Once we get a negative cycle or five.
I'm thinking that the next academic year is likely the one when we'll have to go for the gusto, burn through all our assets, and see how many cycles we can fit in. There's no way in hell we can do IVF more than three times, and that's with begging, borrowing, and stealing thrown in. So, all told, I could be done with having to worry about this all by next year. So line 'em up and I'll knock 'em down. Just like I'm doing with my dissertation and training.
Isn't that funny? I never think about actually getting pregnant and having a baby. Just getting what seems to be the requisite treatment over with. A baby seems like too bizarre an outcome, though it's the end we're supposedly pursuing. I think about how to move on after we're broke, I'm fat and sick from the drugs, and my guy is forced to confront his dream of reconstituting his broken family. I never think about who my child might be or how I'll be with this new person in my life.
That's just too theoretical and abstract for me, really.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
An unusual source of insight
My man and I were watching a somewhat hyperbolic documentary on Andy Warhol's life this weekend. And it yielded a strange moment of philosophical troof. Just about the last thing I'd expect from Andy (if you've read his diaries, you know what I mean).
But the docu had a really cool quote from Warhol's head-banging-wall period of frustration and failure. No one bought his art, and though he was a successful commercial artist, it just wasn't doing it for him. His flirtations kept stalling out, and he was rejected by some hottie he was smitten with. This kind of annoying shit continued for year after year. Andy felt very, very down. Then he had a realization to the effect that, "I have all these problems and yeah, they suck. But so what? So what?" And things started to turn around, thanks to some Campbell's soup cans.
Somehow, the question really struck me. So what, indeed? I mean, why see all the problems and foibles and obstacles as a really, really big deal? Are they going to be mountains or molehills?
Not that I'm advocating Andy's approach, a kind of moral passivity bordering on depravity. But I think I'm going to be asking myself "so what?" a lot more in the coming months.
But the docu had a really cool quote from Warhol's head-banging-wall period of frustration and failure. No one bought his art, and though he was a successful commercial artist, it just wasn't doing it for him. His flirtations kept stalling out, and he was rejected by some hottie he was smitten with. This kind of annoying shit continued for year after year. Andy felt very, very down. Then he had a realization to the effect that, "I have all these problems and yeah, they suck. But so what? So what?" And things started to turn around, thanks to some Campbell's soup cans.
Somehow, the question really struck me. So what, indeed? I mean, why see all the problems and foibles and obstacles as a really, really big deal? Are they going to be mountains or molehills?
Not that I'm advocating Andy's approach, a kind of moral passivity bordering on depravity. But I think I'm going to be asking myself "so what?" a lot more in the coming months.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Surprise!
My period surprised me. This is unheard of, or at least for the past four or five years. No spotting, no PMS, no cramps, nothing. It just showed up after our 14 mile bike ride and 2 mile run on Saturday.
My "as if" act worked, and I had zero thoughts that this might be the magic month. So the excellent start made me happy, as if I had accomplished something. It made me feel healthy. And possibly--just possibly--able at some point to get knocked up. Something's gone right in there, and I hope it can keep in balance.
My "as if" act worked, and I had zero thoughts that this might be the magic month. So the excellent start made me happy, as if I had accomplished something. It made me feel healthy. And possibly--just possibly--able at some point to get knocked up. Something's gone right in there, and I hope it can keep in balance.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Acting As If
I was seriously disappointed, without ever realizing I would be, after last month. I hoped against hope that I'd get some kind of cosmic confirmation that the surgery was the final step, and that now that the last hurdles were removed, my body could take over.
This month, I'm acting as if I'm barren as the moon (as Pamela Jeanne so eloquently put it in one of her rip-roaring takes on a mommy article). As if the only way I'll ever get pregnant is to blast my belly with super drugs, and even then maybe not. I doesn't mean I'm doing lines or tequila shots; just telling myself no, sorry, just forget about that possibility. It's been three years, dear, so swallow your pride, suck it up, and do something else until you reach your injection date. Which will likely be August for logistical and economic reasons.
So that's what I've been doing: plowing away at the dis, trying to write about a related wacko topic for an article a friend asked me to submit to the journal she's editing, working for money (what a novel concept!), planting a gazillion potatoes, forcing myself to run up the steep-ass hills near our house. I have no option but to act as if I didn't give a flying rat's ass about my empty womb. And somehow, I feel a lot happier for it.
One thing that triathletes talk about is mental toughness. I think it's like a muscle; you can develop your toughness and cultivate as a resource to get you through the times when you must suffer circumstances out of your control. So I've been working on that. I've learned it's different from browbeating yourself for not doing something or feeling guilty for taking a break. It's about guiding yourself to a place where you can do all you need to do, without that much payback and reward. It's the kind of steadiness that gets you up that hill, even when you would prefer at the moment to keel over panting like a drunk dog. You don't deny it hurts, but you keep going for just a few more moments...
This month, I'm acting as if I'm barren as the moon (as Pamela Jeanne so eloquently put it in one of her rip-roaring takes on a mommy article). As if the only way I'll ever get pregnant is to blast my belly with super drugs, and even then maybe not. I doesn't mean I'm doing lines or tequila shots; just telling myself no, sorry, just forget about that possibility. It's been three years, dear, so swallow your pride, suck it up, and do something else until you reach your injection date. Which will likely be August for logistical and economic reasons.
So that's what I've been doing: plowing away at the dis, trying to write about a related wacko topic for an article a friend asked me to submit to the journal she's editing, working for money (what a novel concept!), planting a gazillion potatoes, forcing myself to run up the steep-ass hills near our house. I have no option but to act as if I didn't give a flying rat's ass about my empty womb. And somehow, I feel a lot happier for it.
One thing that triathletes talk about is mental toughness. I think it's like a muscle; you can develop your toughness and cultivate as a resource to get you through the times when you must suffer circumstances out of your control. So I've been working on that. I've learned it's different from browbeating yourself for not doing something or feeling guilty for taking a break. It's about guiding yourself to a place where you can do all you need to do, without that much payback and reward. It's the kind of steadiness that gets you up that hill, even when you would prefer at the moment to keel over panting like a drunk dog. You don't deny it hurts, but you keep going for just a few more moments...
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Training
Unsolicited assvice! If you want to distract yourself from your IF woes, try:
1. Getting yourself covered in hives. You won't care about anything else--though mine are fading. Can I say how awesome it is not to feel like a thousand little ants are biting you every few minutes? By comparison, I feel like a million bucks.
2. Signing up for a training program that sends you running up big long hills, then lifting weights, then biking home. You'll be too knackered to give a shit about your cycle, or much of anything beyond lying down and drinking water. In fact, I have to say that my IF struggle has prepared me mentally for this stuff. I can take a lot of grinding pain, and unlike IF I know it will be over in just an hour or so. I mean, compared to the 2ww, that's nothing.
3. Agreeing to write press releases to make money, an academic article to win the people's ovation and fame forever (to quote Chairman Kaga), my allotted dis portion, in the space of about a week and a half. Gulp.
With that, it's back to a press release now in progress.
1. Getting yourself covered in hives. You won't care about anything else--though mine are fading. Can I say how awesome it is not to feel like a thousand little ants are biting you every few minutes? By comparison, I feel like a million bucks.
2. Signing up for a training program that sends you running up big long hills, then lifting weights, then biking home. You'll be too knackered to give a shit about your cycle, or much of anything beyond lying down and drinking water. In fact, I have to say that my IF struggle has prepared me mentally for this stuff. I can take a lot of grinding pain, and unlike IF I know it will be over in just an hour or so. I mean, compared to the 2ww, that's nothing.
3. Agreeing to write press releases to make money, an academic article to win the people's ovation and fame forever (to quote Chairman Kaga), my allotted dis portion, in the space of about a week and a half. Gulp.
With that, it's back to a press release now in progress.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Ah, That's the Ticket
Finally. My face looks basically normal. My boils are drying up and in some places fading. I slept through the night without waking to rake my nails over my tortured skin. It's the small things in life that breed gratitude. That, and your kind and teasing comments about my temporarily deformed state.
Yesterday, after missing three days of training for the triathlon, I biked 10 miles and ran about three. Not bad, considering how my upper thighs were several inches more in diameter thanks to the puffiness. I decided to skip today's swim, though. I mean, would you want to float along next to Ms. Puffy, covered in oozing sores?
I didn't think so.
Yesterday, after missing three days of training for the triathlon, I biked 10 miles and ran about three. Not bad, considering how my upper thighs were several inches more in diameter thanks to the puffiness. I decided to skip today's swim, though. I mean, would you want to float along next to Ms. Puffy, covered in oozing sores?
I didn't think so.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Dreams
I have very odd dreams. Though I haven't been having many the past few days--too busy arranging my puffy self in some quasi-comfortable position--some dreams I had a year or a few months ago have come to mind. So, why not write about them?
One I had about a year and a half ago. I dreamed I somehow painlessly removed something soft and jellyfishlike from my body, something alien that was causing me to spot. It was like those spirit surgeons in Asia: I just gently put my hand inside my abdomen and pulled out this benign thing that had grown in the wrong place. I remember thinking, damn, if only I'd know it was that simple...
One I had more recently began in what I knew was an RE's office. I think this was after we had our first consult with Dr. Spunk. He was telling me something I didn't want to hear, and I was really upset. I didn't like the options being presented to me, but I didn't want to cry, because after all, it wasn't worse than what many women hear (I don't remember what the issue was). He left the room and I was sitting there, tears beginning to come on. Then suddenly, a door at the back of the office swung open and I noticed a road with several lanes leading up a steep hill, cars speeding by. But then I also noticed something much more interesting: A small, thin, green path that wove under and around the road, perfect for pedestrians (I'm always on the lookout for a better route on foot). The path was hidden and rarely used but led up that same hill. I went out the door and began to climb it, almost reaching the top when I woke up.
And a night or two ago, I dreamed I got a letter from an academic publisher. It was filled with little slips of paper, little notes. Someone, I eventually deciphered, wanted to read my work. They had put several little handwritten and illustrated letters in with what appeared to be a standard rejection letter.
One I had about a year and a half ago. I dreamed I somehow painlessly removed something soft and jellyfishlike from my body, something alien that was causing me to spot. It was like those spirit surgeons in Asia: I just gently put my hand inside my abdomen and pulled out this benign thing that had grown in the wrong place. I remember thinking, damn, if only I'd know it was that simple...
One I had more recently began in what I knew was an RE's office. I think this was after we had our first consult with Dr. Spunk. He was telling me something I didn't want to hear, and I was really upset. I didn't like the options being presented to me, but I didn't want to cry, because after all, it wasn't worse than what many women hear (I don't remember what the issue was). He left the room and I was sitting there, tears beginning to come on. Then suddenly, a door at the back of the office swung open and I noticed a road with several lanes leading up a steep hill, cars speeding by. But then I also noticed something much more interesting: A small, thin, green path that wove under and around the road, perfect for pedestrians (I'm always on the lookout for a better route on foot). The path was hidden and rarely used but led up that same hill. I went out the door and began to climb it, almost reaching the top when I woke up.
And a night or two ago, I dreamed I got a letter from an academic publisher. It was filled with little slips of paper, little notes. Someone, I eventually deciphered, wanted to read my work. They had put several little handwritten and illustrated letters in with what appeared to be a standard rejection letter.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Better
It feels like I'm fit as a fiddle, because things aren't nearly as disgusting as they were yesterday. However, I'm still looking a bit like a pink popover.
Except today my eyes open! Yeah! I took yesterday easy, and it seems to have helped. Today's a lazy day, too.
I can't wait until I'm normal again.
Except today my eyes open! Yeah! I took yesterday easy, and it seems to have helped. Today's a lazy day, too.I can't wait until I'm normal again.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Just Call Me Puffy
I think I'll take Antigone's advice and enjoy myself by scaring little children and innocent buffet goers with weird puffy eyes--it's after noon, so they're open beyond slits--and gross boils. I definitely gave my acupuncturist a good startle when I whipped off my shades to reveal my full puffy splendor.
Of course, there's always a strong vein of humor running through everything in my life. The aforementioned sunglasses were the only shades I could find. I have a kind of cute pair I picked up in Italy a few years ago, but no, they're AWOL. Only their butt-ugly buddies, these cheapo mirror shades for a much larger headed person, were easy to locate. The ugly dudes are the kind of reflective sunglasses favored by sunburned, buzz cut-sporting guys cutting corporate lawns or directing traffic around construction sites. So for the past few days, I've been running around with two long braids, these stupid shades, long sleeves and a missing tooth (implant coming soon). I look insane.
At least my husband still loves me. He's been taking good care of me, buying me skeins of gauze to wrap myself in, making food, kissing my puffy face.
And one more good thing: no thinking about infertility whilst smitten by boils.
Of course, there's always a strong vein of humor running through everything in my life. The aforementioned sunglasses were the only shades I could find. I have a kind of cute pair I picked up in Italy a few years ago, but no, they're AWOL. Only their butt-ugly buddies, these cheapo mirror shades for a much larger headed person, were easy to locate. The ugly dudes are the kind of reflective sunglasses favored by sunburned, buzz cut-sporting guys cutting corporate lawns or directing traffic around construction sites. So for the past few days, I've been running around with two long braids, these stupid shades, long sleeves and a missing tooth (implant coming soon). I look insane.
At least my husband still loves me. He's been taking good care of me, buying me skeins of gauze to wrap myself in, making food, kissing my puffy face.
And one more good thing: no thinking about infertility whilst smitten by boils.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Reaction
I'm covered in welts and boils, something like what you'd see on an extra in an action-packed, cast of thousands-type film about the Black Death.
Okay, it's not that bad, but I do look pretty scary. It's the mold's fault. I have a terrible allergy to mold and I appear to have touched something moldish in the past few days.
So if I'm quiet, it's because I'm waiting for my eyes to open from their swollen state.
I know, charming, right?
Okay, it's not that bad, but I do look pretty scary. It's the mold's fault. I have a terrible allergy to mold and I appear to have touched something moldish in the past few days.
So if I'm quiet, it's because I'm waiting for my eyes to open from their swollen state.
I know, charming, right?
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Good Timing
Yesterday, as I came back from a nice long run in the damp chilly air, I got not one, not two, but THREE rejection letters from publishers. I laughed out loud.
Then I realized something: This whole book project has my panties in a bunch for two reasons, both of them not soulful reasons. One, my advisor hooked me up with this project and thought I did such a great job it should be published. I've already been paid (a little) for my translation and I'm actually trying to follow through on somone else's idea. Two, a book would look good on my CV and might help me get a professor gig. I love the original book's author and would love to help him. But if this doesn't work out, it's not the death of a dream, you know?
This year appears to be the year of hitting my head against the wall. With no work for next academic year, an endless struggle to dissertate, the treatment slog in my future, either the wall's going to break, or my head. Any bets which goes first?
I am pretty hard headed, you know.
Then I realized something: This whole book project has my panties in a bunch for two reasons, both of them not soulful reasons. One, my advisor hooked me up with this project and thought I did such a great job it should be published. I've already been paid (a little) for my translation and I'm actually trying to follow through on somone else's idea. Two, a book would look good on my CV and might help me get a professor gig. I love the original book's author and would love to help him. But if this doesn't work out, it's not the death of a dream, you know?
This year appears to be the year of hitting my head against the wall. With no work for next academic year, an endless struggle to dissertate, the treatment slog in my future, either the wall's going to break, or my head. Any bets which goes first?
I am pretty hard headed, you know.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Um, and there's more
I forgot the end of the meme. Chalk it up to only one cup of tea this morning.
Umm... about the shows I love to watch. The only TV show I've watched recently was Top Chef, which is very amusing and somewhat psycho. How about shows my guy likes to watch? That would be Book TV.
Four things I like to do:
1. Pontificate
2. Do research on dead people from strange corners of the world
3. Garden
4. Cook and eat veggies. Right now, I'm obsessed with peas and crave them on a regular basis.
Okay, I swear I won't trouble you anymore.
Umm... about the shows I love to watch. The only TV show I've watched recently was Top Chef, which is very amusing and somewhat psycho. How about shows my guy likes to watch? That would be Book TV.
Four things I like to do:
1. Pontificate
2. Do research on dead people from strange corners of the world
3. Garden
4. Cook and eat veggies. Right now, I'm obsessed with peas and crave them on a regular basis.
Okay, I swear I won't trouble you anymore.
Taggity, tagged, tag
Oh, that Kate! She done tagged me. With a meme that fills me with horror at my complete inability to remember what I was doing five, ten years ago. The yesterday part isn't too rough. Great historian, right?
Well, here goes...
Four things I ten years ago:
1. I got a job working for a really cool non-profit concert presenter and got to hear more global music than you can shake a stick at. My favorite moment from that job: Going to check up on a very sweet Indian musician who was about four feet tall, but who still very politely complained about the size of his petit NYC hotel room. I apologized, swallowing a big ol' belly laugh.
2. I lived on the Lower East Side and played at various, now defunct cool rock clubs in various bands.
3. I met the actors and musicians who introduced me to the Obscure Corner of the World. They blew my mind and set me on a new course in life, at a time when I wasn't sure what to do with myself.
4. I drove to Newfoundland with my first husband (nice guy, bad match, now working in biology for the Smithsonian, we're still on good terms) and we nearly missed our marriage celebration. We had taken his mom's old car to the island--one of the most amazing places on Earth-- all the way from NYC, and driven it down a hundred miles of gravel roads to a tiny fishing town where you can watch the icebergs drift down from the Arctic. As we prepared to leave the next day, the car wouldn't start. We got a tow to the next big town thanks to a nice local guy who had welded his own trailer, and we waited anxiously, staring out at the ocean, for our car to be fixed. They said it might take days, but they did it in hours, smiling dryly as they told us they hadn't wanted to get our hopes up. That was also the trip I drove to the ferry back to mainland Canada--several hours--without a license, due to absolute fatigue on ex-hub's part. All in all, a real adventure.
Four things I did 5 years ago:
1. I got officially divorced from Nice Guy.
2. I went to Obscure Corner of the World--yet again. Was that the summer I interned at a women's rights organization? The summer with all the forest fires? Or the one I made out with the hot Polish guy on the train? They all run together.
3. I got myself involved in a really passionate, deeply problematic long-distance (and then not long-distance) relationship with a sculptor in an E. European city. It went on and on, until I couldn't take it anymore and broke it off more than a year later. We're still good friends; he's still brilliant but kind of crazy.
4. I was really fucking depressed, drinking a lot, fooling around as the drunken urge hit me, living in a little bungalow at the edge of town, cursing my fate. All while working several jobs and taking a full grad course load. No wonder I drank so much.
Four things I did yesterday:
1. I had a kick-ass acupuncture session specifically working on fertility. It felt fantastic, and I took one of those deep, refreshing naps that is like a cool glass of clear water on a blazing hot day. This is the first time, I think, we've worked on fertility because I'm finally in some kind of balance.
2. I watched a couple episodes of Northern Exposure on DVD while cuddling with my guy, the love of my life. That makes any TV show better.
3. I made sure our tomato plants weren't too waterlogged with all the rain we've gotten lately.
4. I wrote a couple pages of my dis, about the use of ethnographic material in theater in this one remote area of the OCOW and how it contrasts with... oh, you get the picture.
To all a good weekend!
Well, here goes...
Four things I ten years ago:
1. I got a job working for a really cool non-profit concert presenter and got to hear more global music than you can shake a stick at. My favorite moment from that job: Going to check up on a very sweet Indian musician who was about four feet tall, but who still very politely complained about the size of his petit NYC hotel room. I apologized, swallowing a big ol' belly laugh.
2. I lived on the Lower East Side and played at various, now defunct cool rock clubs in various bands.
3. I met the actors and musicians who introduced me to the Obscure Corner of the World. They blew my mind and set me on a new course in life, at a time when I wasn't sure what to do with myself.
4. I drove to Newfoundland with my first husband (nice guy, bad match, now working in biology for the Smithsonian, we're still on good terms) and we nearly missed our marriage celebration. We had taken his mom's old car to the island--one of the most amazing places on Earth-- all the way from NYC, and driven it down a hundred miles of gravel roads to a tiny fishing town where you can watch the icebergs drift down from the Arctic. As we prepared to leave the next day, the car wouldn't start. We got a tow to the next big town thanks to a nice local guy who had welded his own trailer, and we waited anxiously, staring out at the ocean, for our car to be fixed. They said it might take days, but they did it in hours, smiling dryly as they told us they hadn't wanted to get our hopes up. That was also the trip I drove to the ferry back to mainland Canada--several hours--without a license, due to absolute fatigue on ex-hub's part. All in all, a real adventure.
Four things I did 5 years ago:
1. I got officially divorced from Nice Guy.
2. I went to Obscure Corner of the World--yet again. Was that the summer I interned at a women's rights organization? The summer with all the forest fires? Or the one I made out with the hot Polish guy on the train? They all run together.
3. I got myself involved in a really passionate, deeply problematic long-distance (and then not long-distance) relationship with a sculptor in an E. European city. It went on and on, until I couldn't take it anymore and broke it off more than a year later. We're still good friends; he's still brilliant but kind of crazy.
4. I was really fucking depressed, drinking a lot, fooling around as the drunken urge hit me, living in a little bungalow at the edge of town, cursing my fate. All while working several jobs and taking a full grad course load. No wonder I drank so much.
Four things I did yesterday:
1. I had a kick-ass acupuncture session specifically working on fertility. It felt fantastic, and I took one of those deep, refreshing naps that is like a cool glass of clear water on a blazing hot day. This is the first time, I think, we've worked on fertility because I'm finally in some kind of balance.
2. I watched a couple episodes of Northern Exposure on DVD while cuddling with my guy, the love of my life. That makes any TV show better.
3. I made sure our tomato plants weren't too waterlogged with all the rain we've gotten lately.
4. I wrote a couple pages of my dis, about the use of ethnographic material in theater in this one remote area of the OCOW and how it contrasts with... oh, you get the picture.
To all a good weekend!
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Oneupmanship
I've long been in denial about my competitive nature. I really hate to admit that I'm competing, showing off, trying to prove how much better I am than those around me. But that's part of my nature, and I realized recently how it plays into my decisions regarding IF.
I want to be special. Even in this.
Being special means some miraculous surprise pregnancy, some unusual twist in the long, drawn-out march through escalating treatments, despair, and complacency. Oh, look! We were going to have ourselves cloned, but then we discovered that we had conceived twins! Something like that. Not being special means signing on to the regular menu of shots, shots, more shots plus petrie dishes and minor surgeries, repeat, ad nauseum, and so forth. And maybe having that work.
It feels like a betrayal of some unarticulated part of my nature to concede that, yes, I may be just a regular old infertility patient, with okay responses and a decent outlook. No uncanny gifts, thrilling endings, thickened plots. I may have to grimly, dully do this stupid crap for a biochild. And little Ms. Special will have to thrive in other areas of my life.
Perhaps I shouldn't be too hard on myself, though. I've been a bit different all my life, not always by choice. Things have always been easy for me, and I was branded as "gifted" early on. Usually, if the world wasn't giving me what I wanted, I switched tactics and found something else to satisfy me.
Here, there are no other options. I must go forward, set aside my strange need to prove myself special. I must be ordinary and do what sees to be the only thing that might get us where we're going. The days of miracles and competitive specialness are over.
I want to be special. Even in this.
Being special means some miraculous surprise pregnancy, some unusual twist in the long, drawn-out march through escalating treatments, despair, and complacency. Oh, look! We were going to have ourselves cloned, but then we discovered that we had conceived twins! Something like that. Not being special means signing on to the regular menu of shots, shots, more shots plus petrie dishes and minor surgeries, repeat, ad nauseum, and so forth. And maybe having that work.
It feels like a betrayal of some unarticulated part of my nature to concede that, yes, I may be just a regular old infertility patient, with okay responses and a decent outlook. No uncanny gifts, thrilling endings, thickened plots. I may have to grimly, dully do this stupid crap for a biochild. And little Ms. Special will have to thrive in other areas of my life.
Perhaps I shouldn't be too hard on myself, though. I've been a bit different all my life, not always by choice. Things have always been easy for me, and I was branded as "gifted" early on. Usually, if the world wasn't giving me what I wanted, I switched tactics and found something else to satisfy me.
Here, there are no other options. I must go forward, set aside my strange need to prove myself special. I must be ordinary and do what sees to be the only thing that might get us where we're going. The days of miracles and competitive specialness are over.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Workin' the Polls
I spent all day yesterday working at our local precinct, taking names and declaring parties. It's always a really long day: 16-17 hours in a room with a bunch of wacky older folks. Some are really sweet wacky, and some--bless them--seem to be having one protracted senior moment. Getting them to understand forms, read directions, etc. proved challenging. It made me realize how my education has served me. I can figure out even the election commission's twisted prose. Must be all the Sovietology.
Anyway, it was great to see such high turnout for a primary, somewhere around 45-50%. And this is in our hood, which is a funky combo of Republicrat subdivisions, down-home trailers, and public housing. It's not unusual to see a broken-down old shack next to a hippy bungalow, replete with giant peace sign and VW bus, next to a trailer park. Sorry, mobile home community. So the energy and excitement of the mostly working class electorate in our area just thrilled me. I mean, these folks are hurting. They should make their voices heard, at the very least at the voting machine.
The one thing that was hard was--wait for it--yes, you guessed it: the endless pregnant ladies voting. Especially the ones with toddlers and bumps. Some of the kids were annoying, and I was glad I didn't have a child like them (Sorry, some kids really do suck. Just like adults do. But unlike adults, there's still a chance they could blossom into something less irritating). But there were heart-melting, adorable little kids--a self-possessed little girl with beautiful bright beads on her braids, a girl with a big, eager smile and thoughtful eyes--who made me curse my barren womb.
And the ladies working with me. That was all they talked about, how they had raised their kids. It was clearly a big point of pride, how they had worked three jobs and scrimped and saved and put them through college. But I couldn't help but think, "Is this it? Is this the sum total of our lives as women? The sacrifices and the number of offspring?" By that calculus, I'm nothing. Yet at the same time, I'm so much more. Or at least something else altogether.
In general, their stories made me wonder how far the struggles of the 1970s have gotten us. I mean, sure, life's changed since these gals were working double shifts at the plant but has it really changed that much for women? How many women fall into the Momzilla mold for lack of a better idea, disappear into their identity as so-and-so's mommy, or work their butts off to provide for their families yet never get to spend the time they'd like with their kids? Why, in the end, have children? Beyond the biological urge--nothing to be scoffed at, but not all that we are.
These are not rhetorical questions. They haunt me, and make me wonder what I've learned and who, on some deep level, I truly am.
Oh yeah, and I voted for Obama.
Anyway, it was great to see such high turnout for a primary, somewhere around 45-50%. And this is in our hood, which is a funky combo of Republicrat subdivisions, down-home trailers, and public housing. It's not unusual to see a broken-down old shack next to a hippy bungalow, replete with giant peace sign and VW bus, next to a trailer park. Sorry, mobile home community. So the energy and excitement of the mostly working class electorate in our area just thrilled me. I mean, these folks are hurting. They should make their voices heard, at the very least at the voting machine.
The one thing that was hard was--wait for it--yes, you guessed it: the endless pregnant ladies voting. Especially the ones with toddlers and bumps. Some of the kids were annoying, and I was glad I didn't have a child like them (Sorry, some kids really do suck. Just like adults do. But unlike adults, there's still a chance they could blossom into something less irritating). But there were heart-melting, adorable little kids--a self-possessed little girl with beautiful bright beads on her braids, a girl with a big, eager smile and thoughtful eyes--who made me curse my barren womb.
And the ladies working with me. That was all they talked about, how they had raised their kids. It was clearly a big point of pride, how they had worked three jobs and scrimped and saved and put them through college. But I couldn't help but think, "Is this it? Is this the sum total of our lives as women? The sacrifices and the number of offspring?" By that calculus, I'm nothing. Yet at the same time, I'm so much more. Or at least something else altogether.
In general, their stories made me wonder how far the struggles of the 1970s have gotten us. I mean, sure, life's changed since these gals were working double shifts at the plant but has it really changed that much for women? How many women fall into the Momzilla mold for lack of a better idea, disappear into their identity as so-and-so's mommy, or work their butts off to provide for their families yet never get to spend the time they'd like with their kids? Why, in the end, have children? Beyond the biological urge--nothing to be scoffed at, but not all that we are.
These are not rhetorical questions. They haunt me, and make me wonder what I've learned and who, on some deep level, I truly am.
Oh yeah, and I voted for Obama.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Combatting Nature
My weekend was incredibly dull to describe. We basically spent it gardening out at my MIL's place, pulling out skeins of confounded mint roots and churning up the soil a bit. We planted potatoes, carrots, basil, turnips... Back at our place, I planted some squash, beans, and a few other things, and we basically did some major clean up.
One very bizarre thing that happened came as we were celebrating our anniversary by going to our favorite breakfast spot, a funky little place out in the middle of nowhere, and going on a hike. The hike started off just fine--the weather was perfect, the woods were lovely. Then, my guy spots some folks with little mesh bags of morels, the gold of the forest in our neck of the woods at this time of year. So he launches on a minor rant about how we weren't going to buy any morels this year. I said, fine, whatever. They are expensive, after all, and we're on a strict food budget.
He then decides we're going to hunt for morels and gives me all sorts of directions, wandering off into the woods next to the trail. I start to sulk: I don't want to spend this lovely time together staring at the leaf litter looking for fungi. We look and look, or rather, he looks and looks and I poke around, getting more and more annoyed at his tone and our fruitless search. Finally, we somehow start arguing, after I said something about asking someone who knew more about where the best places to find morels might be. He took umbrage, thinking that I somehow doubted his abilities in a general way, and eventually flew into a rage when I wouldn't apologize for something I didn't understand.
We're both really stubborn and we both have a temper. After a while, I walked off down the trail, sensing that the fireworks were becoming pointless. I started wondering whether there was any point in going through all these trials to have kids, if we couldn't explain the most basic problems to each other. I went about a quarter of a mile or so, and I decided, now very calm, that I needed to go back. I half expected him to have high-tailed it back to the car, he was that angry. But I found him sitting, brooding by a log. As he sat there, holding me, I told him I wasn't afraid of his anger and that it wouldn't hurt our relationship. He told me I had touched on an old wound and he had flipped out. Our natures had been in full-out combat: my hard-headed refusal to take perceived slights or orders, even when they are merely in my mind, and his desperate fear of some unspeakable inadequacy, one I've never seen.
We decided to head back to the car, and then he asked me, sweetly, kindly this time, if I would hunt for some morels with him. I said yes, because when he asked sincerely instead of ordering me, I actually wanted to do something with him.
So we tromped over ridge and creek, cutting through the forest back to an old eroded road that led down into a broad, populated valley. There, the firepinks and Jack in the Pulpits were everywhere as the white, puffy clouds of summer marshaled on the horizon. We began to sing stupid songs, leap into the creeks that crisscrossed the road, and imagine what we would grow in the fields around us.
One very bizarre thing that happened came as we were celebrating our anniversary by going to our favorite breakfast spot, a funky little place out in the middle of nowhere, and going on a hike. The hike started off just fine--the weather was perfect, the woods were lovely. Then, my guy spots some folks with little mesh bags of morels, the gold of the forest in our neck of the woods at this time of year. So he launches on a minor rant about how we weren't going to buy any morels this year. I said, fine, whatever. They are expensive, after all, and we're on a strict food budget.
He then decides we're going to hunt for morels and gives me all sorts of directions, wandering off into the woods next to the trail. I start to sulk: I don't want to spend this lovely time together staring at the leaf litter looking for fungi. We look and look, or rather, he looks and looks and I poke around, getting more and more annoyed at his tone and our fruitless search. Finally, we somehow start arguing, after I said something about asking someone who knew more about where the best places to find morels might be. He took umbrage, thinking that I somehow doubted his abilities in a general way, and eventually flew into a rage when I wouldn't apologize for something I didn't understand.
We're both really stubborn and we both have a temper. After a while, I walked off down the trail, sensing that the fireworks were becoming pointless. I started wondering whether there was any point in going through all these trials to have kids, if we couldn't explain the most basic problems to each other. I went about a quarter of a mile or so, and I decided, now very calm, that I needed to go back. I half expected him to have high-tailed it back to the car, he was that angry. But I found him sitting, brooding by a log. As he sat there, holding me, I told him I wasn't afraid of his anger and that it wouldn't hurt our relationship. He told me I had touched on an old wound and he had flipped out. Our natures had been in full-out combat: my hard-headed refusal to take perceived slights or orders, even when they are merely in my mind, and his desperate fear of some unspeakable inadequacy, one I've never seen.
We decided to head back to the car, and then he asked me, sweetly, kindly this time, if I would hunt for some morels with him. I said yes, because when he asked sincerely instead of ordering me, I actually wanted to do something with him.
So we tromped over ridge and creek, cutting through the forest back to an old eroded road that led down into a broad, populated valley. There, the firepinks and Jack in the Pulpits were everywhere as the white, puffy clouds of summer marshaled on the horizon. We began to sing stupid songs, leap into the creeks that crisscrossed the road, and imagine what we would grow in the fields around us.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Acupuncture is Magic
I went to see my acupuncturist yesterday, and I swear she fixed me up good. I feel amazing today. The veil of gloom is lifted, my energy is back. The only "down side": She warned me that the treatment might stop my period temporarily--and it did. So don't let anyone tell you acupuncture doesn't work.
Uh, Auntie Flo? It's okay. You can come back now.
Uh, Auntie Flo? It's okay. You can come back now.
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