The Inner Doubt Machine

After two years of procrastination, I finally get fitted for a prosthetic breast. More of my videos here.

I started this blog in hopes that someday I'd wrangle a book out of all my experiences around the question of pregnancy (at the time I was working as an abortion counselor, facing my own infertility.) 

Since before I could properly hold a pencil, I knew I wanted to grow up to become a writer and an an artist, that I wanted to make books. I've made swipes at it for years. I have several more-finished-than-not manuscripts and book proposals tucked away. And the few times I've put myself out there, I have had some encouraging small successes. 

This is not the first time I've bent myself to the task of being a writer, but this time, I can tell, it's different. I'm not sure I can put my finger on what has shifted. Maybe it's because of the cancer, which doesn't let me forget that life is a precious and fleeting thing. Maybe it's because I have reached critical mass to counteract the inner doubt machine - finally enough people in my life who consistently express interest in what I have to say. (How do you work through the hard parts of expressing yourself when you don't believe anyone will ever be interested in your vision?)

So if I'm not writing on the blog so much as I once did, and not making so many videos either, I hope you'll understand. I'm busy taking it to the next level.

And I plan to take you with me. Stay tuned.

There Are Reasons

I have been silent for a month. Why?

The most recent reason is the lump, but I'll get to that.

At first it was because I was giving myself a vacation from the computer, spending more time outdoors, enjoying the waning days of summer, my favorite time of the year.

Then it was because the fertility specialist had recommended I retest that one clotting factor in order to get a better sense of whether blood clotting might be an issue in my next pregnancy. But for some reason, I kept putting off that blood test, and I didn't know what to say about that.

Then, on the heels of a heart-to-heart with J~ about why it didn't seem to bother him that I wasn't following through, it became clear to me that I was in it, on a certain level, alone. While another child was a dream for him, it wasn't a high priority. I came to understand yet again (but perhaps a bit more deeply) that a baby would basically be my project, my all-consuming chore for years to come, and though he would help in every way he could, and though he would be a dedicated and loving father, and though I would take immense pleasure in raising my own child... I could not bring myself to finish this sentence.

I finally told J~ that I did not want this badly enough to want it badly alone. J~ had to admit, he was not in that place. "Maybe twenty years ago..." he began, and suddenly I was thinking back over my own past, landing on myself at 25. I worked part-time as a nanny for four children, ages 5, 5, 3 and 1 1/2, and I was good at it, I enjoyed it. One afternoon I drew a picture of the baby, asleep in her stroller, all her pudgy folds, and as I did this, on some level I knew. I was ready. But I wasn't financially stable and my boyfriend would have been terrified. I expect if I had told him then that I wanted to have a baby, he would have disappeared in a cloud of dust a la Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote. (Which is what he did ten years later, but that's another story.)

And then I wasn't writing because I didn't know how to tell you I'd pulled the plug. Though I still don't see myself actively preventing pregnancy, I am done trying, more done than any of the other times I've professed that I was done. I fear, dear readers, you will be disappointed and you will go away.

It's a funny thing, blogging. When I started this, I was throwing my words into the ether, thrilled and surprised to find anyone out there was actually taking the time to read them. I'm not a secretive person by nature. Over time, many of my friends and family members came to know that I do this. My mother reads regularly, my father checks in. It doesn't escape my consciousness that there's a good chance my ex-husband stops by on occasion, satisfying his curiosity while sidestepping the pesky chore of actually communicating with me. I never thought I'd come to depend on the support I receive from or feel a responsibility to the large community of strangers who make up most of my readers. But sometimes I wish I'd never told anyone I know.

Because then, when I find a lump in my breast, I wouldn't feel reluctant to write about it. I wouldn't worry about pushy questions and panicky judgments about my choices in health care. I don't want to be grilled about what I'm doing and not doing and how fast I'm doing and not doing it. I don't want to hear horror stories. I don't want everyone's fear flying at me. Trust me, I'm scared enough.

On the bright side, my lump is less than half the size it was when we first found it 10 days ago. The radiologist I spoke to said that while "anything can happen" she'd never heard of a cancerous lump shrinking, that it's very common in women my age that benign lumps grow and shrink along with the ebb and flow of the menstrual cycle, and she confirmed what I've read all over the internet – that 80% of all breast lumps turn out to be benign. And that when there are more than one lump next to each other (it turns out there are two of them) it's actually a good sign.

Moving Forward

I've been a negligent blogger. Ever since I put the last miscarriage behind me, I've been moving – biking, running, swimming. J~ is training for the Hartford Marathon in October, his first ever, and his excitement is contagious. I've never run more than six miles in a row myself, but now I'm considering it. I'm maybe just maybe going to do the half marathon. That's enough for me, I think. Thirteen miles? We'll see how it goes.

I've been reading three books on miscarriage, and I want to recommend all three, particularly the idea of reading all o them at the same time. They cover some of the same scientific bases but from different points of view, which makes it possible to get a nuanced understanding of the state of this mysterious medical field. I recommend these books especially if you, like me, have had multiple miscarriages and don't have a lock on why. So without further ado, here are the books. Click on them for more info:

          

Since I last wrote. J~ and I visited a new fertility clinic. This was not an easy thing for me to do. In fact, I told J~ I wanted to cancel because I hadn't secured all my medical records in time. He asked for the real reason, and I had to admit my fear of being judged, my discouragement, my desire not to give over any more of my life to what seems to be a losing battle. All of this made me cry to admit, and the tears cleared the air. I didn't cancel the appointment.

The doctor was friendly, respectful, and patient as I recounted my history and ran him through the gauntlet of my ten million questions (I came with a list). He recommended a battery of blood tests (for hormone levels, clotting and immunology issues, thyroid function, insulin, and of course genetics testing for both of us.) He also recommended a Sonohystogram (SHG), a procedure in which saline solution is injected through the cervix in order to better view the uterus via ultrasound.

I've said many times that I'm not up for anything invasive. Loyal readers, you've heard me say it. My rule of thumb: Nothing ever again goes in through my cervix except sperm. The doctor did not pressure me, or at least it didn't seem like he was pressuring. But many of my questions led back to this test. For instance, though I know it's a long shot, I've always been haunted by the question, What if I have scarring from the abortion? Could that cause an early miscarriage? The doctor said, "The SHG would show if there is scarring."

I reconsidered. Could J~ be there with me? I asked. "Of course!" boomed the doc. And suddenly I was in tears. I had not been even close to crying recounting my history, or hearing that even if they find a problem and fix it, at my age, I may very well miscarry again. None of this was new information. The new thing was the realization, on some deep primal level, that the abortion is over. That I am not a frightened teenager all alone. That no one is judging me for what I'm going through, there is no shame in it. There will be no gruff, anonymous doctor treating me like just another vagina on a gruesome assembly line. I won't have to pretend, later in the day, that nothing happened.

(For the record, by the way, while working in an abortion clinic, I have seen with my own eyes that not all abortion docs are like that. I wouldn't go so far as to say they are usually personable and compassionate, but once in a while they are very much so.)

As things stand today, the blood tests are behind me. (I've never seen so many little glass vials lined up for my blood!)

As instructed, I will call to schedule my SHG when my next period arrives. (That is, if it arrives. J~ and I have been supremely uncareful this month. Then again, I'd be shocked if I'm pregnant again already. It's the first cycle after a miscarriage. I'm forty years old. And if you don't count #6, which, let's face it, maybe never really happened, this last pregnancy took almost two and a half years to achieve.)

I'm not optimistic that I'll ever get pregnant again, less optimistic that I'll find any answers. But right now, I feel good about going forward with these tests. Even if I never have a child to show for it, at least I'll eliminate some of the unknowns.

Ten Weeks Not

First off, I want to thank everyone who has taken the time and showed so much heart in sharing their stories and opinions. I take it all to heart. J~ and I read and discuss your comments together. It helps. It really does.

The other day I ran into a woman I know, an acquaintance who also happens to be a doctor. I took a deep breath and stopped her to ask if she knew an RE she could recommend who specializes in miscarriage. She didn't even know what an RE was, but of course asked many questions, and before I knew it I'd stumbled into that conversational cul-de-sac I have come to truly hate.  

Have you considered adoption?

Why must everyone ask this? It's part of why I find it so difficult to seek answers and support. Do people honestly think I haven't thought of that? Don't they realize that what they're saying, on some level, is, Have you considered giving up? 

You wouldn't ask an overweight neighbor, Why don't you just go on a diet? If someone stopped you on the street to ask for directions to Joe's Restaurant, you wouldn't say, Have you considered going to John's Restaurant instead? even thoughthe food at Joe's is greasy and over-priced. Wouldn't that be considered rude? Why is this different?

Okay, okay, I'm venting. I know people care and are just trying to understand. My anger isn't with this individual, or with anyone else who broaches the subject. It's just way too flip of a question about way too tricky a subject, and I hate how little sensitivity is built into our societal consciousness. It hits a very raw nerve. Perhaps it would be better if I just got angry in the moment, but instead I take on the role of educator, ambassador for all of us in this hidden realm of pregnancy loss. I make the mistake of answering with depth and feeling. I bare my soul. I told this woman, If my husband and I were ten years younger, if he didn't already have a child, I bet would be looking into adoption. If someone left a baby at our doorstep, or if J~ was saying he wanted to adopt, I'd probably be thrilled. I'd be nervous and I'd have to think about it, but I'd be thrilled. But this is not where we're at.

She was still looking at me with puzzlement and concern, so I went on to talk about the teenage abortion I never wanted to have, my fear ever since that I'd never get to have children. And just when I was about to admit that, at this point, after this many failures, I feel like I want the experience of a healthy pregnancy more than I want the child, I deflected her questioning expression by bringing the subject back around to my quest for help, to my fear of asking. To how much courage it took for me to stop her in passing and ask these revealing questions in the first place, let alone call up strangers on the phone. Because, let's face it, I've been wanting good medical support for a long time and have felt completely overwhelmed and discouraged about seeking it out.

And then she gave me some really good, simple advice. She suggested I let myself have my emotions but keep that separate from the work at hand. Make a list of tasks and do what you need to do. 

So I did. I sat down with J~ and went over his work schedule. I made some calls. And I made two appointments at times when he is free to come along, one with each of the major fertility clinics in the state. (I can't go out of state without paying out of pocket, so this is where I'll start.) Of course neither clinic wants to see me until I'm no longer pregnant, so both appointments are in July. Hopefully by then I'll be a clean slate, so to speak. Hopefully I won't be writing again next week at "Eleven Weeks Not."

At least for the time being, I'd like my body back.

Nine Weeks Not

Still waiting. Feeling less and less pregnant, though there are moments when I feel nauseous and tender. Strange how these little surges tease up hope, even when I know there isn't a chance.

On the other hand, the very fact that I got pregnant again raises my hopes.

Supposedly I was done trying, but very soon after I found out I was pregnant, I found myself thinking, if this one doesn't work, I might want to give it one more go. I told J~ my thoughts, and he agreed, he didn't feel quite done either. Another year, we agreed. We'll give it one more year.

I'm not sure yet when the clock starts on this One More Year, but certainly we're in the grace period now, while I'm waiting to miscarry, and probably for a cycle or two after that.

In the meantime, I am collecting inspirational stories - there are a nice bouquet of them in the comments of the previous post - thank you all so much!

Anybody else? I'm particularly interested in women who miscarried repeatedly in their thirties and then had a successful pregnancy after forty. I am learning that it happens much more frequently than I previously imagined. Details are welcome and encouraged!

I'm also on the lookout for good medical support. Long time readers might recall that I went to an RE two or three years ago, the only one I could find in my state (Connecticut) who focused on miscarriage. This doc had an air of defeat around him which I found troubling, though I couldn't quite put my finger on it until I got his form letter several weeks later announcing his retirement.

I'm also going to start charting again - I'm suspecting a luteal phase deficit and I want to gather evidence. I'd love to hear about any natural approaches to remedying this, if any exist. I have Clomid-phobia, though progesterone is looking less scary these days...

As for my age-old ambivalence about having children, it isn't exactly gone. I am clear in my desire to succeed at pregnancy, but the next part, where I give myself over physically, mentally, and financially to raising a child, that's harder to wrap my mind around. I really want to cross that bridge. I can imagine the triumph and joy I would feel to have done so. But the landscape on the other side? It still looks pretty darn challenging.

Mother's Day

Today I gave myself a Mother's Day gift: I got straight of bed this morning and unwrapped the last home pregnancy test I had in the box. The idea was to reassure myself. A week after my first test, I imagined this one should have a very strong test line, maybe even as dark as the control line. But then again, who knows how much chemical is on the strip, there could be a limit to how dark that line can get. This is what I told myself as I awaited my results. I didn't want to be too disappointed.

Here's what I didn't expect: the test line might actually turn out to be darker and thicker than the control.

It was most definitely darker and thicker than the control line. I brought the test back to bed and J~ and I admired it together.

Here's another thing I didn't expect: that within minutes I might be so queasy I'd need crackers and a gulp of water - twice - to settle my stomach. Had a similar bout of nausea yesterday, after an hour of yoga.

Yes folks, it's really happening. I'm pregnant yet again, and this time, despite my darker days earlier in the week, my hopes are very very up.

Just When You Least Expect It...

I thought the big milestone this month was that I didn't keep track of my cycle. I've been doing so, often painstakingly, for more than five years.

Just the other day I sat down to write a new blog post here, something to acknowledge the readers tuning in and telling me they miss my updates, to thank them and admit that Babies or Not isn't such a burning question for me anymore. But I couldn't bring myself to do it.

Little did I know....

Midlife Crisis, chapter 2

The long view.

"It doesn't get any easier," said T~, the tall man swimming, and smiling in the lane next to me. We were at the gym, and I'd just come up for air after a challenging drill. I hadn't met him yet, but it turns out my sage of the swimming pool is a national top-ten champion in his age bracket. But not just any age bracket. T~ is eighty-seven years old. He might just know what he's talking about.

"Oh, why do I bother?" I replied, thinking of so much more than swimming laps.

T~ chuckled gently. "Sometimes I ask myself the same thing."

There's the operative word, folks: Sometimes.

Because sometimes it - life, laps, infertility - feels every inch as hard as it is. Sometimes it feels like mild drudgery, surmountable, but dull. Yet other times, it's really okay. And sometimes, some times, every once in a rare while, everything feels easy and great. You never know quite which you're going to get, but you have to show up to find out. And that is the answer in a nutshell. That is why I bother.

The other day I braved the heat and went for a run, my usual 6-mile loop from my house through my rural neighborhood, thinking all the way: look how lucky I am. I get to live in this beautiful place. I have a loving husband. I have a solid, cozy home, challenging, fulfilling work, health insurance, and not a penny of debt. I have a 39-year-old body that can run six miles with relative ease!

After my run, sweat-drenched, I peeled off my shoes and dove directly into my neighbor's pool. (I have a lovely neighbor who practically begs me to use her pool whenever I like.)

A week later I retraced my steps with a camera, counting my blessings, and documenting them too. A few of those pictures are included here.

Maybe I'm emerging from my midlife crisis. Or maybe this is a temporary reprieve. Whatever it is, I didn't want to let it slip by.

J~ took the week off last week. Perfect timing for ovulation - let's just say we put in our best effort yet.

I'll keep you posted.


Runner's heaven - a long dirt road through the woods.


Great Blue Heron on a beaver's dam - what a lucky day to be carrying a camera!


Joe pye weed in full bloom.


The pool next door - all of the cool, none of the work.


Warmth for the coming winter, one more cord on the way.

Letting Go. Or Not.

I've been ruminating on questions raised by my last post, namely, have I truly given up on pregnancy, and if not, why not continue to pursue answers? Why risk another miscarriage?

Such good questions, such simple questions. I've been soul-searching for weeks.

This is what I've figured out so far:

No, I haven't yet given up, not fully anyway, in spite of my fervent wish to the contrary. There is still a glimmer of hope, like an ember in an otherwise dying fire. Add a little kindling – a well-timed cycle, pronounced premenstrual symptoms, a bunny in the front yard – and the whole thing is ablaze again.

But kindling is easy to come by. There are flare-ups every month. I find the prospect of stoking and tending the fire, gathering the heavy logs of sustained desire and a pursuit of purposeful intervention, utterly overwhelming. Why? Well, for one, the hope simply isn't very strong. I am discouraged by the idea that all that work and heartache could be for naught.

And then there is the shame. Somehow I feel foolish still longing for a baby after all these years. I suppose I've felt foolish all along, so strongly have I absorbed the message that smart, talented, interesting women have more important things to do than make babies. Or if they do make babies, and raise children, they do so with ease and only peripheral attention, akin to a trip to the bathroom in the midst of writing a fascinating dissertation. It's a terrible, sexist notion, one I know is patently invalid, but I live in a sexist culture, and in spite of myself, I've absorbed and internalized a measure of this thinking. It creeps in when I least expect it and requires concentration to banish.

And then there's the issue of pursuing effective medical help. I don't trust doctors easily. I mustered the courage to see a Reproductive Endocrinologist at one point, J~ and I went together. The doctor leaned way back in his chair and spoke in a relaxed, weary tone, going on about how underfunded research is in this field and how nobody really knows anything, reinforcing my feeling that it's all a crap shoot anyway.

I was relieved and pleased with this doctor at the time, so afraid was I of a salesman's fake smile and hucksterish enthusiasm, pushing me toward interventions that made me uncomfortable. Just sign on the dotted line and hand me your life savings, please. Now lie still on the table and we'll see if we can get to the bottom of this.

But then I started wondering maybe if this jaded-seeming doctor would have treated me differently if J~ and I were younger, if I seemed a more promising candidate. A letter came from the practice, two weeks after our appointment, announcing this doctor's decision to retire.

I never followed up.

I haven't tried another doctor.

J~ and I are talking about going to someone else, maybe someone recommended to me on this blog. The ball is in my court.

I keep putting it off.

HO. LY. C. R. A. P.

It's faint. But it's there:

Recap and Reprise

Past and Future Ghosts, 11 x 17" gouache and ink on paper.
This piece will appear in an art show upcoming at Windham Arts Collaborative, in Willimatic, CT. If you're in the area, come to the opening reception on Friday, April 3rd. I'd love to see you! (Details here)

I began this blog shortly after my second miscarriage, which took place on a Wednesday night in November, 2005. I was at work when I knew for certain.

I worked as an abortion counselor.

I left the clinic early that evening, heading home to my hot water bottle and an empty apartment. (My husband, A~, was away on business.) Luckily, this loss was easier than the first - quicker, less painful. I could handle it on my own. The grief that followed was a hard but familiar terrain.

Shortly thereafter, my marriage shattered. After more than a decade together, it was a sudden and devastating break. I felt like I'd been run over by a truck: nauseous and heartsick and unable to breathe properly for months. At the same time, I felt freed of a great weight. A life I thought I could never endure (without A~) became a life full of promise. I wrote all about it on these virtual pages.

During this time, I was introduced to J~, who was struggling with a very similar life crisis. Three years (and, sadly, two more miscarriages) have come and gone. J~ and I are married - happily, to say the least. B~, my stepson, now in high school, is thriving.

Babies or not? It's still an open question, though it burns less urgently than it did when I began discussing it here.

Babies or not, life is good.

The Fence, the Grass, and the Color Green

Remembering my summer garden...

It's been five years, four miscarriages, two partners, and now a full year without a pregnancy since I began this pursuit of motherhood in earnest. It seems to me that the window for children to come into the world through my body is beginning to close. If it hasn't closed already.

Okay, I'll admit it. I've been crying my eyes out over this lately.

An old friend, younger than I, wrote to update me on her own infertility journey, which includes acupuncture, over a year of drugs, surgery (for endometriosis), IUIs (five of them), and now IVF. Not to mention the 3-hour commute to her RE's office.

I have nothing but respect and admiration and the highest hopes that her dedication will pay off.

But I ask myself: why am I not driven to follow a similar path?

This is not a new question. I revisit it all the time.

Is it because I am so easily overwhelmed by the medical world? Or is it because, in spite of my very sincere sadness, the desire to be a mother just isn't as strong in me as it is for some?

Though Number One on my wish list is an effortless pregnancy followed by a healthy child, Number Two is not a hard-won pregnancy, even if it came with a healthy-child guarantee.

No.

Next on my list is simply to let it go. Even if that means crying my eyes out on occasion.

Because when I'm not crying, there is time to make more art, read more good books, take more long walks, to take advantage of the time remaining in this very short life to love the people who are already around me.

Then again, I'm sure if I had that hard-won child, I would say every expense, every struggle was worth it. I'm sure the grass on that side of the fence would be very green.

I guess I'm gambling that if I keep watering the lawn of right here and now, I'll be okay with the grass under my feet.

Magical Thinking

(I've been obsessed with designing patterns lately. See more here.)

I'm no longer sick. Thanks goodness.

My naturopath said I don't have PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome), just PCO (polycystic ovaries). What is the significance of this distinction? I can't say that I know. I arrived at her office on January 9th with J~ in tow, ready to get the lowdown, but the appointment was railroaded by a misunderstanding.

In a nutshell: Over the phone, while I was sick, she told me to eat only vegetables and broth. I did not understand that she meant this recommendation only until I felt better. She had also mentioned seeing my ultrasound report, and that I had PCOS, which hit me hard. I thought the food guidelines related to this diagnosis. I wanted to ask questions. She assured me we would talk about it at my appointment.

But we never got that far. Instead, after I confessed that I was unsure about what to eat, and feeling hungry and lightheaded, she gave me a brief lecture on how I need to "take responsibility" for my diet, eat every two hours, and have protein at every meal. She then proceeded to write out a food chart for me, right down to the breakast-snack-lunch-snack-dinner-snack detail. Just give me the guidelines, I tried to argue, I don't need a meal plan, but she was convinced this was necessary. In the end, there wasn't time to discuss the ultrasound.

I left that appointment feeling distressed and angry. I've been following a strictly limited diet for half a year now, and it has not been exactly easy. I've been proud of how well I've done. The last thing I want or need is a prescription for every morsel I put into my mouth. Or a doctor-patient relationship that feels like being sent to the principal's office.

I've been in a bit of a tailspin ever since.

It doesn't help that the freezer broke down at my local food co-op and they gave away all the ice cream - just as I arrived at the store.

In her moving memoir, The Year of Magical Thinking Joan Didion tells of how, after her husband's sudden death, she found refuge in the belief that he would one day return — if only she kept the way open for him. She held onto a single pair of his shoes, for instance, not for sentimental reasons, as she allowed others to think, but because he'd need them when he came back.

I can relate.

I've been thinking that if I am a very good girl and do exactly what the doctor tells me to do, if I eat exactly the right foods and get exactly the right amount of rest and exercise, if I do meaningful work and cross a few big projects off my lifetime To Do list, and then, finally, if I am so happy and fulfilled that I stopped trying altogether, I will get to have a baby after all.

I've been thinking this way for five years.

I always assumed, however, that if I still hadn't had a child by age 38, I would throw in the towel. I figured that by then I'd feel sick of all the disappointment, and ready to move on. What a relief it would be to quit wondering half of every month if I might be knocked up. Like right now, for instance - my breasts are uncommonly tender. I keep thinking I might be pregnant, but I need to wait another week before I can know for sure.

I hate the question mark lurking in the back of my mind, and yet I cling to it.

I turn 39 in six weeks.

All Five

In the previous post, I talked about five things on my mind more than I'd like. Here's an update:

1. My Health
Saw my doctor Tuesday, told her the story of my "attack". She thinks it was an ovarian cyst rupturing - nothing to worry about. Not a kidney stone. Not an infected appendix. Not... who knows what else. It makes sense, since the pain hit around ovulation time.

So, around the same time next cycle I'm going for an ultrasound, see what's going on in there. Oh, and she also thinks I have endometriosis. And she tells me, looking over my blood results, that I'm borderline anemic. Even closer than the border than I was two years ago, when my previous doc said the same thing and put me on iron supplements.

In the meantime, more dietary adjustments, and a bit more optimism, a bit more trust in my gut intuition about my health. Suddenly I understand why I keep saying I crave foods that are "grounding." What do I mean by that? I had no idea until I realized that the foods that come to mind (red meat, spinach, nuts, raisins) are all iron-rich. Iron is heavy. Grounding. My body, I get it now, needs that iron.

2. Babies or Not?
I'm still hopeful, especially at this point in the cycle. But I still don't want it badly enough to turn my life over to drugs and procedures and a parade of doctors. If it doesn't ever happen, I'll be sad, of course, very sad, but I will also feel like I've dodged a bullet. I am under no illusions. Even in the best of circumstances, children are a major project. There will be a lot more leisure in my life without them. A child would be wonderful, but I can't deny it. Leisure is pretty nice.

3. My work
I think I might be finding my rhythm. Feels good. More on this on my other blog, LifeCraft.

4. My stepson
Out of sight, Out of mind. B~'s home situation has been in agonizing flux for months while his mother sorted out some personal demons. It's been a challenging time. B~ likes living with us, but he loves the school he attends when he's with her. He's back with her now and I am enjoying a break from thinking about it. Personally, I just want the ground to stay put under his feet. Hopefully the earthquakes are over, though I brace myself out of habit.

5. My ex-husband
Yes, the tide churns up thoughts of him on occasion, and yes, there is a melancholy feeling when that happens. He probably still reads this blog. Can't say that doesn't effect me. I feel his voyeuristic attention, and I wonder what he feels toward me, wonder what he tells himself as the story of our breakup. Funny how the mind can twist these things. Did you ever see the movie, High Fidelity? It nicely illustrates the point. Plus, it's funny. Rent it sometime.

On My Mind More Than I'd Like

1. My health.
A vague abdominal ache became full-on pain midway through class yesterday, debilitating enough to force me to hand over the reins to my TA and run to the nearest urgent care clinic. I felt 80% better a few hours and several bottles of water later, and 90% better today, but abnormal lab results will require follow up. Probably nothing to worry about, but still... worry.

2. Babies or Not?
Closing in on thirty-nine years old, the writing on the wall says: Not.

To be fair, I'm more focused on improving my overall health these days than on procreation, but the underlying fantasy is that I will become vibrantly healthy, have a child, and live happily ever after in mommy-land. Toward that end, I confess, I do occasionally find myself combing the internet for encouraging stories of recurrent miscarriers who eventually have babies, especially those that credit yoga, wheat grass, and positive thinking (as opposed to drugs and doctors.)

3. My work.
I'm a juggler these days, publishing a little writing, preparing for an art exhibition, planning for a commissioned painting, freelancing as a designer, teaching a college design course and pitching classes for future semesters. There are more projects in the wings, and some serious thinking to do about how I truly want to allocate my energy. It is so easy to gravitate toward the work that satisfies the ego, making me feel important and impressive and powerful (the things that look good on paper), rather than make time for the work that really feeds the soul. There is no ball in this juggling act that I don't value. But there are a few favorites that I keep dropping.

4. My stepson.
The situation, and my feelings about it, are so snarled and twisted I don't think I can tease out all the threads. But here are some of the contributing factors: Your typical teenage boyhood exacerbated by perhaps more than your typical social and physical awkwardness. An unstable mother/ex-wife who keeps backing out of commitments and then insisting she should be trusted with even greater commitments. A father/husband who works long hours away from home, and bends over backwards at times to keep the aforementioned parties happy. And me, the sometimes reluctant stepmother, trying increasingly to stay out of it, while working from home. Not that I don't care about the boy, not that I don't want the best for him, but it's hard watching what he gets put through, and there a times when, I'll admit it, immature as it sounds, I'd like to have my husband to myself.

5. My ex-husband.
I'd like to think that I'm over the whole cheated-lied-and-dumped caboodle , but in spite of three years and a happy remarriage, I'm not. Not quite. Not yet. Once again, the impending holidays bring up my nightmare worse-case scenario: that he is dramatically happier, feeling glad to be free of me and without remorse for how he got that way. Perhaps my underlying fear is that the problem is me, that I am destined to drive away everyone who attempts to love me.

Longtime readers may recall A~'s brief reappearance in my life (via email) around this time last year. Everything he told me then should have dispelled my fear, but apparently the wounds were still too fresh.

Just now I reread that old email exchange, which felt much more difficult and convoluted at that time than it appears to me now. Strange. And yet the fear remains.

You Never Know

J~ and I took a whirlwind trip to the Gulf Coast recently, to the island of Port Aransas, Texas, a place we never expected to find ourselves swimming, walking, doing yoga on the beach, or attending the wedding of J~'s old friend to his high school sweetheart, reunited after thirty years apart. A lovely story, made lovelier still by the gathering of good people who came together to celebrate the big day, and by the intention of the newlyweds to move their combined family to Hawaii. How nice, they urged their guests to think, that you now have friends to visit in Hawaii!

For weeks preceding this trip, I kept my nose to the grindstone, promising myself that upon our return, I would finally have, after many months with no such luxury, room to breathe.

Since then, with the exception of kale and collards, which don't mind a little frost, I've gathered in the remaining garden bounty: onions, beets, carrots, peppers, tomatoes, herbs, swiss chard, beans, plus several gallons of cold-hardy kiwis: olive-sized fruits with thin, edible skins, and a sweet, intense, kiwi flavor.

For many years I've told myself that when I finally had land of my own, I would grow this special fruit. It would be my first planting, a symbol of my intended bond with the land, a reinforcing statement that I was, after so many years of transient living, finally home. But to my surprise, as soon as I had settled in enough to wander this modest property, I discovered that previous owners had already done the honors: a thriving tangle of kiwi vine already bordered the yard, threatening to engulf a neighboring lilac, sending runners up a nearby pine. Stunned, I touched the unripe fruit tucked beneath the dark leaves. Here were my kiwis.

For the seven years J~ had owned this place, he had no idea this plant was anything more than a useless weed. To him, my discovery was a pleasant surprise. But to me, it was akin to finding a banner unfurled in the trees, declaringl in colorful block letters: "Welcome Home Amy!"

Just goes to show - you never know what life has in store for you.

Snakes and Stuff

I had a dream the other night that I was walking on a dirt road littered with huge wet leaves. As I walked, I noticed snakes slithering in and out from underneath the leaves. Uneasy, I considered turning back. But then two large snakes began moving along either side, as if to escort me. I continued with tentative steps, until a large snake reared up to eye-level in front of me, unhinged its jaw, and fell forward. I woke in a panic just as it sunk its teeth into my chest.

This reminds me of another, similar dream I felt haunted by just before discovering that I was pregnant for the first time with my first husband. I went to the library the day after my positive pregnancy test. Looking at a picture book about pregnancy, I realized that the snakes of this first dream symbolized sperm, and that I, traveling along my nature trail, represented the egg on its journey through the fallopian tube.

Of course I wonder what this new dream means, and why, in both, I was so afraid. Perhaps some day (or maybe two weeks from now) I will understand.

In the meantime, life is very full on every level - work, play, and family. I've been loving my new bicycling habit, and my new bicycling mates. Here's a shot of my club minutes before embarking on a charity ride earlier this summer. I covered fifty miles that day. Some did less (there were 35, 25, and 10-mile options), some did more (100 miles). Fun was had by all.

By the way, that's me down in front.

Oh Lordy, Not Even Spinach!

It's been recommended to me by my new and trusted doc that I need to get off candida-feeding foods. I know the drill, having taken long courses of antibiotics as a teenager (for acne) and having suffered the consequences to my digestive tract, not to mention my moods and energy level. I read The Yeast Connection: A Medical Breakthrough in my early twenties, and it was enough to convince me I had a problem.

I did the candida cleanse at that time: eliminating all chocolate, coffee, alcohol, processed foods, sweeteners, refined flours, yeast, most dairy, and all dried fruits, as well as strictly limiting fresh fruits, and many other random-seeming things. At the time I was vegetarian. I lived on rice, beans, veggies, and not much else.

I have to say, once the cravings passed – and they did pass – I felt great. Never felt better. And I became an excellent cook.

Though it's a drag to always pass when it comes to treats, I'm willing to do it...

But here's the rub:
My doc also ordered a blood test screening me for food sensitivities. I got the results on Tuesday: Out of 105 foods, I showed sensitivities to a whopping 26. Count 'em if you must:

Almond
Avocado
Broccoli (Broccoli for God's sake!!!)
Brussel Sprouts
Cabbage
Cauliflower
Chili Pepper
Coconut
Flounder
Garlic
Halibut
Lentil
Mustard
Oat
Pineapple
Potato, Sweet
Pumpkin
Rape Seed (Canola)
Radish
Sole
Spinach (yes, you heard me!)
Walnut
Wheat
Yam
Yeast, Baker's
Yeast, Brewer's

Now add to that my raging intolerance for sunflower seeds, my inability to properly digest dairy foods, and voila: you've got quite a list.

Why, you may ask, am I willing to put myself through all this? Here's my best answer: it's nice to eat cake, but it's even nicer to feel great. And I know I will. Plus, it would be nice not to have rashes, and painful and alarming digestive issues, and maybe, just maybe, even sustain a pregnancy.

At the very least, it's worth a shot.

On The Radio - Again

I am still alive!

You know that old "inner garden" metaphor I always talk about? How a person should strive to be aware of the state of his or her inner garden, tending to it regularly to make it a nice, inviting place? Well, my inner garden is a jungle right now, overflowing with string beans and cucumbers and peppers and kale and basil and tomatoes. There's plenty to snack on but no place to sit and relax.

Wait - that's my outer garden.

But the same is true in my work life: ongoing design clients ramping up work, new clients coming out of the woodwork, art sales, art commissions, a solo show in the works (my first in a real live gallery), a teaching gig (a prestigious one, but short notice). Not to mention delivery trucks every day lately, dropping off much needed books and new computer equipment — oh, glorious, sleek, long-awaited computer equipment — and in the mail (alongside all the bills) checks!

It's a bit overwhelming.

But in a good way.

I think.

As for babies, however, still, no such luck.

Except that J~ and I are turning to the pros for another round of medical advice. My latest doc explains her strategy toward increasing my fertility thusly: "My inclination is to clean up the garden before anything else."

Sounds right to me.

Speaking of sound: if you missed hearing me on the radio last year, you have another chance. My "This I Believe" essay is airing again three times. Apparently it got a "lovely response" and WRNI wants to give it an encore broadcast. You can listen in from anywhere in the world. Just go to the WRNI website and click on "Listen Live." It is scheduled to air on Wednesday, August 27th at 6:35 a.m., 8:35 a.m., and 5:44 p.m EDT.

Sighting

J~ and I took a stroll down our dead-end road the other day, and saw both of our infamous bunnies, Francis and Henrietta, side by side on a neighbor's lawn. A good sign? Who knows. But interesting, since J~ and I are turning to the old Babies or Not question once again, with renewed focus. We're simply not ready to let it go.