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.

New Year's Eve

Last year at this time I was pregnant. I found out on Christmas night and I was thrilled, of course — and scared, of course. But on New Year's Day I miscarried. And decided, as I lay on the couch with a hot water bottle and my laptop, that I would take my life in a new direction, releasing my grip on the safe and trodden career path - off to grad school - and allowing myself more time to pursue the course that felt more enlivening than grueling. I would still try for a baby, but I wouldn't keep all my creative eggs confined to that one ovarian basket. (Forgive the metaphor, please!)

I've had an incredible year, professionally speaking (more about that soon on my other blog). Health-wise, it's been a more difficult journey: a few myserious illnesses resolved, a few new ones not yet solved, and a new naturopath who believes I have both PCOS and endometriosis. I'll be seeing her January 9th for the lowdown.

As I write tonight, I'm laid up on the couch with a hot water bottle and my laptop again. Not a miscarriage this time, but a collection of minor maladies. Actually, maybe I'm minimizing a bit - I did have a fever of over 103F last night. With a long sweaty difficult night behind me, I do believe I've turned the corner.

Feeling optimistic.

What better way to anticipate 2009?

Wishing you all the best!

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.

Okay It's Back

The WRNI (Rhode Island Public Radio) web site has my This I Believe essay recording up for mass consumption again. I promised I would repost the link, and I, for the most part anyway, keep my promises.

Without further ado, here's the link.

Click it. I dare you.

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.