Job loss

I lost my job last week; it was unexpected and incredibly abrupt.  Matt asked what we should tell people if asked, and I said, "I did nothing wrong! I'm not ashamed," so there it is.  It wouldn't be prudent to get into the specifics, but I will say I've felt they were looking to push me (and perhaps, others) out for a while under new management and restructuring and they cited a bogus reason for termination.  It was done with spite and honest-to-god malice and I was out of the building within five minutes.  I was the girl bamboozled, walking down the sidewalk with picture frames and a fake plant in my bag, and other nicknacks I hastily grabbed from my cube.  I called my friend - who had left like a bat outta hell a few months before - and now works at her new gig (that she loves, adores, feels valued at) a block away.  "I'm meeting you downstairs in one minute!" she said, and we talked for thirty minutes on Market Street about how absolutely shitty that place is, the situation is, how, "Can you believe this?!" the thing is/was. She reminded me how toxic that place was, how I was deeply unhappy, how this is the push I need.  Sure, sure.  But I was just fired!, I said.  That sting (no matter how ridiculous or obtuse the reason).  That venom.

The thing with getting fired?  It's not as much the tactical concerns (although they are incredibly stressful - finding another job, financial worries, and so on).  The thing that kills me is this: it's the stripping away of any sense of self-worth.  I hate that they took that from me.  Work - even though I never loved it - made me feel more whole.  I feel devalued, dejected...all of that.

But...it's been a whole week now, and I've experienced more positive feedback and reinforcement from family and friends in this week than I have for the last two years at my former employer.  And for that I am so very, very thankful.  It's things like that that make me tear up now (I haven't cried about the job itself in days).  Like this email from Matt, which I re-read often:

Wanted to make sure you know how valued you are.  If [former employer and former manager] can't see it, it is entirely because of their own shortcomings.  You are lovable  smart, kind, charismatic, friendly, funny, loyal, and gorgeous.  You are a great wife and mother.  Annie and I will be happy to have you more to ourselves, and not wasting your presence on people who can't appreciate you.  We're going to be perfectly ok.  I can run some numbers if that will ease your mind a little.  I'm so sorry you had to go through this rejection, and my thoughts are with you as you figure out how to reconcile yourself with it.

(So he's not like that all the time, but I totally had to post that.)

Or when my friend (the lovely Danita) sent this, like, Visio-esque crazy chart mapping out available steps entitled "Mojo Rising: Operation You've Got Options, aka The Mojo Reclamation Project" (the girl has a way with words and a thing with titles, what can I say?...love you Danita!).  Or how friends are reaching out almost daily asking how I'm doing, saying let's go out for lunch, and sending me job postings.  Thank you, thank you.

One of the things I've cried over many times was taking Annie out of daycare.  Obviously, there is no reason for her to be in full-time care - and we can't afford keeping her there on a full or part-time basis - but she loves her friends there.  She wobbles with such joy to her seat at the table every morning, with breakfast in hand.  She and her friends giggle and screech and when we pick her up it's like, "Yeah, I see you, but as you can also see, I'm finishing something up here."  I love that she had that.  This week Matt and I visited a few in-home daycares in our area that allow two days a week (for my sanity, job searching, what have you) and that we can manage financially.  I also want her to continue to have that experience: to learn and cope with others, grow independently, discover things on her own away from us.  We're so proud of that girl, and I know she'll be fine, but it makes me hate this situation so much more.  Here are some photos of today at her last pick-up:

Two of her teachers, Mr. Eddie and Miss Holly.  Miss Holly knew her since she was a wee newborn at 11 weeks old.

So I'm not sure where this is going, or what my next step is, but there is beauty in all this ugliness.  Yesterday Annie and I had our first full day together and went to toddler time at the library and made a craft, then took a long nap together (she wasn't napping alone and I'm a bit under the weather).  Sweetness wrapped in a duvet.  Tomorrow we're going to our first local mom playgroup (I'm sure there will be more on that later).  And today I had an interview.  So...things - life - are moving along.  And in it's own way, it's still quite lovely.

Looking To 2011

I’m loving the quietness of work this week. Most of my team is out, I have my music on, and occasionally work friends pop their head into my area for a refreshing holiday tete-a-tete. We whisper because it’s so quiet.

The holidays were festive and fanciful, but I felt not all there. This sense of sadness and loss (over one measly failed IVF cycle – I know) has left me shaken. One down, one to go. On the verge of tears is my perpetual state and I cannot say enough about Matt. Poor Matt, who is going through this too, and who holds me at night and lets me have my “And you know who I saw on Facebook who is pregnant now too?!” moments, has taken this – all of it – in stride. We are perfectly matched because I am brash and high-strung and can tumble from happiness to tears in .2 seconds and he is, simply, the most even-keeled, pleasant, and optimistic person I know. Nary in a bad mood, his goodness (to me, to others) doesn’t surprise me anymore. He says I color his life…and I suppose that is one way to put it. How very fortunate I am.

So it’s interesting to see this happy-go-lucky guy upset too. When we found out this cycle wasn’t going to work I cried and cried and later exclaimed, “Aren’t you going to cry too? Aren’t you upset?!!” and he informed he did cry – I guess I was too weepy to notice. He still says everything is going to work out, and still talks about us having children, but now adoption references sprinkle these conversations more and more. I say I’m scared because that process if far from easy, and so long, and expensive, and what if we aren’t chosen, and what if it always falls through for us, and …and…and. With resoluteness he holds my hand and says it will happen, and he makes me believe it.

They say this process and all its ugliness (the emotions, the money, the stress, the hormones) deepens the cracks in any marriage, but I have not experienced that. With Crohn’s, I feel wholly alone. Yes, he chides me when I eat something on the “no” list, or asks if I took my medication, but the pains that make me question if I’m leaving this blissful period of “remission” are only felt by me. Heck, it’s nice not to be alone in your misery. We both want children so badly so there is nothing but tenderness when anything baby is mentioned. (And the occasional groan as he submits eyebrow-raising baby names, from the likes of “Willard” to “Samson” – I kid you not. He has since lost his naming rights.)

It’s with this mishmash of emotions I look forward to 2011. I know we have it good (or at least that's what I tell myself every day to ward off the tears), but I’m hoping for resolution. And for greatness.

And The Beat Goes On

"The English language lacks the words to mourn an absence. For the loss of a parent, grandparent, spouse, child, or friend, we have all manner of words and phrases, some helpful, some not. Still, we are conditioned to say something, even if it is only "I am sorry for your loss." But for an absence, for someone who was never there at all, we are wordless to capture that particular emptiness. For those who deeply want children and are denied them, those missing babies hover like silent, ephemeral shadows over their lives. Who can describe the feeling of a tiny hand that is never held?"
~Laura Bush


I don’t want to be schmaltzy or melodramatic – and I never thought I’d have a Bush quotation on this blog! – but I thought Laura Bush’s comments in her recent memoir summed up – so accurately – how I feel. And I cry every time I read it.

Matt and I had such high hopes for our IVF cycle. I tried to temper my enthusiasm but didn’t sleep Thursday into Friday – the day of our egg retrieval – and was giddy on the drive to New Jersey. During my ultrasound before the procedure they saw 22 eggs – 14 of them ended up being viable and I jokingly said they better be “big and juicy” and the ultrasound tech and I laughed. Everyone I came into contact (oh, those poor nurses, the embryologist, the two anaesthesiologists) heard me chirping way about how this was my first time, and I had lots of eggs, and everything looks good, right?! And then there I was in the procedure room, in stir-ups, oxygen in my nose, an IV in my hand, and the doctor walks in and says, “I’m concerned about your estrogen levels; they are at 900 and they should be around 1500,” and then I was asleep.

I love anesthesia. Perhaps that’s an odd thing to say, but I love the peace of it. I’m never nauseous or groggy afterwards - just rested. I always try to pinpoint exactly when I go under – on Friday I said with verve, “I can still hear you!” and they responded “Not for long!” and that was the last thing I remembered. I woke up and they were helping me into a wheelchair, and then into the recovery bed, telling me they extracted 14 eggs and I was happy - even with low estrogen (which affects fertilization) I thought some of those had to fertilize and heck, let’s go get some lunch, which we did.

On Saturday they called to tell me eight of the eggs had successfully fertilized and they were freezing four. On Sunday they called and of the four remaining, three were still viable at the two-cell stage. It was then I started getting nervous: why haven’t they divided any further? But our ET was scheduled at 9:30 the following morning, and we left at 7:30 to beat the traffic through the city and I joked about how I was going to run Matt ragged while I was on bed rest and how – if this all worked – we wouldn’t tell our child they came from a stork, but a petri dish (we find this endlessly funny), and with that we crossed the Betsy Ross Bridge into Jersey.

I received a call when were five minutes away: our eggs have not split since yesterday, and they were still only two cells, and they were not likely to ever split again. Our transfer was canceled. On the phone with the embryologist I was almost chipper – or at least pleasant. I motioned for Matt to turn the car around, hung up, and then cried. I’m not going to say I have it awful, because I don’t. I’m not going to say how horrible my situation is, because I know it isn’t. But I will say I sobbed – big, loud snot-filled sobs full of anger and frustration and worry, and didn’t stop until we were ten minutes from home. At first we said we’d go to work to take our mind off it, but as I started crying – staring in my closet at work ensembles –we decided we’d spend the day at home, exchange our Christmas presents, and just be.

And we didn’t lay in bed and wallow: we went out to lunch, mocked Oprah during her “Favorite Things” episode (we were particularly aghast one of her favorite things was a $120 can of popcorn and then $200 leggings – really?!), and made dinner. Work today has been harder: I could not smile or make chitchat through a holiday lunch. My head is heavy and I am exhausted. With one cycle in the bucket, we know we only have one left. We don’t know what this all means: will this always happen? How common is this? Can we change the protocol to combat this? What happened to my estrogen levels on that last day? Statistically, how viable are those four frozen eggs because it costs a hell of a lot of money to thaw them? I have so many questions but our appointment isn’t until January 7th. We are going to take the next month off. We first wanted to plow through – to be done with this whole process by early spring – but I’m tired and defeated. This process is dehumanizing: every other day I’m at the office, in line for an ultrasound, in line for blood work, legs spread, arm extended. My menstrual cycle has dictated our last six months. Every other afternoon I wait for the call with my blood results and next steps. Every other morning I drive the hour to the office. Every night and morning I take my oral medications, my shots. Hell, I’m beat.

Matt keeps saying we have each other, and I know that is so true, but that doesn’t stop me from every day wanting so much more.

The highest highs and the lowest lows

When you are on hormone supplements you have highs and lows.  Very high highs and very low lows.  Take this weekend, for example.  We went apple picking, country drivin', and I unilaterally decided we will have a fabulous mosaic tile backsplash (I didn't get around to the project specifics, but I spent a good 30 minutes in the bowels of Lowes so I think that's making good progress).

Then, last night, Matt brought home the wrong bread.  I was making roasted cauliflower soup and had asked for a French baguette.  He brought me a short, stout sour-dough loaf.  I was enraged.

My rage can take on many manifestations, but this particular variety was: cry, scream, plea (for a new loaf), and yell some more.  I'm not proud of these moments.  My face gets puffy and red. Mascara runs down my neck.  And I am at my worst.

Someone else I know going through fertility treatments described the very same thing: crying, screaming, and a terrified husband holding his breath for the next rampage.  My descent started with bread, went to "You have NO idea; why don't you just GO AND PLAY SOME GOLF and live your EASY life!" and went to, "F--- kids!  I just want a goddamn PACK OF DOGS!"  I really said this.

That's not to say Matt is all good and no bad.  Boys, on a whole, can say supremely insensitive things and not even realize it.  Yesterday Matt said he will make a "sacrifice" and be "okay" with one child.  It was a relatively innocuous statement, but I was at my brink, and I was incensed.  "Boy, at this point, you WILL be ELATED with ONE child!  And you say you're sacrificing?!?!  You get to sit at home as I drive to all these doctor appointments and spread my legs!  You are STILL IN BED when I've been on the road for an hour!  So I'm SOOOO sorry you are sacrificing!"  Again, I really said this. 

Matt then went outside with our dog, and I cut up my cauliflower for the soup, alone.  Twenty minutes later he peaked through the front door, and there I was, sitting on the couch thumbing through a catalogue.  It was almost as if this was a normal Tuesday.  We then enjoyed our soup, and yes, even the bread.

A Delicate Dance

“Wow, you’re a gassy one. Look at those intestines!” the ultrasound tech said as she searched for my specks of ovaries. They can never find my ovaries, which skirt the ultrasound wand and shrink behind organs and scar tissue. I also imagine them the size of shriveled peas – greenish, wrinkly orbs –so I’m sure that can’t help matters.

This is our third cycle with the fertility specialist. Getting my blood drawn yesterday the nurse asked how I was, and I replied, “Oh, you know, the usual,” and she said, “This is old hat already, isn’t it?” and she was right. Like the drive to work, I arrive at my doctor without knowing how I got there. The crease of my right arm is perpetually black and blue from needle pricks, and I can fill out their insurance and call-back forms with my eyes closed. Somehow along the way I even memorized my insurance ID, a long code of letters and numerals that I recite like my social security number.

Sometimes I think, “Why are we doing this?” With my Crohn’s, IC, and everything else that has run amok, why? With the strong possibility of passing on an auto-immune disorder, why? With overpopulation, American super-sized carbon footprints, a future and quality of life I worry about – why? I have no other answer that it is a biologically selfish need. That we feel we’d be good parents, have the love and resources to raise a child sensitive to others and the world around him or her. And that my body – my breasts, my hips – ache to do what they were meant for.

Sometimes I feel we can’t win. I read articles on the population crisis, or numbers of unemployed, and comments linked to these articles chastise “the breeders”. And I can’t deny: I raise my eye at large families, too. I, too, learned about carrying capacity in 11th grade and vowed never to have more than a couple of children. But still. It doesn’t feel right – it feels I’m doing something wrong. Then I read commentary about the rise in fertility drugs and how these families should just let nature take its course. “It’s called survival of the fittest; there’s a reason some women can’t get pregnant,” they’ll say. Today I read an article regarding the lax regulations in adopting Haitian children after this year’s earthquake. There was no due process, no checks and balances to ensure these children didn’t have families. It’s an admittedly questionable situation, but readers chimed in and said adoption is nothing more than child trafficking – a child-hungry, rich, Western convention to exploit the children of developing nations. "And how dare you take these children from their culture and language!" they cry. And I know all of these things aren’t true, but they have nuances of my own insecurities in all of them. I feel defensive and judged. And I start questioning everything.

What about the people who just want to nurture one child? Is it wrong to want my body to work as it should? To have the ability to do what so many others may take for granted? So now when I disclose to anyone our course – the fertility drugs, the doctor visits – I’m quick to add, “But we’re not looking for a gaggle of children – just one!” and laugh.

The business of having a baby is a delicate dance.

Morning Drives

Having a child is not something I ever thought I'd do automatically, and I clearly remember in college spouting how much I "hated" (oh yes, hated) kids. Friends said I'd change my mind, and I said with piss and vinegar, "Watch me!"


So how did I end up with my legs spread in a doctor's office for the fourth time this week?

I've never been a baby person. Women in my office squeal and fuss when a baby makes an appearance. I generally hide at my desk until it's not socially acceptable and then I acknowledge the baby with an awkward, and very adult, "hello". (It's so forced I might as well offer a Victorian, "And I bid you a good day, Sir," after fluffing their peach-fuzz hair and returning to my desk.) But something shifted in the last five years. Although nonchalant (and still teetering on awkwardness) on the outside when I cross paths with a baby or small child, internally I'm flush with longing.

It's funny how things like this creep up on you.

Matt is wonderful with kids and always wanted them. I've been a slower adopter. Early in our relationship when he asked what my intentions were, and I nodded and said, "Well, sure, sometime in our mid-thirties or something." A year or two later that number changed to thirty (arbitrary but at the time it was a far-off date, with time only slowly ticking toward real adulthood). Somewhere between now and then, and between getting sick, we thought we might as well grab the bull by the horns, and have a go at it (interestingly enough, I was the one who pushed for the earlier date). That was over a year and a half ago; so much for grabbing the bull by the horns.

I've never been someone who said "things happen for a reason". That's a bunch of phooey nonsense and insulting when you think about all the pain in the world. But it's impossible not to think that, well, maybe I shouldn't be reproducing. Let's just say this: no one is going to be buyin' my eggs anytime soon. Those things are train wrecks laced with problematic genes. The only thing I can perhaps offer is a proclivity to sarcasm and a vocabulary that could guarantee a decent SAT score. Hell, that's even questionable.

So I was thinking about this - all of this - the other morning. Why are we doing all of this? On Monday at 6:30 pm it began raining hard. Big, fat drops that didn't stop until late the next morning as I drove 1.5 hours to the doctors and 1.5 hours to work. Many roads were flooded and closed, but I was determined to get to the doctor. It's quietly become the most important thing in my life. And lying naked from the waist down has become the position most synonymous with this longing.

Before and after ovulation I'm monitored almost daily. How is my follicle (egg) growing? What are my LH, FSH, Estradiol and Progesterone levels? Everyday I submit to these blood tests and every afternoon I receive a call with the results from a new nurse (there must be two dozen of them in the practice).

"You sure are a sluggish one," the latest nurse offered as I still didn't ovulate by Day 20. I'm still grappling with these terms, these numbers, and have been too tired to do the research. My numbers are too low, my FSH isn't surging, and I'm taking supplemental progesterone. But a very quick primer (all per Wikipedia):

LH (Luteinizing Hormone): A hormone produced by the anterior pituitary gland. In females, an acute rise of LH called the LH surge triggers ovulation [2] and development of the corpus luteum.

FSH (Follicle-Stimulating Hormone): FSH regulates the development, growth, pubertal maturation, and reproductive processes of the body. FSH and Luteinizing hormone (LH) act synergistically in reproduction.

Estradiol: A sex hormone. Estradiol is the predominant sex hormone present in females. It is also present in males, and at a higher level because it is being constantly produced. In females it is only produced 3 out of 30 days of the cycle. It represents the major estrogen in humans. Estradiol has not only a critical impact on reproductive and sexual functioning, but also affects other organs including the bones.

Progesterone: A C-21 steroid hormone involved in the female menstrual cycle, pregnancy (supports gestation) and embryogenesis of humans and other species. Progesterone belongs to a class of hormones called progestogens, and is the major naturally occurring human progestogen.

My foray into fertility has more shots and ultrasounds (In only two months! A mere fertility novice...) than I can write in this post: don't worry, it's more to gross you out with later. (Especially with an account of the post-coital test. Now that's when things start getting saucy!)

But through all the headache, heartache, the long drives to an affordable doctor, and impediment to work this is what we want - so very much. And that I can't explain or rationalize. It's a biological impulse that's taken me by surprise. A longing to love and nurture that I wasn't expecting. All from a girl who no more than 10 years ago hated children.

I have to chuckle: how's that for life taking you by surprise?

My (Dopey) List

I’m at my tipping point in a lot of ways. After an incident watching The Young Victoria (me: bursting into tears saying why can’t Matt be as romantic as Prince Albert and leaving the room / him: panic-stricken and not moving from the corner of the couch) Matt is steering clear, which is probably the smart choice. Yesterday I called our county’s Roads Department and argued with the Roads Manager so I really don’t think anyone is safe. (We get a train of traffic during rush hour as drivers cut through our neighborhood. I want speed bumps. He doesn’t want to blow his budget. At this point I’m thinking of mobilizing the neighbors, a la Kathryn Brackovich.)

I’m at my lowest professionally and personally, and really, being sad is the pits. There are many things I cannot change directly (my workplace, my health), but enough is enough. I know one thing: going home, eating Oreos, and watching The Bachelorette from bed is not the answer (it took a lot of strength to write “Oreos” and “not the answer” in the same sentence).

Matt likes to remind me my life is good. Every instance I lament something he compares my place in society to that of a woman in a far-off developing nation, shoeless and starving. I don’t write that to be callous or glib: I know very well I was born into a lucky lot, and my situation doesn’t begin (BEGIN) to compare to most. I know that. But throw me a bone, will ya? Things aren’t exactly hunky dory, and patronizing me is only going to make me write about you on my blog – see? (Don’t worry, I still love him.)

But I know I have to work though this. And even if it’s in the most contrived, laughable way (and I open myself up to ridicule) it’s worth a shot. Thus, this:

You cannot compartmentalize your life. Or add up to 10 to create happiness – yeah, yeah, I know that. It may be incredibly dopey (fine, it is) but why not? Who’s to say if I read a book instead of looking at celebrity blogs, cleaned my bedroom, and made a salad from greens from the garden I won’t be more happy? More at peace?

Today I already blew a lot of them, but that’s fine. There’s always tomorrow.

UPDATE: I would love to know what you would add to your daily list!

Patience Is Not My Strong Suit

I'm not really sure when the progression from playing house became full-blown adulthood. Living in our apartment Matt said being an adult is paying a mortgage, but three years ago when we acquired that monthly vestige of adulthood, he said no, no, it's definitely when you have kids. He had no answer for people who chose to rent, or chose not to have children.

But sitting in an office on Friday night, listening to a fertility doctor dictate a letter into his recorder about our case, I sat back, with my husband next to me, and thought, "So this is it; this is being an adult." At some point we crossed over: maybe it was then, or maybe it twelve months ago when we decided on having children.

I never, ever thought I'd be here. When I'd hear stories about failed IVF attempts, or women trying for years, I'd sympathize and think how lucky I was that woman trying wasn't me. But here we were, a year later, being told my ovaries were peculiarly small and Matt's situation wasn't looking too much better.

New words are entering my lexicon: progesterone supplements, FSH levels. IUI. I've been told so many times that "you'll be blessed with a child when the time is right" or "take a long weekend somewhere". These people invariably have children, and now, almost in a perverse way, I feel validated. No, it won't happen "when the time is right" or if we go away, and no, Godly intervention won't help either. Matt and I are pragmatists. We are not religious (although I've thought about praying but decided against it because if there is a God, he/she will surely realize what a selfish twit I am that I haven't prayed in 12 odd years, and all of the sudden decided only to smack my hands together for my own, baby-makin' good).

Above all, this is a medical matter. Ninety-three percent of couples our age conceive by the six month mark. Of those who don't, only 15% of those couples conceive in the next six months. Obviously, something is not right.

Our fertility visit was thorough. That really is the best way to describe it. We were there from 6:30 until 9:30 pm. Matt had his semen and urine tested, and I had an ultrasound, blood test, and an examination. We met with the doctor twice: before the tests, and after. I came with copies of my medical chart: details of when they first found the abscess deep in my gut, notes on my three months on Clomid, a write-up from my HSG. I told him about my Crohn's, about the scar tissue, about the surgery. When he said my ovaries were quite small for my age, and ruminated that perhaps scar tissue at one point had restricted their blood flow, I envisioned dried-up and hollow pea pods - a fertility wasteland.

We have many tests to do before determining next steps, and much medication to take. Writing about this now, I'm upset, but recounting it to a friend Friday night I laughed it off - of course we're sub-fertile, I mean, did I expect this to be easy?!

And sometimes I'm fine, it's all fine, and we'll make a go of it and trust ourselves to the shots, the blood tests, and all modern-day medicine has to offer. And other times I catch myself crying. A women I barely know had been struggling with having a second child for quite some time, and I saw her last week, but now with a swollen belly. It was at the gym, and my legs stopped swinging on my elliptical machine and I just watched her as she made her way to the locker room. And I felt betrayed.

I closed my eyes and told myself to just concentrate on Diane Sawyer on the television in front of me. To just watch her as she spoke about top kill, and the sheets of oil in the Gulf. I know that's a real tragedy, and not this.

But I couldn't help it, because infertility is a club swaddled in embarrassing emotion (jealousy, contempt, pity), and I was envious she was leaving, just as I was getting my bearings.

Mindfulness

Yeah, that chick? Not me.

Lately I’ve realized I grate my teeth during my drive to work. Matt says I do it while asleep, too. I think this means something.

My dear friend who had a pitiful time in her 20’s and now is experiencing some semblance of enlightenment at 31 told me I should practice mindfulness (this is after I said a strong “NO” to meditation – I guess I’m not all that granola). I know nothing about Buddhism except the Dalai Lama is one jolly guy (isn’t he?!), but she told me it’s being completely in-tune with our body and consciousness, and not thinking of other things – simply being in the moment. I tried this on the drive home from our dinner together, but all I could think about was, “Is Parks and Recreation new tonight?” and, “I can’t wait to use my new carrot cream that came in the mail from The Body Shop” (fo’ real, people – this is what my life consists of….carrot cream and sitcoms).

Then I took Penny for a walk and said, “Don’t think about work, don’t think about work!” but in turn, I was thinking about work. Then I took a shower and thought, “Shower…mmm…nice, hot, sudsy”. I was taking this very literally, as you can tell. Then I realized I was missing “30 Rock” – damn television foiled me again!

So much for mindfulness.

Then I decided that the perfect thing to calm me to create a sanctuary. Naturally, I cleaned my bedroom for the first time in months – at that point, I was already 90% there. I also splurged on a jarred peach candle from Target and applied more carrot cream. (I think by this point, you should really be intrigued by this carrot cream, so here’s the link: http://www.thebodyshop-usa.com/sale-originals/prod1031251 I used to save up my money in high school and buy this stuff, and I know this sounds super hokey, but it brings back memories of simpler times…really).

I think the point is, I’ve been trying to really tune-in to what I do have, instead of what I don’t. It’s a whole lot of “duh”, I know, but I’m finding it works, or at the very least plugs the holes in the boat so I’m not full-fledged drowning here. The weather is also helping tremendously: I am happier when it’s sunny. I’m a very simple being, it seems. This weekend is supposed to be nearing 80 (80!) and saturated in sun. My Crohn’s? Controlled for now. The baby thing? Sigh, trudging along – but I’m now determined to calm down (well, a bit) and enjoy our (semi) quiet life. Things could definitely be worse.

Coming Home

Long time, no post, huh? I'm in San Francisco for business, and it's all much more sexy than it sounds (trust me). But I like saying that...."I'm in San Francisco for business....". I'll let it linger there on the tongue.

I do not have a job where I travel across the country, but by chance I am here, sitting in a hotel room (facing a highway and not the bay, alas), and taking stock of things. Traveling always puts me in a contemplative mood. I sometimes travel regionally for work and I relish the alone time. I think Matt does, too. You're never very alone with yourself and your thoughts in everyday life, you know? I like removing myself from my suburban life for a bit, even if it's just a late train ride from New York or a hotel in central Pennsylvania. I like missing home; it reminds me what good I have.

This trip is no different, and I needed to take stock. To breathe in. To exhale. I haven't had a deep breath in three months. I wish I dealt better with stress, but my body tightens and it's fight or flight all day long. And poor Matthew. Every night I cry and he looks on, helplessly. Matt is never stressed. It's a gift because I often am. But, he admits, he has it easy. He loves his job. He is in perfect health. Above all, he has the perfect wife (okay, okay, it's a joke!).

Stress and Crohn's do not mix well, but my intestines have behaved. Usually before a flight I run to the bathroom no less than three times, my nerves working their churning magic. I hate flying, and I hate the thought of limited bathroom access. But this week's flight I sat at the gate, eating my bagel and...was fine. This afternoon I have the window seat home. It's enough that my bowels constantly inconvenience me, but now I have to inconvenience two other people when I ask them to get up to use the bathroom? Those two innocent souls have no idea what they're in for.

I was at dinner with a dear friend last week. We talked about work, about my health, about my fruitless baby making, and how I thought I'd have more to show for myself by my late twenties. She is her early thirties and said, "I hated my twenties! Do you remember how depressed I was? I'm so much happier now." So now I think everyone has a late twenties rut, and agony likes company, right?

I'm enjoying how this trip put things in perspective and how much I want to walk through the front door. For me, that's where it begins, and ends.

Chocolate makes everything better

Today I got my period: on day 41 of my cycle. Trying to have a baby is like holding your breath for over a month, only to exhale and start it all over again the next. I wish I could be nonchalant about this, but somehow along the way starting a family has become everything to me. This sort of longing gets into your bones. It starts coloring your decisions. Which is probably why Matt just returned home from picking up chocolate (with nary a complaint). When he saw the tears I think he knew instantly lots and lots of chocolate would be involved (the stash: Andes mints, a Cadbury bar, and mousse...I'm already in a happier place).

With the odds stacked against us (I don't start Clomid until this upcoming cycle, and sheesh, we had a negative home test) we knew - rationally - heck, I probably wasn't, but that didn't stop me from looking at crib combos on Target.com this afternoon, or Matt demanding (oh lord, I hope in jest) - if I was pregnant - that we call him/her Cletus...as in "Cletus the Fetus". (I cannot make this stuff up.) Even with my positively screwed up reproduction system (hell, whole pelvic cavity) and a staggeringly long 36-day cycle, 41 days should only be reserved for pre-menopausal women. But I'm looking at the bright side: at least I'm getting a chocolate bar out of this. And yes, maybe I will have that drink.

Looking for a deluge of recipes? Why, yes!

When I’m upset I cook. And cry. And fling things across the room. I’ve been upset over, essentially, every facet of my life (read what you will into that, but I’m sure you get my drift since I talk about everything else, cough cough) for the past couple weeks. The only good every day constants are Matt and Penny, and thank goodness for them. Yesterday I was crying so loudly Penny ran over to my side and remained there, shaking. Poor darling. (She was surrendered and brought to the shelter by a divorcing couple, so I can only assume she gets very tense when I embark on an emotional fit.) Last night I told Matt to grab two (yes, two) bottles of wine and we headed to the Italian BYOB a mile from our house. It fit the bill.

Anyway, what I’m trying to get at, is that I have a ton of backlogged recipes that need posting, and post I will! Crohnies who are amidst a flare, avert your eyes! I’ll be posting recipes for crushed chickpea sandwiches, salmon and spicy roasted cauliflower, and roasted vegetable soup with kale for starters. Stay tuned, and savor the weekend. (I know I certainly will.)

With love,
The Gutsy Girl

Pats on the back all around!

That's me, voracious for intestinal knowledge!

Bright Side, of The Bright Side of Crohn's, facilitated a friendly and informative chat with us Crohnsies yesterday evening. (Thank you Bright Side!) I, for one, asked a lot of questions regarding surgery, and found the chat therapeutic and uplifting. (I also mentioned Wet Ones, which deserve credit in their own right.) Bright Side will be scheduling these periodically, so please check back for the opportunity to speak to those who critique their poo as much as you do!

Time to press "play"

Tension is running high in our household. I woke up this morning sweating, my hair matted to my head, with a sore throat and aching joints. That was at 11 am when my dog, Penny, ran into the room, ears perked up, and dancing on the wood floors. Click, clack, click, click as she'd spin beside the bed, and then putting her sad face next to mine on the bed...staring, black nostrils flared as she purposely breathed loudly, her canine way of rousing me out of slumber. Matt had been downstairs for hours, coding, and for some reason Penny hates when we are not corralled in the same room. Click, click, click...we need to cut her nails.

The abdominal pain had resurfaced this weekend after breakfast on Saturday. It was a gorgeous day -- our cherry tree had erupted in charming white flowers in a matter of hours, and after the pain medication soothed my belly, I was up, doing errands, and helping my father-in-law with yard work, who was visiting for the weekend and helping Matt finish our laundry room. But by the evening, the pain had returned. As I waited for the pain medication to kick in, I realized it hurt to laugh, or even to take a deep breath. I thought, this is what it's going to be like after surgery (but worse).

Two friends on Friday commented on my strength. Although I am flattered they said this (and I boasted to Matt, maybe, five times about this), I do not feel strong. Today I am a ball of self-pity. There is nothing strong, or eloquent, about it. It's ugly and infantile. The women on Matt's side of the family have an annual "Ladies Weekend", which has taken us to D.C. and New York in past years. This weekend was Ladies Weekend, but I chose to not go, due to my health.

They visited Matt's cousin, Julia, who is a freshman at Penn State, and at the Nittany Lion Inn, met Penn State head coach Joe Paterno and had a group photo taken with him. They looked lovely and excited. If you're from Pennsylvania, or a fan of college football, you know Joe Paterno. And although I don't enjoy football, and don't get this whole "JoePA" thing, I was jealous! Although it was a wise decision not to go, I wanted to be there! I was mad at my disease for making me cancel. Instead I was lying in bed, nursing a sore torso.

When I woke up this morning, feeling more ill, I was testy, even to the dog. And I cried to Matt, snot running down my nose, and spouted ugly things like, "You have no idea what it's like!" and "Do you know how hard this is for me?!" Matt deviated from comforting me, to getting impatient and irritated. He has heard this all before. I realize this is hard for him, too, and it's not his fault he doesn't want to spend all day up in bed with me. Just because I reach for the pause button when I'm not feeling well, doesn't mean he needs to stop living, too.

So, I am ready for this surgery. I am scared shitless, and it might not make me better, but I am more scared of further isolated those around me. It's time to be strong, and I'm finally getting ready for Friday.

Surgery jitters

When the nurse told me the protocol this morning during my pre-admittance blood work, the surgery seemed much more real - and impending. "When you report to the waiting room, we will take you to the back and you put on a gown and get on the stretcher. We'll start your IV. We'll then wheel you down to the second floor, where the OR is located. You'll then meet with your anesthesiologist and then briefly with your surgeon. You won't remember anything after that point."

"You look scared," she said. I am. None of this is new, but when I spoke about surgery before it was just that - surgery. I had a lot of jitters, mostly about my future battle with Crohn's and more immediately, the pain involved. But now I'm just...shallow breath nervous. The countdown is here. I'm already not taking anything that can cause blood to thin, as dictated by the surgeon. I will have surgery in nine days.

When it comes down to it on the day of the surgery, you are alone. It's just you, your body, and the medical team in the OR. And when they put you to sleep and make that first incision, I'm not Kathryn, who asks neurotic questions and writes a silly blog, but Patient X who has fluid-filled intestines, a stringy fistula and a stubborn abscess.

When partner becomes caregiver

Our Wedding: View of the tent from across the pond.

Us on our wedding day, sweaty and happy.

I married Matt last June. Although a humid 98 degrees (and an outside wedding), it was perfect. I wore a tea-length light green vintage-style dress and our ceremony and reception were at my in-laws home, a woodsy oasis with a pond and endless greenery with bright swatches of flowers. Our wedding was at dusk, and as the reception commenced, the twinkle lights from the trees and our tent danced on their pond as guests moseyed around the property sipping sangria. Lanterns adorned the tables, and children weaved in and out of the tent and grounds with glow sticks as jazz and big band hummed through the speakers. It was simple and intimate, and the last thing on my mind was my Crohn's Disease. Matt and I left for honeymoon in San Francisco and the Napa and Sonoma wine region two days later, ready to start our life together as husband and wife.

I was healthier then. So healthy (and foolish, in fact) that I was not taking my maintenance medication, Pentasa, regularly. In the fall I suffered for a month from abdomen pain and night sweats until I was admitted to the hospital in mid-November with a baseball-sized abscess in my pelvic region. This was my first serious bout with Crohn's disease, and for those who read the blog, you know the disease is still very much active.

Since the fall and the beginning of my flare-up, I have become much less active and much more emotionally fragile. After my hospitalization, my mother stayed with me for a week as nurses came to the house showing me how to property administer my IV antibiotics and TPN (total parenteral nutrition) into my PICC (peripherally inserted central catheter) line. She learned with me and prepared my jello and broths (I now abhor both). After spending his days in the hospital, Matt returned to work.

Although no longer in that situation, having Crohn's is an emotionally scarring experience, and not just for the patient. Every evening after work is a touch-and-go experience. Many days I am fine and we laugh and watch television in the evenings down on our over-sized couch. We'll walk our dog, Penny, around the neighborhood and discuss our days (although they're never really that interesting). Penny will wait patiently for fallen food scraps as Matt or I make dinner, and then around 11 I'll retreat to bed as he stays up late into the night coding or playing his video game of the moment.

Some days after work I retreat right to bed, and only come down for a belly-friendly dinner (breakfast foods are often good for this). I lay in bed reading or on the computer, and Matt spends a lot of his evening with me in bed. He hates it up there. He finds the bed uncomfortable and likes his big-screen tv in the living room, complete with a Nintendo Wii, Playstation, and XBox (boys will be boys!). He'll complain sometimes, but despite his protests, he often still lays with me and I can regularly trick him into giving me back rubs, too (although he swears he's "developing arthritis in his fingers" due to this).

Matt has been very much involved in my Crohn's treatment. He knows as much about Crohn's as I do, accompanies me whenever I ask to appointments, and above all, has acted as my personal caregiver in the last several months. When in bed, and in pain, he retrieves my medications. And water. Or a book. Or the laptop. It is never-ending. I was diagnosed with Crohn's early in our relationship and he never once thought it "gross" or made any sideways comments about the condition (and I would of booted him out the door if he did!).

When I'm in pain, he's there. When I'm happy and making medical strides, he takes just as much joy in those small steps. Just this week he layed in bed with me and watched Gossip Girl. Yes, he bitched and complained endlessly, and teased me about my choice in entertainment (this is coming from a guy who spends his free time playing Grand Theft Auto, though), but he stayed at my side through that "tedious" hour.

And maybe it goes without saying our relationship has been particularly chaste lately. When you're chronically tired and in discomfort "I'm not in the mood" takes on dizzying new heights, and when the title of this post -- "When partner becomes caregiver" -- becomes a reality. Loss off physical intimacy is just another victim of the disease, and gosh darnit, we're newlyweds! But of course, he never complains.

This post is dedicated to Matt and all our significant others who go through the emotional ups and downs of this disease as well, and still have the love and compassion to make us laugh even when we're mad at the world, self-pitying, and in pain. Thank you.