Ebb and Flow

Many things have happened since the start of the school year--not necessarily things that have happened to me but things that have had an impact on me. The words are there, but I can't get them out in a way that does anything justice.

I have felt an enormous question mark lingering above my head when it comes to teaching since last Spring. I am having the closest thing to a crisis of faith that is possible for a person who doesn't identify with faith to have. This has been a difficult year for me--NOT because of my students; they are as awesome, quirky, and hard-working as ever; it is just me. For the past 5 years, I've funneled the majority of my energy into teaching and I suddenly feel like something has broken, like what I'm doing isn't enough. I'm struggling to maintain at times. I would love to blame it on pregnancy hormones or chalk it up to being distracted by my upcoming responsibilities as a parent, but I know in my heart that isn't the case. If I'm being honest, I find myself wondering if I could do a better job at something else. Something emotionally easier.

Only I have no idea what that something else could be.

And then, there are the little things that save you. On a day when I considered calling in sick but couldn't convince myself to go through with it because I wasn't sick, a normally very quiet and reserved senior boy volunteered, unprompted, to act out the witch scene in Macbeth. In his best witch voice. Just because. A small thing, yes, but he inspired me to keep teaching at a time when I wasn't sure I wanted to be there at all. 

And the many, many junior girls who write to me, privately and separately from one another, that they are glad we read The Bell Jar because a) They feel just like Esther at times b) it helped them understand someone they know or c) it is simply nice to read a book representing a small aspect of the female voice for once. They inspire me to keep trying when it would be easier not to and maybe someday those girls will feel empowered enough to use their voice in a public forum instead of only a private one. 

Or watching my students stand up for one another in a respectful manner on the class blog when someone crosses the line between a passionate opinion and a disparaging remark. Or seeing them remind other students on public Facebook pictures not to be disrespectful or crude, just because it is the right thing to do. 

And even now, on Thanksgiving break when I am so grateful to recharge, I am excited to go back to the classroom next week because we will be starting Inferno and the students always ask when we read it. Their excitement fuels my excitement. We need more of that. 

And there it is. This slight change in perspective makes me forget what I was questioning in the first place. 

****

My first year teaching at my current site was like many first years for brand-new teachers. I look back on that year and hope the people I was charged with teaching learned something, anything because how and what I teach now looks nothing like what I taught then. In all honesty, my teacher's assistant kept me sane--filing oodles of papers, grading vocabulary checks, organizing my desk and life in ways that allowed me to focus on planning lessons and not bursting into tears from the sheer overwhelm of it all. He was also my student that year and while he flatly refused to do any work outside of class, he was a stellar student inside the classroom. He was brilliant in a unique way. 

And, he took his life this fall. 

I regret not keeping in better contact with him after his graduation. I don't pretend that doing so would have made a difference in the scheme of things; I don't have the ego for that. I do wish that the connections teaching allows you to make with many students didn't feel so severed after graduation. No matter what, teaching leaves you feeling pulled too tightly--all the supports we provide in high school vanish too quickly for some after the cap and gown ceremony--once a group of students leaves, a new batch comes in and they deserve all the attention you gave to previous years. I don't have a solution for that as we are only human with limited energy; I just wish I'd thanked that young man, after the fact, for all he did that first year because it allowed me to continue to grow into the teacher I wanted to be when he was my student.

****
I've tried, at times unsuccessfully, to keep the balance in my life from becoming one that centers only around pregnancy. However, thinking about all I need to accomplish in order to be ready for the baby girl's arrival (Type A personality) coupled with the fact that sometimes people seem to forget that I am more than just my uterus makes keeping that balance tricky.

I've discovered that considering yourself a strong individual does mean you are a strong candidate for growing a human. I have hesitated to write anything about the first 17 weeks of my pregnancy because I was so ill I thought I was growing a poisonous demon instead of a baby. In all seriousness, though, I didn't write because, after everything it took to get pregnant in the first place, it felt a lot like complaining about finally getting what we've wanted most.

The irony in my situation is that, even before I wanted to be a mother, I wanted to be pregnant. I thought being pregnant would be glorious. Rainbows and sparkles and THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD.

Being pregnant has been, instead, the most unnatural thing I have experienced.

I've had the opportunity (ahem, obsession) to read a variety of information about getting pregnant, being pregnant, struggles with pregnancy, etc. and I am thankful that I've been able to find realistic and honest material about what is normal physically with pregnancy because I know previous generations more or less pretended the unpleasant aspects of pregnancy weren't real. And that isn't necessarily a complaint about all the physical "experiences" I've had. I mean it more as an observation of how I wish more people discussed pregnancy as something you can want to put yourself through even if you don't enjoy it. I want to be pregnant and I am so glad I am because of what it brings for the future, but I'm not joking when I say that I don't know that I can do this again. Baby girl might be the only baby.

I think I was well-prepared for the physical aspects of pregnancy. While the severity of my symptoms definitely caught me off-guard, they themselves didn't surprise me because I knew they were normal. What did, and continues to surprise me, is my emotional reaction. Up until now, it has been difficult at times to find the joy I think I'm supposed to feel in pregnancy. Society tells me I'm supposed to think being this is THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD, I should be glowing, and I should want to show off my belly on Facebook but, aside from knowing my daughter is healthy and thriving, I have not experienced a ton of bliss. A ton of puking and migraines and disgusting side effects from anti-nausea medication, yes; but pure maternal euphoria has somehow evaded me.

In discovering my own physical weaknesses and perhaps perceived emotional ones, I've also discovered the depths of Jerry's emotional strength. While I was spending evenings memorizing the pattern of swirls on the bathroom tile surrounding our toilet or being in a medication-induced haze, Jerry worked his typical 60-70 hours a week AND cleaned, cooked, took Vanessa to school and appointments, managed six animals and reminded me to drink as much water as I could manage. And he never once complained. I don't mean that in a flippant way. I mean he never once even sighed a heavy sigh. Not to me, not to his mother, not to anyone, to the best of my knowledge. The only thing he ever said was, "What can I do to help?" Men like Jerry don't get enough credit because they are a quiet presence but I imagine this pregnancy has been harder on Jerry emotionally and physically simply because he has had no choice but to do the work of two people while I just incubated. I know it was a lonely time for him, even if he didn't say so.  Bad jokes aside, I could not do this without him.

So, if anything at all has given me a sense of joy over the last 21 weeks it is the realization that, even though he may have never changed a diaper (yet!), Jerry has already demonstrated that he will be equally as excellent a father as he is a partner.

And on that note, I leave with the most recent ultrasound picture of the baby girl (previously thought to be baby boy but clearly not so as of Nov. 8th). She must already have a sense of humor because while she wouldn't hold still for any cute "typical" profile shots or adorable feet pictures, she held perfectly still for this close up of her iris and skull features (and also the big gender-reveal but you're going to have to take my word on it). Already going for the unusual, my girl.

Remembrances and Revelations

I’m starting to lose the memories I have of my grandmother. This January, she will have died thirteen years ago—or will it be fourteen? I remember the morning she died; I still get sick to my stomach thinking about how I didn’t get to say goodbye because she didn’t want me to see her so ill. January eighth. I last saw her fifteen days prior. Did she know then that the battle with her tumors was lost? Did she regret smoking all those years after watching her first husband die of the same cancer that suffocated her?

These are not the memories I’m afraid of losing. I’d gladly give those up if it meant I could hold onto feeding blue jays in her big house on Elm. I can remember-fuzzily- the cupboard where she kept the short can of planters peanuts to throw to the birds from her porch.  Sitting out there with her taught me how to be content not doing much of anything.

She kept a bowl of Werther’s Original candies below the cupboard but I cannot recall anyone but me actually eating them. Around the corner, by the garage door, she kept the dust buster I’d use to collect non-existent particles of dust off her immaculate floors; the same floors on which she followed me around, wiping scuffs my patent leather Christmas shoes left behind when I was very small. Whenever I cook, I clean as I go; I cannot stand a pile of dirty dishes because that’s the way Grandma taught me to work.

And her den—brown carpet and a set of bulbous, yellow glass grapes on the coffee table. This room is where I was teased for not being able to tell my Uncle Bob and Uncle Dick apart one year. I lost a game of hangman to my cousin Allison when I was young. Her husband joked, “Really, what’s a kanana?” for __anana.

My grandmother’s car was a luxurious Lincoln Continental with enormous cream-colored, leather seats and power everything. We’d back it out of the garage into the alley and go to Rosemary’s for sandwiches and sundaes. I have always hated the way that ice cream shop smells but I still go there because it reminds me of her.

My grandmother kept a beautiful garden: roses of all kinds, fruit bushes and trees, cacti everywhere. It was my grandma who made me love persimmons and taught me how to eat them properly. It is nostalgia that makes me sneak into my parents’ neighbor’s garden to take persimmons from the abandoned backyard.

What I cannot remember, though, is the sound of her voice, or the smell of her perfume, and –worst of all—I cannot recall what she looked like without the aid of a photograph. I see my grandma reflected in my mom and especially my aunt, but I can no longer close my eyes and see her. Even when I recall in detail the blue jays, the kitchen, a dozen other memories from my childhood, all I see is the memory of the event—her face is hazy, her words echo in my own voice instead of hers, and her perfume eludes me. And this makes me sad, guilty. How have I forgotten these crucial elements about the woman who influenced so much of my life? When did she slip away from me so unnoticed?

A woman—a stranger at a jewelry store my grandmother loved—told me that my grandmother was one of the last true ladies in the world. It is true; she was a regal, worthy woman. It would please her to know that I still remember to talk from my belly and not my throat like a ninny. It would displease her that I sometimes express my anger in a string of dirty words. I hope that despite my poor choice of angry vocabulary, she would be proud of me, of my life, of my beliefs. I know we’d disagree on politics but I hope she’d be happy I have conviction.

I would hide my tattoos from her.

And I know she’d be so proud of my husband. She would think him a fine man, a gentleman. She’d be happy I chose a man with “no holes in his face” or “pants hanging around his ankles.”

Now, I find myself oddly grieving her death again after all these years. She would be 90 this September and I regret that she’ll never know my new child—currently no bigger than a raisin. I grieve for my new baby, for the absence of his or her great-grandmother on my side. I wonder what she would want to be called.

So this woman who once forbade me from naming a future daughter Lois (her cousins apparently called her Low-ass, makes me giggle every time) might just have to resign herself to the idea that this present baby of mine—husband agreeing and assuming said baby is a girl—will bear some kind of family name in memorial to the woman who had such a role in molding me into the woman I am today. My maybe-daughter won’t have the opportunity to know this woman but she’ll know she carries the name of a woman who would have loved her so much. 

I think I finally stopped shaking from giving this speech...

(In honor of two of my best friends, Kevin and Amanda Johnston, now married.) 

For the past seven years, I’ve known Kevin and Amanda separately; I met Amanda in a creative writing course at SDSU; I met Kevin around the same time because he was my now-husband’s roommate. Eventually, Amanda and I discovered that Jerry’s house was a mere three houses down from where Amanda was living at the time so it was only natural then that all of us began to spend time together. With the Grist house across the street and many other people in the mix, we have made many memories that most of cannot remember. 

Kevin and Amanda seemed like a perfect fit from the moment they first met. Kevin would say something smart and Amanda immediately gave it right back but both of them always claimed they were just friends. Our friends spoke many times about the not-so-secret crush Kevin harbored for Amanda and how if they’d just work out some particulars, they’d be amazing together. I think the most common response to the news that Kevin and Amanda had started dating was, "Finally!"

My favorite author, Paulo Coelho, wrote: “When someone makes a decision, he is really diving into a strong current that will carry him to places he had never dreamed of when he first made the decision.” Amanda taking that very uncreative creative writing course, Kevin moving in with Jerry, the decision the two of you made to dance together at my own wedding, giving long-distance love a try; all of these can surely be written off as coincidences; however, I choose to believe in Coelho’s claim. The decisions we’ve made in the past seven years appear to have carried you both to where you were always supposed to end up.

And now,this decision you’ve made, this wedding, this love--seeing you two finally unite as husband and wife has been better than I could have ever imagined.

And so I toast to you, together, Kevin and Amanda: May this decision’s strong current carry you to many more wonderful places.

I saw my dad today.

The first was while stopped at a red light. A man, unshaven and in need of a haircut, stood by a bus stop at the intersection of 70th and El Cajon. He was clutching the small brown paper bags you get at liquor stores, the lid to whatever he had purchased gone. He was thinking about something; I could tell by the way he gripped the chain link fence with his weathered left hand; his forehead scrunched and lips in just the right way--not a pout, instead a cross between a pucker and a purse. At just the right moment, this man waved his hand away as if to say --I'm through with this bullshit. And there he was. My dad isn't unshaven, in need of a haircut, or --thankfully--drinking from a paper bag in broad day light, but I saw him. For a flicker of an instant, I saw my dad when he's angry.

Then, at the grocery store. He was my dad's age--old enough to feel aches and pains he didn't have ten years ago, but not old enough yet to retire. This man wore a Harley shirt, something my dad would never wear in public; I didn't notice him at all until he walked by. Then it hit me. I'd recognize that scent even if I hadn't encountered it for a dozen years. The aisle of pasta, the salad dressing, the olives, they all vanished and I found myself doing my makeup back in my parents' bathroom (I never used my own for this--better lighting in theirs). I'm leaning in close, the mirror fogging a little as I exhale, applying my Maybeline with precision. The blade of my father's razor is scraping the overnight whiskers from his face, the sound seems painful because-- he had a beard then-- he wasn't using shaving cream to get those two tiny patches on his cheeks. It was a disappointment when I realized I was still in the grocery store; stupidly staring off into space in the pasta aisle.

Most startling today was seeing my dad in Super Cuts. I went in for a trim, a little reshaping before my friend's wedding next week. My hairdresser wore a tight purple dress; it showed more of her cleavage than necessary as she leaned over me to suds up my hair. She threw the towel over my face, rubbing as much water from my scalp as possible. With the towel still over my head, she led me to the chair at her station. More toweling off. A straight comb dragging down my scalp. I looked up and there he was again. I watched as the hairdresser in the tight dress combed his hair-- never thin but never thick; and his eyes, a dark blue with eye-lids that will be heavy with age, looking right into the mirror, reflected back as me.

And there I realized, no matter where I am, my dad is with me because so much of who I am is a gift I received from him.

Funny things we encountered this weekend

This past weekend was the first wedding of two taking place in Northern Califoria, a lovely ceremony and reception for our friends Matt and Sasha. Sasha was breathtaking; a beautiful woman on any day, she looked incredible in her gown.

But, we need to back it up to begin with the weirdness we encountered on the drive to get there.

On the way to Monterey, we stopped in Bakersfield to say hello to my parents for a bit. Then, we headed toward the 46 through Wasco in order to get to the 101. I am pretty paranoid about running out of gas in the middle of nowhere, so I made Jerry stop in Wasco (the middle of no where) to get gas before we went any deeper into the middle of no where. The town we were in had unusual numbers of Subways, four Mom and Pop food joints, all of them some sort of dairy freeze, dairy king, Foster's Freeze, etc. There was also this place:

Carol's Dari Freeze also serves PASTRAMI, judging by the huge-ass sign on the other side of this building. I'm normally fine with "creative" spellings of words for business purposes or whatever but come on. Dari? Not even Darie?

Leaving Wasco, we drove the 46 and saw this:

Being from Bakersfield, I already knew James Dean died on the 46 in 1955 (he raced in Bakersfield once or something) but wow! Cholame isn't even Dean's hometown and there are many, many "tributes" just like this along the area. Weird.

Outside of Salinas, a tribute similar to the James Dean one above jumps out of the hillside at you as you drive by. This particular memorial, though, is of a smiling old lady surrounded by orange flowers like Dean.  It is also in the grid style like Dean's. There is nothing around in this particular area (except crops. Lots and lots of crops) and then BOOM, there's someone's dead grandma on the side of the road. I was so startled by the image that I shouted at Jerry, "LOOK! THERE'S SOMEONE'S NANA!" The place was so in the middle of no where that was no place to pull over so I could take a picture and no internet searches yield any pictures so maybe it was a mirage?

Then, just when you thought large, unusually placed memorials were through, we came across this:

This photo, of Mr. Farmer showing off his giant lettuce heads is only one in a series of at least twelve throughout the region. Farm workers in various poses are trickled along the farmland. Mr. Huge (Lettuce) Heads was closest to the freeway, so we pulled over to take inappropriate pictures with him.

And our hotel time. Oh man.

Jerry and I, for whatever reason, forgot to book a hotel room until 8 PM the night before we left. That's not how we usually function--I don't do spontaneous--but it just didn't happen until I was in the midst of packing. So we get each looked online and read some reviews of the place we ended up staying. People said it was quiet (yay!), close to the water with nice views (double yay!) and one guy even called it his go-to vacation place. Go-to vacation place with prostitutes might have been more accurate, but alas, everything is clearer in hindsight. The name of the hotel (Borg's) kind of creeped me out but I went against my better judgement and booked the room anyway.

When we arrived at the hotel, we were tired, sort of hungry, and a little gritty from the 8 hour drive. What is it about sitting in a car that makes me feel so grimy, anyway? As we walk into the lobby, the sun was setting just over the water and it was so quiet and peaceful. I was stoked on the being there as Jerry and I haven't been away together since last August.

Then we walked into the lobby. Straight out of the 1950s, this place hadn't been updated in decades. I think the woman working the desk was half-dead: You know, the lives-on-the premises, Hotel California  you can check out anytime you like but you can never leave kind. At first I was disturbed because I couldn't even see her, I could hear her hacking but she was lurking behind a wood-paneled partition.  She finally showed herself and we got our room keys. I never saw her again...

I don't know who said the rooms were quiet, but they must be hard-of-hearing. I think there may have been only one other couple under 105 staying there. How do I know this? I heard them in the room sharing a wall with our bathroom and tiny walk-in-closet. And by heard, I mean I got to know them in the Biblical sense.

Me (looking at the bathroom tile): So, babe, where do you want to eat?
Jerry (three steps away, sitting on the bed): Hey, do you hear people having sex?
Me: What? No. That's the TV. I heard it when we walked in.
Jerry (Pause): Nooooo, that's definitely sex.
Me (giving him a look): Don't be gross.

So, Jerry and I being the respectful, mature people we are....

laughed hysterically like 13 year olds and listened like little voyeurs. And sex it definitely was. Through my laughing, I clearly heard the man ask the woman where his clothes went.

And the man sleeping in the next room next to us (on the other side) had some sort of lung disorder. He snored like my grandmother, a smoker for 55 years, did--that loud, motorcycle rattle in an irregular pattern--and he tossed and turned frequently.

The best part was sunrise. People with little time left on this Earth begin shuffling bright and early, not wanting to waste a single moment on what could be their last. The puttering of geriatrics doesn't bother me, but you know who else gets up at sunrise? Sea gulls. TONS of gulls posted up right outside our window and screamed at each other for thirty minutes before I finally caved and got up, too. Thank God for free lobby coffee!

And by far, the strangest parts of the entire trip took place at the wedding.

First, another guest lit herself on fire while trying to be helpful during the toasts. The music became quite loud suddenly and in an effort to find the volume controls, her hair dipped into a candle flame. Long hair plus hairspray plus fire= woman on fire. Luckily, she extinguished herself quite quickly and all was well, minus a scorched chunk of hair.

The second event was much more hilarious and much less dangerous; I'm sorry only Jerry and I will remember it. I should preface this by saying my husband is really, really nice. I'm not ashamed to say he is the more personable of the two of us--he makes friends wherever and is incredibly tolerant of other people's idiosyncrasies. He is the one who tends to be more optimistic and while I'm not exactly a pessimist, I tend to weigh the potential for negatives as well as positives before making a decision. Because he is so dang nice and easy-going, not to mention good-looking, women tend to hit on him a lot. He denies this but he is silly. This doesn't bother me in the least; in fact, I usually find it amusing because Jerry gets so surprised when he realizes it is happening.

So this woman, somewhere around our parents age, had had probably a bit too much to drink and was sloshing her drink onto the floor. Jerry and I were talking in the corner when she walked by us. She made direct eye contact with Jerry and winked at him. Full-on, "how ya doing?" Joey from FRIENDS wink. When I burst out laughing, she suddenly realized I was right there and, being a lady, asked if I was Jerry's wife. When we said yes, we've been married three years she said, "oh good, you're such a handsome couple. So handsome. Aren't they just so handsome?" And normally I wouldn't find this terribly odd, or even consider it a come-on but this woman was speaking clearly to Jerry and only to Jerry. She leaned in closer to him and said it while looking right into his eyes. So, we made small talk with her for awhile until she tottered off somewhere. I still don't know if I would have considered her behavior to be an attempt at flirtation until, toward the end of the night, I saw her from the across the room staring at me with intense disdain. It burned me to the core; I think she might have stolen my soul.

Our drive home was considerably less eventful; thankfully Carmageddon was a giant flop and we didn't sit in traffic for hours upon hours.

Here's to hoping our next coastal adventure is just as exciting!

A roundabout argument in favor of chances

Recently, To Hatch has come under fire for their plan to have a monthly lottery for fertility services. 


I've visited To Hatch a few times when looking up information throughout my on-going experiences with infertility; and while I've never felt compelled to become a member (membership is free), some of the information available has been helpful. What I especially appreciated was the advice about obtaining a referral to an infertility specialist from your general practitioner. Now, To Hatch is registered in England where there is the National Health Service. I assume that this means, under the NHS, that a person must obtain a referral to a specialist before being seen for infertility. To Hatch's website makes it seem as though some GP's might be difficult to obtain a referral from. I have private health insurance with an HMO here in the US but my experience has been similarly difficult. 


My husband and I first began trying to conceive a year or so after we married, after some difficult and unexplained gynecological problems. That experience made me worry that getting pregnant might not be as easy as we'd thought but no doctor I encountered seemed too concerned once the dire possibilities turned out to be false. 18 months later, I visited my GP to express my concerns about not getting pregnant. I'd done all the usual things--I monitored, I tested, I peed on a lot of various sticks--without ever getting a positive pregnancy test. My GP brushed me off with a flippant response that all my bloodwork was fine and, since I do not have endometriosis, I just needed to wait, *relax* and see what happens. Her rationale for this "diagnosis" was my age. At nearly 25, I had "plenty of time" to get pregnant. 


Finding this response unacceptable and feeling confident in my ability to know my own body, I made an appointment with an OB/GYN specialist. When I went in for the first exam, I discussed (and cried about) my concerns with the doctor. She was the only one who heard my concerns from a medical standpoint and didn't see me as an impatient young woman with many childbearing years ahead of her. She agreed that a referral to the infertility clinic would be a smart idea. After seeing four doctors since the beginning, I had finally found a doctor who would give a me a referral. 


I find my experience relevant to the article for a few reasons. One, I understand the frustration infertility brings from an emotional standpoint as well as the frustrating aspect of trying to get your doctor to take you seriously in order to get a referral for the next step. For that, I appreciate what To Hatch attempts to do. Bringing support, advice, and validation to the discussion is always a positive. Furthermore, if it weren't for my private insurance, I wouldn't have even gotten this far in my experience with infertility. My insurance covers all family planning, including infertility treatments. For this, I recognize that I am incredibly lucky--without this insurance, Jerry and I wouldn't have been able to afford everything the experiences cost. One round of our treatments can cost anywhere between 600 and 1000 dollars, not including the multiple steps and tests it took to even get to that point. More aggressive treatments like IVF can cost many thousands more. We would have budgeted and saved to do this, of course, but it might have meant putting off the desire to start a family for many more years. I understand just how incredible it is that fertility treatments are not considered "elective" under my policy. 


So, from a financial standpoint, I can understand why a lottery for fertility treatments might seem appealing to some who do not have the options I do. Personally, I'm not a gambler of any kind so I probably wouldn't buy a ticket at all; however, if I was looking to find a way to cover the costs of treatments because I had no other way, I might be tempted. 


I actually don't see any problem with this lottery. I fail to see how buying a ticket to win the chance for £25,000 in fertility treatments is any different than buying a raffle ticket to win a vacation to Cabo, or a new car, or anything. If To Hatch was giving away £25,000 with which the winner could do whatever he or she pleased, I do not think that this would have caused a stir. So, if a charity that specializes in infertility issues wants to hold a charity fundraiser where the grand prize is a customized fertility plan, what's the problem? 


In my opinion, the problem is the media surrounding this. The headliner "Win a Baby" is misleading and wrong. No one is going to give me someone else's fetus in a fancy gift basket if I were to enter and win. Josephine Quintavalle's snippet from the article, "It is surely not legal to pay £20 to have access to another woman's womb" is also flawed for a variety of reasons. Firstly, is the problem because the winner might only be paying £20 in order use a surrogate--would a higher bid be acceptable in oder to have access-- or is it that a surrogate is being used at all? Quintavalle's rhetorical question is implying that the winner would be able to run the streets and force a woman to surrender her womb instead of acknowledging the fact that surrogates graciously agree to carry a child for someone else. I find her claim that this lottery trivializes human reproduction to be outlandish; people undergo fertility treatments every day, all over the word; so long as it apparently isn't won through a raffle for charity, no one is fighting it. 


The comments below the article are the most frustrating to me. There is a lot of judgement and stigma surrounding the discussion of infertility treatment, as though it is a superficial enhancement undergone for fun or some sort of fad. And while I'll admit that I still get hurt and angry when I recall a pregnant woman telling me--right after she asked me about my infertility treatments--that she'd "never go through fertility treatments because, like, if its meant to be it will happen if God wants it to," I still refuse to be shamed about my choices to undergo treatment for something I have no control over. The "playing God" argument is only fair if you refuse to use modern medicine at all. That tylenol you took, that epidural you're getting, those prenatal vitamins and tests...those should all fall under your umbrella of the "playing God" judgement. Very few people would tell someone facing a cancer diagnosis not to get chemo because that's messing with (your) God's plan and I don't think it is right for those of us who are facing infertility to be given lesser consideration. 


Other comments suggesting infertile couples "just adopt" are baseless. Adoption isn't a catch-all solution to fill the void infertility causes individuals. Personally, I yearn to experience being pregnant and giving birth a child that is genetically mine and my husband's. Additionally, adoption isn't only an option for infertile couples and the responsibility to adopt needy children isn't only the responsibility of those who cannot procreate naturally. Children in need are a responsibility that should be shared by everyone in society, not just a quick-fix thrown into the laps of those of us who want children but aren't able to do so as readily as the majority of the population. And believe me, as I am already a foster mother, I can tell you that navigating the road to legal guardianship and formal adoption is tricky and likely just as expensive as treatments for infertility. 


The only point that has given me pause has been from my wise friend, J, who said, "Well, seems like the last thing folks having trouble conceiving--with their invested hopes and money, the wait and often disappointment--[need] is to enter a lottery, where "winning" is even less plausible." If you are someone struggling with infertility and are already looking at giving up trying to conceive because you cannot afford to begin (or continue) treatment, then why not buy a raffle ticket (assuming you can afford even that) that might give you the chance to get a customized treatment plan you otherwise wouldn't have? Other than what amounts to roughly 40 bucks, you don't have much to lose. I definitely see my friend's point, and I agree that there is a little bit of exploitation involved because the people who are most likely to buy the tickets are those who are desperate to have such an opportunity. And while I agree that the last thing *I* need is more hope and possibly eventual disappointment in my own journey to parenthood, I know that I'd rather have a unique, albeit highly unlikely, chance to achieve pregnancy than be faced with realization that there is no chance at all. 


*My personal experiences with infertility and some basic internet research I've done are the only basis for my opinions; any inaccuracies are my own.*

The extended metaphor started to annoy me.

From a medical standpoint, undergoing fertility treatments is sort of like riding a horse. You are brazen until the first time you get thrown off. After that first fall, though, you know what you’re doing but you might hesitate before jumping back in the saddle.

Now that some particulars are out of the way, Jerry and I have been cleared to begin fertility treatments again. Sitting in front of me is a bag containing five days worth Clomid, some hcg chemicals waiting to be mixed and a junkie’s stash of needles to inject said hcg into my body at a very specific, doctor-ordered time. I think filling the prescription indicates that we have decided to move forward with treatments sooner rather than later; but, it is not without reservation.

It took two cycles of treatment in order to conceive the first (and so far, only) time. When the first cycle didn’t work, it was disappointing but not surprising; nor was it heartbreaking.  We expected that it would take multiple cycles in order to for me to get pregnant.

Now that I have lost something I have wanted for so long, I think it will be heartbreaking this time around, even though I know it might still take multiple cycles before it works again. And I think that is where this reservation stems. I know that’s a cop-out; being scared of trying because you’re scared of failing…but it is what it is. I am scared. I am afraid of it not working.  Of course I knew the statistics on miscarriage; my case is not unique and medically speaking, it didn't make any doctor blink an eye in concern. That hasn’t made the fall any less painful. Fertility treatment and miscarriage are wild, snorting, bucking horses and they threw me hard.

I also don’t know how I feel about telling people about when we have started fertility treatments again. Before, I wanted to be as open as possible with those who asked because most people don’t understand that 20% of infertile couples are classified as having “unexplained infertility”—i.e. no medical reason. We are in that category.  I am perfectly comfortable discussing this with interested parties in hopes that it will do something positive for someone else. I am not ashamed of the fact that we’ve had a rockier road to parenthood than others; but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t frustrated.

Telling people we are starting again brings something I’m not sure I’m ready to grapple with: expectation. This anticipation, this hope that so many people embraced us with the first time around is something I’m not ready for yet. I see no medical reason to wait to begin taking the medication again and going through the procedures involved, but I don’t know if I can bear telling people that it didn’t work (if it doesn’t). And I certainly don’t think I can handle telling people about another loss if the treatment does work but a living, breathing baby isn’t part of the result.

To some that may be a sign that I am not emotionally ready for this. I disagree. The sadness over the miscarriage will always be there to some degree. I’ve accepted this as what it is. I’ve taken from it what I can; the knowledge that I will have gnarly, soul-sucking morning sickness and that at least the confirmation that pregnancy is possible for us.

I do feel jaded. The first treatments gave me hope and I was empowered by the fact that I could do something to change my childless state. Now, that hope just terrifies me. I want this more than anything but I’m afraid to fall off the horse again.

But, regardless, I will confront that fear head on. So, here we go.