LET'S GET RAW, FOLKS.

In light of this morning’s negative pregnancy test (which I snapped in half* and threw across the bathroom at 5 a.m. this morning), and also in view of some other thoughts I’ve been having lately, I’m considering closing this blog. I’ll attempt to illuminate the reasons below.

1. First and foremost, I’m sick of my business being everyone else’s business. The fact that everyone is up in my business is my own doing, of course. From day one I have been very open with people about the fact that we were trying, and as the months wore on without success and we ventured into fertility treatment, I continued to share our journey pretty candidly not only here but also in real life, both with close friends and also not-so-close friends. Our families know; our pastor knows; our sponsored child in Bolivia knows; even my old boss knew.

I have always been one to wear my heart on my sleeve. Philip says I’m honest to a fault (for example, when giving someone a gift of free swag I’ve received through my job as a magazine editor, I always compulsively confess that the gift is free swag that I’ve received through my job as a magazine editor). I don’t enjoy lying, I suck at lying, and I want to be known. Infertility is the biggest thing going on my life, the thing most on my mind and heart, and to not share it with people seems like I’m not revealing my true self.

However, sometimes I want a little privacy in this whole nasty business. I’m sick of explaining the damn difference between IUI and IVF. Even before I started fertility treatments, I knew the difference between an insemination and IVF.

I’m sick of being asked “where we are at” with everything and trying to come up with a succinct answer. We are not anywhere that’s easily described within a normal person’s attention span. We are somewhere in the midst of the world’s completely broken, prohibitively expensive, shockingly-low-success-rate infertility-treatment purgatory where the same tiny handful of therapies is tried on the majority of patients because doctors are satisfied with a completely BULLSHIT “diagnosis” of “unexplained” infertility.

People ask me all the time if the doctors have found anything wrong, and I despise the answer I have to give them. Yes, they’ve found a couple things wrong. My AMH hormone level is too high and I have slightly irregular ovulation, so there’s some kind of hormonal imbalance going on. And Philip’s sperms aren’t A+ either. But there’s nothing to be done about these things apparently, other than just run us through the standard treatment ringer: three medicated cycles of timed relations; three IUI cycles; IVF until you’re broke and have lost your will to live.

So that’s where we are “at” as far as treatment, but then there’s the emotional side of everything. Do you really want to hear about that? Because it’s ugly. Really fucking ugly. I’m super sad. I’m exhausted. I’m angry. I’m bitter. I’m obsessive. Being around pregnant people, even pregnant people I love dearly, makes me want to gnash my teeth, and I don’t even know what that means. I hate parties because pregnant people are always at them. I don’t want to be around my friends’ small children; I don’t want to hear all my “mommy” friends compare notes about their six-month-olds sleeping through the night; I don’t want to see or hear one more pregnancy announcement for the rest of my life.

Other people’s joy makes me jealous and upset, and I feel bad about that, and I’m sick of feeling bad about that. I dread the imminent pregnancy announcements of all my friends who currently don’t have kids, of my siblings, of my teenage cousins — even of other infertile strangers on the Internet, which is really messed up. I see statistics about age and pregnancy rates and I panic. I fight with my husband over infertility-related issues on a regular basis. I feel like I will be the last person I know to ever start a family. That is where I am at.

But of course I don’t say all of that, because I would sound like a crazy person and I would make people uncomfortable and probably a lot of people would judge me, because if you haven’t been in these infertile shoes, there is no way for you to understand, try as you may. So I have to struggle to find some acceptable answer about where we are at: a quick synopsis of where we stand as far as treatment, a brave “I’m hanging in there!” to summarize how I’m doing emotionally.

And I’m tired of doing that. For two out of every four weeks, we are just waiting. Waiting to see if something worked. Doubtful that it did. Anticipating the tears in the bathroom and the arduous rallying of emotional reserves to try again.

But during every two-week wait, everyone else is so expectant and optimistic. They have “good feelings” about this one. This will be “my year.” And I know everyone cares about me and wants this for me, and of course I don’t want to be met with my own cynicism, but I feel like a creep unless I muster a weak smile and try to act as sure and happy and hopeful as everyone else. And I’m tired of doing that.

But people’s sympathy and pity are no good either. I don’t want people to feel sorry for me and think of me as that poor Erika, who’s going through this terrible trial, and I sure do feel bad for her.

I just don’t want to talk about it anymore. Let’s talk about my job, or my trip, or my cats — or better yet, let’s please talk about you.

2. I haven’t been that honest on this blog. It’s largely for all the reasons stated above. I don’t blog anonymously, and I have a lot of readers who aren’t infertile, so I don’t want to alienate people or make them feel guilty or change people’s perception of me in any negative way. But if I can’t be honest here, what’s the point?

I started this blog to be a place to purge my feelings, but it’s not a safe space for me to do that. Too many people who I interact with on a daily basis have access to it. People at my workplace, including my new boss, could easily enough find it via Twitter or Instagram. (One of the best things about my new boss, by the way, is the fact that he doesn’t know about my infertility, so it doesn’t color his perception of me at all. The pity, the morbid curiosity, just aren’t there, which is amazing.)

But if I can’t share it openly, that’s a problem too. I want readers; I want this space to mean something. So I keep walking this line, and even that is exhausting. I want to just verbally dump — and I think my infertile readers want that too. Otherwise it’s too neatly packaged; the pretty bow tied around everything where I say, It’s all okay; I’m learning and growing so much from this experience, makes it feel disingenuous and makes me sound way stronger and more at peace with everything than I really am, and in turn makes my words unrelatable to the readers who come around looking to see that we’re all struggling and lost, and that’s normal, so at least we’re not alone. But I don’t feel the freedom to do that.

3. This blog hasn’t fostered the community I’d hoped it would. So many of the other infertile bloggers I read, and whose Twitter/Instagram accounts I follow, seem to have found these incredible support systems online — to the point where they’re sending each other care packages in the mail — and I have not found that at all. Even though I’ve been at this TTC business for 2.5 years now, I still feel like the new kid at school going, Hey guys, can I sit at your lunch table? And all the seats are taken.

Again, this is probably my own doing. I’m not honest enough here. I don’t write posts often enough. I don’t comment on other people’s blogs enough. I don’t belong to any message boards; I don’t volunteer for Resolve; I don’t post pictures of my pregnancy tests on Twitter asking if anyone else can make out an evaporation line.

And a lot of that is due to reasons I’ve already stated, as well as other insecurities. I feel too bogged down in my own story and misery to be a voice ringing out for advocacy and community. I applied to be a contributing blogger at The Infertility Voice and never heard a peep, which made me feel like a failure and an outsider. Plus I just don’t have the time to be keeping up with all of the above. I’ve got my non-virtual life to attend to: work, social engagements, time with Philip, time with family, chores, car shopping. I want to make a scrapbook for Carmen. I have trouble prioritizing it all.

I realize that everyone who does keep up with all the Internet “TTC sisterhood” friendship maintenance has all of those real-life commitments too, so I’m just making excuses. And thankfully, I’ve got a handful of friends in the flesh who are also going through infertility, so I don’t think the need for me to find support through online means is as great.

But still, it’s felt tough and frustrating to try to break into the conversation, and keeping up with the blog often feels like an extra chore/burden, especially when I spend time on a post and don’t really get any comments. If what I’m saying isn’t prompting anyone to respond or interact, was it really worth saying?

4. I’m not sure why people come here. Again, I’ve touched on this already, but just to elucidate a little more: I know people are reading. I see in my blog stats that some days I get as many as 40 or 50 page views. But because of the lack of interaction, I don’t really know if people are finding what they’re looking for.

I suspect that what brings a lot of people back is the constant curiosity of: Is she gonna get pregnant this time? It’s a nice little literary device, suspense, and I’ve got this handy ongoing conflict that keeps my story juicy, but to those genuinely interested in me because they care about me, I say: I’m tired of disappointing you month after month, and to the voyeurs: I don’t want to be here purely for anyone’s entertainment. That said, I do want my writing to be entertaining, but more than that, I want it to be helpful.

I had a vision once for starting a website that would be the Style Me Pretty of infertility sites. While sharing my own story, I could also share inspirational images and quotes, fur-baby galleries, suggestions for weekend getaways, and helpful advice related to infertility. It would be a place for everyone to come together, as there doesn’t seem to be one central resource. I discovered recently that Baby Hopeful is kind of already doing this to an extent. And of course, every infertile alive knows about Stirrup Queens’ comprehensive blog roll.

I still think my idea is a good one, but it’s one that requires more time (and, frankly, more heart) than I have to give it. Life presented me with an exciting new job, not a dead end that might lead to a freelance career with more time for personal projects. And since I still feel so (at worst) bitter, miserable and (at best) ambivalent about infertility, it’s hard to imagine creating something beautiful and positive out of this experience.

Which, of course, makes the whole ordeal seem that much more pointless. I met a girl at a big work conference last December, and of course, I shared that I was infertile. (Why not broadcast it to the masses?) She told me she had struggled for four years to get pregnant and did several failed IUIs. All the while, she was wrestling with God over it and trying to find His purposes. Finally she felt she had a spiritual breakthrough, and soon afterward she got pregnant on her own. She now has two daughters. She told me, “Never waste a good trial; press into God.”

I feel I am wasting this trial. I can’t find the redemption in this. I can’t find the lessons I’m supposed to be learning. I can barely even face God. I thought maybe this blog had something to do with the “reason” behind it all — comforting others with the comfort I have received from God and all that — but I don’t really see that happening, and I don’t have a vision for it.

5. I think it might be nice to have privacy as we begin the IVF process. Circling back to number one, at the moment I’m very attracted to the idea of doing IVF in private. When people ask me where we are at, I could just say we’re taking a break — no having to explain the meds I’m on or report on the quality of our embryos.

No follow-up questions like, When will you know if it worked? and, What are you going to do with all the embryos you don’t transfer? No having to hear people use the wrong terminology like eggs being “harvested” or embryos being “implanted.” No having to advise single friends on whether or not it’s prudent to freeze your eggs (so tired of being a cautionary tale, and they’ll probably have no issues getting pregnant at 40 anyway) or how much that costs (I don’t know). No pressure to tell the waiting world the results. Sharing our news — whatever it is — at our discretion and at our own pace.

It all sounds like such a dream right now, like such a giant relief. Of course, I’m reacting to my current disappointment. A full year of treatment. Infinite pills, shots, blood draws, speculums and vaginal ultrasounds. Thousands and thousands of dollars. And I’ve got nothing to show for it. FUCK THAT. I’m ready to throw out the baby with the bath water. Delete the blog; fire the doctor. Go into deep hiding.

And of course, there’s the valiant argument for infertility awareness: The more I share my story, the more the world will understand, and the less ostracized future infertiles will feel. But I just can’t worry about those poor future infertiles right now, as, wet-faced, I cradle my little broken heart in my hands at 7:51 a.m. on a Saturday morning.

* To be perfectly honest, the test would not neatly snap into two pieces the way you see fresh celery do in commercials. Instead, the hard plastic basically folded in half, which was not nearly as satisfying. And the results still read just as clearly.

ONCE UPON A TIME

There was a girl who had an enviable life -- an amazing husband, a beautiful bungalow-style house, two loving cats, a vibrant career, even a recent promotion! She was in good health, except for one problem: After trying for two and a half years to conceive, she was still barren.

All around her were reminders of the life of motherhood she wasn't living. Pregnant bellies, strollers and babies were everywhere she turned, from the grocery store to the hotel pool. Anniversaries and annual events reminded her of how long she'd been fruitlessly trying. Future plans were made with ambivalence: Should she go on that trip/buy that car/accept that responsibility, or make a different choice on the small chance that she could be pregnant by then? And of course, friends and acquaintances were regularly announcing pregnancies, as it was that season of life.

Summer was winding down -- another season passed and still, no child -- and the weekend had been emotional: Two pregnancy announcements on Facebook had thrown the girl into a private tailspin. Not only did she feel pain at the news, but she also felt guilty for being upset at another's joy.

But she bore the heartache quietly. She didn't want to weary her husband with fertility obsessions. And indeed, what was there to say that hadn't been said a thousand times?

In her mind, she counted the days. She and her husband had undergone an insemination, their third, and were awaiting the results. They had agreed the insemination would be their last; the statistics didn't show much success beyond three attempts. They also agreed that neither felt particularly hopeful about this treatment cycle. They had swallowed every pill, administered every injection, and showed up at every appointment, but robotically.

It was also true that they hadn't made any attempts at reducing stress. Work had been intense for both of them, long-term household responsibilities had piled up, and they had gotten into several nasty arguments over the previous weeks. The girl had fallen far from her routine of yoga, massage and healthy eating.

Nevertheless, she knew every day where she stood: eight days past ovulation; nine days; ten. In a few short days, they would have their answer, and what if it was negative? Always a planner, she considered the next steps. Ostensibly, they would meet with their reproductive endocrinologist to discuss in vitro fertilization.

But it seemed impossible that they were already on the doorstep of IVF. How could they have tried everything else already? How could it be that nothing worked? Her RE had said most of his patients got pregnant without needing IVF, and the girl had seen the proof: The simple ovulatory drugs had worked for that friend of a friend; the progesterone supplements for the old work acquaintance. But not this girl. She needed the full $12,000 last resort, reserved for the extremely infertile and the extremely desperate.

It was hard to accept. The failed inseminations made her angry -- the wasted money and the wasted months. The checked-out nurses made her angry, and the RE made her the angriest of all -- that mirage with whom they had talked only three times. THREE TIMES, in a full year.

All of this she mulled silently in her head. Finally she spoke to her husband: "I think I will call tomorrow to make an appointment with the RE. If it turns out we're pregnant, we can just cancel it, and if we're not, we'll get in to see him that much sooner."

Her husband affirmed it was a fine idea, but then said, "I don't want to pay for it."

Suddenly all the emotions boiled over the surface. The disappointment, the anger, the loneliness fused into an accusatory arrow that she threw at his heart: "You care more about money than you care about having a baby!"

A long discussion followed. They sat on the bed facing each other, trying to understand. First it was about the money: She didn't want to talk to the clinic about pricing, because it's always stressful and never straightforward. He didn't want to pay $200 for an IVF marketing pitch. She didn't know what else to do other than talk to the RE. He wanted to research other doctors to see if there may be a better overall value and fit for them. She was overwhelmed at the thought of leading that new charge. He felt that if they're going to spend that much money, they need to be sure it's with the best possible doctor. She said it's not like buying a car! He said it's absolutely like buying a car!

Finally the girl started weeping. "I will pay whatever it costs!" she cried, choking out words through her sobs. "Why don't you feel that way? I want you to feel that way! I will do anything! This desire is overwhelming! It's always with me, always! I just want it to go away, but it won't. I see Brittany's pregnancy announcement on Facebook, and I just feel so behind. And helpless. And BROKEN. Everywhere I look there's some glassy-eyed parent pushing a stroller, and they have NO IDEA what a blessing it is that they have that child! Starting a family is the most natural thing in the world for people, it's so easy, and I CAN'T DO IT! No matter what I try, I can't make it happen, and I wonder if it will ever happen. I see a family of four sitting around a table, and I wonder, will that ever be us? Will we ever get there?! Or in ten years, will we just be that couple who never had kids, living some totally other life, one that I never imagined would be our life?"

Her husband listened attentively and compassionately, feeding her tissues. Always a fixer, he looked for ways he could participate more fully in the quest for a family. He should give her more opportunities to share her feelings; he should encourage a more relaxing lifestyle, he said. He volunteered to call the fertility clinic to ask about the cost of the IVF consultation. He confessed that he didn't feel how she did -- he felt good about their life: They were trying everything they knew to conceive, and in the meantime, they were still living fully -- traveling, having fun, and eating leftover flautas at 10 p.m. He didn't constantly long for a child, but he didn't want her to feel alone.

She said she felt that way sometimes, and she certainly tried to live that way: making the most of the current life season. She acknowledged that the desire for a baby was completely illogical, that a child would seriously interfere with all the freedom they enjoy now. But in a way she was thankful for the misery of her constant overwhelming desire, because it drove her forward; it kept her pushing through a merciless process that would otherwise defeat her.

The next day, she felt a little better. The outburst had been cathartic, and she put on her face and her work clothes and functioned effectively the entire day in her Normal Person disguise. She saw on her calendar that her husband had added an IVF consultation appointment four weeks from the day, and he had also added information about a local Resolve support-group meeting.

She said a prayer of thanks for her husband, and she counted on her fingers: eleven days past ovulation.

A BIG WIN

"Questioning things when you're happy is like taking a shit after a shower." 

-- Kelly Oxford, via tweet

So two pretty big things happened last week.

1) I got the promotion! (What?!)

2) We did our third IUI.

Here's how both things went down.

On Friday, I was expecting to find out about the promotion, and I really was SO SURE I didn't get it. All the signs pointed to a big, fat: Let it go; it's not happening. I had updated my résumé; I had created a website displaying all my writing clips; I had drafted a cover letter and made an Excel spreadsheet of jobs I intended to apply for over the weekend.

At 3:45, my new boss called me into his office. I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders. I am ready to be told I did not get the position. I am ready to just know for sure. I am not going to cry; I'm going to take it like a champ.

I closed the door to his office, sat down and forced a calm, bright look onto my face.

"How are you?" he asked me.

"I'm good," I said. I really was. It was OK; it was time for a new life chapter.

"Well, I wanted to tell you that I'd like to offer you the position of executive editor," he said.

And I lost it. I gasped, I clapped my hands over my face, and I cried like a baby. I was shaking all over; I couldn't think or speak. I was SHOCKED!

When I pulled myself together a little bit, I luckily remembered to thank him, and I told him I didn't think he would be disappointed. After more than two months of buildup, uncertainty, competition, wins, losses, frustration, meltdowns, over-analyzing, strategy sessions and crazy-hard work, the whole conversation lasted less than five minutes.

I got to make several joyful phone calls. Then a few friends joined me for an impromptu celebratory happy hour. Afterward Philip and I went out to dinner with a couple more of our friends. (Philip said I could choose any restaurant, and I opted for Mellow Mushroom. Soda and pizza, bitches!)

Congratulatory texts and emails kept coming in. It was such a high! My friend Amber said, "You deserve to have something go your way," and I have to admit the same thought had already crossed my mind: After years of struggling to start a family and dealing with an unfair work dynamic, it was about time for a big win.

Eighteen hours after I got the good news, I was on my back getting inseminated for the third time. It was yet another new doc, but she was twice as fast as the previous two dudes, and she gave Philip's sample a B+. His numbers were much improved from our last IUI, so I was pleased.

I came home and slept for hours. It was the deep, delicious sleep of relief.

By Monday night, I was already questioning things. A big meeting at work didn't go my way, and I wondered if the promotion really meant anything, or if it was just a begrudging effort to keep me from leaving the company.

Of course, infertility insists on bringing me down as well. I have defeating thoughts like, I'm glad I got the promotion, but what I really want is a baby. And I fret that the added work responsibility will bring more counterproductive stress into my life.

What is wrong with me? Why can't I just let myself be happy? Why can't the sweet, positive mojo of a win last more than 24 hours?

Thankfully, the work week has progressed in an encouraging manner, and I'm starting to let myself believe that the way I've dreamed about things functioning at the office might actually come to fruition.

I'm not terribly hopeful that the IUI worked, but it's kind of a relief to pretend I'm pregnant for two weeks and not feel any pressure to go running or show up at boot camp.

But somehow I've got to figure out how to rise above my circumstances. I don't want to continue to be tossed around by temporary setbacks and momentary successes. And I don't want to keep waiting anxiously for the other shoe to drop. Life is life; it's good and bad. I've got to just roll with it. And right now things are good, so I want to savor it for as long as I can.

HEY! I'M ALIVE!

Happy one-month anniversary to me of not having posted here! Yikes.

Well, to answer all your (imaginary) questions: I still don't know about the promotion (but am not feeling too hopeful). Our South America trip was amazing! And we're 10 days into our third and final IUI cycle.

There's not a lot to say about treatment so far. At my day-three ovary check, everything was "nice and quiet," so that's good. Although I did get pretty annoyed when my medication protocol wasn't in the system and I had to wait 10 extra minutes for the nurse, who promptly asked me, "Do you just want to do the same thing as last time?"

I gave her what amounted to an incredulous look and said, with a forced laugh, "Well, I'd like to try something different, since last time didn't work! But what else is there? We've tried everything."

I could tell she felt bad, but seriously. YOU'RE the nurse! You tell me what to do! Der.

I had to tell her that we've done injectables. We've done progesterone. We've done estrogen. Yep, let's do it all again, because I don't think we have an alternative? And oh yes, let me tell you what the dosage is, because what it says on that there chart is wrong.

Then, while I was waiting for my prescriptions to print, some random lady in a white lab coat who I'd never seen before gave me a strange smile and then began studying my discharge paper, which was sitting on the counter. Um, who are you, and why are you looking at my very personal papers? Go away!

So anyway. I'll go back in tomorrow to measure my follicles, so please pray there's one or two good ones in there, please? I can't help but fantasize about how not only would a pregnancy be a dream come true and the fulfillment of my deepest desires and blessed relief from the constant nagging misery of infertility, but it would also put an end to my ongoing work woes. Who needs a high-powered job when you're too busy being pregnant and glowing?

I wish I could get into more detail about the drama at work, but I don't think it would be prudent. In a nutshell: It SUCKS.

One thing I will expound upon is our wonderful trip to Bolivia and Chile! I have been composing three separate entries in my head, starting with our stay in Santa Cruz and our very memorable/emotional experience meeting Carmen. So stay tuned for that. Until next time ...

THE MOST IMPORTANT

See that photo in the top right-hand corner of this blog? That's the hubs and me on July 4, 2012. One year ago. This year, we had virtually the same day we had 365 days prior -- we got up early to run the Watermelon 5K, we shared a meal with Philip's family in Mount Dora, and we ambled down to the lake to enjoy the fireworks with the Hueneke clan.

It was a lovely day, but I can't help it -- my thoughts always turn to infertility at these annual events. A year later, and we're still not pregnant. I sat and watched the fireworks in 2012, thinking wistfully about how fun it would be to share this holiday with a family of our own, and I sat and watched the fireworks in 2013, thinking wistfully about how fun it would be to share this holiday with a family of our own.

I love the Fourth of July fireworks so much -- the unabashed patriotism, the long summer night, the childhood nostalgia, the sheer wonder of these artful explosions in the sky. But how many more times will I have to watch them with a quietly heavy heart?

Philip and me in 2012

Philip and me in 2013

I had Friday off too -- a last-minute surprise from my company's CEO -- but I worked all day from home anyway. I finalized my feature outline (yep, same feature I bellyached about a week ago), I caught up on emails, I worked on updating my résumé (which I hadn't touched in six years). By the end of the day, I was wracked with stress. So much remains to be done before we leave for South America in a mere nine days, both at home and at work, all under heightened pressure and major uncertainty.

While I worked inside, Philip and his brother worked out in the garage, going through their father's belongings -- a task at which they've been chipping away for over a year. It's an emotional, overwhelming endeavor, not to mention just a lot of tiring physical labor out in the Florida summer humidity.

By the end of the day, Philip and I were totally beat.

Stress is the absolute worst. It's this invisible weight, and it's inescapable. The moment I awake in the morning and remember everything that's going on, I feel dread to the point of nausea. It's terrible.

This morning wasn't any different, but Philip suggested we go for a run, and I agreed it would be a good release. But halfway through, I had another crying meltdown (par for the course these days). "Why is everything so HARD?!" I wailed like a child out in broad daylight, blowing my snotty nose into my shirt. "Running is hard! Work is hard! Trying to have a baby is hard! Preparing for Bolivia is hard! Going through your dad's stuff is hard!"

Philip was amazingly patient with and encouraging to me, and we managed to finish the workout without further incident.

We also made some major headway on Bolivia prep. We went through old letters from Carmen, our sponsored child, making notes on key people and interests in her life (conversation starters), and we brainstormed gift ideas for her and her family.

Then we went out and freaking shopped till we dropped. Like, we just crazy-shopped our brains out.

It was pretty cathartic, spending all that money. (For me at least. I think Philip was feeling a bit panicky about our upcoming credit-card statement.)

Shopping for Carmen was so very exciting. To think of things she'd like and enjoy, to imagine her pleasure at opening these gifts and using them -- painting her nails with her friends, writing about teenage crushes in a pretty journal, carrying her pink Adidas drawstring backpack to soccer practice -- made me so happy, happier than I've felt in weeks and weeks.

We went bonkers buying stuff for her because it just made me feel so good to focus our energy 100 percent on doing something special for someone we care about. It felt like we were doing something that mattered, that was pure. It was empowering and humbling; it was purposeful; it was good and right and true.

Gifts for Carmen

And unlike all the irresolution of infertility and work, it's a sure thing that on Wednesday, July 17, we will meet this girl with whom we've been corresponding for nine years, and we will get a glimpse of her day-to-day life in South America's poorest country. It's becoming real, and it's awesome. And it's so much more important than anything waiting for me in my office cubicle.

Carmen, age 7, when we first started sponsoring her in 2003

Our most recent photo of Carmen, age 16

So here I am, at 1 in the morning, thinking about what's important. (I'm wide awake because we brilliantly had Starbucks for dinner.) Being some big-shot bridal editor doesn't seem that important. Traveling to tropical islands to go snorkeling doesn't seem that important. Any job that requires extreme amounts of my time -- whether it's time away on travel or time spent continually taking on new responsibilities while never being able to shed old ones -- doesn't seem that important.
 
Starting a family seems important. And in my case, starting a family requires a lot more time, money, effort and emotional reserve than it does for 90 percent of the population.

My mom texted me yesterday: "I am feeling that when you get back from South America, you will dive into the fertility treatments again and probably have a whole new life beginning for you."

I can't even tell you the thrill that thought sent through my gut. To just pour all of my resources into the quest to build a family, to not let anything -- stress, work drama, travel -- stand in my way: What freedom! What purpose! It was the course I was on for the first half of 2013 before I got derailed, and while it seems so distant now, I want to get back on that road.

It's the most important.

I don't know the way back to that road. There are no directions; there's no clear map. But at least I know now where I need to get.

Have any of you experienced this conflict -- a job that's too demanding to coexist with fertility treatment? What did you do?

TOO MUCH

I had another crying meltdown on Friday night. It had been a hell of week, every day feeling like at least two. We're on deadline with the magazine, which is a very stressful, overwhelming time even in normal circumstances. I typically have to work late, there are a million last-minute fact-checking details to keep straight, and everyone starts to ride on everyone else's last nerve.

I'd also had two Big Idea meetings during the course of the week about how to improve the magazine's blog and the print magazine itself, in which I felt a great deal of pressure to be super prepared and impressive and sparkly while trying to read my new boss' mind.

On Friday I was just so infinitely tired; I spent the day researching a feature and it was just taking way too fucking long, and I wasn't happy with my outline, and at 7 p.m. I finally admitted defeat and drove over to my best friend's birthday happy hour that had started at 6. I couldn't find parking, and I knew Philip and I were leaving that night to drive two hours to St. Pete for the weekend, and I still hadn't packed my suitcase. I was getting more and more frustrated, and then I saw it: a perfectly pregnant girl in a tight-fitting white dress and heels, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulder, holding hands with her man, on their way to some fancy babymoon date. And I started to sob.

Oh yeah, I remembered, I'm ALSO infertile! I had kind of forgotten about it for the moment, so preoccupied with all the intense work drama and the general nonstop pace of life. But the universe wasn't going to let me forget.

Finally I found a parking spot, and just as I pulled in, my husband called, and I choked out all of life's injustices over my cell.

In the end, he came out to meet me at the bar, all my girlfriends rushed to console me as soon as they saw me enter with the Look of Death on my face, and I drank some delicious wine. We got on the road to St. Pete at 10:30, which was retardedly late, but the drive went by quickly, and Philip and I had a ton to catch up on, having barely had a minute to talk all week.

I had a hard time relaxing on our weekend getaway. It rained on the beach, the Tigers lost, and work uncertainty hung over me like a cloud. But it was definitely still fun, and I did my best to be a pleasant companion to Philip and our friends who joined us.

I'm dreading the two weeks ahead of me, as it's all just too much to think about. Ship a magazine, then have another Big Idea meeting, then have an even bigger Big Idea meeting two days after that, then jet off to South America on a complicated two-week trip we've barely had time to plan. And oh yeah, the Big Announcement about who gets the promotion will happen when we're in the middle of the Bolivian salt desert.

Tomorrow Philip and I get inoculated -- a big check-the-box item -- and at some point we need to book a couple of tours, buy domestic airline tickets and purchase a backpack full of appropriate gifts for a  teenage Bolivian girl ... any ideas what's on that wish list?

I am taking off Thursday, and we're running the Watermelon 5K at 7 a.m. "Running" is probably generous, as my exercise routine has fallen into oblivion. But it will feel good to hopefully burn off some of this tension.

Even tonight I have a pile of work to do for a promotion I'm not sure I'll get at a job I'm not sure I want. Treatment Erika will be back in August (provided I dubiously use my leftover progesterone tablets to delay my period while I'm in South America), and I have no idea how she's going to mesh with Jetsetting Power-Editor Erika -- or if she'll even have to.

My future is a hazy question mark, which drives the control freak in me bonkers, and I lay awake at night asking myself and God, What do I want? What do you want for me? What are my options? What is even within my power to try? If it turns out I can't be a mom, do I want to keep climbing the ladder at this job? If I don't do that, what else is there? What life choices would allow us to just move to a lazy beach town and escape all this aneurysm-generating corporate and infertility nonsense? Would you ladies join me if I opened Infertility Island where you'd never have to see another pregnant belly in your life, and you wouldn't have to keep pretending your career is all you need?

And while I'm thinking these things, I just keep getting up and going to work and pasting on a smile and attending meetings because for now, there doesn't seem like any other choice.

CRYING IN THE BATHROOM

Yesterday two bloggers I follow got long-awaited news. One got a positive. The other got a negative. And I am crying in the bathroom at work. 

I am crying for the girl who had hung all her hopes on a promising new treatment protocol, only to have her hopes crushed. 

I am crying for the girl who had to go through five IUIs, three IVFs and seven frozen-embryo transfers to get the news she’d been longing for, but is still only cautiously optimistic. 

And I’m crying for myself, all dressed up in my wedges and my high-low dress, striving to impress my new boss, angling for this promotion with all the energy in my cells, working into the night, on the other side of the looking glass from six months straight of failed and canceled treatments, just wishing to God I could walk away from my current life, never looking back, and be a stay-at-home mom.

THE TIME'S THEY ARE A-CHANGIN'

Holy Moses, what a week. It’s Saturday morning, and it’s the first time I’ve felt like a halfway normal human being in 12 days. I have so much on my mind, and it doesn’t really all flow together seamlessly, so forgive me if this entry is a bit scattered.

First I want to “publicly” thank Not When But IF for nominating me for the Super Sweet Blogging Award back on June 10. I feel ridiculously under-qualified for such a nomination, but thrilled nonetheless! I plan to more fully address the nomination and nominate others in a future post, but for now I just want to acknowledge that this happened, and also encourage everyone to head over to But IF’s blog in order to laugh a lot and hear someone much smarter, more articulate and more honest than me talk about the nasty but weirdly sometimes-community-and-strength-building world of infertility!

Second I want to report that there’s nothing really to report about work so far. The long and the short of it is that I’m competing for a promotion under a new boss, and to me, the only acceptable outcome is that I get it. But I won’t know anything for a few more weeks. In the meantime, my time in my cubicle is a nonstop, exhausting flurry of not only trying to ship a magazine, brainstorm brilliant ideas for how to change and improve pretty much everything we’re doing, and accentuate my intelligence and hard work, but also highlight my incredible charm, charisma and leadership magnetism — all while my competition is trying to do the same.

As someone who is by nature a shy introvert, it takes quite a bit of effort to prove that I am capable of being outgoing, outspoken and confident in high-stakes work settings — which I AM — I’m just saying, it takes all the energy I possess. In other words, I had no energy left this week for things such as emptying the dishwasher, eating square meals, blogging and brushing my teeth before bed.

I would also like to confess that while I sounded very convicted about my passion for travel writing in my last post, I was also on an airplane after just having taken a yoga class ON THE CARIBBEAN SEA. Forgive me if I was riding a bit of a high. At 10,000 feet, my thinking always tends to be clearer. Then I get home, and I’m sitting at my computer in my ordinary surroundings, and suddenly things seem a lot more confusing.

My loyal reader Blue Rose has this perception of me as being so strong and resilient, when the reality is, I spend about 95 percent of my time second-guessing and feeling ambivalent and sorry for myself. I do love working at a magazine! I do love traveling! I do love opening a blank Word doc to create something new! I’m amazingly blessed to have lived this jet-setting, creative life, and I don’t want to sound ungrateful. But I fucking want a baby! I want it more! I’ve been working at it for years now! That’s why I was willing to bench myself for seven months, and why I’ll do it again in the fall.

But now there’s another problem. My new boss doesn’t know about my treatment. And going after a big promotion at any cost while going after a pregnancy at any cost doesn’t exactly jive. Being a woman is shitty in this way, infertility or not. Plus there’s the time out of work for appointments, the extreme moodiness and fatigue brought on by the meds, the work happy hours/networking opportunities where it’s highly conspicuous if you don’t have a drink in your hand … I’m even hesitant to write about all of this with much candidness for fear that people at work might be reading. I’m only semi-out of the closet about infertility and this blog, but who knows.

So there’s that. There’s also the issue of me completely sucking at taking a break from trying to get pregnant. When my cervical fluid showed up on cycle day 13 of this month, I was overjoyed! CYCLE DAY 13, BITCHES! That never happens! A strong ovulation, all by my lonesome, with no medical intervention?! It’s a miracle! AND, get this — it was a Saturday! Hooray for relaxed, spontaneous weekend sex!

I didn’t mention to Philip that I was ovulating, which made me feel manipulative and sneaky, and made me question my motives when I started to get frisky. But why tell him and ruin everything by piling on the pressure? So for a week I carried my little secret that we had in fact had perfectly timed sex. (When I finally broke the news, he laughed and said he was glad I didn’t tell him. Phew.)

And actually, the two-week wait flew by faster than ever since we started trying. With the life-consuming Hunger Games going on at work, I barely had time to think about what cycle day it was.

Notice I said barely. I did manage to fret about what on earth I’ll do if it turns out I finally strike pregnancy gold the minute I finally get the promotion I’ve deserved for years.

But of course, worry, as usual, was unfounded. I took an HPT this morning after dreaming last night that I took one that was miraculously positive, but alas. Same result as always.

Which, I remind myself, is OK. I’ve got a lot of other concerns on my plate right now, not to mention a very exciting trip to South America that is commencing in three short weeks. Holy shit, where did the time go? And I thought I was going to paint my hallway. HA.

In positive news, I returned to yoga after an entire month away. We were able to secure a new space at my workplace that is far less ideal than the old one, but it’s there, for which I’m infinitely thankful. And I went back to the class over lunch on Thursday — stiff, knotted, stressed, dehydrated and emotionally spent, not to mention sans mat and hair tie. Doh. Luckily, there was an extra mat, and even though my hair was in my face the whole time, I felt like a million bucks afterward.

My exercise regimen had fallen to pieces lately, and I was remembering my old routine with deep nostalgia. Sure, I had been struggling to get pregnant, and sure, I was being held back at work, but I had also been cycling through this very healthy, life-giving weekly rhythm of yoga and boot camp and running and evenings with my husband and weekends with our friends.

In the past few weeks, all of that had fallen by the wayside, and I had been feeling like the pre-acupuncture shell of myself who was only hanging on by a thread. So after that yoga class, I was relieved at how quickly I could feel centered again, how fluidly some perspective returned.

Talking to my dad about all of this drama on Father’s Day, he said God was clearly moving in my life. The statement really struck me, because I had been feeling the opposite. How was everything I wanted so miserably challenging to get? Why was I having to fight so hard for every goal? Where is God?

But my dad’s comment shifted my thinking. Life is changing. One way or another, in a few months, my old reality will be gone. I’ll have been promoted into a position that allows me to fully spread my wings, or I’ll have moved on to something completely new. God is not letting me stay static in a less-than-ideal work situation, in which I was largely just biding time. Maybe he has bigger purposes for me after all.

So, I’ll try to rest some this weekend. I’ll try to work a little, play a little. Next week is sure to be another rough one, duking it out in the arena.

TROUBLE IN PARADISE

So, my first act on arrival to Ocean Club West on the Turks and Caicos Islands was to connect to the Internet and fire up my email, only to read a message that turned my work reality upside-down. The magazine I work for isn’t closing, as I fretted about earlier, but massive staff changes are taking place that will mean big changes for my day-to-day work life.

My absolutely precious suite at Ocean Club West. Photo taken just before I checked my email.

What commenced next was a series of Skype calls to colleagues back at the office, as I tried to get a grasp on what was happening and what, if any, action I should take from my tropical suite at a Caribbean beach resort. 

Adorable living area from which I made three trillion Skype calls back to the office

I arrived to the welcome dinner late and completely frazzled. Can you even believe it — I take a work trip for the first time in almost seven months, and that’s when the big announcement happens! I’m not there to defend my position, prove myself and keep the ship on a smooth trajectory while transition was threatening to throw it off-course.

Talking over Skype to my coworker and good friend, I took what she said to heart: “Take advantage of the trip you’re on. Meditate and think about what you really want and what your next move will be.”

So I did. On a bike ride through the island’s interior, I thought about it. On a kayak in the mangroves, I meditated quietly. Laying facedown in the spa, I prayed and considered my options.

It was hard to unwind and enjoy myself, even though my surroundings were impossibly beautiful and built for relaxation. Change can be intimidating, especially if I’m not the instigator of the change. My career future now feels like a complete gamble, and everything I took for granted is gone.

I don’t want this, I thought more than once. I was supposed to be a mommy blogger by now, hearing of this news while far away from that workplace and the players involved, maybe reading it via text on my phone at a playground, or by IM while typing away in my home office. I would think, Wow, that’s crazy, then take another sip of my coffee or push my baby on the swing set while my thoughts drifted to something else.

But then, as I began to explore the Turks and Caicos with my little press group, I realized that while I don’t want the work drama and the uncertainty, I want this — the life of a travel writer. The soft beaches. The hidden paths. The colorful ex-pats. The plantain French fries. And the thrilling storytelling that follows. I want these rich pleasures in my life, however much is possible while also chasing this other consuming dream of mine — to hear a child call me “Mama.”

TCI's famous beach bar, Da Conch Shack

A beach bonfire at Ocean Club East. We made s'mores!

On our last full day at the resort, I finally was able to come down a bit off my work-stress anxiety-fraught jitters. I had made all my phone calls; I had interviewed over Skype with my new boss; I had sent every important email. Now all I could do was wait to face the music on Monday, so I determined to savor every minute of my final moments in paradise. I lounged on the ridiculously beautiful white sand and thanked God for the scene in front of me.

I would like to point out that this photo isn't color-treated. At all.

That afternoon, we embarked on a sailing trip on The Atabeyra, a 77-foot sailboat whose owner had built her 23 years ago, hand-hewing the towering mast from a pine tree. We sluiced through the water, so turquoise it looked fake, and dropped anchor on a deserted white beach. I scurried up a cliff, then swam to a nearshore shipwreck, floating over the vessel’s broken ribcage, now wearing a blanket of algae. I had the whole silent scene to myself.

The following morning, we rose early for a paddleboard yoga class with Water Play Provo. The Caribbean Sea was smooth and clear, and I cautiously followed the instructor’s directions: tabletop, downward-facing dog, remember to breathe. I crashed into the water attempting a lunge, then crawled back on my board, dripping wet, water running into my nose. The dip was refreshing in the hot sun. I nailed warrior two on one side, tumbled into the blue again on the other. Back up on the board again, laughing, happy.

So I’ll fight for this job like I fight for a family. I’ll promote myself and work harder. I won’t back down. When I feel like just giving up, like it’s all too much, I’ll remind myself what I’m striving for: a passion that’s important to me, that will change my life if I succeed.

After all, travel and family don’t have to be mutually exclusive; it just requires balance. Putting one thing on pause to focus on the other, and vice versa. Two of the writers on my trip are moms. Maybe one day I, like them, will be sad to say goodbye to some beautiful, exotic place, but eager to get back home to the other loves of my life.

Our little group, such a joy to travel with

AIRBORNE REVERIE

So, I'm behind. I originally composed this post on June 10 and was thisclose to finishing and posting it when I got mind-blowing news related to my job, and life has been stressful/bananas/upside-down ever since. So I debated scratching this entry and just starting over with something more up-to-date. However, I feel like you might enjoy watching the transition, seeing where I was a week ago and then eventually comparing that state to my current circumstances. So, my friends, and especially Blue Rose, this is for you. [Also, as I think I present myself on this blog as far more put-together than I am, I would like to share that while writing this introductory caveat, I ate exactly half of a package of Publix-brand sliced turkey pepperonis. Like, by themselves.]

Colorful macarons that caught my eye during my caffeine-fueled euphoria in the Miami airport

I’m addicted to travel. Recently I was talking to a coworker who tried a trapeze class a few months ago, fell in love and now can’t get enough of flying through the air. That’s how I feel about travel. Every time I go somewhere, my bucket list gets longer, not shorter. Long before I ever wanted a baby, I wanted to travel the world.

Family trips to Florida and Jamaica as a young adult lit a spark, but timidity and insecurity kept me grounded until a summer studying in England just after I finished my senior year of college gave me confidence and stoked the travel fire. When I landed a job as a writer for a destination-wedding and honeymoon magazine six years ago, my fate was sealed.

My first work trip was to three Hawaiian Islands with an amazing group of journalists who modeled an enthusiastic curiosity and gratitude that has inspired me ever since. The trip took place a month after I started with the magazine, and the travel never slowed. Every six or eight weeks, I was off to some new exotic place.

I was 27 and being treated, for free, to sailing trips in the Caribbean, luxury cruises through Mexico and even an African safari. The idea of children seemed distant — something I wanted, someday. But I wasn’t ready yet. I was having too much fun; there was too much I still wanted to see.

I traveled like this for six years straight. Airports became my second home, and I settled into the routine: seeing my name on a driver’s sign at a ramshackle airport, arriving to some high-end hotel to a welcome treat of fruit or chocolate in my room. Philip was able to come with me from time to time, but almost always I was traveling with writers on assignment for other outlets — strangers who would often become friends in a matter of three or four days. Our itineraries were set for us — not restful at all but always fun.

I loved the repeat themes: Shooting the breeze with a taxi driver, eating fresh fish in view of the ocean, snorkeling a coral reef and bebopping to the spa for a massage never got old.

Until, they did.

I had done amazing things. I had dined at a three-Michelin-starred restaurant on a Roman hilltop. I had seen humpback whales and blue-footed-booby birds in the Bay of Banderas. I had zip-lined in Costa Rica, climbed a volcano in St. Vincent, made a wish under a Bermudan moongate, kayaked to a deserted Cayman islet, drank Killer Bee rum punch in Nevis, taken a mud bath in St. Lucia, ATVed through a Puerto Rican jungle, kneelt in a Thai temple, biked through San Diego and summited a Maya ruin in Belize. And I had written about it all.

But I was tired. Traveling this way meant often traveling solo. It meant being beholden to someone else’s schedule. It meant colds, canker sores and constipation from airplane germs and airport food. It meant missing friends’ birthday parties and spending less time with my family. It meant not even knowing what was going on in my own backyard.

I had seen so much and been blessed for this season, but I felt the season was waning. I was ready to move into a new adventure: motherhood.

I had seen what I wanted to see and was prepared to finally join my friends in the excitement of expecting — the thrill of a positive pregnancy test, of breaking the news to happy loved ones, of celebrating at a shower, choosing names and designing a nursery — followed by the wonder of welcoming a new life into the world and watching him or her learn and grow, of being able to share with a child all I’ve come to love about this beautiful, diverse world.

For two full years I tried to become a mother without success while simultaneously clinging my other reality as a travel writer. With each invitation to a new resort, I scrutinized my calendar: When was I likely to ovulate?

Traveling planning around my inconsistent ovulation proved challenging, and it just got worse as we began fertility treatment and the treatments became more involved. Many months I agonized over an unexpectedly long cycle and a looming trip that would put Philip and me in different countries when we needed to be in the same bed.

Still, I continued to jetset, faithfully packing my thermometer, ovulation chart and prenatal vitamins into my carry-on. Infertility had robbed me of my dream to be a mother, but I wasn’t going to let it also ruin my passion for seeing new places, experiencing new cultures and sharing these experiences with curious readers.

In December of 2012, I was scheduled to travel to south Florida for a luxury wedding conference, and I was determined to cram in our first IUI before I left. If everything went according to plan, I’d be safely within my two-week wait while I sat in on inspiration sessions and attended fancy dinners.

Instead, my ovaries balked. Letrozole medication that had worked like gangbusters for two other cycles of timed relations didn’t do a thing. On cycle day 10, my biggest follicles were a measly 9 mm. At this rate, they’d never mature in time for an IUI before I had to depart for my trip.

I panicked and stressed. I nervously talked to my boss and negotiated a plan B; maybe I could drive down a day late. She reluctantly agreed.

In the end, my follicles didn’t grow a single millimeter more, and the cycle was cancelled, so I was able to travel to the conference as originally planned. But as the New Year approached, I knew I had to make a change. Treatment and travel were mutually exclusive, and I had to prioritize one at the expense of the other.

So, I let go of the traveling. I was grounded until further notice. I hated infertility even more for stripping me of not only my dream but also my passion, but I didn’t see any other way.

And actually, it wasn’t so bad.

I got well. Really well. No more headaches, a lot less stress. I had time to cook dinner and exercise regularly. I fell into a routine for the first time in years, and it felt good. I started regularly attending a yoga class. I was blogging more. For the first time ever, I had adequate time to finish my to-do lists at work — and even start learning some new digital skills.

I was able to attend every birthday dinner, every friend’s art show or musical performance. I went to spring-training games; I went on walks; I spent time with family. So this is what a normal life feels like, I thought.

And of course, I was able to pursue fertility treatment without worrying myself to death over the timing of everything. We found the magical dosage of Follistim that kicked my ovaries into gear, and we underwent two IUIs that went off without a hitch.

Of course, they both failed. And then a new priority emerged: to visit our sponsored child in Bolivia before she graduates out of the program and before we — hopefully — start a family and can no longer gallivant around impoverished third-world countries.

So instead of trying to balance treatment with a two-week jaunt through South America, which entails high altitudes, delicious wines and multiple inoculations, we are prioritizing the trip.

And since we were on a break from treatment, it turned out I could even squeeze in a work trip too. So that’s where I sit at this moment: on American Airlines flight 1245 to the Turks and Caicos Islands. My first work trip in six months.

And I have to say, it feels really good to be back in the saddle.

Armed with a Starbucks mocha latte in one hand and an issue of Islands magazine in the other, I sat on my flight to Miami feeling like I could explode with happiness. (That could have been the caffeine, but still …)

Oh hello, old self, my brain said as I navigated the gates in the Miami airport as though I hadn’t missed a beat.

I enjoyed my time off, and it was important to do, but traveling for work again is reawakening some important part of me that values adventure and feels purpose in looking for compelling stories in far-off places.

I’m reminded that I have a plan B if it turns out that our resolution to infertility is living child-free. I am a traveler. I am a travel writer. I love this. It makes me feel alive and happy. It feels reassuring, centering, true.

So here I go, ready to set foot on the Turks and Caicos Islands for the first time. More to come, as hopefully, I will find compelling stories to tell in this far-off place.

THE NEW NORMAL

Hello, friends. I would like to report that I feel like a somewhat normal human being. After four treatment cycles in a row (two canceled, two failed IUIs), we're taking a break, and I feel almost daily relief over it. For the first few days, I kept panicking -- what meds am I forgetting to take? What appointment am I missing? Oh God, what cycle day is this, I don't even know! Then I would remember, and relax, and think of my needles and sharps container and Follistim pen stored away in their secret spots, and not miss them one iota.

Now when I crave a Mexican Coke or a caramel latte from Starbucks, I don't have to consider the potential harm the caffeine would do to my fragile reproductive system; I just have to think of what time it is, and would I ever fall asleep if I indulged in said treat at 7 p.m.

When I've had a hard day and just want to go run it all out on the pavement or beat myself up at boot camp, I can just go do it.

When I want to make plans, I don't have to fire up Google Calendar to see how these possible plans might interfere with treatment.

I'm not crying over every tiny inconvenience in life; I'm not waking up in hot sweats; I'm not keeping my phone at my side every waking moment for fear I'll miss the call from the nurse. I don't have to worry about what size my follicles are or how thick my uterine lining is. I don't have to force my husband to masturbate into a plastic cup; I don't have to cram in a wine night with my friend before the two-week wait. I've even stored away the OPKs and the HPTs -- I'm just shelving it all until we get back from South America.

The downside of all this is that we won't make a baby. The logic behind this thinking is that if we can't make one even with all of the above paraphernalia, there's no way we'll make one just going about our business. I'm pretty OK with not having a shot at making a baby for two months, until one of the following happens:

1. I see a baby.
2. I see a pregnant person.
3. I see a person who may or may not be pregnant: Maybe she's just overweight, or maybe she's just wearing a loose top for fashion. But probably she's fucking pregnant.

I've done an OK job at shielding myself from pregnant bellies and babies, but they do tend to pop up in unexpected places. Facebook pregnancy announcements do a pretty good job of shattering me to pieces as well, but to be honest, I've hidden so many people, my feed has dwindled to practically nothing.

So it's a weird line I walk ... just being normal old me, going to work, going to the store -- then suddenly sad, jealous, hyper-comparison-making me, losing her mind over some stranger's baggy shirt.

But still, I stand by my proclamation that overall, it feels good to be on treatment hiatus for the time being.

Philip had a cold over the weekend, so we basically hibernated, eating take-out food, researching our big trip (seriously, my friends, I canNOT believe I am going here!) and watching This Is 40. (Which is hilarious, and I will watch anything directed by Judd Apatow, and there's even some infertility humor in the movie that totally splits my gut. But seriously, can we please [SPOILER ALERT] be done with the whole oh-no-I'm-accidentally-pregnant-at-40-whatever-will-I-do plot? It nearly ruined Modern Family for me. This predicament is, I guess, tragic for fertiles who had their planned pregnancies at the appropriate time earlier in life, but to me, it will be reality that if I have children at all, it will be at an advanced maternal age. So while this may be high drama in some circles, for me it's just a fact of life, is not compelling in the slightest and, in fact, is annoying as hell.)

Ranting aside, the weekend was just kind of ... normal. Philip and I reminded me of the old us, before charts and thermometers and pills and wands and needles came and changed everything.

So that's my transmission from my kind of pitifully insular, self-obsessed infertile life. Hanging onto small joys, living in the balance. Thank you, as always, for following along.

UNDER CONTROL?

My lovely T.J.Maxx yoga mat, temporarily retired

Things have been pretty uncertain at my workplace lately. I work for a magazine publisher, and publishing has been a real mess pretty much since the invention of the Internet. It gets worse every year. No one knows what to do with iPads and smartphones and Google's ever-changing algorithms for search-engine optimization. We're competing with not only other magazines but also TV shows, social networks, blogs, Candy Crush Saga, you get the idea. There are a million forms of entertainment these days; how many of us are really picking up a magazine anymore?

Nevertheless, I hang on. Publishing retains its glamorous sheen, despite the continuing closure of magazine brands every month. Even Express stores carry pants with names like "Editor" and "Columnist." And of course, my job comes with the perk of getting to travel on someone else's dime to popular destination-wedding and honeymoon locations. Who could willingly walk away from that?

But it's a stressful time to work in this field. Since the beginning of 2013, my company has sold and/or closed 12 magazines. Twelve! We've gone from 50 brands to 38. Every couple weeks there's more shocking news coming down the pike, more friends laid off, fewer people to do more work.

Last week we got more bad news: The onsite office space a group of us had been using for a lunchtime yoga practice on Tuesdays and Thursdays was finally leased after a year, so yoga was on indefinite hold.

As my friend Vicky said, "I can't take another loss!" Yoga has come to mean so much to me in these last few months, and the convenience of having a twice-weekly class right at the office, with my friends, has been a huuuuuge blessing. It's a weekly gift in the midst of monthly disappointment. It's a quiet, healing space when my brain just won't let me be. It's a physical release I don't have to give up, even during a treatment cycle.

I know I can find another yoga practice, but I don't WANT to. I love this instructor. I love the timing, the location and the other people in the class. I loved the certainty that, twice a week, even if everything was NOT OK AT ALL, it was OK for an hour.

Now everything feels, in a word, uncertain.

Will we be able to find another open space at the office for our yoga class? Will my magazine brand survive the massive sea change engulfing publishing right now? Will I have a job next year, next month ... ? Will I ever be a parent?

I know nothing in life is a guarantee, but I enjoy that feeling that at least SOMETHING is under control -- that if I don't have X, at least there is always Y.

Of course, I haven't lost everything, so I don't want to sound over-dramatic. I have an amazing husband, and he has a lucrative (if demanding) job. Our cats are healthy, and so are we for that matter, save our largely unexplained infertility.

But going into work day to day and feeling like the the proverbial other shoe is hovering over my head, threatening to drop at any moment, doesn't feel great. It's stressful, and it makes me feel even more out of control during a time when I have already lost control of our future and our ability to build our family.

So losing yoga was kind of the last straw.

Except ... it's not. I carry on, and I'd carry on even if my magazine closed and I was thrust into the unpredictable land of unemployment. Yoga may come back, or I may find another practice. I may get pregnant and I may not. Whatever happens, life keeps moving forward.

I suppose none of us really has control over anything; it just feels like we do when things go our way. And maybe I'm just the beneficiary of some giant life lesson about letting go and letting God. I could probably learn said lesson a lot faster if I weren't so cynical, so stubborn, and clinging so insistently to the few areas of my life that still feel halfway under my control.

The greatest irony of all: Yoga teaches open hands and open hearts. Guess here's my chance to really apply my practice, even in the absence of it.

FRIDAY FAILURES AND FLIGHTS

I was so excited for Friday, my friends. All week long, just agonizing for it to arrive. I knew I could test in the morning, and then Philip and I were hopping on a flight bound for Chicago to surprise my parents. I hadn’t been on a plane in six months (my longest dry spell in probably six years), and, despite the cramps I was experiencing, I was fantasizing about buying “Grandma” and “Grandpa” mugs at the O’Hare airport. (And also severely scolding myself for indulging in said fantasy.)

I woke up at 5 a.m. and forced myself to go back to sleep. I was strangely calm. I woke up again at 6 and decided it was time. So into the bathroom I went. After thinking for a minute, the HPT gave me the same shitty news it always does: Not Pregnant.

I buried it in the trash, that insidious piece of heartless plastic, and crawled back in bed. “Not pregnant,” I said to Philip.

“I’m sorry,” he said. We lay in each other’s arms for a while, staring at the ceiling. “It’s OK to cry,” he finally said.

I took a deep breath. I didn’t really feel like crying. “I wanted to be pregnant!” I blurted, and started sobbing.

Thank God I cried. The anger, the disappointment, the doubt — all the emotions that usually take me days to slog through — hit me in one intense rush.

Eventually we had sex, which was absolutely the right thing to do. When we got up, I was still sad, but I was determined to still enjoy this day.

Surprising my parents was so much fun, I can’t even tell you. In all of the nearly 11 years I’ve lived in Florida, I had never flown up for a surprise visit. My parents thought they had dinner reservations with just my sister and her boyfriend, but when they got to the restaurant, Philip and I were already at the table. It took a minute for my parents to register who they were looking at. Then my mom gasped, dropped her purse on the ground and fell into my arms crying. My dad cried too — success!

The next day we surprised them with tickets to see the White Sox play, and we drove into Chicago early to eat at Revolution Brewing’s brewpub. The Sox won with a walk-off hit. Such a stellar day.

All that's missing is my other sissy, Alyssa.

Notice Philip's chipmunk-cheek full of sunflower seeds and his hat -- he's still reppin' the D.

Despite the joy of being together with my family, the pall of our second failed IUI still hung over me like a thin cloud, and I talked about infertility with my family quite a bit over the weekend. At the surprise dinner, I told my mom, “You’re not going to be grandparents yet, but at least we’re here.” Another night, my mom and I soaked in their hot tub unapologetically and gabbed about treatment.

My dad shared that it’s hard for him to see his friends becoming grandparents — he’s jealous — so it was funny/sad for me to realize he was experiencing a bit of what it feels like to be a bitter infertile. (He was also incensed to learn that all IUI does is put the sperm directly into the uterus. “How is that different from just trying on your own?!” he boomed. Well, Dad, it does cost $1,000 more …)

So now I’m back in the Sunshine State, back at work, back to my kitties, but not back to the fertility clinic. We’re taking a break for the next two cycles in order to focus on our upcoming trip to Bolivia and Chile.

I feel very impatient to find our resolution, but at the same time, I gotta say it’s really helpful to have something like a big trip to look forward to, even if it’s a detour on the path toward an answer. We have more bookings to make, visas to acquire, gear to get (gotta get the gear!). We’ll finally meet our sponsored child after almost a decade of exchanging letters. We’ll drive through Bolivia’s otherworldly salt flats (elevation 12,000 feet!) and drink Chilean wine in the driest desert in the world.

It’s also a relief to take a break from the injections, the appointments, the pelvic ultrasounds, the blood draws, the pill popping, the oozy progesterone, the nagging calls to my insurance company, the ambivalence about exercising and drinking. I’m sure by August I’ll be chomping at the bit to jump back into it all, but for now, I don’t miss it one bit.

So, now I have two failed IUIs under my belt. I’m one IUI away from starting the process of IVF. With every new failure, I feel more and more like a card-carrying member of this infertility community. I’ve got the cred to speak to it; I’ve got the empathy to listen with compassion. I’ve been brainstorming about how to make my voice stronger, clearer and more helpful — looking for God’s leading, though phrasing it like that is uncomfortable for me.

And maybe I’ll take advantage of this two-month break in other ways too. Maybe I’ll paint my hallway (no need to worry about paint fumes!) or give acupuncture another big go (no need to worry about Chinese herbs interfering with hormone medication!). And I’ll certainly be back at boot camp. Who’s going to join me?