Tonight I had my fourth massage by Danielle at Massage Envy. I have a membership there, a gift from Philip that makes me feel both supremely thankful and also pretty indulgent. But my close friend Audrey insists I keep making appointments there to take care of myself and keep my stress and anxiety at bay, as stress can delay ovulation, cause illness and in general prevent Philip and me from being in the mood to do that which we need to do to achieve our goal of getting pregnant.
I keep going back to Danielle because she's not only skilled at massage therapy, but she also struck me as being attentive from the first time she treated me. She found my trouble spots and, just from interpreting my muscle tension, was even able to deduce that I sit at a computer for a living.
As I drove to the appointment tonight, I thought about how I wanted to tell her Philip and I are trying to conceive, as maybe there's some specific technique she could use that might help. At the very least, I wanted to tell her I was under a higher-than-normal amount of stress lately and needed all her soothing powers to be in full force. But being shy, I didn't say a word.
During my other sessions with Danielle, we haven't spoken, which is how I like it. I just want to enjoy the massage and not be bothered. This time though, just a couple minutes into the massage, she asked me a strange question: "I feel like I know you from outside Massage Envy. Do you go to church anywhere?"
"My husband and I have been to Summit Church before," I responded through the hole in the face rest. "Have you heard of it?"
"Oh yeah," she said. "My husband and I go to the Plaza location."
Though we didn't ever figure out how we might have crossed paths outside the clinic, her question opened the door to a conversation that was even more life-giving than the massage. We talked about church and marriage and buying a house; she and her husband of less than a year are closing on a place this Friday. Then she asked me directly, "Do you have kids?"
"No," I said. "We're trying. It's so stressful."
"Yeah," she said with genuine sympathy. "How long have you been trying?"
"Four months," I answered.
"That's not that long."
"Yeah, but it feels like forever."
"I'm sure," she said reassuringly. "I recommend that you keep getting massages as often as you can. They stimulate blood flow and help with relaxation."
"Yes, ma'am!" I joked.
I told her about Toni Weschler's book, Taking Charge of your Fertility, and how I'd been off birth control and charting for more than a year. I explained OPKs and asked her about acupuncture. We discussed the documentary The Business of Being Born and birthing-center versus hospital births and my friends' various experiences with both. And she shared with me about being present recently as her sister was in labor; Danielle was there massaging her in the delivery room.
Then I shared with her about how Philip and I had been quarreling because of the stress of trying to conceive, about how it was much harder than I had anticipated. I said praying every morning was a lifeline, and I was trying to trust God. She immediately affirmed me. "Yes, He is in control, despite how often we try to plan everything out, and His timing is often different from ours. But you can trust Him to know what's best."
Let's all just pause for a moment and remember that I'm face-down on a massage table talking to someone whose previous words to me hadn't gone beyond, "How's the pressure?" Given our unique circumstances, I received Danielle's words as a simple reminder from above, and coming from her open heart, they didn't sound trite in the slightest.
Danielle was so kind and encouraging, so interested and compassionate. I felt a true emotional connection with her and was so uplifted by her listening ear. When the massage was over and she stepped out of the room so I could dress, I laid on the massage table and welled up a little; a wave washed over my spirit that said, "This is Me, showing you how much I love you, child." I am often confused by the Bible and feel uncomfortable with evangelicalism, but I can't deny these personal experiences with God, where it feels like he comes down out of heaven and dwells, of all places, in a treatment room of a massage clinic.
As I was leaving, Danielle said, "I'll be praying for you! I look forward to your next appointment to find out what happened!" I am just so ridiculously blessed.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
OPKs and BFFs
Discussing Philip's upcoming work travel a couple weeks back, he and I ran into a predicament: I suspected I would ovulate during a particular week, and he was supposed to be in Huntsville, Alabama, for work during said week.
As you may realize, in order for a child to be conceived, the mother and father have to be in the same state during the time of ovulation. But further complicating things is that unlike all you lucky ladies who ovulate "like clockwork," my cycle likes to keep things interesting.
"Can you be SURE you'll ovulate that week?" asked Philip, who was reticent to change his travel plans — and those of all his colleagues — for my best shot in the dark. No, I could not be sure, but it was a definite possibility.
The whole conversation was frustrating and felt lose-lose. If he traveled, he would likely miss my ovulation. If he postponed his trip, he would aggravate his coworkers, and it would be a whole ordeal. Philip travels often for work, so this wasn't the first time we'd gotten into such a jam. He ultimately decided to change the travel dates, which made me feel both grateful and guilty.
The next day at work, I shared what had happened with my good friend Lauren over IM. "I JUST started a new cycle, and the situation is already loaded up with pressure and conflict," I bemoaned.
Lauren listened compassionately and offered her encouragement. I went on, "It doesn't help that my cycle is just such a guessing game. I think I'm ready to try an ovulation-predictor kit (OPK)."
"Is that the one with the smiley face?" Lauren asked.
"I don't know!" I said. "What's that?"
She went on to tell me about a friend of hers who had a pee test she took every morning; when she wasn't about to ovulate, the result was a frowny face, and when she was about to ovulate, it turned into a smiley face. The friend awoke hungover one morning, took the test, and got her smiley face — so she woke up her equally hungover husband, knew him in the biblical sense, and successfully conceived.
"What kind of OPK do you want?" she asked me.
"I don't know," I said. "I haven't researched them much. They're pretty expensive, so it's hard to justify. But that smiley-face one sounds awesome!"
"Don't buy it," she typed from her computer. "It'll be here in three to five business days."
It took me a minute to realize what had happened: Lauren had just gone ahead and bought me an OPK online.
The act delighted and humbled me. In addition to being a good listener and offering uplifting words, Lauren did something — something pretty unconventional (how many people do you know who have bought their friends OPKs?) — for me. No more waffling about whether an OPK was worth the money; it was on the way.
A few days later, when I got to my work cubicle, there was a small box wrapped in brown paper and a green ribbon. I started testing the very next day. (When you're not about to ovulate, only an empty circle appears — sadly, there is no frowny face. Joking about this later with some girlfriends, we said they could really get more creative with it, like, when you're not about to ovulate, it says something like, "Not yet! Chill out!" And then when you are about to ovulate, it says, "Get busy!")
I tested for about five days when I observed one of my body's natural cues that ovulation was imminent. Sure enough, the next morning, the OPK concurred: I got my smiley face!
It was a relief to have a concrete piece of technology verify when was the best time to try. It was a relief that it aligned with my own fertility charting. And it was a giant relief to know that I have good friends who have my back, not only with prayers and encouraging words, but also with bold, get-'er-done actions that help to solve my problems. I hope I'm the same kind of friend to others.
As you may realize, in order for a child to be conceived, the mother and father have to be in the same state during the time of ovulation. But further complicating things is that unlike all you lucky ladies who ovulate "like clockwork," my cycle likes to keep things interesting.
"Can you be SURE you'll ovulate that week?" asked Philip, who was reticent to change his travel plans — and those of all his colleagues — for my best shot in the dark. No, I could not be sure, but it was a definite possibility.
The whole conversation was frustrating and felt lose-lose. If he traveled, he would likely miss my ovulation. If he postponed his trip, he would aggravate his coworkers, and it would be a whole ordeal. Philip travels often for work, so this wasn't the first time we'd gotten into such a jam. He ultimately decided to change the travel dates, which made me feel both grateful and guilty.
The next day at work, I shared what had happened with my good friend Lauren over IM. "I JUST started a new cycle, and the situation is already loaded up with pressure and conflict," I bemoaned.
Lauren listened compassionately and offered her encouragement. I went on, "It doesn't help that my cycle is just such a guessing game. I think I'm ready to try an ovulation-predictor kit (OPK)."
"Is that the one with the smiley face?" Lauren asked.
"I don't know!" I said. "What's that?"
She went on to tell me about a friend of hers who had a pee test she took every morning; when she wasn't about to ovulate, the result was a frowny face, and when she was about to ovulate, it turned into a smiley face. The friend awoke hungover one morning, took the test, and got her smiley face — so she woke up her equally hungover husband, knew him in the biblical sense, and successfully conceived.
"What kind of OPK do you want?" she asked me.
"I don't know," I said. "I haven't researched them much. They're pretty expensive, so it's hard to justify. But that smiley-face one sounds awesome!"
"Don't buy it," she typed from her computer. "It'll be here in three to five business days."
It took me a minute to realize what had happened: Lauren had just gone ahead and bought me an OPK online.
The act delighted and humbled me. In addition to being a good listener and offering uplifting words, Lauren did something — something pretty unconventional (how many people do you know who have bought their friends OPKs?) — for me. No more waffling about whether an OPK was worth the money; it was on the way.
A few days later, when I got to my work cubicle, there was a small box wrapped in brown paper and a green ribbon. I started testing the very next day. (When you're not about to ovulate, only an empty circle appears — sadly, there is no frowny face. Joking about this later with some girlfriends, we said they could really get more creative with it, like, when you're not about to ovulate, it says something like, "Not yet! Chill out!" And then when you are about to ovulate, it says, "Get busy!")
I tested for about five days when I observed one of my body's natural cues that ovulation was imminent. Sure enough, the next morning, the OPK concurred: I got my smiley face!
It was a relief to have a concrete piece of technology verify when was the best time to try. It was a relief that it aligned with my own fertility charting. And it was a giant relief to know that I have good friends who have my back, not only with prayers and encouraging words, but also with bold, get-'er-done actions that help to solve my problems. I hope I'm the same kind of friend to others.
Thursday, August 04, 2011
THE FLOOD
On Sunday, the day after our anniversary, I awoke in a funk, proving once again what a leaky vessel I truly am. With the excitement of our celebration behind us, I had nothing to distract me from dwelling on my current reality: After three months of targeted trying, we are still not pregnant.
I moped around all day. Philip asked me several times what was wrong, but I didn't know how to articulate it. I was just down. At least I'm not hysterically crying like last month, I thought to myself. That's an improvement.
At some point in the afternoon, Philip took a call from a friend. Later, he approached me as I was glumly pulling laundry out of the dryer. "I need to tell you something," he said solemnly. His news: Some friends of ours, who are actually trying to avoid pregnancy right now, accidentally conceived. The friends had called because they care about me and wanted me to know, but didn't know how to tell me, as they sensitively assumed it would be difficult news for me to receive.
When Philip delivered this revelation to me, I wish I could tell you I reacted calmly, rationally, appropriately. But instead, I immediately started sobbing like a total maniac. The jealousy, the anger, the fear, the confusion all welled up in me so fast and viscerally that there was no stopping the flood. Almost as quickly, a wave of shame washed over me for feeling so selfish, which only made me cry harder. So much for keeping my emotions in check this month.
What is God doing? Why do some people become pregnant when they don't even want to be, while I want to be and can't achieve it? It doesn't make any sense, and of course, I want things to make sense. Philip and I are emotionally ready. We're financially stable. We're healthy. We've had a good many years to tenderly develop our infant marriage into a more mature one. We seem like perfect candidates for parenthood.
Of course, we haven't been trying that long, but nevertheless, the various fears come at me like arrows ...
What if there's something medically wrong with me or Philip or both of us?
What if we waited too long to even start trying?
What if I get so resentful toward friends who have children that I ruin the friendships?
What if God thinks my marital relationship isn't strong enough for Philip and I to be good parents?
What if God thinks I'll be too helpless with a child?
What if God doesn't think those things, but our friends think God thinks those things?
What if God is trying to teach me something? What is it? Why don't so many other people have to learn it? Can't I learn it some other way that's not so difficult?
Am I being naive if I believe God has some perfect timing He's waiting for or some greater plan I just can't see right now?
Now, as the menstrual hormones begin to subside, the fog in my head begins to clear. Hope returns, almost supernaturally. Miraculously, the fears retreat to a more remote corner of my mind, and I can again bear to read various friends' baby-centric statuses on Facebook. And when it comes to our couple friends who accidentally conceived, I find myself happy for them and ready to hear their whole story.
I moped around all day. Philip asked me several times what was wrong, but I didn't know how to articulate it. I was just down. At least I'm not hysterically crying like last month, I thought to myself. That's an improvement.
At some point in the afternoon, Philip took a call from a friend. Later, he approached me as I was glumly pulling laundry out of the dryer. "I need to tell you something," he said solemnly. His news: Some friends of ours, who are actually trying to avoid pregnancy right now, accidentally conceived. The friends had called because they care about me and wanted me to know, but didn't know how to tell me, as they sensitively assumed it would be difficult news for me to receive.
When Philip delivered this revelation to me, I wish I could tell you I reacted calmly, rationally, appropriately. But instead, I immediately started sobbing like a total maniac. The jealousy, the anger, the fear, the confusion all welled up in me so fast and viscerally that there was no stopping the flood. Almost as quickly, a wave of shame washed over me for feeling so selfish, which only made me cry harder. So much for keeping my emotions in check this month.
What is God doing? Why do some people become pregnant when they don't even want to be, while I want to be and can't achieve it? It doesn't make any sense, and of course, I want things to make sense. Philip and I are emotionally ready. We're financially stable. We're healthy. We've had a good many years to tenderly develop our infant marriage into a more mature one. We seem like perfect candidates for parenthood.
Of course, we haven't been trying that long, but nevertheless, the various fears come at me like arrows ...
What if there's something medically wrong with me or Philip or both of us?
What if we waited too long to even start trying?
What if I get so resentful toward friends who have children that I ruin the friendships?
What if God thinks my marital relationship isn't strong enough for Philip and I to be good parents?
What if God thinks I'll be too helpless with a child?
What if God doesn't think those things, but our friends think God thinks those things?
What if God is trying to teach me something? What is it? Why don't so many other people have to learn it? Can't I learn it some other way that's not so difficult?
Am I being naive if I believe God has some perfect timing He's waiting for or some greater plan I just can't see right now?
Now, as the menstrual hormones begin to subside, the fog in my head begins to clear. Hope returns, almost supernaturally. Miraculously, the fears retreat to a more remote corner of my mind, and I can again bear to read various friends' baby-centric statuses on Facebook. And when it comes to our couple friends who accidentally conceived, I find myself happy for them and ready to hear their whole story.
Tuesday, August 02, 2011
SIX YEARS
On Friday, I started to spot, so I knew what was coming. I was disappointed of course, but knowing the following day was set aside to celebrate six years of marriage with Philip was a major boon to my spirit. We had the whole day to do as we pleased, without the interruption of chores, errands, work or other people (no offense, other people). I was just hoping the full onslaught of my period would wait at least until Sunday so I could have sex with my husband on our anniversary.
Using the crossover of our wish lists, we decided to head to Rock Springs, but were turned away at 10 a.m. because the park was already full. After making a mental note to ourselves that we should never again attempt to visit Rock Springs during the summer on a weekend day (this has happened to us two or three times before), we made a U turn and headed to Canaveral National Seashore.
On the way, we made a pit stop at Walmart to buy beach chairs and a beach umbrella. This purchase pretty much doubled the amount of beach paraphernalia we had to schlep, but it was totally worthwhile -- Philip discovered he all of a sudden went from feeling like he could tolerate the beach to actually liking it!
All settled in under our umbrella, with the pristine sand dunes behind us, we dug into the lunch Philip had packed: an assortment of snacks, my favorite. Then we took a walk, we swam in the waves, and I read my book while Philip took a nap. It was perfect.
After we got back home and showered, Philip played bartender and mixed us each a cocktail that we enjoyed while chatting on the sofa. Then we decided to grab dinner at 310 Park South. Being so late, there was no wait at the restaurant, and an acoustic guitarist was even performing. We both really enjoyed our entrees and splurged on a mousse for dessert.
Lingering over each bite as the restaurant began to clear out, the lighting dim and the guitarist gently singing in the background, I felt that we were hanging in one of those rare transcendent moments when all is right and we are more in love than ever before. I gazed at him across the table and began to reflect on our six years of marriage, going from young, naive newlyweds to full-blown adults. How do you hold six years in your head -- all the laughter, all the arguments, all the lovemaking, all the bill paying, all the trips, all the quiet nights at home?
We just finished reading and discussing the last chapter of Love & War with our small group this week, and the authors write, "There are couples who find their way to something beautiful. Truly beautiful. We pray that you will be among ... those who find their way to a beautiful and powerful marriage. But there is no guarantee of course. So why bother? Why risk it? Why throw yourself wholeheartedly into such a dangerous, costly, and uncertain enterprise?"
In preparation for our small-group meeting, Philip and I discussed this question. Are we willing to throw ourselves wholeheartedly into our marriage? Why?
Our answer, of course, is yes, for myriad reasons. First off, happily, we still like each other. We still want each other. We still enjoy spending time together. But we have experienced moments when that's not entirely true, and we know more are bound to be ahead. So what about those times? Why fight for the marriage then?
The Sunday-school answer is that we want to obey God and honor our vows, and the gut-level answer is that when we don't get along, we hope things between us will change and improve in the future. The book's answer is that you fight for marriage because the whole point of life is learning to love, even when it's really crazy hard.
My answer included all these reasons, plus the one that is especially poignant on an anniversary -- I don't want to throw away all that we've built. Over six years, we've created a life from scratch that is so intertwined, I wouldn't know who I was without it. Our home, our families, our friends, our cats, our neighborhood, our finances, our routine, our diet, our values, our bucket list. The way we've learned each other -- what makes him mad, what turns her on, what brightens his day, what calms her down. The way we've figured out how to run our household like a well-oiled machine (most of the time). How hard we worked to surmount huge challenges like buying a house, finishing grad school and wrestling through this peculiar endeavor of trying to conceive. And our memories! So many memories that are so precious, so priceless, I would never want to diminish their value by walking away.
I thought about all these things as I studied Philip's face from across the table. It wasn't so articulate, but the complex symphony of all our years together flashed through my thoughts, and I felt overwhelmed -- with gratitude, with satisfaction, with love.
And when we got home, we took advantage of the fact that my period did, in fact, wait to fully assail me until Monday. And that's all I'll say about that.
Using the crossover of our wish lists, we decided to head to Rock Springs, but were turned away at 10 a.m. because the park was already full. After making a mental note to ourselves that we should never again attempt to visit Rock Springs during the summer on a weekend day (this has happened to us two or three times before), we made a U turn and headed to Canaveral National Seashore.
On the way, we made a pit stop at Walmart to buy beach chairs and a beach umbrella. This purchase pretty much doubled the amount of beach paraphernalia we had to schlep, but it was totally worthwhile -- Philip discovered he all of a sudden went from feeling like he could tolerate the beach to actually liking it!
All settled in under our umbrella, with the pristine sand dunes behind us, we dug into the lunch Philip had packed: an assortment of snacks, my favorite. Then we took a walk, we swam in the waves, and I read my book while Philip took a nap. It was perfect.
After we got back home and showered, Philip played bartender and mixed us each a cocktail that we enjoyed while chatting on the sofa. Then we decided to grab dinner at 310 Park South. Being so late, there was no wait at the restaurant, and an acoustic guitarist was even performing. We both really enjoyed our entrees and splurged on a mousse for dessert.
Lingering over each bite as the restaurant began to clear out, the lighting dim and the guitarist gently singing in the background, I felt that we were hanging in one of those rare transcendent moments when all is right and we are more in love than ever before. I gazed at him across the table and began to reflect on our six years of marriage, going from young, naive newlyweds to full-blown adults. How do you hold six years in your head -- all the laughter, all the arguments, all the lovemaking, all the bill paying, all the trips, all the quiet nights at home?
We just finished reading and discussing the last chapter of Love & War with our small group this week, and the authors write, "There are couples who find their way to something beautiful. Truly beautiful. We pray that you will be among ... those who find their way to a beautiful and powerful marriage. But there is no guarantee of course. So why bother? Why risk it? Why throw yourself wholeheartedly into such a dangerous, costly, and uncertain enterprise?"
In preparation for our small-group meeting, Philip and I discussed this question. Are we willing to throw ourselves wholeheartedly into our marriage? Why?
Our answer, of course, is yes, for myriad reasons. First off, happily, we still like each other. We still want each other. We still enjoy spending time together. But we have experienced moments when that's not entirely true, and we know more are bound to be ahead. So what about those times? Why fight for the marriage then?
The Sunday-school answer is that we want to obey God and honor our vows, and the gut-level answer is that when we don't get along, we hope things between us will change and improve in the future. The book's answer is that you fight for marriage because the whole point of life is learning to love, even when it's really crazy hard.
My answer included all these reasons, plus the one that is especially poignant on an anniversary -- I don't want to throw away all that we've built. Over six years, we've created a life from scratch that is so intertwined, I wouldn't know who I was without it. Our home, our families, our friends, our cats, our neighborhood, our finances, our routine, our diet, our values, our bucket list. The way we've learned each other -- what makes him mad, what turns her on, what brightens his day, what calms her down. The way we've figured out how to run our household like a well-oiled machine (most of the time). How hard we worked to surmount huge challenges like buying a house, finishing grad school and wrestling through this peculiar endeavor of trying to conceive. And our memories! So many memories that are so precious, so priceless, I would never want to diminish their value by walking away.
I thought about all these things as I studied Philip's face from across the table. It wasn't so articulate, but the complex symphony of all our years together flashed through my thoughts, and I felt overwhelmed -- with gratitude, with satisfaction, with love.
And when we got home, we took advantage of the fact that my period did, in fact, wait to fully assail me until Monday. And that's all I'll say about that.
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