NEW CHAPTER

I started this blog about a year ago with the purpose of it being a TTC blog. That stands for "trying to conceive," for all you fertile readers who have no need for super-awesome infertility acronyms. I had hoped it would swiftly transform into a pregnancy blog, and then again morph into a motherhood blog.

I figured that if we had trouble conceiving, it would be a good spot to vent and sort my feelings. But you know, I really didn't think we'd have trouble conceiving. I was scared to death we would, but I didn't think that would actually happen. We're so healthy. I get my period every month. Almost everyone else we knew had conceived like gangbusters. And I had been charting my cycles for nine months by the time we officially started trying. I was so educated. I knew exactly when to turn on my charms of seduction.

But here we are, 15 months after taking the big leap, childless as can be. We've bought our nest, saved our pennies, paid off our loans and spent years investing in our relationship. We've taken dream trips and checked big achievements off our bucket lists. We love Jesus, and we eat healthy, balanced meals. I think we'll make pretty kick-ass parents, except for this one nagging problem.

I try to avoid posts like this, where I'm just rambling about my feelings, but we're at a bit of a precipice now, anticipating our first appointment with the fertility clinic. To me, it's a great white flag, an admittance of defeat. To Philip, it's a firm concrete step, hopefully toward answers. I'm ready to go, and I'm deeply thankful that we have the financial resources. But I just can't believe that I'm one of the infertile ones. My desire for a child of our own flesh and blood is practically suffocating, and we just can't do it. We keep trying and trying, and we have an army of people praying for us, but at the end of every month, it's the same heartbreak. It's helpless and awful. It's always in the back of my mind, often the front. I put up with well-intentioned but bad advice and stories of friends of friends of friends that have nothing to do with me or my reproductive system. I wrestle with shameful feelings of envy and resentfulness toward my friends. I fret over the future. I wrestle with God's hand in all of this. I worry that I don't deserve children.

On the flip side, I lead a very exotic life. This year alone, I've been to St. Kitts, Nevis, the Dominican Republic, Los Angeles and Savannah. In my lifetime, I've set foot on five of the seven continents. I've trained my body to run for miles, and I've lost 15 pounds. I have friends all over the U.S., and I eat lunch with some of my closest girlfriends every day. I get to be creative at my job, and I have a husband who is my dream man. I cuddle my cats at night, and I'm never bored.

So, it's weird.

It does feel like a chapter is closing, and a new one is opening. We're done being just a couple trying to have a baby. We are officially diagnosed as infertile (even though I've felt infertile since we started trying, and I do try to avoid that word). So now we are starting the Fertility Treatment chapter, full of appointments and meds and blood tests and a whole new slew of acronyms. Will it end with a pregnancy or just a drained bank account? Will we pursue adoption if we fail? Who knows. Philip tells me not to think about it, so I try not to.

I can't control the outcome, so it's better to focus on things I can control, one of which is this blog. In case people are finding it who don't know me, I've added a photo and a little welcome note on the right-hand side. I've also added a page about our full fertility journey this far, in case any of y'all need a refresher. I've been reading more and more fertility blogs, and goodness knows I want the photo and the back story. I'm an amazing blog creeper, as a matter of fact.

Thanks always for reading, and for continuing to come back even though I post only about once a month. Thanks for supporting us and praying for us and for not bringing up fertility; I promise I'll go there if I feel like talking about it. Thanks for continuing to invite me to baby showers and one-year-old birthday parties, even though I usually don't go. Thanks for caring and for trying to navigate this whole dumb situation with me; it can't last forever, can it?

MIXER AT THE FERTILITY CLINIC! FUN TIMES!

My friend Rebecca doesn't like me to say that I'm infertile. She prefers the term pre-pregnant. So naturally, she didn't approve of me calling the open house at the fertility clinic an "infertility mixer," calling it instead, the "prelude to pregnancy."

With such a pleasant name as that, of course I had to do my hair and wear a nice outfit. I wasn't going to be some sad sack at this thing, no way.

I arrived 10 minutes early to find there was catering by Chick-fil-a. I thought to myself how much Nina Planck wouldn't approve of such a pairing (chicken nuggets + brownies + fertility clinic ≠ babies), then helped myself to a generous serving.

I tried to sneak peaks at my fellow attendees. Into my head popped the theme from the SNL skit, Bein' Quirky with Zooey Deschanel: "There are short girls! And tall girls! Big girls! And small girls." Yes, we come in all shapes and sizes; the one characteristic we share is our invisible scarlet-letter "I."

Philip arrived. I was silently triumphant. We may be infertile -- er, pre-pregnant -- but damn, we look good! And we're both here! Look how supportive and handsome and tall and important-looking my husband is in his dress pants and button-down shirt!

The presentation began. Philip leaned over and whispered to me, "Why are all the office girls here dressed like hookers?" That is a good question for which I don't have the answer. Perhaps it helps with collecting semen samples?

One of the doctors entered and gave her spiel. She looked a little manic and offered next-to-no real information before putting the ball in our court. "Well? Does anyone have any questions or anything specific they want me to talk about?"

Crickets chirped. Eyes turned toward the floor. Well, I had questions. So I started asking them. Questions about diagnostic tests and treatments. Questions about ovulation medication. Questions about individualized care. I got the ball rolling, and others began chiming in. The doctor kept repeating that the majority of their patients end up pregnant, though once, she did slip in that "majority" means "more than 50 percent."

Then it was time for the tour. They split us into two groups, and we awkwardly made our way around what is essentially a typical doctors office. Our group made a stop in the laboratory, where our guide explained the various goings-on of the clinic. She went to great lengths to describe how they don't mix up semen samples, and I blurted out, "God, I hadn't even thought of that!"

When she was through, she asked if we had any more questions. Philip pointed to a wiggly white wax form hanging above a steel countertop. "What is that?"

"That?" she replied. "That's a sperm candle."

Philip and I continued to yuck it up. Yes, yes, we do use humor to diffuse awkward and difficult situations. I think that's a pretty healthy way to deal. But our cohort did not seem amused, even when I was the first to volunteer to peek into the cryogenic storage room: "I want to see where they keep the babies in the refrigerator!"

In the end, we made an appointment for a consultation. It's in a few weeks, and after months of dragging my feet, praying we wouldn't need the services of a fertility clinic, I'm anxious to finally get this ball rolling. And I'm determined that of all the patients, we're going to be the staff's favorite.

IAN & LARISSA

Yesterday my friend Amber sent me this video. In a nutshell, a girl named Larissa married her college boyfriend, even though a terrible accident 10 months into their relationship left him severely mentally and physically disabled. I encourage you to watch it; it’s extremely inspiring, upsetting and challenging. Plus, this entry will make a lot more sense if you know the context of their story.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Larissa and Ian — how sad it makes me that such a vibrant life was turned upside down by tragedy. Why would God allow it? It’s such a childish question, but nevertheless one I keep coming back to as I wrestle through my own pain of not being able to conceive.

But Larissa is the one who really strikes me in this pair — someone so young who chooses a life of sacrifice and selfless love, without much prospect of receiving anything in return. She has to give up so much of what she would like to do in order to take care of her husband and all the household chores and expenses — cooking, laundry, groceries, bills, pushing Ian’s wheelchair, managing his meds and falling asleep every night next to a man who can barely speak. It’s so counter to everything our culture says about love and romance and self-actualization. It’s so counter to my own comfort level.

Their story has challenged me on a number of levels. First and most obviously, it opened my eyes to how much about Philip I take for granted — that he is full of life and energy and opinions and wit; that we run together, blood pumping and lungs heaving and feet coming down on the hard pavement and it hurts so much but we can DO it and then when it’s over we feel dizzy with delicious endorphins; that he teases me and makes the most inappropriate jokes; that he works impossibly hard at his job in order to provide for our family; that he plans for our financial future; that he chips in with the household chores usually even more so than me; that he follows his passions and interests with enthusiasm and joy; that he listens to me and gives me back rubs; that he sits down with me to prepare for our small-group Bible study; that he supports me when I want to do weird things like acupuncture and extreme diets; that he plays with our cats; and even that we fight with such emotion — two strong wills locked in opposition, able to form arguments and assert our positions.

Secondly, Larissa’s selflessness makes me embarrassingly aware of how selfish I am. That the moment Philip fails to do any of the above or I perceive that I’m not his number-one priority and focus, I’m displeased with him. How rare it is that I’m actually thinking of his needs first and dreaming up ways I can serve him better. This self-obsession has only gotten worse as our issues with fertility drag on; I see myself as somehow deserving all his sympathy and care because I’m hurting inside, rather than rising above my own personal sadness to still be a loving, serving wife who thinks of others first.

A third thing that struck me about the video was all the other gorgeous, healthy couples and families that surround Ian and Larissa. I mean, just really good-looking, stylish, hipster people with beautiful children. And here are Larissa and Ian, not withdrawing from all the perfect-looking families, but living right in their midst, experiencing community with them. This has been by far one of the hardest aspects of our current frustrations with fertility — being surrounded by good-looking, stylish people with big, round, adorable bellies and beautiful children. My jealousy is so intense. It’s just really intense. And it’s not just jealousy; it’s an in-my-face reminder of everything I want but don’t have, and it intensifies my heartache. My response so far has been to slowly withdraw from fertile friends, to quietly excuse myself from baby showers and get-togethers where there’ll be a lot of parents and kids, to pretend like I never got the email about takethemameal.com. But I was so amazed by Larissa, who, rather than being envious of and avoiding her friends with normal marriages and cute-as-pie kiddos, instead welcomes their friendship; she embraces what they do have in common, rather than what they don’t.

Lastly, Larissa’s hope and thankfulness are beyond humbling to me. She hopes that Ian will get well, that they’ll someday have the marriage and family they see others enjoying. But even if her earthly hopes never materialize, she clings to the hope of heaven — knowing healing and fullness there is a sure thing — and she remains thankful for the small blessings in each day on earth. As the months wear on, I feel my hope receding, and in its place is growing a resignation, a bitterness. I forget to be thankful of the blessings I do have; I’m tired of the good things in my life, when I should be fully living into and relishing every childless opportunity that comes my way.

These are all hard lessons, and my soul is not very teachable during this season. Even today, full of the knowledge that God is at work on my heart, I feel self-pitiful and resistant to transformation. But maybe He can still grow me into someone a little more like Larissa, a woman five years younger than me but infinitely more humble, selfless and wise.

RUNNING AND ACUPUNCTURE AND DAIRY FAST, OH MY!

Oh hi. I’m someone who runs for miles at a time, doesn’t eat dairy and regularly gets acupuncture treatments. Who the HELL is this person?

A year ago, if a friend had told me about someone she knows who lives this way, I would have thought, I do not need to be friends with that girl. She sounds annoying. She lives in Fantasy Land. She exhibits a level of self-control about which I know nothing.

So how did this happen to a person who would get winded when going up stairs, fainted at the sight of needles and loved cheese enough to make out with it?

It began with the running about a year ago. Philip and I were talking more seriously about growing our little family of two, and we agreed it would be better to start getting into shape before a pregnancy. (Little did I know I’d have plenty of time to get into the best shape of my life while conception eluded me.) At first, we would walk five minutes, jog five, walk five, jog five, walk five. That’s 25 minutes of physical activity by the way, only 10 of which were spent jogging. Eventually we added another five-minute jogging session. Then we incrementally closed the walking gaps. When I could jog for 20 minutes without stopping, I felt like an Olympian.

We kept adding to the distance — another quarter mile, and another. Now I can do 4.5 miles continuously at a pretty OK pace of 10-11 minutes per mile. If you’ve run a marathon, this probably doesn’t sound too impressive, but if you’re Erika circa early 2011, you’re in shock at yourself.

The acupuncture and diet started much more recently — on March 22 of this year. People had been recommending acupuncture for fertility for months; in fact, I got the suggestion from so many people that I lost count. I did some reading online, and it seemed that while there wasn’t much scientific research in the way of acupuncture and trying to conceive naturally, there was strong scientific evidence that acupuncture used in conjunction with IVF treatments dramatically increased the success rate.

We’re in our 12^th month of trying, but I’ve been reticent to start any sort of fertility treatment. I wanted to feel like I had tried every other option first. From the limited testing we’ve had done so far (pelvic ultrasound, blood work, semen analysis), everything checks out as normal. Maybe acupuncture could help us.

My New Year’s resolution was to change my lifestyle. Start acupuncture. Try yoga. Get onto a fertility diet. I was hopeful; I was ready for a fresh start.

Then Philip’s dad died, and life went haywire. Every out-of-town friend and their brother had made plans to stay with us in early 2012, and between spending time with our many house guests, we were frequently making the two-hour drive down to Frostproof to continue sorting through Philip’s dad’s belongings. Philip was in a distant, sad emotional place, and I mourned the arrival of two more periods alone. I privately wallowed in self-pity, bitter that no one else had to change their diet or lifestyle to get pregnant, let alone try to work in baby-making sex amid all the stress and grief surrounding the death of a parent.

Finally life slowed down a hair. Our visitors left. We returned home from a wedding weekend in Savannah. We transferred the last of Philip’s dad’s belongings to our garage. Philip seemed to be slowly emerging from his quiet sorrow. So I got on the phone with an acupuncturist recommended to me by my primary-care physician.

I was initially struck with her confidence. She was very off-hand about her prediction that I probably wouldn’t need more than five treatments (one a week) to get my system functioning properly and get pregnant. While I guarded my heart, it felt GREAT to talk to someone who felt she could help me.

When I arrived for my first session, we spent an hour talking about my entire lifestyle — diet, exercise, sleep, work, stress, travel, periods, bowel movements, fertility tests we’d had done, how long we’d been trying, if I charted, if I used OPKs, what vitamins I was taking. She wanted to know everything — physical and emotional. She was approachable, compassionate and attentive.

Then it was time for the actual treatment. I was apprehensive about the needles, but I felt so good about taking this proactive step toward our goal. In all, she only used three points that first time — one just below my belly button, and one just below either knee toward the inside of my leg. I barely felt a thing as the points went in. Then she worked on my head, neck, stomach, chest and back using acupressure with her hands. I felt like I was melting into the heated massage table.

She told me to tell her about any sensations I was having, and boy, was I having sensations! I was feeling pins and needles on my shoulders, and my legs were tingling up near my pelvis — and neither were places where points were inserted. It was WILD. She said it was all very good and was in line with the paths my meridians travel. As she worked, she explained some of the tenets of acupuncture and specifically of her Japanese style. She shared why different foods are helpful and others are harmful. She taught me a breathing exercise and explained how it would help prevent my body from automatically reverting to a fight-or-flight stress response. It all made sense, but it was so much information; I felt like I was only retaining a tenth of what she was saying.

When she went to remove the points, I was disappointed, because that meant we were wrapping up. Before I left, she commanded that I take a hot bath with Epsom salt and equipped me with recipes and a list of foods to eat or avoid. The biggest change: no more dairy. Because it causes mucus, it can create a “slippery” uterus. No one wants that.

Other changes included no artificial sweeteners; no refined sugar; no white grains; and no tomatoes, white potatoes or peppers (they can cause inflammation). Meanwhile, I’d be adding good sources of nutrition such as coconut water, beef broth, nuts and seeds, kale and spinach, quinoa, lentils, fish and herbal tea.

The appointment concluded, and she warned me to expect some kind of release that afternoon. She said my body had been so tense and pinched and strung out that only my running and Massage Envy membership had been keeping me hanging on by a thread. She didn’t know what the release would look like — maybe some bleeding or a big bowel movement — but whatever it was, I should welcome it.

I always say that with me, there’s no such as thing as TMI. I hope you feel the same way. That afternoon, I proceeded to have diarrhea for SIX HOURS. I didn’t even go back into work, even though it wasn’t the miserable, crampy, clutch-my-intestines diarrhea I’m used to. It as just like my body was going WHOOSH. Get all of that nasty badness out.

I couldn’t wait for my next treatment. Luckily, I didn’t have to wait long. Four days later, I went back. She was a little more aggressive with the points that time — doing the original three, plus putting one in my hand, one in my foot and five in my ears. She also had me lay on what she called a “biomat,” which is heated and full of small healing stones like quartz and amethyst. I left with tiny seed pods taped to pressure points on my ears and instructions to massage them several times a day. Yes, it’s nutty, but I am a very compliant patient. I will try just about anything at this point. Bring it on, lady!

My next treatment is in five more days, and I’ve been going strong with the diet for a little over a week. It’s challenging for sure, but I like the sense of control and hope it gives me. It’s also a new feeling to be amazed by my own ability to sacrifice and achieve things I didn’t think I could. I definitely think I’ll keep it up for the recommended minimum of six weeks. But then I might allow myself one date night with a big handsome hunk of cheese.