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?

TREAT YO' SELF

Last night I was feeling super-PMSy, and Philip was out of town, so I figured, what would be more fitting than a Best Food Forward pedicure at The Beauty Spot?

Note: Early pregnancy symptoms (which are nonexistent) and PMS symptoms are the exact same. I’m not a betting woman, but if I were, I’d place my odds on PMS.

I am a big believer in treating myself to pedicures on a regular basis. This may sound indulgent, but these splurges have proven essential in me not turning into a rock-hard ball of anxiety and depression. Also, I am terrible at painting my own nails.

Normally I go to a little Vietnamese nail salon for a $23 pedicure that is totally sufficient, but I had a gift certificate to The Beauty Spot, so I went all in. My appointment started 45 minutes late, but the place is adorable, and the pedicure was life-changing. (<-- hyperbole)

I sat and read Women’s Health magazine (since when was it so indulgent to sit around reading magazines?), greedily consuming stories on topics such as choosing a yoga practice that’s right for me, using my femininity to my advantage in the workplace, and how to have sex during my period. (“More than three-quarters of the guys polled said they’d love to have period sex,” said the article. FYI, my husband does not fall into this category. Frown face.)

I loved every minute, and I came out with gorgeous Robin’s-egg-blue toenails. (Also, check out the shoes; do you die? Normally I wouldn’t go for something so blingtastic, but I made an exception for these fabulous sandals.) The aesthetician said I had the most perfect, non-calloused feet she had ever seen. I am very proud of this compliment and attribute it to my frequent, unashamed visits to the nail salon. 

Bonus: If you yammer a lot about how much you adore pedicures, your friends tend to buy you pedicure gift cards when it is your birthday. Which is March 8, in case you were wondering.

LAYING AWAKE AT NIGHT

Here's what kept me awake last night: Dread. In the darkness, in the languor, it was hard to pinpoint the feeling at first, but it eventually came to me: I was feeling a deep dread sitting on my heart like a heavy, smooth stone.

OK, so what was I dreading? In my head, I tried to make sense through the fog, and I started making a mental list.

Sadness and disappointment.

Anger.

Shame.

Fear.

Doubt and hopelessness.

This is the cycle of emotions I go through every month when I fail to conceive, and I am dreading having to endure the pattern one more time.

First I'm just sad. So, so sad. I mourn the lost dream of growing our family and all the excitement that comes with it.

The outrage is always quick to follow; sometimes it even shows up before the sadness does. It infuriates me to think of all the wasted injections, pelvic scans and swallowed pills, all the times I handed over my credit card for nothing.

Then the questions start coming, and I have to admit to everyone that my body has failed again. Not only am I disappointing myself, but also my husband, our families, and all our friends who so fiercely root for us. I feel like less of a woman, like a fool for thinking it could happen, like maybe I don't deserve children. I am ashamed.

Inevitably, I start to worry that we'll never be able to start a family, that we have years more of failed treatments ahead, followed by ... what? All the uncertainty, expense and case work of adoption? Waiting for the phone to ring, wondering if it ever will ... ?

And on and on my fears go, until hope recedes and I begin to doubt this dream. Maybe we should just give up; maybe it would be easier, or at least less painful. I always thought that a major part of my purpose would be to raise children, but maybe it's something else. But what? I feel like a boat lost at sea with no anchor, just drifting.

Anticipating this monthly grieving process keeps me up at night. But the amazing thing is, I always seem to cycle through it and come out on the other side -- ready to try again. Ready to believe again that it could happen. Ready to let others into our vulnerable dream. Ready for more needles, more specula, more vaginal suppositories and transvaginal wands. Ready to hope again.

LIFE GOES ON, EH?

The IUI failed, and I've been trying to sort out how I feel about that, which is hard, because my feelings seem to change on a moment-by-moment basis.

When I first took the pregnancy test and that single negative line traveled across the result window without any delay or equivocation, I was not surprised in the slightest. Prior to taking it, I had tried to envision a plus sign, and I couldn't even do it; it was unfathomable. So my first reaction was something like, Yep. That's what I thought.

I went and laid back down in bed, where fury at my own dysfunctional body washed over me. I had done all I could think of for it -- prenatal vitamins, yoga, massage, a nutritious diet, hormone-boosting drugs, perfectly washed sperm placed directly in my uterus without passing go. Still, no dice. WTF. How deceptive this body is from the outside, looking so healthy and normal. It betrays me every month, letting down not only me, but also Philip, my parents, our families, and everyone else who so lovingly hopes and prays for us faithfully.

Oddly, Philip and I had plans to go water-skiing later that day. Water-skiing isn't something we do regularly; in fact, we had never water-skied together in the entire 10-year history of our relationship. But it was the perfect activity for the day you find out you're not pregnant after your first IUI. We basked in the sun on a speedboat. I savored every drop of two bottles of Mike's Hard Lemonade. I water-skied with abandon and wiped out epically. I was happy to be alive and thankful to have an answer.

The next day wasn't so great. My period arrived in full force, and I physically felt terrible. Philip and I had a hard discussion about our upcoming trip to Bolivia in July. We feel called to go; we're very excited to meet our sponsored child of the last 10 years; we have an amazing itinerary planned. But do we keep trying to get pregnant before we leave? If we actually succeed, there are questions about the safety of recommended vaccines, risks with high altitude, and uncertainties about the remoteness of some of the areas we plan to visit. But it seems crazy to not try. The odds of me getting pregnant are low, and we can't plan our lives around what-ifs. Plus, three months off from treatment seems like an eternity.

It was a stressful conversation -- and one in which Philip made a compelling argument for pressing on with treatment. He reminded me of all the ways infertility interferes with our life: the strain it puts on our relationship, the isolation is causes between us and our friends with kids, the general frustrating and irritating feeling of life being on hold until we get this all-consuming issue resolved.

On Sunday evening we dragged our asses to church. I mean dragged. We had been arguing; I had cramps like a mother #<(&er. But somehow we got there, and as usual, we were thankful we went. Afterward we ended up having dinner at Tijuana Flats with a young married couple from the church. We had only spoken with them here and there at the end of the service, and I'd guess they're about five or six years younger than us. So we were SHOCKED to learn that not only had they also been trying to conceive for two years, but they have the same fertility doctor!

It was an amazingly comforting conversation. I wouldn't wish infertility on my worst enemy, but it can be such a relief to connect with another infertile couple. It's like, you're not alone; you're not crazy; it's all truly as much bullshit as you think it is. It felt like God throwing me a bone.

And then, just like that, it was cycle day three, and I was back at the fertility clinic with my old friend the transvaginal wand. I was grumpy to be there, but I was nice to the sonographer; as she poked at my cervix, we chitchatted about how roaches come into the house when it rains.

So into another treatment cycle we go, risks and sacrifices and upcoming travel and all. My mom texted me, "Life goes oh, eh?" and it's true. I keep living, keep trying, keep swimming through the confusing storm of emotions, keep searching for the silver lining in each day. Picking up my Letrozole at CVS tonight, the guy next to me in line was looking for something to help his brother's cough. "He has lung cancer," he told the pharmacist matter-of-factly. So I gotta keep perspective. Also, who can despair when there are new episodes of amazing shows like New Girl and The Mindy Project airing on TV?

Yours truly, tearing it up on Lake Maitland