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?

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.