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?