TOO MUCH

I had another crying meltdown on Friday night. It had been a hell of week, every day feeling like at least two. We're on deadline with the magazine, which is a very stressful, overwhelming time even in normal circumstances. I typically have to work late, there are a million last-minute fact-checking details to keep straight, and everyone starts to ride on everyone else's last nerve.

I'd also had two Big Idea meetings during the course of the week about how to improve the magazine's blog and the print magazine itself, in which I felt a great deal of pressure to be super prepared and impressive and sparkly while trying to read my new boss' mind.

On Friday I was just so infinitely tired; I spent the day researching a feature and it was just taking way too fucking long, and I wasn't happy with my outline, and at 7 p.m. I finally admitted defeat and drove over to my best friend's birthday happy hour that had started at 6. I couldn't find parking, and I knew Philip and I were leaving that night to drive two hours to St. Pete for the weekend, and I still hadn't packed my suitcase. I was getting more and more frustrated, and then I saw it: a perfectly pregnant girl in a tight-fitting white dress and heels, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulder, holding hands with her man, on their way to some fancy babymoon date. And I started to sob.

Oh yeah, I remembered, I'm ALSO infertile! I had kind of forgotten about it for the moment, so preoccupied with all the intense work drama and the general nonstop pace of life. But the universe wasn't going to let me forget.

Finally I found a parking spot, and just as I pulled in, my husband called, and I choked out all of life's injustices over my cell.

In the end, he came out to meet me at the bar, all my girlfriends rushed to console me as soon as they saw me enter with the Look of Death on my face, and I drank some delicious wine. We got on the road to St. Pete at 10:30, which was retardedly late, but the drive went by quickly, and Philip and I had a ton to catch up on, having barely had a minute to talk all week.

I had a hard time relaxing on our weekend getaway. It rained on the beach, the Tigers lost, and work uncertainty hung over me like a cloud. But it was definitely still fun, and I did my best to be a pleasant companion to Philip and our friends who joined us.

I'm dreading the two weeks ahead of me, as it's all just too much to think about. Ship a magazine, then have another Big Idea meeting, then have an even bigger Big Idea meeting two days after that, then jet off to South America on a complicated two-week trip we've barely had time to plan. And oh yeah, the Big Announcement about who gets the promotion will happen when we're in the middle of the Bolivian salt desert.

Tomorrow Philip and I get inoculated -- a big check-the-box item -- and at some point we need to book a couple of tours, buy domestic airline tickets and purchase a backpack full of appropriate gifts for a  teenage Bolivian girl ... any ideas what's on that wish list?

I am taking off Thursday, and we're running the Watermelon 5K at 7 a.m. "Running" is probably generous, as my exercise routine has fallen into oblivion. But it will feel good to hopefully burn off some of this tension.

Even tonight I have a pile of work to do for a promotion I'm not sure I'll get at a job I'm not sure I want. Treatment Erika will be back in August (provided I dubiously use my leftover progesterone tablets to delay my period while I'm in South America), and I have no idea how she's going to mesh with Jetsetting Power-Editor Erika -- or if she'll even have to.

My future is a hazy question mark, which drives the control freak in me bonkers, and I lay awake at night asking myself and God, What do I want? What do you want for me? What are my options? What is even within my power to try? If it turns out I can't be a mom, do I want to keep climbing the ladder at this job? If I don't do that, what else is there? What life choices would allow us to just move to a lazy beach town and escape all this aneurysm-generating corporate and infertility nonsense? Would you ladies join me if I opened Infertility Island where you'd never have to see another pregnant belly in your life, and you wouldn't have to keep pretending your career is all you need?

And while I'm thinking these things, I just keep getting up and going to work and pasting on a smile and attending meetings because for now, there doesn't seem like any other choice.

CRYING IN THE BATHROOM

Yesterday two bloggers I follow got long-awaited news. One got a positive. The other got a negative. And I am crying in the bathroom at work. 

I am crying for the girl who had hung all her hopes on a promising new treatment protocol, only to have her hopes crushed. 

I am crying for the girl who had to go through five IUIs, three IVFs and seven frozen-embryo transfers to get the news she’d been longing for, but is still only cautiously optimistic. 

And I’m crying for myself, all dressed up in my wedges and my high-low dress, striving to impress my new boss, angling for this promotion with all the energy in my cells, working into the night, on the other side of the looking glass from six months straight of failed and canceled treatments, just wishing to God I could walk away from my current life, never looking back, and be a stay-at-home mom.

THE TIME'S THEY ARE A-CHANGIN'

Holy Moses, what a week. It’s Saturday morning, and it’s the first time I’ve felt like a halfway normal human being in 12 days. I have so much on my mind, and it doesn’t really all flow together seamlessly, so forgive me if this entry is a bit scattered.

First I want to “publicly” thank Not When But IF for nominating me for the Super Sweet Blogging Award back on June 10. I feel ridiculously under-qualified for such a nomination, but thrilled nonetheless! I plan to more fully address the nomination and nominate others in a future post, but for now I just want to acknowledge that this happened, and also encourage everyone to head over to But IF’s blog in order to laugh a lot and hear someone much smarter, more articulate and more honest than me talk about the nasty but weirdly sometimes-community-and-strength-building world of infertility!

Second I want to report that there’s nothing really to report about work so far. The long and the short of it is that I’m competing for a promotion under a new boss, and to me, the only acceptable outcome is that I get it. But I won’t know anything for a few more weeks. In the meantime, my time in my cubicle is a nonstop, exhausting flurry of not only trying to ship a magazine, brainstorm brilliant ideas for how to change and improve pretty much everything we’re doing, and accentuate my intelligence and hard work, but also highlight my incredible charm, charisma and leadership magnetism — all while my competition is trying to do the same.

As someone who is by nature a shy introvert, it takes quite a bit of effort to prove that I am capable of being outgoing, outspoken and confident in high-stakes work settings — which I AM — I’m just saying, it takes all the energy I possess. In other words, I had no energy left this week for things such as emptying the dishwasher, eating square meals, blogging and brushing my teeth before bed.

I would also like to confess that while I sounded very convicted about my passion for travel writing in my last post, I was also on an airplane after just having taken a yoga class ON THE CARIBBEAN SEA. Forgive me if I was riding a bit of a high. At 10,000 feet, my thinking always tends to be clearer. Then I get home, and I’m sitting at my computer in my ordinary surroundings, and suddenly things seem a lot more confusing.

My loyal reader Blue Rose has this perception of me as being so strong and resilient, when the reality is, I spend about 95 percent of my time second-guessing and feeling ambivalent and sorry for myself. I do love working at a magazine! I do love traveling! I do love opening a blank Word doc to create something new! I’m amazingly blessed to have lived this jet-setting, creative life, and I don’t want to sound ungrateful. But I fucking want a baby! I want it more! I’ve been working at it for years now! That’s why I was willing to bench myself for seven months, and why I’ll do it again in the fall.

But now there’s another problem. My new boss doesn’t know about my treatment. And going after a big promotion at any cost while going after a pregnancy at any cost doesn’t exactly jive. Being a woman is shitty in this way, infertility or not. Plus there’s the time out of work for appointments, the extreme moodiness and fatigue brought on by the meds, the work happy hours/networking opportunities where it’s highly conspicuous if you don’t have a drink in your hand … I’m even hesitant to write about all of this with much candidness for fear that people at work might be reading. I’m only semi-out of the closet about infertility and this blog, but who knows.

So there’s that. There’s also the issue of me completely sucking at taking a break from trying to get pregnant. When my cervical fluid showed up on cycle day 13 of this month, I was overjoyed! CYCLE DAY 13, BITCHES! That never happens! A strong ovulation, all by my lonesome, with no medical intervention?! It’s a miracle! AND, get this — it was a Saturday! Hooray for relaxed, spontaneous weekend sex!

I didn’t mention to Philip that I was ovulating, which made me feel manipulative and sneaky, and made me question my motives when I started to get frisky. But why tell him and ruin everything by piling on the pressure? So for a week I carried my little secret that we had in fact had perfectly timed sex. (When I finally broke the news, he laughed and said he was glad I didn’t tell him. Phew.)

And actually, the two-week wait flew by faster than ever since we started trying. With the life-consuming Hunger Games going on at work, I barely had time to think about what cycle day it was.

Notice I said barely. I did manage to fret about what on earth I’ll do if it turns out I finally strike pregnancy gold the minute I finally get the promotion I’ve deserved for years.

But of course, worry, as usual, was unfounded. I took an HPT this morning after dreaming last night that I took one that was miraculously positive, but alas. Same result as always.

Which, I remind myself, is OK. I’ve got a lot of other concerns on my plate right now, not to mention a very exciting trip to South America that is commencing in three short weeks. Holy shit, where did the time go? And I thought I was going to paint my hallway. HA.

In positive news, I returned to yoga after an entire month away. We were able to secure a new space at my workplace that is far less ideal than the old one, but it’s there, for which I’m infinitely thankful. And I went back to the class over lunch on Thursday — stiff, knotted, stressed, dehydrated and emotionally spent, not to mention sans mat and hair tie. Doh. Luckily, there was an extra mat, and even though my hair was in my face the whole time, I felt like a million bucks afterward.

My exercise regimen had fallen to pieces lately, and I was remembering my old routine with deep nostalgia. Sure, I had been struggling to get pregnant, and sure, I was being held back at work, but I had also been cycling through this very healthy, life-giving weekly rhythm of yoga and boot camp and running and evenings with my husband and weekends with our friends.

In the past few weeks, all of that had fallen by the wayside, and I had been feeling like the pre-acupuncture shell of myself who was only hanging on by a thread. So after that yoga class, I was relieved at how quickly I could feel centered again, how fluidly some perspective returned.

Talking to my dad about all of this drama on Father’s Day, he said God was clearly moving in my life. The statement really struck me, because I had been feeling the opposite. How was everything I wanted so miserably challenging to get? Why was I having to fight so hard for every goal? Where is God?

But my dad’s comment shifted my thinking. Life is changing. One way or another, in a few months, my old reality will be gone. I’ll have been promoted into a position that allows me to fully spread my wings, or I’ll have moved on to something completely new. God is not letting me stay static in a less-than-ideal work situation, in which I was largely just biding time. Maybe he has bigger purposes for me after all.

So, I’ll try to rest some this weekend. I’ll try to work a little, play a little. Next week is sure to be another rough one, duking it out in the arena.

TROUBLE IN PARADISE

So, my first act on arrival to Ocean Club West on the Turks and Caicos Islands was to connect to the Internet and fire up my email, only to read a message that turned my work reality upside-down. The magazine I work for isn’t closing, as I fretted about earlier, but massive staff changes are taking place that will mean big changes for my day-to-day work life.

My absolutely precious suite at Ocean Club West. Photo taken just before I checked my email.

What commenced next was a series of Skype calls to colleagues back at the office, as I tried to get a grasp on what was happening and what, if any, action I should take from my tropical suite at a Caribbean beach resort. 

Adorable living area from which I made three trillion Skype calls back to the office

I arrived to the welcome dinner late and completely frazzled. Can you even believe it — I take a work trip for the first time in almost seven months, and that’s when the big announcement happens! I’m not there to defend my position, prove myself and keep the ship on a smooth trajectory while transition was threatening to throw it off-course.

Talking over Skype to my coworker and good friend, I took what she said to heart: “Take advantage of the trip you’re on. Meditate and think about what you really want and what your next move will be.”

So I did. On a bike ride through the island’s interior, I thought about it. On a kayak in the mangroves, I meditated quietly. Laying facedown in the spa, I prayed and considered my options.

It was hard to unwind and enjoy myself, even though my surroundings were impossibly beautiful and built for relaxation. Change can be intimidating, especially if I’m not the instigator of the change. My career future now feels like a complete gamble, and everything I took for granted is gone.

I don’t want this, I thought more than once. I was supposed to be a mommy blogger by now, hearing of this news while far away from that workplace and the players involved, maybe reading it via text on my phone at a playground, or by IM while typing away in my home office. I would think, Wow, that’s crazy, then take another sip of my coffee or push my baby on the swing set while my thoughts drifted to something else.

But then, as I began to explore the Turks and Caicos with my little press group, I realized that while I don’t want the work drama and the uncertainty, I want this — the life of a travel writer. The soft beaches. The hidden paths. The colorful ex-pats. The plantain French fries. And the thrilling storytelling that follows. I want these rich pleasures in my life, however much is possible while also chasing this other consuming dream of mine — to hear a child call me “Mama.”

TCI's famous beach bar, Da Conch Shack

A beach bonfire at Ocean Club East. We made s'mores!

On our last full day at the resort, I finally was able to come down a bit off my work-stress anxiety-fraught jitters. I had made all my phone calls; I had interviewed over Skype with my new boss; I had sent every important email. Now all I could do was wait to face the music on Monday, so I determined to savor every minute of my final moments in paradise. I lounged on the ridiculously beautiful white sand and thanked God for the scene in front of me.

I would like to point out that this photo isn't color-treated. At all.

That afternoon, we embarked on a sailing trip on The Atabeyra, a 77-foot sailboat whose owner had built her 23 years ago, hand-hewing the towering mast from a pine tree. We sluiced through the water, so turquoise it looked fake, and dropped anchor on a deserted white beach. I scurried up a cliff, then swam to a nearshore shipwreck, floating over the vessel’s broken ribcage, now wearing a blanket of algae. I had the whole silent scene to myself.

The following morning, we rose early for a paddleboard yoga class with Water Play Provo. The Caribbean Sea was smooth and clear, and I cautiously followed the instructor’s directions: tabletop, downward-facing dog, remember to breathe. I crashed into the water attempting a lunge, then crawled back on my board, dripping wet, water running into my nose. The dip was refreshing in the hot sun. I nailed warrior two on one side, tumbled into the blue again on the other. Back up on the board again, laughing, happy.

So I’ll fight for this job like I fight for a family. I’ll promote myself and work harder. I won’t back down. When I feel like just giving up, like it’s all too much, I’ll remind myself what I’m striving for: a passion that’s important to me, that will change my life if I succeed.

After all, travel and family don’t have to be mutually exclusive; it just requires balance. Putting one thing on pause to focus on the other, and vice versa. Two of the writers on my trip are moms. Maybe one day I, like them, will be sad to say goodbye to some beautiful, exotic place, but eager to get back home to the other loves of my life.

Our little group, such a joy to travel with