Where have I been, fun friends? I will tell you. I have been playing ostrich.
Instead of acknowledging all of the scary things around me, I have been hiding my head in the sand, pretending it hasn't been happening. I have been completely ignoring the fact that I've now officially had fertility struggles for one year - and in turn, I have been ignoring all of you.
I'm sure everyone reaches the point where they feel like they can't talk or think or read about fertility and infertility for one more second or they're just going to barf all over their keyboards. And I got there two weeks ago after my college roomie told me that she, too, was pregnant. I broke down. I emailed my mother the news, and then I avoided her calls for one week because I knew she wanted to talk and see if I was OK, and I wasn't. I had to stop myself from crying at work for no reason. And I had to fight the urge to call Dr. Obigeewyan and tell her to shove her second round of Clomid 50 mg up her hippy-dippy you-know-what.
It took me about a week to get out of it, and now I really am feeling a lot more positive. I've popped my head back up out of the sand and am now charting and trying all of those things to "take charge of my fertility." And I do feel more empowered. And best of all, happy.
We'll see if this is the month. If I were a betting lass, I might not be so positive. But then again, maybe it's time for my luck to hit.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
I'm SOOOOOOO Happy For YOU! Like, Really. O.M.G.
As women, we're groomed to be two things: 1) people pleasers and 2) backstabbing bitches.
We're told that if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything. But we're also encouraged by our peers to save these "nothing nice to says" from our friends' faces only to hurriedly text them to other friends the moment we're out of Blackberry-click-hearing distance.
So it's no surprise that I find myself totally overcompensating with sugary niceness when girlfriend after girlfriend announces her pregnancy to me ... only to wallow in self-pity and bitchiness to you ladies and my few real-life confidants the moment I can escape her motherly glow.
Said Friend Stacy gets pregnant? I buy her some sparkling cider and sit and talk about the baby's nursery with her for hours - while in reality each sip of carbonated syrup feels like I'm swallowing daggers.
College Roomie Rachel sends me her ultrasound via email before work? I send her a gorgeous bouquet of flowers and balloons - while I secretly speed-dial BumpMister, crying in the communal work bathroom.
Why do we (ok, I) feel the need to completely go over the top to hide our true feelings? Is it nurture? Is it nature? Or is it just plain neuroticism? Who knows. All I know is that I'm am just. So. THRILLED for all of my fertile friends. Hugs! Kisses!!
We're told that if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything. But we're also encouraged by our peers to save these "nothing nice to says" from our friends' faces only to hurriedly text them to other friends the moment we're out of Blackberry-click-hearing distance.
So it's no surprise that I find myself totally overcompensating with sugary niceness when girlfriend after girlfriend announces her pregnancy to me ... only to wallow in self-pity and bitchiness to you ladies and my few real-life confidants the moment I can escape her motherly glow.
Said Friend Stacy gets pregnant? I buy her some sparkling cider and sit and talk about the baby's nursery with her for hours - while in reality each sip of carbonated syrup feels like I'm swallowing daggers.
College Roomie Rachel sends me her ultrasound via email before work? I send her a gorgeous bouquet of flowers and balloons - while I secretly speed-dial BumpMister, crying in the communal work bathroom.
Why do we (ok, I) feel the need to completely go over the top to hide our true feelings? Is it nurture? Is it nature? Or is it just plain neuroticism? Who knows. All I know is that I'm am just. So. THRILLED for all of my fertile friends. Hugs! Kisses!!
Monday, September 7, 2009
Don't Drink and Devulge
This weekend, I went to a friend's wedding and got totally annihilated. Vodka sodas, champagnes, Pinot Grigios ... topped off with a couple beers at the after party until 3 a.m.
So it's understandable that when I found myself sitting at a table in the hotel lobby with my girlfriends at 2 a.m. and one of them once again asked me when BumpMister and I were going to start having kids, I burst out in tears. Like, a faucet. Smearing my perfectly applied liquid black eyeliner all over my face. It was not pretty.
While I was spilling my guts, I remember telling myself, "Jeez BumpBlogger, you are so going to regret this in the morning. Stupid." And then I blacked out.
Fastforward eight hours to me stumbling into the hotel bathroom with a massive headache and a rumbling stomach. It took me one look in the mirror to remember the night before and my drunken breakdown. As I washed the black streams of eyeliner off my cheeks, I waited for the regret to sink in. And waited. And then I realized, I felt OK. I actually felt better than OK. I felt relieved.
I never thought it would feel so good to tell my friends about our troubles with infertility. It was like this huge weight had been lifted off our shoulders. I instantly realized that I had really underestimated the compassion of our friends.
It's the little things like this that keep making our struggles a tiny bit easier, and keep reminding me why I should be grateful for the life that BumpMister and I have right now, regardless of what may come. So this Labor Day, I'm thanking my friends for helping me cope with my hard labor in the hopes of having a real Labor Day of my own in the future.
So it's understandable that when I found myself sitting at a table in the hotel lobby with my girlfriends at 2 a.m. and one of them once again asked me when BumpMister and I were going to start having kids, I burst out in tears. Like, a faucet. Smearing my perfectly applied liquid black eyeliner all over my face. It was not pretty.
While I was spilling my guts, I remember telling myself, "Jeez BumpBlogger, you are so going to regret this in the morning. Stupid." And then I blacked out.
Fastforward eight hours to me stumbling into the hotel bathroom with a massive headache and a rumbling stomach. It took me one look in the mirror to remember the night before and my drunken breakdown. As I washed the black streams of eyeliner off my cheeks, I waited for the regret to sink in. And waited. And then I realized, I felt OK. I actually felt better than OK. I felt relieved.
I never thought it would feel so good to tell my friends about our troubles with infertility. It was like this huge weight had been lifted off our shoulders. I instantly realized that I had really underestimated the compassion of our friends.
It's the little things like this that keep making our struggles a tiny bit easier, and keep reminding me why I should be grateful for the life that BumpMister and I have right now, regardless of what may come. So this Labor Day, I'm thanking my friends for helping me cope with my hard labor in the hopes of having a real Labor Day of my own in the future.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
The Infertile 15
Aah college. A time of upheaval and uncertainty, when life is rapidly changing and every day is unexpected.
Eighteen-year-old undergrads cope with this happy yet unsettling process in a variety of ways, and I, like many, remedied my anxiety with a cornucopia of fatty, greasy, foods of convenience. Your hookup from last night won't return your call? Try a paint-can sized container of Cup O Noodles at 2 a.m. You want to calm an anxious stomach the night before final exams? Sooth those nerves with five Keystone Lights and a pint of Ben & Jerry's. Your mother is visiting after a night of complete debauchery? Eat a hearty breakfast of cold Domino's pizza and stale Doritos.
Somehow I was lucky enough to avoid the Freshman 15. Yet I was not prepared to face this foe again later in life disguised as another, more deadly coping mechanism: The Infertile 15.
Tell me you're with me: When you first start trying to conceive, you're so convinced that you're going to automatically become pregnant that you begin eating like a pregnant woman. Screw the fat-free frozen yogurt and hand me the ice cream! Give me a tall glass of chocolate milk in the morning - gotta feed that growing baby her vitamins! I deserve that Snickers - my body is under a lot of stress and burning extra calories already.
Before you know it, you look like you did the morning after doing two keg stands on spring break.
The Infertile 15 is especially awful because, in all honestly, you want to be fat - just not with a food baby. And you know that when you finally do get pregnant, you're just going to gain more weight on top of your infertile fluff.
It's true, I might be an extreme: After Dr. Obigeewyan told me that my lack of ovulation may stem from my obsessive working out, I went from going to the gym seven days a week - sometimes twice a day - to hauling my ass out of bed maybe once or twice a week to work out before work. I stopped counting calories and started counting cycle days.
Well you know what? I feel gross. And to top it all off, my Infertile 15 didn't make me ovulate this month. So I'm going to try to find a happy medium - hey, I'll accept an Infertile 7.5 if it results in a Fertile 30.
Eighteen-year-old undergrads cope with this happy yet unsettling process in a variety of ways, and I, like many, remedied my anxiety with a cornucopia of fatty, greasy, foods of convenience. Your hookup from last night won't return your call? Try a paint-can sized container of Cup O Noodles at 2 a.m. You want to calm an anxious stomach the night before final exams? Sooth those nerves with five Keystone Lights and a pint of Ben & Jerry's. Your mother is visiting after a night of complete debauchery? Eat a hearty breakfast of cold Domino's pizza and stale Doritos.
Somehow I was lucky enough to avoid the Freshman 15. Yet I was not prepared to face this foe again later in life disguised as another, more deadly coping mechanism: The Infertile 15.
Tell me you're with me: When you first start trying to conceive, you're so convinced that you're going to automatically become pregnant that you begin eating like a pregnant woman. Screw the fat-free frozen yogurt and hand me the ice cream! Give me a tall glass of chocolate milk in the morning - gotta feed that growing baby her vitamins! I deserve that Snickers - my body is under a lot of stress and burning extra calories already.
Before you know it, you look like you did the morning after doing two keg stands on spring break.
The Infertile 15 is especially awful because, in all honestly, you want to be fat - just not with a food baby. And you know that when you finally do get pregnant, you're just going to gain more weight on top of your infertile fluff.
It's true, I might be an extreme: After Dr. Obigeewyan told me that my lack of ovulation may stem from my obsessive working out, I went from going to the gym seven days a week - sometimes twice a day - to hauling my ass out of bed maybe once or twice a week to work out before work. I stopped counting calories and started counting cycle days.
Well you know what? I feel gross. And to top it all off, my Infertile 15 didn't make me ovulate this month. So I'm going to try to find a happy medium - hey, I'll accept an Infertile 7.5 if it results in a Fertile 30.
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