Just Let Me Do This...

Because, frankly, I'm a little ticked.

WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT FROM US???

We've tried everything. We eat healthy, organic foods and have for the past 2 years. I don't salt my food, I eat the correct amount of fruits and vegetables daily, and I try to avoid dairy in large amounts (okay, not ice cream). We haven't used anything other than non-toxic chemicals in our house for over 2 years - even down to my shampoo. I go to acupuncture...I've even started taking the damn herbs. I have avoided yoga and pilates (at Dr. request and against my will!), and didn't do Urban Assault even though I was dying to. I listen to the Bible on my I-Pod (I fall asleep reading it, sorry God.) I've read The Complete Organic Pregnancy book cover to cover. Hell, I've read tons of books. I teach children to read, write, be inquisitive about life and to love others. I drink a lot of water. I regularly attend church. I tithe...even though we are soon going to rent our house out for a year and MOVE IN WITH MY MOM since infertility has us so far in debt we can't see straight. (Yes, you read that right.) I don't drink alcohol, haven't had a Coke in 3 months, I practice deep breathing, visualization, and all that BS. I get 8 hours of sleep, avoid unnecessary medication, I've never smoked, and I pray. A lot.

Don't tell me we're trying too hard. Don't tell me to "relax", that I'm young, that it will happen when the time is right, to just believe, that it wasn't meant to be before, to enjoy the time I have alone, that stress makes it worse, that our losses were "for the best", to stay positive, or to "just" adopt. I don't want to hear what your friend's cousin's aunt did to get pregnant, that I need to "enjoy" trying, or I just need to take a vacation. It's best not to tell me how easy you get pregnant or how you have to be really careful since your husband looks at you and you are pregnant. It's best not to tell me that you will just die if you don't have the sex of baby that you wish to have next, or about the twins and triplets your friend just had.

I can't walk in my neighborhood, go to the store, to a restaurant, to church, to work, to the gym, listen to the radio, have a face to face conversation, drive in a car, talk on the phone, read my email, or watch tv without the constant reminder of what I do not have or the reminder of what I could have had. It's tiring. It weighs heavily on me. It's a burden I try to give to God, but have not quite figured out how to release myself from.

Don't stop calling me if I don't answer. Sometimes it is just too much to pick up the phone. If I smile and it doesn't seem genuine, don't be hurt. If I seem distant, don't take it the wrong way. Don't judge me. A mother's grief after losing four babies is raw, primal, deep, and as a good friend once said...normal and necessary. I cry a lot...you just don't see it. I can put on a happy face and for the most part, it's real. But, if I get quiet in a conversation, be sensitive. We may be talking about teaching, cooking, or shopping...but I will be thinking about my babies. My mind will be wrapped around their faces, their fingers, their toes. Don't stop talking to me. Don't tiptoe around me or ignore the whole thing altogether. It's nice if you acknowledge Kinsey and Ryan. I will probably cry right then and there, but it's not like I wasn't thinking about them 2 seconds before. Don't stop talking about your children because I love them and celebrate each of their milestones right along with you. Don't hold it from me if you are pregnant or fret over how I am going to handle it...just don't rub it in. Tell me that this sucks and that you are praying for us. That's about all that you can say.

By now, if you know me in real life, you might be thinking I am writing this about you. However, I am not. Yes, all of the above things have been said to me, and I know that I've said some myself before I became a case study in infertility. I'm writing to get it out so my head does not explode. I don't write any of this for your sympathy or for attention - if you know me, you only have this address because it alleviates some of the stress of communicating the progress in person or on the phone. I'm writing because I am angry, bitter, and very jealous. I'm writing so tomorrow I can come that much closer to putting on a happy face and meaning it all day long. I'm writing so My Babe can know my innermost thoughts when I act irrational, short, distant and quiet. I'm writing to educate others on the excruciating pain of infertility. I'm writing because I don't want to lose hope, I don't want to lose faith, and this is the only way I can get through it. I write this for my sweet babies, to honor their lives and to mourn the loss. I write to heal. I write this for me.

100% NEGATIVE

Enough said?

Watch Out People!

Soon this will be me for only $9.97 a year.

Dinner With The Peeps

Just a Little Math For Ya

If Melissa is pulled in x directions at a rate of y + 5,431 per minute, how long will it take Melissa to go insane?

Please choose from the following options:

a. What do you mean? Melissa never goes insane. 3 days
b. 7 days
c. .5 seconds
d. Melissa stays insane.

Unfortunately, I think we all know the correct answer.

The Power of Rice Socks

Warning: Bring a rice sock within 15 yards of my body and I might unleash a full blown crying spell.

I cleaned out the babies room today. I say babies because that's just what was going to be in there - two babies. I know it will turn into the baby's room someday, but for now it is still for my sweet babies that never came home. You would think a lot of things might send me into a crying frenzy while accomplishing this task. The sonogram pictures, the sonogram video, the maternity clothes, the picture frames we were given, the outfits that came in twos since most were determined to dress the babies alike against my will, the baby booties, the twin magazines and books, the diapers my mother bought by the droves (and judging by her garage, she still buys), the cards of congratulations, the pictures of My Babe's family with their mouths gaping open after we told them I was pregnant, the samples of formula, the initial announcement that Dr. Jerk thought we were having two boys, or the books we bought for each baby, The Gift of an Angel.

No, those did not send me into a conniption (hey, that's really in the dictionary!) fit. What did, however, were rice socks. You see, those rice socks were my saving grace during the intense nausea and extreme back pain. There was nothing like the fresh-out-of-the-microwave feeling to relieve me from the hell I had come to know as pregnancy. I never left the house without a steaming hot rice sock tucked behind my back and sides, even when driving short distances. My Babe would heat up 5 of those suckers each night and we would build Fort Knox around my body with rice socks and pillows. And, ultimately, rice socks pulled me through the last night at home. The night I should have gone to the hospital. The night I should have listened to my body. The night I could have changed the outcome of the pregnancy. The night I failed Kinsey, Ryan, My Babe and myself.

Don't tell me differently, because I'll never believe it. Don't tell me I did the best I could because I didn't. Yes, I did not know what to expect or what to feel, but I did know that those babies were going to come sooner than they should. I read premature labor books cover to cover. I did not contact a perinatologist even though my gut told me to. I did not stop working just to please the parents of the kids in my class even though my gut told me to. I continued to be on my feet because Dr. Jerk said I should even though my gut told me to rest. I constantly told myself to "suck it up." I was stubborn, naive, and just plain stupid.

The sight of the rice socks brought me back to that night. And while I think of that night, oh...every 10 seconds of the day, I allowed myself to dwell on it for a little while. To dwell on the greatest loss I have ever felt, the feeling of holding those sweet babies in my arms, the sight of their long legs and toes, the memory of what could have been, and the hope and faith for what is still to come.

So, for all of you thinking of bringing a rice sock within my scope anytime soon, you are agreeing to deal with the dire consequences. You have been warned.

Planes, Trains, Automobiles...and Follicles

After a two hour delay, we were off to Indiana and I snuggled in next to My Babe for a please-let-me-sleep nap. I awoke from a slight snooze to the sound of screaming -definitely not something you want to hear on an airplane. I hear a fizzing sound and immediately think we have blown a gasket or a terrorist has unleashed a serious gas bomb and we are going down. I look back to see the flight attendant crouching on the floor, holding a spewing object. Turns out it was only a Coke.

The rest of the flight was uneventful and we arrived at the car rental place. We go through the usual of declining insurance coverage, declining the gas tank fill-up, declining the upgrade, just give me the car already, declining the convertible...wait...convertible? So, we splurge, telling ourselves that grandpa will really like it. I almost back out when she says the car is orange, which is a complete and utter no-no in my Aggie family, but we proceed with the papers and head out to the ever so flashy car. Anyone that knows me can tell you that I strive 99% of the day to NOT be noticed and nothing helps out that phobia like an orange convertible. We should have twitched just a little when we could not fit our suitcase in the trunk, nor in the back of the car with the top up. But, noooo, we proceed. I get into the extremely low seats, cannot see a damn thing, sit on my Mogu, put on my huge you-can't-see-me sunglasses, and prepare myself for a flurry of looks as people encounter the burnt-orange bomb. I'm terrified as we pull out onto the highway because:

1) I've never been in a convertible. On the highway.
2) In light of recent events, car accidents are always on my mind.
3) I keep playing a roll over, smashed head scene in my mind.
4) I'm waaaaay exposed in this car. People can see me.

My Babe, master of distraction, questions me:

My Babe: "Do you know why that street is called 'Stop 13'?"
Me: "I have no idea."
My Babe: "Well, a long time ago, there used to be a railroad system here and this was (you guessed it) Stop 13 for the trains."
Me (approaching another stop light): "Hmmm...interesting."
My Babe: "Do you know why that street is called 'Stop 11'?"

We push through and arrive at the nursing home. The guest quarters rival hotels in which we have stayed...very nice to say the least. We venture over to grandpa's room and decide to take him out to supper, wheelchair and all. I pull the car around to the front, top down, smiling, knowing this is going to be great. Grandpa settles in the front and we proceed to fold the wheelchair...that doesn't fit in the car. Immediately tickle machine kicks in and we cannot stop laughing uncontrollably as we try to maneuver around the wheelchair beast. Finally, I squeeze in the backseat, half on/half off the seat. My Babe folds himself into an accordion, gets in the driver's side, and we're off - still completely hysterical as the wheelchair is sticking up 3 feet in the air, wheels flapping in the wind. Did I mention I do not like to draw attention to myself? Ultimately, the orange beauty gave us a ton of laughs and grandpa liked the sun and wind on him. We also took My Babe's grandma for a spin as she carefully protected her hair with my jacket. I grew fond of the convertible, comfortable with the top down, but never in love with the color.

And now, we are back home with good news to report on the reproduction front. I had a size 22mm follicle today and a plump lining. Give it up for the herbs! We'll do the Ovidrel shot to release the follicle tonight and IUI on Monday. For now, I'm tired. Planes, trains, automobiles, and follicles have me spent.

Goodbye My Sweet Kitty

I'm sick of bad days. We put my cat, Wrangler, down today because he recently developed cancer and was in pain. He was a sweet cat (most of the time), but definitely enjoyed ambushing me in his younger years. We got him when he was a few weeks old and had him for 14 years.

And, to make things even better today...no mature follicles. We will recheck on Saturday after our trip to Indiana (sans the thrill for the oldies) and then move to injectables. I'm sick of bad days.

Giving The Oldies A Thrill

Ever conceived in a nursing home? As luck would have it, thanks to my ever-so-sweet cycle, I might do just that. I finished the hellish Clomid and Dr. V. will check follicles on Monday. If all goes according to plan (ha!), My Babe will give me the Ovidrel injection on Monday, making our optimal conception time for Wednesday. Impeccable timing as we are visiting My Babe's grandpa in Indiana...in a nursing home. Being that we are money conscientious in mega debt, we are staying in the guest quarters at the nursing home. This should make for an interesting trip for all. Never a dull moment around here.

We're Back!

July Resolutions

1. I will focus on cooking again.
2. I will continue swimming.
3. I will help mom with her house and the maintenance it needs.
4. I will clean out the kitchen cabinets.
5. I will no longer accept debt as a way of life.
6. I will stare opportunity straight in the face and refuse, no matter how much I try, refuse to close the door.
7. I will have courage to defeat my fears.
8. I will not let others fears, misunderstandings, and attitudes guide my thinking.