Kate... uncensored

I'm a girl again

Ever think to yourself...

"Gosh, I sure do wish I could re-live part of puberty"

No?! Me neither.  Ugh.

I don't like to admit that there are times I lose it. 

Crying until you're snotty, perched on the lid of the toilet isn't exactly an image I want to convey.

Ok, I know, you're picturing it now.  Me with my sopping wet hair from the shower, in a t-shirt and polka dotted pajama pants, the picture of strength and grace.  Cursing and wiping my nose and occasionally moaning like a wounded cat.  Yeah.  

This is after the bitchiness of last week.  I haven't been this moody since I was 13, and for that the world was grateful.  

Having to re-learn and re-do things like periods and PMS, not really something I was hoping for.  

I knew it was a possibility, but not a likely one.  But, apparently my body didn't get that message.  I was told there was a slim chance post chemo that my body might try to right itself, to re-learn to cycle again, to force my girl parts to work.

And the implications that come with it are tough as well.  If I can have a normal cycle and bleed in a fashion similar to before getting sick, then is my uterus less damaged than we (meaning the gyn oncologists and I) originally thought?  If it is, then there's the potential that my eggs aren't as damaged as we might predict as well.

Choosing to stop treatments that are invasive and cost thousands of dollars or and halt adoption proceedings that are costly and overwhelming - that is one thing.  If my body gets back to a point where conception is a possibility, I have to choose all over again.  Making these decisions has not been easy.  It's a terrible feeling to know that you just can't bring yourself to do the things that *might* get you what you once dreamed about.  

Obviously, I'm not at a point where bringing children into the world is a good idea.  Would I be thrilled if I were to miraculously find myself pregnant?  Sure, probably.  I'd also be terrified, because there's no telling what pregnancy hormones would do to me, because I don't know how much the chemo would have impacted the embryos and the resulting babies, because I don't know if I'd make a good mother, because my life is not exactly the picture of stability lately.  I'd also be scared because I know how many pregnancies I've lost and how wrecked I felt with each loss, both emotionally and physically.  Scared because my uterus is damaged and even with bedrest, a pregnancy would be trying for my body, not even considering childbirth.

98% of me doesn't think about it.  Motherhood is a great thing, a thing I wanted but didn't get, a special, beautiful, precious thing that just wasn't for me.  You learn to steel yourself, you tell yourself that you don't need to be a mother, that you're ok with not having children, that you can place maternal instincts elsewhere, that you don't want children.  

But if it's put back on the table, can I give it away?   

If you have someone who hasn't eaten dessert because there's no sweets around and getting some becomes costly and difficult, they learn to do without it, they don't really even want it anymore.  But then you take them someplace where dessert sits on a tray within reach, can they still turn it down? 

Crappy metaphor, I know.  It's hard to find something that conveys the choice without trivializing it.  Or conversely,seeming overdramatic.   

The drive to be a mother is incredibly strong.  I've seen it consume women, couples, careers, marriages.  Safe to say it did a number on mine, and on me, before.  I can't ever see hoping and wishing for it again - it was so painful cycle after cycle to face the failure. I know the people who knew how hard we tried to have children will assume that just because we never had any, the marriage disintegrated.  I saw that happen to other couples and often thought the same thing, not knowing what that would be like. 

I judged them the same way I did childless couples.  Obviously they were child-free because they never wanted children enough in the first place, because you can't just shut that off.  But you can, sometimes you have to.  And it doesn't mean you didn't want them, or that you couldn't handle what it would take to have them.  Maybe it means it's just not meant to be.  

The drive to be a mother was anticipated by my cancer team, and they were aware of our efforts.  But truth be told, we figured there would be no need to address it post treatment.  My soon to be ex husband was sterile and I kept spontaneously aborting pregnancies.  And that was before procedures and drugs and chemotherapy.  

I don't want to get into my head, thinking about it, or even considering it, but that sliver of a thought is there.  I suppose because without the "what if" the rest of it sucks.   

You endure all the aggravation, pain, bleeding, inconvenience because you know someday those parts will come in handy, or because they helped produce that gorgeous child you have;  For me, if I never become a mother, they do seem like a bit of a waste, and like quite the bite.  After all, they've given me nothing but strife the last few years. 

I'm not here sitting thinking about a family and kids and a white picket fence.  I rarely let myself think of that even when my chances were better. But my mind can think of a round swell, a whooshing heartbeat on ultrasound, and of a nursery being prepared.  

Then, that's when I cry.  Because I don't want to deal with all this all over again.  The choices, the blood or the tears. 

Scrambled eggs

The title is in bad taste.  You can either forgive me, or stop reading this post.

Thursday morning at a very early hour I get a call.  Our old lab in NY is calling with some bad news.  Given that I am no longer a patient on that rollercoaster called fertility treatment, I know the news already.  You don't have to tell me, I say, but the words come through the phone line regardless. 

There's been a bit of an accident with your embryos.

(Deep breath)

The last round of IVF we froze the embryos we didn't use.  With almost two dozen eggs retrieved, even after accounting for some poor growers, we knew we'd have leftovers.  When you're under the advanced maternal age bar, doctors are reluctant to place more than two.

It's unlikely they were ever going to become children.  My uterus is a mess, having more than one "black hole" as my reproductive endocrinologist referred to them. These are spots an embryo would not implant.  Because of this, and some other things, including my history of miscarrying, it's more than likely that I would never have been able to carry a child to term.

I was never sure how comfortable I was with surrogacy for my husband and myself either.

And really, our marriage is hanging on by a thread, it's not like we are where we were back then.

Still, we paid the freezing fees, and continued to pay the storage fees.  Every six months writing a payment out because it seemed too hard to just let them go.  We went to the trouble at the time of drawing up papers, stating what would happen to these embryos in case of death or divorce. 

I even spoke with the physician about what we could do rather than discarding them when we were finished.  I knew I had the option of placing them without drugs at the wrong point in cycle, knowing my body would reject them.  I knew I was free to donate them to another couple, or to science.  For me, it isn't so much a religious or political thing as it was a personal sense of responsibility. 

The worst part was telling my husband.  Being a strict Catholic, I think certain parts of that process were difficult for him.  He's grieving the children we never had all over again.

It just seems like such a waste.  All the money spent keeping them stored, all the effort to produce them in the first place.  I still kick out eggs, contrary to what the physicians thought.  I don't know how viable they are, but I do.  Still, there was comfort knowing that I was able to produce those embryos, and knowing they were there.  Maybe it was wishful to think science would come up with something to help me in the years I'd still be able to be a mother, but I believe I saved them in the hope that someday I would still have children.

It's hitting me harder than I care to admit.

bad news

In a moment, a life can change drastically.  There are other moments where that life is merely altered. The effects of the causes are simply unknown at the time.

It was the summer, she remembers that much.  Sitting in a peachy, sterile office, across from a doctor who meant well.

They had been in that same office before, her husband humiliated, only that was a younger, more calloused doctor.  This doctor had a specialty, and that’s why they were there. He laid out three papers, each more devastating than the one before it.  “It’s not as bad as it could be”, he offered as a hopeful statement.  Only that was the kind of thing you just didn’t want to hear.

He read the results.  The numbers didn’t make much sense at first, but he offered the controls at which they were measured.  That made the reality of the situation sink in. He spoke clearly, offering many avenues at the time.  It was a lot to take in. 

His testosterone was zero, which was the possible cause of many things.  Fatigue, low sex drive, loss of muscle mass, and the news that couple feared that afternoon, infertility.  It was a blow to his masculinity.  They were asked intimate details of their private lives.  How often, how was it, any plumbing issues?  A young bride blushed, and answered as truthfully as she could.  Her older husband was no less embarrassed, that was certain.

Their eyes widened as there was discussion of implanted pumps and weekly needles.  Hearing that there was no cure was daunting.  Fear coursed through her bloodstream as she saw her dreams of a family and a fulfilling sex life fly out the window.

Months later, no new protocol on the horizon.  Pills, patches, shots and creams never produced results.  Psychologists and urologists could offer nothing more than patronizing advice.  Occasionally, in the middle of the night, she'd find herself glancing to her left, in the hopes a subconscious erection would appear.

Years later, she climbs into bed beside him, trying to remember the desire that once existed, and finding only scraps of memories.

4:27

The hollow ache that carved out my insides, one that can never fill up all the way. 

It's not something I talk about much, but it's been haunting me.  More specifically, the last several nights.  Late, past three, when the sleepers of the world are soundly resting.  When the night is dark, and still, and empty. 

I woke about a week ago in a panicked state.  Flushed and sweating and frozen in place.  There was a baby girl.  I could see her as clearly as I see my own reflection in the window opposite my desk.  Every sense was engaged in this dream.  That precious child had a smell, a sound, a name, a feel that seemed to move through my dream into my conscious state.  I woke, and I would have sworn that baby left my arms just a moment before. 

A defensive line had nothing on me as I held back the attack of emotions that was waiting ahead of me.  I had to get up, it was time to take my husband to work.  I stayed busy all day, promising not to remember this dream.  Do anything to keep my mind occupied.  Anything to prevent the barrage of tears. 

The concept of Pandora's box probably applies.  Occasionally, something forces the lid loose; some memory of what I thought I'd have.  Some glimpse of what I wanted.  Over the years, I tried harder to stuff it all in and keep that box closed. 

Often, I had to remind myself in a fit of sadness that one child for someone else did not mean one less child that could have been mine.  That children are not handed down as a reward and that I'm not being punished.  I learned to attend baby showers, to be the happy gracious godmother, the free and willing babysitter.

But, now, I've duct taped the damn box.  I've arranged and rearranged to make it all fit, to close that lid tight.  I'm ready to sit on it just so it can't open and take me inside.  I could suffocate there if I'm not careful. 

I used to look at those who chose child-free living, childlessness,  as unwilling to take action.  As unable to follow through.  I think I thought it was what you settled on when you never wanted children that badly to begin with. But, some I knew, just gave up, because hope, she is one cruel bitch. 

I've ended up childless.  I didn't choose it, it chose me, and I feel cheated.  Cheated not only out of a child, and motherhood but a husband.  Because in all the places he shut down, he started that progression here. 

I want to ask everyone I know why they had children.  Perhaps the more time I have to think about them, and having them, has made me hard.  I don't think I could be a parent anymore.  I doubt that I would be a capable mother.  And after what I went through to have one?! And the disdain from those who disapproved when I was diagnosed with cancer, because it had to have been the infertility treatment that brought it on.  I was messing with nature. It wasn't meant to be.  Some people just aren't supposed to have children.  It's god's plan for you. 

I was a mother figure, maternal and nurturing.  I was a natural.  I have a knack, and anyone within distance of me and a child knew it.  The children themselves knew it.  Now I'm impatient and bitter.  I think I outrun it sometimes.  Weeks, months will go by where it's not an everyday throb, maybe just an ache.  It works down to this faint twinge, and when you get comfortable that perhaps, just maybe, it's almost gone?

The pain gets sharp and twisted.  So crippling you wish you could somehow cut it out of yourself, for you can't breathe, or see through your tears.  You can curl up in a ball, but no one will know, since you sleep in a separate bedroom.  You fail to settle yourself, and you surrender to it.

You learn to sob silently, because the night is too quiet to disturb with the sounds of your grief.

If things had been different

Today, I would have been celebrating a little girl's 4th birthday. I think of the baby we named Mari Elizabeth all the time, think about how May 24th was my due date. My heart is not as broken as it once was, but it still hurts. I'm pretty sure it always will.

I can't go to the tree we planted in the park around the corner in her honor/name. But, I'll say a prayer and try not to cry.
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Side note: Ugh, enough with sadness and anger. I am getting aggravated with myself.

Just another Sunday

Officially, it's mother's day.

Most of what I wrote here still rings true.

It's a little different. Maybe here, with no mother's to take to brunch, I can just pretend it's any other day.

Not likely.

One year

It was one year ago that I was completely devastated.

It wasn't the first time and sadly, it probably won't be the last, but it was as if the life was sucked out of me.

I remember the news today as clearly as last year. I remember standing in the bedroom doorway, clutching to the dresser as he heard the news I was too fragile to hear. I remember collapsing to the floor in a heap of sobs, pounding my fists and screaming any time I had enough breath.

I don't think you ever completely get over that.

Not numb enough

It seems to start slowly. Sometimes I just feel like an anesthetic has been pumped into my system. Sunday, I helped a mom with an infant get her cart cozy situated. I talked to her for 5-10 minutes, helping get the thing in the front of the cart, touching her son's feet enough to get his legs in the foot holes. I was okay. She seemed grateful, as she explained that her husband had bought it and used it. She had no idea how exactly it fit in the cart. Anyway, I was okay. I didn't wince at the sight of the baby or roll my eyes at his mom. I didn't get wistful or well up with tears.

Four days later I'm crying so hard in my car that I think, honestly, that I may choke on my own tears because I can't get enough air into my lungs.

It was a baby boy outfit. Size 9 months, khaki overall shorts with a striped / bug design onesie. I just kept walking around the store, clutching the outfit and the toy I found (that almost matched the design). I felt like I was in a daze. Had anyone tried to take the things out of my arms I probably would have collapsed on the floor. Can I really make it through a christening party on Sunday?
I am disappointed. I was excited about the prospect of being indifferent.

We all know what today is

I hope those of you who have been lucky enough to move on, enjoy the day. I'm figuring out a way to get through it. Trying to be happy daughter (in law) and ignoring that once again there's no celebration on this day.

I keep waiting to be completely numb. There are times I can feel it creep in. Like when your foot starts to fall asleep. However, I can't seem to numb myself enough to not feel these painful days. It's not the first time I'm moving back into frustration.

Sometimes I go for days without thinking about it, because things are so chaotic here. But all these trips to school leave me looking wistfully at the moms in the playground. All this time wandering around these small towns my husband's teaching in and I run into pregnant people everywhere. Their strollers overrun my neighborhood. And I don't feel prepared yet. For the summer events where everyone asks questions, the weddings and graduation parties, etc.

I never realized how hard this day can be for so many people. People who have lost their mom I'm sure have a hard time. I'm sorry for that. For women who lose a child, whenever that loss takes place. The world is not always a happy freakin' Hallmark commercial and I wish that the people closest to me could really see it. They're so wrapped in themselves that they won't even see the tears waiting in the wings today. I just hope I can keep them at bay until I get home tonight.

I never sleep the night

I never sleep the night before something exciting. Tomorrow is my big RESOLVE fundraiser. I'm not really nervous just anxious and hoping I don't forget anything.

My husband's going at 8 am tomorrow morning to participate in a contest. Eat 4 Philly Cheese steaks as fast as he can. Winner gets Buffalo Sabres Playoff Tickets. If he gets sick and can't help tomorrow I will be pissed. I even thought of having Roscoe eat them, but that would be awful for everyone involved! Really though, I bet he could beat those crazy professional eaters. That Lab can wolf food like nobody's business.

Having a rough time these past few weeks. I know Mothers day is coming and another woulda been due date in May. We also went to a private adoption seminar. And while we could actually let ourselves think about it, it's still to far away and too painful to hope.

Today my mom and I were running errands for tomorrow's auction. She knew we went to the seminar and had questions about what it's like because that is how her parents did it 52 years ago. Anyway, she said "wouldn't it be neat if you "had" your baby when your sister was having a baby" (her quotes over had, not mine.) I thought I'd throw up in the middle of the baby section of the department store. (how she dragged me there I don't know) I wanted to yell "NO!" Not cool. Not neat. Heartbreaking.

I know it's irrational to have this weird first grandchild thing and I wouldn't want to begrudge my sister's child. However, everything comes SO EASY for her and I get upset just thinking of the comments she would make. The thought of watching her have kids as a childless woman makes me tear up and suck back the sobs. It makes me want to vomit. I know I have to get past this.

She's getting married next year. She's bidding on a home. She's on the pill, for now. She wants to be a stay at home mom and finish having all her kids by 30. (She's 23) I know it's a REALLY strong possibility, even a probability and yet I cannot face it and what's behind it. Part of me is scared that it would lead to a resentment on both parts that would be irreparable.

Okay, obviously I'm tired and rambling and not sure anyone will even read this. I'll give you the rundown on the adoption thing this weekend. It might actually be doable for us. Maybe.