I Stand with Planned Parenthood.

This post is part of Fair and Feminist's I Stand with Planned Parenthood Blog Carnival. Check out the other participating blogs today and lend your support.

http://www.plannedparenthood.org/

I stand with Planned Parenthood for a lot of reasons. I can think of the most recent, when, of all things, Larry and I feared I might actually be pregnant, in late November of 2008. Let's just break that down for a second: I feared I was pregnant. We were newlyweds, coming up on our first wedding anniversary in just over a month. Even though we had talked about how abortion wasn't necessarily the gut reaction now that we were married, we both agreed that timing was not good. (In hindsight, it's almost laughable. We couldn't get pregnant then even if we wanted to, but I digress.)

I had been lazy with my pill. I skipped something like, 11 days' worth? Yeah, not good. There was a fair amount of horizontal mambo-ing in that stretch of no birth control (remember: newlyweds), I hadn't gotten my period, and I panicked. I took a pee stick test and thankfully it came out negative, but I realized that with our timing it was possible I could have been chemically pregnant, so I turned to Planned Parenthood for emergency contraception, to prevent implantation.

Larry and I talked a lot in the day leading up to getting the EC and me taking it. How weirdly, when actually confronted with the possibility that I could be pregnant, that all of those years of being a pro-choice feminist in college seemed strange and foreign. "What if I was?" I thought. If the EC didn't work, we'd resolved ourselves to the idea of being parents way before we wanted to. I am grateful that I live at a time when I have the freedom to make that choice. It was the first time I realized what pro-choice actually meant. It's not about being pro-abortions for all: it's about being pro-the freedom to have control over your own body.

And that folks, is why I stand with Planned Parenthood. Not because I was able to get EC when I needed it, rather because they are an organization that helps people (not just women) get the reproductive care they need when they need it.

When I wrote Wednesday about the war on women and what it means for the infertility community, I was so grateful for the outpouring of support for Planned Parenthood in the comments here, on FB, Twitter, and elsewhere. I want to share some of those reasons why Planned Parenthood is important to the infertility community, and why the House vote to defund Planned Parenthood is a slap in the face to all of us.

Planned Parenthood is not just about abortions, it's about access to low-cost, routine medical care.

A dear friend Nine writes:

When I was young and had no access to health care, I used Planned Parenthood's services for my annual exams and to receive medication to help me with debilitating menstrual cramps. Because I had no primary physician, they were also kind enough to keep an eye on my heart and lungs for me.

Another dear friend Marie-Audrey echoes this and expands on the breadth of coverage Planned Parenthood provides:

They provide care for women (and men) without health insurance - which I did not have a few years ago. I had very little money and their "pay according to your income" allowed me to get the health care I needed for a very fair price... What about the teenager who does not get any kind of support (money or psychological) from home? What about the single mom with 3 kids? What about the freelancer without regular income and/or health care?

Planned Parenthood helped save MrsSpock's sister's life and keep her sister's family planning on track:

Because of her bipolar disorder- an illness she has unfailingly taken her meds for for 10 years- my sister has been denied health insurance from her employer's insurer, even though she has worked there for that same decade. She is only able to get her well woman care through Planned Parenthood, as she can pay based on a sliding scale. Her income is low, and she could not afford to pay for full fees. because of them, she was able to get the pap that caught her early cervical cancer, and get into a clinic to treat it based on their referral. Never mind that she has chosen not to have children based on her mental illness, and they give her affordable access to the contraceptives that make sure that plan remains.

Planned Parenthood has also been vital to many of your infertlity journeys.

Anonymous writes:

...did you know some Planned Parenthood centers also provide Level II infertility treatments? I know this because in the wake of my own IF diagnosis, I found myself missing the compassionate and thoughtful care I received as a PP patient. The center closest to me wasn't able to provide me with the next stage of my care but they referred me to a specialist that hopefully will help.

Virginia adds:

I always make a point of pointing out that Planned Parenthood helped us plan for and medically prepare for conceiving our daughter whenever anyone gets up on their abortion soapbox. I'm an endo sufferer and PP helped me keep my womb and tubes healthy enough to conceive naturally when we were ready for a baby. She really was a miracle - I've been dealing with secondary infertility since her birth almost 17 years ago.

If having low-cost access to basic reproductive care is something that's important for you, I urge you to take 10 minutes right now, to act and do something about this.

1. Read and sign the open letter from Planned Parenthood expressing your outrage. Time: 2 minutes.

2. Find out how your representative voted in the House vote to defund Planned Parenthood. Time: 1 minute.
+ If they voted against it, please email them and thank them. Time: 2 minutes.
+ If they voted for it, please email them and tell them what you think about that and how their vote impacts you. Time: 2 minutes.

3. Share your story about why Planned Parenthood matters to you. You can share it with Planned Parenthood directly, or you can blog about it. Make it your Facebook status or find eloquence in 140 characters or less on Twitter. Time: 4 minutes (maybe less).

4. If you have the means- even $5- make a donation to Planned Parenthood to show your support. Time: 1 minute.

Tada! 10 minutes, maybe less. See, grassroots advocacy is seriously not that hard or time-consuming, I promise.

I know in the infertility community, we think a lot about our future children. We hope, we pray, we wish, we dream for our future children. I'm asking you to think about them again, right now - is a country that's willing to strip away access to basic reproductive care one in which you want your kids to live? Do you want your children to go through the same fertility struggles you're going through right now because they couldn't get the kind of low-cost reproductive care they needed in their teens and college years?

I know sometimes it can be hard to see beyond the immediate hurdle of just trying to build your family, but we need to take active steps in shaping the world in which they'll live.

I'm not just doing it for myself, but for my kids - one day, should we be so blessed. That's why I stand with Planned Parenthood.

Will you?

Why does the government hate women so much?

Hi. Did you at one time or do you currently have one of these?

Adorbs, right? Buy it here.

Oh, you don't? 



From left: Rep. Phil Jensen (R-SD), Rep. Chris Smith (R-NJ), Rep. Bobby Franklin (R-GA).

Then please stop trying to govern mine.

If you have lady bits or know someone who does, you should really become familiar with these faces. They're out for your lady bits. No no no, not in that way - in the "restrictive legislation that they really have no business putting forth" kind of way.

I don't care if you're pro-choice, pro-life, pro-family, or pro-whatever: I need to talk about this because it's been eating away at me for almost a week. In fact, I shelved a post I wrote sometime last year when we were knee-deep in our "let's adopt!" phase. It contained a rather inflammatory sentence that basically said, despite my years of being pro-choice/pro-family, every abortion is a missed adoption opportunity. I know - I know - that's why I never posted it here. Too inflammatory even for me and I didn't want to deal with the aftermath in the comments. So... yeah, don't kill me on that one.

Here's the thing: infertility patients need to pay attention to healthcare legislation, particularly anti-abortion legislation. Anti-abortion legislation, in a cruel twist of fate, can pose a serious threat to our access to care. Here we are, trying our damndest to have our own children, and yet (I know how ironic this sounds) we need to be vigilant about others' rights and access to terminate their own pregnancies.

Case in point: Iowa's Personhood Law (HF 153). This lovely little gem seeks to define that life begins at conception thus rendering abortion illegal in the state of Iowa. Why does this matter to infertility patients? Oh, you were able to fertilize all 8 of your eggs for your IVF cycle? Congrats! Oh, some of them weren't so high grade and aren't worth saving? Tough cookies, it's now illegal to dispose of them. I've seen so many of your beautiful blasties out there and it's kind of awesome (in the truest sense of the word) to know that those little blasties are your future children - but calling it murder to get rid of them? Come on. And yet amazingly, HF 153 actually passed an Iowa House subcomittee. What boggles the mind: the bill was authored by Rep. Kim Pearson (R-IA). Kim: you've got lady bits. Use your head, woman! Even the ASRM and SART said enough was enough, and issued a public letter in opposition of the bill to Iowa House Speaker Kraig Paulsen.

[Do you live in Iowa? Does this piss you off? Please contact your representatives and tell them why this matters to you as their constituents. You can search for your Iowa legislators here online for their full contact info.]

There's a reason to speak up, contact your legislators, and blog about it: because it works. Look at South Dakota (fig 1). Their House Bill 1171, introduced by Rep. Phil Jensen (R) sought to redefine justifiable homicide:

Homicide is justifiable if committed by any person while resisting any attempt to murder such person, or to harm the unborn child of such person in a manner and to a degree likely to result in the death of the unborn child, or to commit any felony upon him or her, or upon or in any dwelling house in which such person is. (Source.)

In a nutshell, it would create legal precedent for someone to kill abortion clinic workers. Let's broaden this a bit: remember those blasties I mentioned a few paragraphs up? Let's say those low-grade blasties are discarded. According to HB 1171, it would be justifiable homicide to take out the offending embryologist who discarded them. Thankfully, the public outcry, both from South Dakotans and the blogosphere, was large enough that the language was changed and ultimately, South Dakota realized that maybe this whole thing didn't need to be brought to the table at all.

But we still have a big fight ahead of us, most notably, the most recent vote by the House to defund Planned Parenthood, spearheaded by New Jersey Rep. Chris Smith (fig 2). This is much more than just about abortion rights: now we're just talking about restricting access to basic reproductive care. Planned Parenthood does a lot more than abortions: they provide routine pap smears, access to birth control and emergency contraception, and routine care for STIs. By taking away these services, these women now have an increased risk of infertility because they won't be able to access the reproductive care they need.

And as many of you know, sometimes the decision to terminate a pregnancy is beyond our control. Enter my new hero, California Rep. Jackie Speier, who had the chuzpah to remind the House of this staggering reality late last week:



"The gentleman from New Jersey can kindly kiss my ass."
[Don't know how your Representative voted? You can check here online to see whether or not they voted to defund Planned Parenthood. Then take the time to thank those that who supported PP or speak your mind to those who did vote to defund PP.]

Have you been angered by the craptastic media coverage of infertility, IVF, donor gametes, and celebrity infertiles? You ever notice how the media likes to play the victim blame game? With all of this recent legislation, anyone else getting that vibe that there's this cultural misogyny at work here (like last week's Nir Rosen and Debbie Schlussel's *disgusting* rants blaming CBS correspondent Lara Logan for her own sexual assualt in Egypt)?

What the holy hell is everyone's problem with women just, ya know, living their own lives and having some say in what we choose to do with our bodies?

This is why we, as an infertility community, need to care about anti-abortion legislation, regardless of our own personal views. This is why we need to act, to speak up, to speak out, tell our neighbors, our friends, our families and most importantly: the people who govern, as most of them do not have uteruses (uterii?), but have an awful lot to say about what goes on in them.

Because if we don't, then we might just end up with legislation that seeks to investigate all miscarraiges, cuz yanno, to see if they were induced. Because if they were, it would be a criminal offense.

How I wish I were making this up. (I've been trying to find a less inflammatory post about it, but this one at Daily Kos hits all of the important points). Allow me to introduce you to Georgia Rep. Bobby Franklin (fig. 3) who is pushing for the following legislation:

"...any time a miscarriage occurs, whether in a hospital or without medical assistance, it must be reported and a fetal death certificate issued. If the cause of death is unknown, it must be investigated... Hospitals are required to keep records of anyone who has a spontaneous abortion and report it." (Source.)

This is the last straw. I had to write about it here because, having been invested in the stories of so many of you who have experienced a miscarriage, I just about went apoplectic when I read this on a friend's FB page. Rep. Franklin's proposed legislation would treat you like a criminal just for having miscarried. Seriously? Is this what we have come to as a nation?

We have got to wake up, start paying attention, starting making those calls and writing those letters. We need to be informed and to inform others. We have got to start fighting back as a unified community of women or we are going to get trampled by the cultural norming of misogyny in America.

In Consideration of the Car Seat.

Ain't she a beaut? Too bad she can't really drive up hills.

My lease is up in April, so it's off to the car dealerships we go. That's me in 2008, just a couple of days after we got my Civic Hybrid. I named my first new car Barracuda. True story: I was really into Guitar Hero at the time, and played that song almost daily. I was so excited to get a new car; I had been driving my aunt's old Mercury Tracer that got into an accident on my way to work (I'm fine, the car was not). Shopping for the car was fun and exciting, our first big purchase as the new Mr. & Mrs. Zoll. Barracuda has had a good run and if we had to do it all over again, I would have probably picked another car. Don't get me wrong: I've enjoyed the yuppie smugness that comes with owning a hybrid, but I've realized after three years of driving her, I also enjoy things like horsepower and a spacious trunk.

Trunk space issues aside, it's the horsepower that kills me: 108 horsepower. That's all she's got. It makes things like "merging into high speed traffic" and "driving through snow" or the ever fun "just trying to accelerate up a slight hill" um, how shall I put it... extremely fucking difficult challenging? So yeah, when we turn in Barracuda, I'll be shopping for another vehicle. Not to wander too far into car shopping territory, but I'd like to stick with Honda. They make some damn solid cars, but they haven't updated the Civic since 2006. For the price, I'd like to see something new.

We're toying with the idea of Hyundai, Toyota, and perhaps Scion, although according to Car and Driver, they're built more for audiophiles than car lovers. We also plan on checking out Subaru, but they might be out of our price range. And then there's Fiat, finally coming to the US in just a few weeks (first demo car gets to Worcester next week!) which thanks to our love of the UK's Top Gear, we're really excited at the possibility to test drive the Fiat 500. We're also seriously considering Volkswagon, and if the old Routan Boom commercials with Brooke Shields are to be believed, it should cure our fertility woes pronto!



This is what I like to call a commercial that tries WAY too hard to be funny. Way to hard.
Basically, I'm in the market for something compact, 4-door and with more than 120 horsepower. Good gas mileage is a bonus, but not a deal-breaker. Oh, and room for a car seat. Yes. Room for a car seat. Shopping for a car is now remarkably similar to when we were looking to buy a house: 3 bedroom - a master bedroom, an office, and "room to grow."

I want to be optimistic about pursuing IVF, I really do. But the fact of the matter is that there's no guarantee if this is going to work. So once again, we are in the market for a major life purchase that will hopefully fit our hopes to build our family, but like the "room to grow" - well, there's just no guarantee we'll be able to fill that space. Infertility is so much about that sense of emptiness, of space we desperately want to fill, be it spare bedrooms, car seats, or the aching in our hearts.

Infertility has also filled me with a (un)healthy dose of pragmatism so that part of me totally realizes we can plan for a car seat as much as we want to - doesn't mean we'll ever buy one. Bleak, yes, but I'm just being a realist. Infertility has taught me that nothing is guaranteed in life.

I know this post is a bit of a downer. I try to write about what life is really like for someone dealing with IF. I probably come off as neurotic and I don't care. But this is the reality of things: even buying a car is fraught with the stress of whether or not we'll be able to have children. 

As much as I would love to drive around that sporty, zippy little Fiat 500, it's completely impractical for strapping in a car seat. I also don't want to drive around a mammoth minivan because I'm just not a minivan kind of gal. (My dream car is a cream Mini Cooper with black racing stripes. Again, not really suitable for children or even groceries.) We're still toying with the idea of whether we lease or buy, so our next car, if we're so blessed, could potentially see us through the late elementary school years of a young child.

Or maybe that back seat stays empty. We just have no way of knowing right now, but we need to plan for the best case scenario. I just can't help but remain somewhat skeptical until I'm proven otherwise.

Let's lighten up the mood, shall we? What kind of car do you drive? What do you love/hate about it? I'm in the new car buyin' market, so don't be shy ;)

Compassion, Grace, and Courage

Last week, I gave an interview to my college alumni magazine talking about the work I've been doing for the infertility community, and how my one little video exploded on the internet nearly a year ago. I'm excited to see it come out sometime in April or May, as it will be coming up to the one-year anniversary of my video going live and also (hopefully) smack dab in the middle of National Infertility Awareness Week. As I was talking with the reporter, it dawned on me that it's been almost two years since I was diagnosed. And then I remembered that even those I was still a total IF noob, I outed myself on Facebook just a month and a half after the diagnosis. I quickly deleted it and then reposted it when someone I knew from childhood contacted me privately to say, "Thank you for posting this. I'm going through this, too."

I remember being totally blown away by the revelation that, holy cow- it wasn't just me, and not only that- this is someone I sat with in social studies class in middle school. And then someone else I went to school with contacted me. And then a former coworker. It was one of those moments when I realized just how indiscriminate infertility is and how it's touched a shocking number of people in my lives.

While I was in Atlanta, I received an email from one of those friends that reached out to me nearly two years ago. I'm posting it here with his persmission but have changed their names:

Hi Keiko,

I've been trying to figure out how to write this for weeks. I am going to screw it up and for that I am sorry. I have had this raging internal debate on sending this, for fear of making you feel like I am singling you out or making your day (or even just a brief moment today) unhappy. But as my only IF confidant (besides 1 or 2 VERY close friends) I feel compelled to write you

One of our IUI treatments a few months ago was successful; Bella is at 12 weeks tomorrow. I've been riding a roller coaster of emotions for weeks: joy, fear, guilt among others. The worst has been thinking of my friends in the IF community - and how they would feel knowing that yet another couple is expecting. I wish I had the magic words to make it all right, but as I still haven't found them myself, I don't know what to say... other than thank you: for being a voice, an advocate, and a friend- for doing what you do everyday- for giving all of us hope.

We may be pregnant, but I know I will always be a part of the IF community. I must carry the knowledge everyday that my son/daughter- in spite of all the love and wisdom (ha!) - I plan to give them is ultimately another man's genetic make-up. Ultimately (as we well know) there are burdens in life that we all must bear, and this is one that I happily choose to carry.

We plan to share our news in the very near future with everyone. But I knew that I needed to share this with you before that - and to thank you for being a voice... and perhaps offer you the same hope that you have given me and so many others.

- Edward

You could have knocked me over with a feather after I read that email. I replied and was totally up front with him: I'm so happy for them both, but I know they know that this is also momentarily painful too. I thanked Edward for his compassion, grace, and courage in sharing that with me in such a compassionate, graceful, and courageous way.

It was one of those moments that filled me with hope even through the tears of reading another pregnancy announcement. I hope that one day we do get to experience all of that same joy, and even their fear and guilt too. I feel like it's only natural when IF folks do find out they're pregnant. And I hope we get to experience all of that.

And I hope that if I do, I can show the same level of compassion, grace, and courage to all of you, because I know how hard it will be for some of you to read that. But after reading Edward's email - man, I really hope I do get to share that news with you one day. I was so filled with hope because, unlike the other success stories I read out there - I know Edward. We went to school together, suffered through the same miserable bio class, and while we weren't the best of friends, we got close only recently because we both had such a deeply personal battle in common. And I feel like because I know him, maybe it's totally possible for good things to happen to us, too. His story only makes me more hopeful for our own.

So to Edward and Bella (I couldn't resist): mazel tov on this wonderful blessing, this incredible new chapter in your lives and thank you for being a model of compassionate grace and courage to the rest of us.

Thanks for thinking of us and cheering us on. I'll still be doing the same for you, too.

Weird Science

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks (2010).

Her name was Henrietta Lacks.

She is known to most scientists simply as HeLa. In fact, she's known on an even simpler scale: she is not a person to most modern researchers, rather, she is an "immortal" line of cultured cells. The immortality was that these cells, named HeLa cells, were extremely resilient when grown in culture, becoming the first human cells to be successfully grown in a lab.

Henrietta had an aggressive form of cervical cancer that ultimately killed her in 1951. Prior to her death, cancerous cells from her tumor were taken without her permission and used for scientific research at Johns Hopkins. Informed consent didn't exist at the time. The horrible irony of all this is that Henrietta left behind five young children who would grow up without their mother... and without health insurance. The Lacks' children would never be able to collect a dime from her mother's contribution (one made without her consent, no less). HeLa cells have helped millions of people globablly, from testing cancer therapies to the creation of the polio vaccine, as well as thousands of other studies.

You might see where I'm going with this whole "cells in a petri dish" tangent: HeLa cells helped pave the way for IVF.

The examining gynecologist, Dr. Howard Jones, first witnessed and diagnosed Henrietta's unusually large and aggressive cervical cancer tumor. He would leave Johns Hopkins in the 1970s with his wife Georgeanna, an endocrinologist, to form a reproductive research center in Virginia. The pair would go on to successfully pioneer IVF in the United States. And all because of the knowledge they gained from seeing HeLa cells in action.

Dr. Howard W. Jones, IVF pioneer.

This post was set up to be just another run of the mill book review as I read Rebecca Skloot's compelling account of Henrietta's life and the far-reaching impact of HeLa cells in the last 60 years. It was when I had finished the book and read the "Where are they now" section on the cast of characters in the story that I saw that Dr. Howard Jones was the doctor responsible for the first successful IVF pregnancy in the United States. That's when I realized the weird connection I had with Dr. Jones.

We both received Hope Awards at RESOLVE's Night of Hope this past September.

Dr. Jones received the Barbara Eck Founders Award for his work with his wife in the field of reproductive science. While Dr. Jones could not personally attend (he just turned 100 in December), the award was accepted on his behalf by his grandson. For a video of Dr. Jones at his 100th birthday, check this out from the ASRM: Dr. Howard Jones speaks about IVF in the 21st century.

There's a very powerful line in the book, from one of Henrietta's children, to the effect of, "I don't care if millions of people have benefited from my mother's cells... I just want my mother back." It was not an easy life for Henrietta's children in the wake of her death, as described in the book.

What hit me was realizing that I will be one of those people benefited. IVF wouldn't even be a possibility if it weren't for some borderline shady medical practices in the 1950s surrounding the collection and distribution of HeLa cells. I don't feel guilty for having benefited from this research. However, I do now have an appreciation of and watchful wariness for the bioethical considerations of scientific research. We are lucky to live in an age of informed consent, but that still doesn't mean you have control over your tissues once they leave your body, whether it's for research or even profit from that research. Just ask John Moore. You do however, have rights to your tissue before it leaves your body, like Ted Slavin.

All this talk of tissue and cells before and after they leave your body... kind of reminds me of the complexities inherent to using donor gametes. After reading The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, this is the first time I've ever really thought about donor egg/IVF from a very removed standpoint, without the context of all the very personal considerations: "Will my child look like me or us? Will I still feel connected to my child?" I'm more than aware of the need for laywers in the donor egg process but I think this is the first time it's really sunk in. I'm not saying legal consultation is a bad thing, rather, I really understand now that all involved parties, recipient and donor alike, each have legal rights. I hate to say that it's about ownership, but at the end of the day, we're talking about human cells and the property rights to those cells once they leave a woman's body.

I'm reminded too of a session on embryo donation I went to at RESOLVE of New England's Annual Conference last year. On one hand, it could be very easy to check off "donate my unused embryos to science." You're simply relenquishing your property rights to those cells. On the other hand (and this is painting the picture with a very broad brush stroke) it's like sending your potential children off to the lab. It's a lot to consider. Again, it's just the ways in which this book has broadened my thinking about modern reproductive science.

If you've read the book, I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments. If you haven't read it, go pick up a copy. It's a pretty quick read because honestly, it's so compelling you can't put it down. And I'll throw this question out there too:

Is anyone else just as marveled as I am at the miracles of modern science?

I mean, creating human embryos outside of the human body, implanting them into a waiting womb and if all goes well... it could be your child?! Mindblowing stuff when you really think about it.

What I learned at the aquarium.

While I was in Atlanta I had a day with some downtime, so I stopped by The World of Coca Cola and the Georgia Aquarium, the largest aquarium in the world. I really thought my weekend would be an IF-free zone but the aquarium had different plans for me.

Of course I'm already setting myself up for failure by heading to an aquarium on a Saturday afternoon: I was surrounded by squealing children and their weary parents everywhere I turned. But I'm just as big of a nerd to tune out a lot of that out, fighting my way past small children to press my nose up against the glass, oohing and aahing at the spectacular array of sea life. I'm a total dork for museums.
 

The ever curious looking sea dragon.

It was at the sea dragon exhibit that I suddenly felt my breath catch, that lump in my throat. A young father was kneeling in front of the tank, pointing out the creature to his daughter, as she turned her wispy head of ghost-white blonde hair toward the glass. "Can you point to the sea dragon?" he said, and the daughter obliged, pointing. "Yay!" he and his wife cooed, and the girl smiled and giggled, pressing her tiny chubby hands against the glass, mesmerized by the creature.

I want to take my kid to the aquarium with Larry. The thought was as clear as day in my head, followed by that pulling feeling in my chest. I felt corners of my eyes moisten. I quickly stood up (I had been kneeling to get a better view) and made my way over to the next exhibit. Suddenly, all the kids I'd been able to tune out for the last hour seemed as though they had multiplied in number and volume.

I made my way to the main tank viewing area and took a seat, my mouth slightly agape at the sheer size of it. I could have spent hours here, watching the three whale sharks- these beautiful, epic beasts each as big as a bus, the manta rays eerily soaring through the water as if in slow motion, the massive groupers with their slackjawed expressions. I was transfixed - humbled - by this ocean of wonder in front of me. In a lot of ways, it felt like an underwater chapel.

Sitting there, I connected with my infertility in a way I hadn't previously. Seeing that father and daughter, I finally understood a part of this ache within me. I work in education, so it's only natural that I long to teach my children one day. Not homeschooling, rather, how to tie their shoelaces. What to do if they break up with their boyfriend. Why they should read a book- good books. I want to teach them about sea dragons, and Henrietta Lacks and constellations and baking soda volcanoes and all the joys and wonders of science. I want to teach them about truth and integrity and trust and love and responsibility. And everything else.

I only just realized, sitting in front of this massive underwater window, that the grief and pain with infertility isn't just about wanting a baby. It isn't just about baby bumps and showers and revealing your news to your friends and family. It isn't just about nurseries and matching outfits and dolls and mementos emblazoned with "Baby's First."

This ache is about leaving a legacy, leaving a mark on the next generation. Parenting isn't just about answering the alarm on the biological clock: it's about sending a part of yourself into the unknown future ahead of us all. Death and taxes, right? Being able to parent is hoping that one day, one day very long after we're all gone - someone might hear an echo of wisdom, of something we once said and we are remembered.

It's as though infertility robs us of our voice cast ahead into time.

This is what I sat and thought about next to the fishes and the sharks and the rays, creatures with no concept of time, always swimming in this endless ocean. For the half hour or so I sat there, deep in thought, it was as though I was in slow-motion with the fish, the world moving around me at an accelerated pace. Those thoughts, even after only being away for just 24 hours, made me long for home, to be close to my husband.

And yet despite how deeply introspective I became, I sat there wide-eyed, in wonder at the beauty of it all.

This one's for M.

I'm sitting in the hotel lobby at my conference, because amazingly, in this day and age, I'm expected to actually pay for internet in my room. Come on Marriott, I get the money game you're playing here, but come on. We're already paying out the nose for the room... you could throw a little free in-room internet my way.

This conference has taken up a grand amount of time (as it should) but it's been an intense 4 days so far. Tons of sessions from which to choose, constantly playing the game of "what information can I realistically take back and practically apply to my institution?" and feeling a bit out of my league. This conference is more academically focused rather than just pure student affairs' conferences I've attended in the past and sometimes I just feel like I'm wearing a scarlet BA on my chest... more faculty and administrators than staff here, that's for sure. Larry told me after I got out of my first session: "Don't sweat it and don't sell yourself short. You're just as smart and have every right to be there, too."

And that's why I love my husband ^_^

. . .

Yesterday morning, I was on my way out of a session when a young woman came up to me.

"Hi, are you Keiko?"

"Yes," I said, distractedly.

"I read your blog and I just had to come over and say hi and thank you for being a voice out there for us." We chatted for another minute; I was half-asleep, having overslept a bit and trying to remember where my next session was so I gave her my business card, thanked her for reaching out to me, and dashed out into the crowd of attendees. A few minutes later, I realized how rude I must have seemed: I didn't even get her last name.

I had gotten her first name- M- but hadn't thought to grab her card in my semi-awake state. I was thrilled when I checked my email that evening to see she had sent me a note. This morning we exchanged emails and texts and met up to chat during some downtime this afternoon.

. . .

Like any good academic conference, there are plenty of publishing company exhibitors here to hawk their titles to us salivating first-year/common reading book selection committee members. Today many of them had catered lunches featuring several of their authors here to talk about their books. M and I had each gone to different lunches, and she shared with me a really tough moment for her that day:

The author of Just Don't Fall, Josh Sundquist, spoke at her lunch about how childhood cancer robbed him of his leg but lead to a path toward the Paralympics. She relayed his delivery: energetic, engaging, exhuberant. He described how as a 9-year old, he looked up to a boy wearing a lime green soccer uniform in his school. He wanted that uniform; that was his goal. At 10, he was diagnosed with cancer and lost his leg. After years of physical therapy, he talked about a ski trip with his family where he went sledding with a modified sled. Just before he went down for another run, as he was sitting on the sled, a man came up to him, saying "Hey kid!" He turned and looked, and here was a man in a red, white, and blue uniform: stars, stripes, matching and coordinated. "Hey kid, I'm a coach for the US Paralympics Team, and I think you'd be great."

Sundquist arrived at his selling point, about how to adapt his book and his story to college freshmen audiences of all backgrounds: "Sometimes you grow up and want so bad to fit into one uniform, only to find out that it's not that one that's handed to you."

M didn't have to explain anything more beyond that point. The look in her eyes was enough to know just how deeply that had resonated within her that afternoon, a stark reminder of how the pain/anger/longing/fuckedup-itude of infertility can really strike us anywhere.

No matter how hard we might work to create safe-spaces for ourselves, we just never really know when a subtle reminder of your own infertility can creep into your brain. In some ways, it's like we're either always with our guards up or feeling hopelessly defenseless. It's a precarious and unsettling state in which to be.

. . .

M and I talked for over an hour, each sharing our stories and experiences. I think we were both appreciative of the chance to make a face-to-face connection. I certainly didn't come here thinking I'd talk to anyone about infertility but I'm glad I did.

Sidenote: I had my own WTFIF?! (I'm coining a new acronym: What the fuck, infertility?!) moment Saturday at the Georgia Aquarium. That's a post for later in the week.

I'd been feeling a bit stagnant in the days leading up to the conference, but since I've been here, I've felt a renewed kick in the ass about writing, and more importantly, about doing more for this community. My chance meeting with M has only solidified that resolve.

I told M that I write and make videos because infertility shouldn't be silent and we should be able to speak openly about it with others. M made such a great point about how we can both look around this Sea of The Academy and know we have brother and sisters in arms, fighting daily and (most likely) private battles. I listened to M's story, celebrating the things we share in common and listening with compassion at her own challenges, offering the best advice I could. It was a truly wonderful conversation and I'm glad to have made such a happenstance connection with someone.

. . .

Photo by Gillian via Flickr.

I know this post is titled "This one's for M" but really, it's for all of you:

M: Keep writing. Even if you don't blog, make that pen move. I won't say that every word put to paper is one less tear, but it certainly makes it easier along the way. No matter how things turn out, you can always look back and read the story of your growth and strength.

You don't have to carry signs or run a fundraiser to be an advocate. Like I said, even sharing your story with just one person outside your safe circle is another person educated about the reality of infertility and potentially another ally in your corner.

Arm yourself with information and facts. People will be snarky, ignorant, or even polite and well-intentioned but careless in their delivery. Or, as you said, they could be straightforward and devastatingly blunt. We're in the field of education, so I know you can relate to this: make those teachable moments. You don't have to necessarily share your personal story, but a solid statistic or research can go a long way. Like a good higher ed professional, refer them to a reliable resource for more information.

Treasure your safe circle of support and "use" them when you need to. Don't be afraid to ask for their support when you need it. That's why you hold them so close to your heart.

Never feel weird about reaching out to me, even at a place as random as an academic conference. I'm here to listen. I might not have any answers but at the very least, I can listen because your story told in your voice to another person is important, valid, and to be respected. I know it's not easy and I respect and honor your courage for opening up and sharing it with me.

I wish we weren't both members of this community, but I'm glad we found each other, that we made this connection. It helps not to feel so goddamned alone.

And M: no matter what happens with this cycle, I'm sending you luck and support. Take it easy with those needles and just remember that you've got someone rooting for you, ready to celebrate or provide an ear, a shoulder, and a box of virtual tissues if necessary.

Be well and safe travels.

The John Locke Approach to Infertility

Yesterday I was in a very glowy, lovey-dovey mood. It was our leather anniversary - how could I not be? Wait, that sounded a bit too kinky, let me clarify: it was our third wedding anniversary. It's amazing how quickly the time flies. I think we're officially on the tail end of being considered newlyweds, but don't forget - we've been dating since we were 15 (with a year off somewhere in there) so we've got a few more years under our belts than our official three-year badge of honor would have you believe.

I'm really lucky. I have a pretty rockin' marriage. Sure we fight and get snippy or stay up until 1am with the occasional shouting match, but we also have a lot of fun, take care of each other, and stand by one another. I'm very grateful for sharing my life with Larry.

So, it makes this next sentiment sound a bit ungrateful, but I'm going to own how I feel: after three years, I thought we'd be parents by now. You can see how that might not be the most grateful thing to think of or say the day after your wedding anniversary. The thought flittered through my head at one point yesterday, and I deliberately pushed it out. Not today, I told myself, today is about celebration. Today, I feel awful that I feel this way at all.

When we got married, in fact, on the first day of our honeymoon in front of Peter Pan's Flight in the Magic Kingdom, we talked about our family planning timeline. Three years, we told ourselves. I, of course, always bet on the early side of things so in my mind at the time I'm thinking: three-year anniversary = babymaking night of bliss. And of course, because the media has told me so, BAM! September 2011 baby it would be. In a way, finding out just a few months after our first anniversary that I have POF was a blessing in disguise, saving us from heartache later down the road and pushing our timeline back even further.

And, as it turns out, we're still basically on track. I casually, off-handedly asked Larry the other day if he thinks I'd be pregnant by 30 (this very stubborn benchmark I'd set for myself years ago) and he thinks so. I may not be popping out a baby on May 25, 2012, but well on our way. We're hoping to get the DE/IVF ball rolling by December. So technically, we're right on target with our original plans.

Still, even with my diagnosis, I feel like there's this sense of urgency, even though in a lot of ways, infertility allows us to really put family building on our own timeline more than just natural conception. My biological drive only exacerbates the "you can't do this the way you wanted to" scenario.

Which brings me to our dear John Locke.

No, not that John Locke. This John Locke:

Locke had a saying on LOST: "Don't tell me what I can't do." It was his mantra. Did that drive him on an insane power trip that nearly cost the lives of all the islanders, including his own? Yes, but now we're straying too far from my metaphor.

Shocker: I don't handle being told "No" very well. I'm a fighter. Some might call me stubborn or even needy, but what it boils down to is that I put up one helluva fight. I wanted to be a mom by age 30 and/or my third anniversary, whichever came first. I'm told I can't have my own children so making those milestones might not happen the way I hoped I'd be able to.

And thus, the John Locke Approach to Infertility™: Don't tell me what I can't do.

Like John Locke, instead of making me power-hungry, being infertile has made me baby-hungry. Hm, that sounds uncessarily cannabalistic. Infertility has made me motherhood-hungry. So while I feel bad about how I feel today, I own it. I'm not pushing it aside or wallowing in it. I take ownership of the fact that I've been told I can't have something I really effing want... which of course makes me want it more.

And like Locke, I'll have to get creative in order to get what I want. For Locke, that meant pushing a button every 108 minutes, killing a Portuguese mercenary, and periodically traveling through time (yanno, like ya do). For me, it means using donor eggs and utilizing IVF.

But don't tell me what I can't do... because I'm only going to fight that much harder to do it. I've got the fighting spirit down - now I just need the patience.

In these unguarded moments

Photo by Alfonso Surroca via Flickr.

It's been a few days since I've posted, I realize... A stellar start to my new year's resolutions. To be fair, work has once again started eating my soul, for a mid-academic year snack. August and January... my least favorite working months of the year. Now that classes have started today, I'm hoping my schedule eases up just a smidge.
. . .

You may have noticed I've done a little reorganizing and layout changes here. New year, new haircut... I figured it was time to spruce up the look of the place around here. Blogger has this lovely little template designer tool that I've been hesitant to try but I think I've made it work for what I need here. Oh, and my blog is now super girlie pink. Very vagina-y and feminist empowering, I think. Good for the barren bod. What do you think?

. . .

ICLW begins tomorrow. I'm back in the game to get me back in the habit of posting regularly. Hope to have an intro post up late this evening.

. . .

The winter is a hard season for me. I've been all over the map emotionally and for whatever reason, I'm finding it a little harder to cope with infertility right now. I tell myself, but Keiko, you were doing so well! What happened? as if there is imaginary imposed sense of decorum and composure I'm supposed to have at any given moment. For some reason, now that I'm public about my identity on this blog, I hold myself to a high standard, unrealistic even. I'm not an infertility superhero. I know I try to be, but... I'm not. I just try to live each day and keep myself toegether as much as I can.

Yesterday, I didn't.

I went to lunch at the Whole Foods near where I work. I was just finishing when I received an email from a dear friend, due in early March. It was an email to her family and friends letting us know about their schedule for visiting once the baby arrives. They both have large families and wide circles of friends so an email like this is a must for all of the myriads of folks who can't wait to see the new grandchild. I found it very helpful actually and have filed it away as a "keep for later" idea.

And then out of nowhere... tears welled up in my eyes. I swallowed quickly and grabbed my trash, dashing for the exit. A perfectly sensitive, well-composed, informative and ultimately joyous email, and yet - my emotional levee burst open. For a moment I thought, what's wrong with me? but dismissed it, realizing that I needed these tears and I had to quickly find a safe space for a few minutes.

As I got up, I saw that the woman sitting at the table next to mine was bottle feeding a young child in her arms. I sucked in a steadying breath. As I put my compostables in the appropriate bin, a female cashier turned to greet me on my way out: "Have a nice day!" she called to me, her large, round pregnant belly visible under her green apron.

I practically ran to my car, shut the door, and just sat there in the parking lot of Whole Foods, crying. You've got five minutes to get this out, because you've got to go back to work missy! I told myself. In those five minutes, thoughts roiled in my mind. I was torn between feeling sorry for myself, feeling jealous and then feeling bad about my jealousy, then getting angry with myself for this irrational outburst, and then I stopped myself.

I can have this moment if I need it. And so I turned off my brain for a few more minutes and just cried.

Reaching for a napkin from the glove box, I wiped my eyes and took a few deep breaths. I had a busy afternoon ahead of me, and it was time to get back to work. The ache was still present in my heart, but I had allowed myself the release I needed, a little steam from the valve.

I went back to work and got through my busy day.

I can never fully prepare myself for these unguarded moments, but I won't bottle them up. Otherwise I'll just have these endless bottles of tears and terrors that won't do anyone any good, bottles of self-pity and self-loathing that just take up entirely too much space in my life.

I'd rather let the tears flow, bathing my mind clean in the catharsis.

And then I go back out into the world, and do what I have to do: live my life, take it a moment at a time, and remain hopeful.

A little kindness and compassion

...can go a long way.

Photo by Sarah Murray via Flickr.

I sometimes straddle a difficult line with blogging and being public about my identity. Sometimes there are things I am dying to write about here, but I know that even with strategic re-naming of the parties involved, people will recognize themselves and that someone will eventually be hurt by what I write. I practice a high degree of self-censorship in that regard.

But sometimes, when people go out of their way to be so kind and pleasant to you, well, I can't help but write about it. If anything to prove that even though infertile folks have to deal with some of the most asinine but well-intentioned advice, we can also be the recipients of some of the most humbling compassion.

Right before Christmas, my niece began crawling. My sister was so excited and proud of her wee little one- as well she should be! - and wanted to share the good news. On the way home from work, she called me and we were catching up a bit. We would be seeing each other on Christmas Day, so it was more of a "Hi how are ya" conversation. And then my sister got quiet for a minute.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

"Yeah, can I ask you a really stupid, silly question?" she said after a minute.

"Sure. I'll have a stupid, silly answer for you," I teased.

She paused. "How do I know if it's okay to talk about Willow?"

The car was quiet for a minute, the only sound the soft murmur of the highway under my wheels. I thought for a moment. "I suppose you could just ask me, I won't be offended."

My sister went on, "Well it's just that I know you've been in a funk lately and I don't want to babble on about her if you don't want to hear about it. I just don't want to make you upset."

I smiled, deeply touched. "Seriously, you can just ask me. I'll let you know if I don't want to - I'll be honest if it's one of those days."

"Should we have a code word or something?" After a few minutes of debate, we decided that we would refer to Willow in the form of potato products, since her in utero nickname was Spud.

"So... how do you feel about french fries today?" my sister asked.

"Why, they sound delicious! Tell me more," I smiled.

. . .

Not too long after that conversation I was talking with a dear friend, Nicole, online. (PS, totally random shoutout - she is one stellar photographer. Check out her stuff - for seriouses.) Larry and I were heading down to their house for New Year's weekend as part of a very coordinated surprise 30th birthday party for a mutual friend. There were folks coming from all over the country to celebrate our friend's birthday, and sleeping space was at a premium, especially beds. Thankfully we RSVP'd early enough to guarantee a bed of some sort (futon, air mattress, or otherwise) and Nicole was in the lovely position of playing human Tetris trying to figure out where everyone would be sleeping at her house.

Nicole, I should add, is 7½ months pregnant with her second boy. There would also be a recently announced pregnant couple there, as well as another couple with a toddler. We were catching up online when she asked if Larry and I would mind sleeping in the baby's room so the birthday boy (the couple with the toddler) could sleep downstairs in the basement with all of his friends from high school that were coming.

At first I wasn't sure, so I bought myself some time to think about by saying that I'd bring it up with Larry that evening and get back to her. Nicole was very honest, explaining that the baby's room was decorated, painted, and the crib was up, but there was plenty of room for an air mattress on the floor. Given the number of people coming, she had to get creative with the sleeping arrangements.

I thanked her for being so considerate enough to even ask in the first place; it's not that I wouldn't have expected her to ever be so kind, but it was a nice reminder of just how awesome a friend she is to Larry and me. That night I did bring it up with Larry and he said he didn't mind if I didn't. I told him I was on the fence; I was already worried at the potentially baby-centric weekend it could potentially be.

The next morning, a chat window from Nicole popped up. "Problem solved," it said. She had talked it over with our friends coming with the toddler and put them up in the baby's room instead. Larry and I got very lucky and got the quietest, darkest room in the house (our favorite place to sleep when we stay over there). New Year's weekend was a blast, and my "I'm the infertile surrounded by parents and pregnant ladies" fear was overblown. The baby talk was barely non-existent and I had a wonderful time, despite picking up one of the many colds that everyone brought with them.

. .

It's these little moments of compassion that can really go a long way, and that leave me humbled and thankful for the love and support we get. It's nice to feel like sometimes, we're not just floating out on this lonely island throwing bottles of rolled up wishes into the sea: that our friends and family hop into a little canoe, knowing they're headed to an uncomfortable destination but willing to take the ride all the same just to show their support in some way.

What moments of compassion have touched you in your journeys?

Cheers to 2011

Photo by Canon in 2D via Flickr.

I couldn't end the year on such a downer of a last post. I'm in a very different place this year: last year, 2010 couldn't come fast enough. Going into 2011, I look back at this year of blessing and abundance. We've been very lucky and have had many triumphs, successes, and joys in our lives, so this year I'm not necessarily rushing into another year. While I'm still basking in the glow of a retrograde Mercury, I do go into the New Year reflective, introspective, contemplative.

With Larry turning 29 last week and seeing my niece crawling around and so big already for six months, it gives me pause. As we head into a new decade, nearly the third decade of my own life, I'm realizing the value of little moments, to savor experiences, and that ultimately, to let the dumb stuff just roll off my shoulders. Life's too damn short to be bogged down.

Infertility still gets me down. This is always a challenge this time of year. It's winter in New England: the days are short - but getting longer and thus, brighter. Another year, another turn of the wheel.

Maybe this will be our year. Maybe not. Whatever happens, we'll roll with it.

. . .

I obsessively try to put together New Year's resolutions, every year. It's kind of a silly tradition. I pump all this hope and good intention and expectation on myself that come January, oh, 15th? they're already forgotten. I even write them down, but hardly glance at them after their writing. In fact, I've begun most of my journals throughout my life* shortly before the New Year, only to write in them for a few months and then leave the rest of the pages blank, memories unsaved and stories untold, off and running to more interesting pursuits than burying my nose in another journal.

*Speaking of these journals... I've recently found ALL of my journals from 7th grade through senior year of high school. I even found my very first diary, from 4th grade. I will be sporadically sharing some of these gems throughout the year.

So instead of making some resolutions, I think I'll just make some... promises to myself? Reminders? Things for which to strive? Hm, I guess that would be resolutions. Whatever.

In 2011, I will:

...become more invested in writing, both here, at a couple of other sites, and damn it, I'm writing a book. Bigger picture: find a little clarity and peace and write about it in the process.
...seriously taking a more active role in keeping up with housecleaning. (Doubling the square footage of living space has been quite the shock to someone who's never really been Lil' Miss Household Chores.)
...keep things in perspective.
...teach myself or learn something new.
...cook more and take some risks in the kitchen (that don't involve breaking the stove... again.)
...get moving (C25 what did you say again?)
..."read" more (or audiobook it up).
...redesign this blog (it's a bit overdue).
. . .

2011 could be our year. Ideally, we'd like to get the ball rolling by late fall/early winter. We have some interesting opportunities on our family-building horizon so who know's what's in store for us this year. I'm keeping things in perspective so if 2011 isn't our year, then it isn't. Won't know until we take each day at a time.

In 2011, I'll take it just like this year: I won't give up.

I survived Snomageddon.

Hope you're all still following along...

. . .

We got close to 19 inches in Salem, MA this weekend. And as a first-time homeowner, I got to shovel my very own driveway with my husband. After 3 hours and almost nowhere to throw the snow because we live on a very narrow one-way street, we managed to get it done. There are 3 six-foot piles of snow on our property: a pile on either side of the driveway on the sidewalk (no way in hell that sidewalk is getting cleared because that's where everyone else threw their snow) and another pile behind our little white picket fence behind the driveway. My shoulder, arm, neck, and back are killing me today.

Afterward? Sledding at Mack Park in gale-force winds. My first attempt down the massive hill? I hit a rock, went airborn, and then rolled the rest of the way down the hill. It was pretty painful. My second run: a lot of fun and very very fast. My third and final run? I probably managed to get up to 30 mph, spun around backwards, and hoped to G-d I didn't take out any of the toddlers trudging through the snow at the bottom (I didn't, and only just barely). Then it was home to the fireplace and homemade chili (my best chili yet, actually).

[insert pictures that I have yet to upload from my camera

of said Snowmageddon here ]

. . .

So... the radio silence for the last two weeks. Yeah, about that.

Remember how I was in a bit of a funk? The funk just got way worse. I don't think I've ever been so gloomy for the holidays before. I think part of it was because I stopped my birth control for two weeks; I was finishing an antibiotic the week I was supposed to start them again, but since we all know the tale about antibiotics and birth control pills, I figured I'd just start them the following week since the penicillin was rendering them useless anyway. Apparently this put my hormones in a tizzy like no other, so I'm just starting to feel normal again.

I had a lovely Christmas with my family, if abbreviated. The plan was to drive down Christmas Eve morning and get Chinese with Larry's family. Then we'd head up to my sister's with my parents and spend Christmas Day with my whole family and my new niece. Sunday we'd tool around, maybe hang out with some friends in the ol' South Jersey, and take our time heading back to MA on Monday, since Larry and I both had the day off.

So... our house was a mess and we decided to leave at the ass crack of dawn Christmas morning and head straight to my sister's. We never did clean Christmas Eve and got Chinese at this place called Fantasy Island that we've passed many a time but never stopped by to eat. We make it to my sister's in 4.5 hours and play with Willow while we wait for my parents to get there. We have a delicious ham dinner, we open lots of presents, and we got to Skype with my Obachan and Uncle Yusan in Japan. And then I checked the weather report for home since Larry mentioned we might get "some snow."

"Some snow" had turned into a blizzard warning and coastal flooding watch, so we stayed for a cup of coffee, said our goodbyes, and got right back into the car and drove back home. We got home at about 12:30am Sunday morning. By the time we woke up on Sunday, it had begun snowing a full two hours earlier than forecasted. The grocery store was a zoo, but we stocked up, came home, and I made chili while Larry baked some skillet cornbread. We lit a fire, we vegged, and Mother Nature dumped 18" of snow overnight.

. . .

No news on baby-making, in that, we have no money to afford anything and the timing just isn't there. I'm kind of sad all the time right now, randomly. It's frustrating because I put on this great show of being an advocate and championing hope to all who read this. But I don't have a pot o'gold at the end of my infertility rainbow. I'm still waiting. I'm still praying. I'm still bitter and sad and jealous and tired.

I know going through donor selection is going to be hard, that going through IVF and hopefully pregnancy and birth will be hard and that parenting an infant is no cakewalk. I get that, should we be blessed enough to have a child, I will not suddenly start pooping unicorns and lollipops and everything will be grand. I know, I know - but I just want to be a mom. I want to make Larry a dad. Forget means, forget funds, let's just get this show on the road.

And right now? Right now I'm just sad all the damn time. My motivation to write has virtually disappeared. I've even found it a struggle to "read" (I use quotes since I'm listening to audiobooks right now), and I find that when I'm listening to a good book, I write better and with more frequency. But even now I've grown weary of dear Simon Vance reading The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest. I suppose that's a statement for my entire state of affairs: I've just grown weary period.

Mercury can't get out of retrograde fast enough.

Anyone else feeling that holiday funk?

At first I thought it was just me, but a friend on Facebook posted a link that shed some light on the situation.

I blame Mercury.

Professor Trelawney would agree.

Mercury is in retrograde right now (trust me, I'm sure). In a nutshell, Mercury is the planet of communications, the Roman god of whimsy and michief (the Roman counterpart to the Greek Hermes). When it goes into retrograde (a planetary illusion of moving backwards through space), it throws communications-related things into a frenzy. I'm a Gemini. Our planet? Mercury. When Mercury goes retrograde, my astrological self has a small breakdown. Apparently, everything starts going haywire just a few days before the planet actually goes retrograde, during its shadow period, and can last longer past the retrograde until it reaches full release.

At first, I thought this was hooey. I dabble in astrology in that I understand my sign quite well and am a pretty textbook Gemini. But then I took at look at the three other times Mercury has been retrograde this year, and I took a look at what was going on in my life. The periods below include both Mercury Shadow through Full Release:

Dec. 9, 2009 - Feb. 4, 2010 (Retro Dec. 26 - Jan 15): Thyroid woes. Also? Forgot my husband's birthday entirely last year (yeah, I left that little tidbit out of my blogging that year). Started getting super worried about Larry's unemployment at the time. I felt pretty awful about my job at the time and I started having weird stuff with my ovary. I even mentioned in that post that I was "in a weird funk lately."

Apr. 4 - May 28 (Retro Apr. 18 - May 11): NIAW 2010 and an unusual burst of creativity; after my video I was inundated with hundreds of emails and comments, like a communications overload. I spent a good amount of time waxing existential right smack in the middle of this retrograde. According to the Gemini chart for 2010, both creativity and spiritual reflection are the highlights of this particular retrograde. And there was lots of confusion about my job and future job title at work.

Aug. 1 - Sep. 27 (Retro Aug. 20 - Sep. 12): Work ate my soul. The clusterfuck that was trying to buy our house. Moving into said house and feeling very unsettled during the relocation process. Oh? And the house fire just 9 days after we moved in.

Nov. 22 - Jan. 18, 2011 (Retro Dec 10 - 30): Thanksgiving plans weren't really solidified until Wednesday afternoon. Vacay was awesome, but I'll admit, I was nagged the whole trip by this weird feeling I can't really describe. Maybe it's  that Larry and I just aren't "relaxing vacation" people, but I felt slightly restless the whole time. Also? Two car accidents, bookending our time off (long story, not getting into it here, we're fine, Larry's car is finally fine, mine's still in the shop). Oh, and then I got strep randomly.

I realize this looks like I might be reading into things, but when I look at all the non-retrograde parts of the year, that's when all the really awesome, good, even-keeled stuff is happening. So I guess I'm just SOL until January 18th :-/

. . .

But seriously... I've been in a weird holiday season funk, more so this year than usual. I don't celebrate Christmas, but having grown up with it, I feel really nostalgic this year. The infertility thing has hit me hard again... I tweeted the other day about nearly crying in the BJ's this week. I made the mistake of checking out the sale books and of course wanted to see what children's books they had (btw, Obama's "A Letter to My Daughters" is probably one of the most empowering children's books I've ever read). Yeah, that was a mistake. I got so bitter and sad and resentful it nearly overwhelmed me, right between the bulk soda and bath product aisle. I ended up crying in my car for a few minutes before returning to work (because of course, I was there on a work related shopping run). Like, what the hell? I've normally got this shit together, man!

I just feel all out of sorts. Anyone else out there feeling Mercury's mischief?

Also, randomly: we're going to see Weezer tonight. Pretty stoked.

You asked, I answer

By the time you read this post, I should be in Miami on my way to Grand Cayman. (I love being able to schedule posts on blogger.) Some quick updates on the two reunions I went to this weekend...

I ended up going to Larry's high school reunion Friday night, which was... interesting. The open bar was a welcome and much needed amenity. We only really actively keep in touch with about three people from his high school class, so we all went as a group. I only vaguely remember some other people (Larry and I went to different high schools) so I had a blast just eating the food and boozing up for free. It was a lovely affair: balloons, food, music from the 90's, and a free Class of 2000 water bottle as end of the night swag. On the Awkward-O-Meter, Larry gave it about a 6.

And then there was Invasive Question Lady.

Some girl (well, I guess since we're 10 years out from high school I should say woman, but whatever) comes up to Larry, does the high-pitched "Heyyyyyyyy!" and gives him a big hug. I'm introduced, I think she's kind of skanky looking, and she's like, full steam ahead with the invasive questions:

IQL: "So you two are married?"

Us: "Yup!"

IQL: "How long?"

Us: "Three years next January!"

IQL: "Do you have any kids?"

Us: "Not yet!"

IQL: "Do you want kids?"

Larry: "Yeah, just not yet!"
Me: (silently, in my mind) You have no idea, lady. *large swig of my cocktail*

IQL: "So when are you planning on having kids?"

Larry: "Not for a couple of years!"
Me: *angrily chewing ice to avoid saying something rude in response*

IQL: "Me too, we just got married so we don't want to rush into it. But you never know- accidents happen"

Us: *louder than necessary laughter*
Me: *downs the rest of my cocktail in one swallow*

. . .

Last night was my Anti-Reunion at the diner around the corner from my high school. Word on the street is that after we were repeatedly told there would be no tickets at the door to the Official Reunion... there were in fact, tix at the door, because their weren't enough pre-sales. Meh.

I caught up with folks and wouldn't you know: one at the table is 3 months pg with an IVF baby, one is currently cycling with retrieval scheduled for the end of this week (if y'all can put out some good vibes for my friend J.L.C. I would love you for it), and another is planning their first IUI relatively soon. It was great to catch up with folks, relax, have a cheap dinner and a cheap beer and just shoot the shit. It was a lot of fun. In the middle of the evening, I got a text about another friend: a holiday pg announcement.

As usual, it stung.

. . .

For this end of this ICLW, I wanted to answer questions posed to my original call for questions. Thanks to Ashley from Artificially Fertile Myrtle for being brave enough to ask the following:

When I was getting diagnosed and going through tx, I wanted to know everything and do everything right away. I always admire your patience and how you go about obtaining all the knowledge you can about everything. So my question is: Have you always been this patient? How do you do it? Can you write a book please?

I shared these two stories about reunions this week to illustrate just a little of this saintly "patience." When it comes down to it, I put on really good airs, but there's a very small circle of people who actually get to see the Very Private Keiko, who is openly tortured by this experience.

Let me back up: I am not a patient woman. 

Photo by Pamla J. Eisenberg via Flickr.

Ashley points out that I seem to delve into the research fully, and somehow, remain patient through this process. I'm reminded of my 22-month long engagement. I pretty much ate, breathed, and slept the details of my wedding. I immersed myself in the planning because it was the only way I was going to survive an engagement that long- remember, I am not a patient woman.

I never have been, in fact. In the age of instant communications, my demand for instantaneous response is high. But like these two moments this weekend, I somehow have learned to let it all roll off my back in the last year. I am (contrary to what you may read on this blog) a very polite person, however. There's a lot of forced smiles and polite small talk and vague responses.

Sometimes there are very blunt, but still very polite responses as well. And then there's the random crying, the days where I just feel blue and want to be left alone or be jealous or be resentful and hurt and self-pitying. There are substantially fewer of those days, but they happen. Despite the fact that I am super excited for my cruise, the knowledge of yet another pg person in my life still gets me down. I am of course thrilled for them, but I'm jealous, bitter, and frustrated too. And after spending a half-hour yesterday with our friends' incredibly adorable, bright, and talkative 2-year-old, the pang runs a little deeper: I want that too. It's not fair. Why can't we just have babies like everyone else?And yet still I wait and wait and wait. With patience, somehow. In these very public moments of grace, there are the private moments of pain. I share some of those glimpses by writing here, but there's a lot folks don't read or see.

As for writing a book, I had an idea come to me this weekend, at Thanksgiving as a matter of fact. I wrote yesterday that I was blindsided by a whirlwind of emotion randomly at the holiday season. I did what I normally do in these types of situations: I head to the kitchen and start cooking. I think I'd like to write an Infertile's Cookbook: part memoir, part comfort food recipes, part historical reflection- the ideas of our mothers' cooking. It's a very raw idea, but I like it.

Ultimately, when it comes to patience:

I'm reminded of one of the questions I asked in my video: What if I lived in the moment rather than living in an uncertain future?

I just have to take it one day at a time. That's all we really can do.