Painting Chef - Cheaper Than Therapy

Patrick has suggested that perhaps I need a project over the next couple of months. A distraction of some kind. Something that will dial down The Crazy a little while I sit a twiddle my thumbs waiting for the green light to take more fertility drugs. I have a few of said projects in mind.

First, I’m planning our garden. I want to have an actual garden this year instead of just a few random pots of tomatoes and basil that I sometimes remember to water. I have an urge to put my hands in the dirt and grow things. And no. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out. But I want to grow fennel, cucumbers, squash, tomatoes, asparagus, lettuce, peppers, beans and broccoli. I want to grocery shop in my backyard. I want a herb garden overflowing with dill, basil, rosemary and thyme. And… I have NO IDEA how to do this. Do I use seeds or plants? All I know is that its going to be a raised garden because I kind of hate to crawl around on the ground.

Also? Painting. Remember when I used to paint? Like… on canvases? I think my art therapy is long overdue and I’m going to fight my way through the seventeen random chairs in our spare bedroom (known only as “The Purple Room” because we can’t figure out how to arrange it or use it at all other than a storage room and a good place to accidentally lock the cat) and work shit out.

Along the same vein… Patrick got me gift certificates for photography classes for my birthday last year and I haven’t used them yet. That is not going to be the case much longer. I love my Nikon SLR but I have to be honest… I think it does lots more tricks than I know about. And I would LOVE to learn more about them. There are so many dials! And buttons! And I don’t know what ANY of them do!

So that’s kind of the plan right now. Also possibly some dusting off of the gym membership. I’m thinking a little (gasp) exercise couldn’t hurt. My “winter” sloth has gotten the better of me AND my pants and I’m not going to have fertility drugs to blame that on for a few months…

I found this wonderful necklace on Etsy last month and bought it immediately. It was made by someone who has struggled with infertility and the simplicity of the message just struck me. I decided to make this my mantra for this year. And since my Blackberry takes such shitty pictures, I’ll steal the one from Etsy to share this with you. I’ve worn this every day since I got it and I try and feel the word sinking into my heart.

I think that patience is such a difficult thing when you are dealing with infertility. There is this general aura of urgency. GET PREGNANT! Do it NOW! Why isn’t it working yet? Why is it taking so long!?!?

But what I think I, and many infertile women, often forget is that all this work we are doing, all the treatments, the drugs, the injections, the WHATEVER… it doesn’t actually give us a leg up. We do all that just to get ourselves back to zero. It makes us EVEN with everyone else. And while it may, very often, seem like all those “everyone else” people get pregnant so fast and so often and so easily, it’s not the case. In reality, the chance of a perfectly fertile woman with no history of problems getting pregnant on any given cycle is only about 10-12%.

Yet we drive ourselves to the brink every time we get a negative pregnancy test. Why do we do this to ourselves? And I’m the worst of the lot, I’m not preaching here, I’m questioning myself. What’s WRONG with me that I can say these words but not believe them?

And so this is the gift I ask the universe for this year. I ask for patience. I ask that every time I touch this constant reminder around my neck that I feel a wave of patience come over me. I ask that you, universe, remind me that you have a plan and that it’s just not time yet. And universe? When I get twitchy and forget about the patience thing? Can you just pour me a glass of wine?

So. Huh. Well. Oh my. Wasn’t that… intense and possibly a little awkward? Note to self: Blog entries written within 5 minutes of receiving very bad news will probably be better left unpublished thereby not depressing the world or at least the 17 or so people who actually read this.

What’s the next step? Acceptance? Bargaining? Denial? Cake? I went home last Thursday (the day of the Very Bad News) and so desperately wanted to soak in a long hot bubble bath but when I looked at the tub and realized it was going to have to be CLEANED before that happened, I just went straight for the wine instead.

I’m still longing for that bubble bath but the idea of getting down on my hands and knees and getting all the dust and cat hair out of that behemoth of a tub is just overwhelming. Not only that but I fear I’ve lost my sympathy window with Patrick so I think getting him to do it is probably out of the question. (There is a good chance that sympathy window was shortened drastically when I convinced him to have a pedicure with me this past weekend.)

(I feel it necessary to point out here that my tub is NOT dirty with like… human dirt leftover from a bath or a RING or anything. It is dirty in the way than an unused bathtub gets when the people in the house use the shower regularly and the only things crawling in and out of the tub are of the feline persuasion.)

Enough about my tub. Despite my longing for a long soak, I’m doing much better now. I had a good cry and a good long talk with my mom and I’m much better. Yes. I’ve accepted the fact that, although it is only February, I will not be a mother in 2010. I was certain I would be but apparently the universe has other plans. Plans I like to call… “Susannah learns how to take the birth control pill at age 32.” Yes, my doctor has decided that 2 months of birth control pills are the best next step for me. And yes. I did have to ask the pharmacist for instructions on how to take the pill. When to start. When to take it. What to expect. I felt… well, actually I felt like a teenager all over again. Pass the Zima!!

This is the part where I try and find the silver lining… right? That’s what I do? I’m the optimistic one. I’m the one who can find the good in EVERYTHING? That’s my job. It’s what I do. I’m the strong one, the one who doesn’t cry.

I’m the one who is able to pick out a casket for my grandmother while my mom collapses in the corner crying. I HANDLE shit. It’s the way I operate, it’s how I cope, it’s my survival technique. I receive the bad news with a nod and keep going. I. Handle. Shit.

But right now I can barely breathe. I’m in a fog. I was sure. I knew it was going to happen this time. Things were perfect. The ovaries behaved, everything happened right when it was supposed to. And still? Nothing. Six fucking PERFECT eggs and nothing. I don’t think I had even allowed the possibility of failure to enter my mind this time until just a few days ago. Was that a mistake? Should I have expected this? Should I have just KNOWN, on some level, that it wasn’t time yet?

I can’t even comprehend this right now. I think I’m numb… it’s just rolling around outside of me like those cartoon stars. I’ve been whacked in the head with the caveman cartoon club of infertility. I’m the sweater that is coming apart one thread at a time and you don’t even notice until you are standing there freezing ass cold and you look down and realize you’re naked.

Patrick heard the phone ring, he knew I was getting bad news. He came up to me and all he could say was that he loved me. I don’t want to hear that you love me. I want to hear that you have a magic box that has a baby in it. I couldn’t even look at him. I knew I’d fall apart and the office is not the place to fall apart. I need my bed. I need my bathtub or my shower. Somewhere where the tears can fall and immediately be gone. Somewhere safe for me to go to my dark place for a little while. I have to be alone for that to happen.

So for now… this will have to do. I’m not asking anyone to make me feel better or for words of encouragement. There are none. There is no fixing this today. I’m beginning to wonder if there is any fixing it ever.

Eggs in the half dozen box at the grocery store hold a special place in my heart. That little box is just so precious and wee, kind of like a kitten. But… you know… more like an unfertilized chicken fetus. Whatever.

There are so many things you can do with a half dozen eggs. The first, and most obvious for me, is cake. I so love cake. I handed out an old family recipe for Strawberry Cake to a couple of friends on Facebook yesterday and it has me craving a decadent three-layer, perfectly pink Strawberry Cake with cream cheese frosting. Probably I’ll make one of those in the near future.

Or maybe a delicious batch of scrambled eggs with lots of cheese is your thing. I do love a good plate of scrambled eggs. I load them with cheese and pepper and pile them up on toast. Mmmm… why do I not make more scrambled eggs?

What about homemade pasta? That takes eggs! I’ve ventured into that arena a few times. Mostly with ravioli because if I’m going to make homemade past, I figure I may as well go whole hog and stuff it with cheese and garlic. EVERYTHING is better stuffed with cheese and garlic. No?

I do have a still unused and in the packaging frittata pan that I could probably dig out and give a test drive. Although a frittata is basically a quiche without the crust and the crust is the best part of the quiche… don’t you think? I’m quite adept at omelets and only send one crashing to the floor about every third or fourth go-round. Surely that would take up six eggs….?

Easter eggs! I could make out of season Easter eggs, couldn’t I? I don’t know if you know this or not but I was raised by a VERY crafty mother. I was the queen of the seasonally appropriate t-shirt or sweat-shirt with matching hair bow. But I have a very clear recollection of standing over the sink and blowing the innards out of eggs one Easter because she wanted the eggs to “last longer” and not get smelly. So we died hollow eggs shells with little pin holes in each end. And broke every single one of those fragile little bastards within a matter of hours.

I suppose I could also whip up a batch of egg salad although the thought of egg salad has always kind of made me dry heave.

Without fail, eggs have always made me gravitate towards baked goods. Cake. Cookies. Brownies. And if I pick a recipe that ends up not having eggs and I don’t get to experience that satisfying THWACK, I feel cheated.

So it seems appropriate, I suppose, that my potentially Un-Punk-Ass Ovaries have found it within themselves (and gently and lovingly prodded along by LOADS of Repronex injections) to create SIX beautiful and perfect eggs.

Six eggs that have grown and appeared exactly when they are supposed to and are just cooperating beautifully.

Six eggs that caused my Dr. Wonderful to do a little happy dance in the exam room.

Six eggs that have me, once again, clinging ferociously to the possibility that my Busted Uterus and Punk Ass Ovaries may just figure this shit out after all.

I should re-title this “In Praise of the Six Pack”. Okay… if you want the Strawberry Cake recipe, tell me in the comments and I’ll email it to you!