Archive for February, 2010

Published by PaintingChef on 22 Feb 2010

Driven to Distraction

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…

Published by PaintingChef on 18 Feb 2010

It works better if you whistle the “Guns and Roses” song in your head.

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?

Published by PaintingChef on 16 Feb 2010

Yes, as a matter of fact, this is an entry mostly about my bathtub. Is that going to be a problem for you?

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!!

Published by PaintingChef on 11 Feb 2010

Falling apart at the seams.

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.

Published by PaintingChef on 09 Feb 2010

Jury Duty = FAIL.

February 8th, 2010 – An Experiment in Jury Duty:

7:45 AM – Leave house in fairly cute and professional looking outfit armed with books (yes, plural), snacks and “Get Out of Jail Free” letter as written by me and signed by Boss/Dad. Feeling confident in knowledge that I will be perfectly on time. Am leaving far too early but I’ve met me and shit always happens. SOMEHOW, it WILL take me 45 minutes to get there when it should only take twenty.

7:50 AM – There are NO CARS on the road. I’ve already passed every Starbuck’s option. Should I turn around? I should have plenty of time.

7:55 AM – Turning around will end in disaster. Press on fair child!

8:07 AM – Well shit. I’m here. Should I go back for coffee? Breakfast? A shoe shine? Try to think about what’s in the back of the fridge that could possibly be creating that funky smell that I start to notice if I leave the door open too long?

8:10 AM – Screw it. I’ll get lost once I’m in there anyway. Gather up important items (books, snacks, Blackberry, letter) and head to door.

8:11 AM – Notice several large hanging signs “NO GUNS!!!” “NO KNIVES!!!” Stop reading after confirming I am carrying neither gun nor knife and appear to be only person in immediate vicinity in possession of all my own teeth. Assume this will make short security line a breeze. Oddly enough, it does not appear that SHOES are required.

8:13 AM – Should have read rest of sign as am now walking all the way back to car to deposit Blackberry where it will not offend anyone despite not even being turned on.

8:15 AM – Security line. Again. Am harassed endlessly for tweezers in purse while toothless wonder quickly steps around me with a met lab strapped to her back as her baby guzzles from a Jack Daniels bottle. I do not help my situation any when I suggest that officer just keep the tweezers and encourage him to investigate his eyebrow situation.

8:17 AM – Find Jury Room quickly. By following signs. How novel.

8:20 AM – Odd. Am only 10 minutes early yet am only non-criminal-type person in this hallway. Shrug and have a seat to read for a bit.

8:22 AM – Am asked by criminal-type in hallway if “these glasses make him look innocent.”

8:24 AM – Am asked by different criminal-type if the book I’m reading is a cookbook. “No. No sweetie. ‘Methland’ is NOT a cookbook.”

8:25 AM – Am assured by police officer accompanying little Miss Martha Stewart of the Meth World that yes, she is actually that stupid.

8:27 AM – Criminal-types all file into the courtroom at the direction of perky person with excellent hair.

8:28 AM – Start to consider bangs.

8:29 AM – Continue to consider bangs and mourn lack of Blackberry on which to do research. Melissa of Sarcomical just got lovely bangs. Very Zooey Deschanel. Could I pull that off without Melissa’s epic cheekbones? Is hair plagiarism allowed?

8:30 AM – Am jolted out of bangs reverie when I notice the continued lack of other jurors. Fear impending incarceration if I am late to jury duty due to being LOST in the wrong place.

8:31 AM – Have to pee.

8:34 AM – Return to first floor to speak with clerk and inquire as to location of jury pool.

8:36 AM – Am idiot. Should have first called number as plainly stated on jury pamphlet. Do not have jury duty Monday or Tuesday. Am told to call back on Tuesday evening. Clerk possibly thinks I’m functionally retarded. She obviously hasn’t been up to the 3rd floor today.

8:38 AM – Leave. Ignore the dirty looks from the officer who has still paid no attention to the fact that his forehead is in imminent danger of being eaten by a very hungry caterpillar.

8:40 AM – Drive to work. Stopping at Starbucks this time dammit.

8:50 AM – Arrive at work. Receive ridicule from a tag team of husband AND father. Awesome.

Next »