Pallanca

When I was in college, I attended two spiritual/religious retreats. A special part of those retreats were letters called "Pallancas." They were meant to be pulleys/levers to bring up the spirit. I guess a part of me is seeking that with my Wondering post.

I thank all of you who responded and for those who didn't but have left me comments in the past - you have provided me many pallancas, unknowningly, for all most two years. I value your words more than I can say.

The other reason for that post is that lately, I feel slighted, judged, and misplaced. Not by anyone has commented here. But, in other blogs, with family, by life and I don't know where I belong. I am far from over this thing called infertility. And yet, I don't belong with people deep in the trenches. I didn't go as far as IVF - eventhough I feel like I've felt my fair share of pain. My problem is when anyone tries to compare or quantify pain - I tend to loose. But, alas, isn't that my problem.

My mind keeps on going back to last August and my Grandfather's funeral. My Aunt was talking to my Grandfather's sister-in-law (his second marriage). They were talking about her pending grandchild. How she waited a long while for her daughter, and my Aunt chimes in "It took my daughter a while too." I couldn't help it, my eyes bugged out of my head and I was nearly yelling, "Really that was a long time! She has a beautiful boy in her arms in less than a year. But that was a long time!" But instead I stayed quiet and I let the quantification occur because she had an early miscarriage.

Later the next day, when we were burying our Grandfather, we passed a beautiful statue. (I wish I had a photo.) It was in memorium of all children who were miscarried. My cousin made a comment because she wanted to vocalize her pain.

I yearned for a place to mourn the children of my dreams. But did it in silence. Those scenes replay in my head. I sometimes feel that they are in constant replay.

This blog, from its creation, has been the place for my mourning. Please don't take this offensively, because I am very appreciative of this space. But I am only allowed to mourn with strangers. I've never been allowed to have a service or even talk about it with my mother and not have it all about me.

Goodness, what was suppose to be a post to thank, it has turned into a post of "woes is me."

Sadly, I can't explain it - but here I don't have too. Here I can say, thank you for listening to me. Thank you for being my pallancas in this place of great solitude. Thank you for allowing me to grieve without quanitification or judgment.

Some of my heroes.

In my life, I've been blessed to know three people who were young and dying of a terminal illness. They were my heroes. An inspiration because of not how they died, but because of how they lived.

All of them - Denise, Brian and Bobby - were courageous, intelligent, mature, caring, compassionate, and full of wisdom.

If they were concerned for their own mortality, they never showed it. They were always more concerned for the people left behind. A wisdom that they were lossing their lives, but that it was going to be hard for the ones left behind. Their loved ones. And they always seemed to care more about how we were going to handle it, than how they were handling dying.

It is inspirational. It is an example of how I would like to be. But I know that I am not.

So as someone who has been left behind and who remembers them. I try to continue their memory thru their example. See because two of them tried to keep us busy, to give us a productive way to mourn, by asking to continue their memory in supporting organizations or programs.

(A few weeks before Denise died, she asked to support organ donation. I have. Bobby asked to continue our support of the Brain Tumor Society.)

Ultimately, I feel that by doing what they asked of me; I'm given an opportunity to remember these amazing people and to help others who battle what they battled. Who are more than likely also more concerned for the ones left behind. Because I sincerely hope that their are no more left behind.

Stages of Grief

As I contemplate what Mel stated today in her blog:

"The one-upmanship that sociologists pick apart on the playgrounds begins with who has the more fertile womb. Because what is more feminine, more female, more powerful than the ability to create life?"

I am faced with an entry that I've started and never finished. About grief.

When I think about infertility, I try to pick apart the portions of the topic that I can learn about. To understand in a scientific way, especially when you consider that most of infertility has to do with the great unknown.

As I've stated, I am grieving. Research has been done on grief. I can learn about grief. So, it lead me to the Wikkapedia.

The stages are:

1. Denial and isolation - The "No, not me" stage.
2. Anger - The "Why me?" stage.
3. Bargaining - The "If I do this, you’ll do that" stage.
4. Depression - The "It's really happened" stage.
5. Acceptance - The "This is going to happen" stage.

I realized recently that I have gone thru some of these stages and am seeking the final stage desperately.

(Side note, knowing myself, I know that I won't go thru "Bargaining - The "If I do this, you’ll do that" stage." Mostly because I don't bargain anymore. Not since I was in high school and I tried to bargain for a friend's life. I know that God doesn't work that way. He doesn't bargain with anyone. Therefore, I no longer do it either, after all it is a HUGE waste of time.)

The stages and my take on them:

1. Denial and isolation - The "No, not me" stage.

I believe this stage hit me in November of 2005. Despite the fact I'd come to the conclusion that something was wrong with me. I wanted the doctors' to tell me nothing was wrong. I really did. It was unreasonable, but I was disappointed when they agreed that I needed some help to get pregnant. The denial portion for me was only about a week. Reality quickly set in.

The isolation portion of this stage, for me it should be a separate stage. I practiced isolation for several more months than denial and still have a tendence to go there. Isolation was safe and I did it until June of this year. I've gotten better, but even now I still would love to isolate myself and T from the Christmas season. Truly a fantasy to skip Christmas.

Christmas is a holiday for children. It brings the lack of child very much to the for front for me.

2. Depression - The "It's really happened" stage.

Once I got over the shock of it and stopped denying the truth. I was sad. Looking at a child hurt. Holding one, left me empty. The longing was enormous. I felt empty. And all I could think of was having a child. This stage hits me every so often, most of the time I think I am over it. But, then God has a sense of humor and it is almost like the emptiness hits all over again.

3. Anger - The "Why me?" stage.

(My current stage.) I realized recently that I've been grieving over my fertility or lack thereof more than not having a child. Instead of it making me sad or depressed, I am ANGRY. It makes sense, because I am slow to anger. It always takes me a while to get angry, I have to think about the situation and then let it hit me and come to the conclusion that there is something to get angry at.

It is a slap in the face that my body doesn't perform in the "normal" way. It makes me feel less of a woman that I cannot ovulate on my own or create the right hormones to get pregnant. It is frustrating that nature has caused this in me and there is nothing in my control that I can do to change it.

I get so furious, when I see people get pregnant by accident. To parents who I know aren't worthy of that child. To see children born that I know won't be taken care of well. To see people who have done things to themselves (like take drugs or starve themselves) and yet they have no problems. It makes me angry that I have a problem and these people don't.

I feel like a whinner, but it really isn't fair. Just.

And then I remember that things happen that aren't fair or just, all of the time. Things aren't always right.

4. Acceptance - The "This is going to happen" stage.

It leads me to the belief that the final stage is not far. To accept would be a great gift. And sometimes I think I have it, and then I remember the anger or I get slapped again with the grief. Maybe I need more time for me to be at this stage. But, I am praying for it.

That someday, I will be OK with my body.

OK that we had a child with help from medical science or adoption. Or OK with the fact that we haven't had a child.

I am seeking acceptance. Anyone know how to get there?

GRIEF

Grief is a harsh word. It may even be that it is too dramatic for what I'm trying to say. But, I grieve for my loss of innocence of trying to conceive.

Now, granted it is very early for me to say this, after all I am still waiting to find out what is WRONG with me. But, yet I believe that I grieved over the thought of my fertility in October, November, and December of last year.

In October, I felt at a loss. It had taken me several months to finally get a doctor's appointment with my primary care. She is a busy woman, she has three boys! (Please note that I'm not sarcastic about the boys, I'm sarcastic that she can't get her schedule together!) The initial appointment was made three months in advance. It was cancelled on me for two months later. Hence the feeling of loss, there was nothing more I could do to take things into my control. Another issue I have.

In November, when she said "Well you are obviously having an issue. We (Meaning: myself, her, and another doctor. Little did she know that should also include a reproductive endocrinologist.) will find out what is wrong and in a few months, you'll be back here pregnant. Really, well, can you please put that in writting.

She gave me a ton of blood work and arranged for the consultation with the gynecologist a week later. Maybe she felt bad for cancelling on me.

I went to the gynecologist appointment. Well see below for how useless that was, but after this appointment I felt at a loss. On my own. Yes, she did not make me feel taken care of. Despite of the words she said to me, she did not make me hopeful. She gave me some words of encouragement. Told me to find a specialist (mind you on her description it states infertility) and try clomid. No referrals. No supervision while on the clomid. See the door on your left and don't let it hit you on your ass.

I cried after this appointment. I wasn't being taken care of. This was not going to bring me closer to "our" dream. It left me feeling hopeless and also sad that my thoughts and suspisions were true. I was indeed infertile.

How weird to admit this, I like to think I am a realist. However, on this day, I was the furthest thing from that category of people. What I really wanted was for my primary care and gynecologist to tell me I was making a moutain out of a molehill. I didn't have a problem and all I needed to do was bed on ______ and be done with it.

What I got was the truth, what had been lurking in the back of my mind for so long. Instead of just trying and praying for the best. I was entering the world of the infertile.

Now, this may sound dramatic. But it is.

For me that has meant that I must take control of an uncontrollable situation. I must pee on a stick on a almost daily basis. It means that I must assume the best at all times, so no heavy drinking and watching what I eat. It means that I check my cervical mucus and cervical position. It means that I will start having blood work on certain cycle days. It means that I will have to start going through medical procedures with the first being the HSG. It means that T and I have to decide about IUI. It means that a beautiful thing of trying to conceive has turned into a science project.

Yes, I grieve for the simple idea of making a baby. For having the thought that it should be easy and happen right away. Magically like it happens for so many others without any special effort or confusion.

In November, a very special woman told me of her story. She told me how she and her husband have "unexplained infertility." (This category should be, we just can't figure it out infertility so we need to call it something and we don't feel comfortable saying we don't know.) How she and her husband don't have anything serious that the medical communuity can name. How she and her husband went through countless tests, attempts and it never happened. How they decided it was better for them to be together childless than to continuously pursue the unattainable baby.

Yes, I grieve for the thought that this too can happen to me. For I am not any better than she. I can see how this may happen.

In December, a friend of mine, (the one that is all ready pregnant with her second), came home with her daughter. (Further refered to her as New Mom.) Myself and another friend came with me to visit. At first, I didn't want to play with the baby. After all it is the one thing that I may not want to give back once I have in my arms. But, I breakdown, and she and I play.

The comments come naturally, "Oh, your so good with her. When do you think it will happen for you and T?" She is a close enough friend. I don't have the energy to deny or to placate the situation especially right now, I am grieving. I say, "I just don't know if it will."

I play and chat for the rest of the day. As New Mom, my friend is discussing breast feeding and day care. My other friend is playing in the fantasy game. I'm listening, but not participating in the conversation. New Mom says, "What do you think?" I answer, "I don't. I don't know if it will happen, so I don't."

I know that she doesn't know what to say to me. My other friend knows more of what is going on in my head, that I have been depressed. How I really am grieving, how I don't know what the future brings, and how I must come to grips with it soon.

We leave. Before we do, New Mom's sister innocently gives me "Little Earthquakes" by Jennifer Weinner. I take it with no intention of reading it. Unless we have a miracle. It is still in the back of my driver's seat.

I part ways from my friend.

I start to drive home. Must get away from my friend before I start to cry.

I cry in uncontrollable sobs. I grieve. I remind myself that isn't a good idea on a busy highway, but I cry anyway.

I get home. I wipe the tears, because my husband, God love him, doesn't know what to do with me when I cry.

I recover. Spend a few hours with him that night chatting about nothing and then I go to bed. I cry myself to sleep while he is watching TV in the livingroom.

Yes, I grieve for the innocence of trying to conceive.