This weekend, DH and I went to the finish line of the Western States, a 100 mile run. No kidding. It was pretty amazing to see some of those finishers come across the line, completely delirious, unable to tell if it was people cheering them on or cows laughing at them or giraffes dancing a merry jig. This race showed me that if you run 100 miles, you may literally go crazy.
I ended up talking to this guy who had finished the race 11 or 12 times. He entered this year and gave up around mile 20 or 30, but he wasn't bothered. (Unlike the 20-something Swedish guy he kept pointing at--that guy looked pretty depressed. No wonder. Sweden is far, and it's not like the Sacramento Valley tops the Swedish list of must go places. ) Anyway, he started telling me his life story, which is basically that he'd spent his whole life doing extremely strange and inhuman athletic activities, including the 2nd Ironman Triathalon ever. He was totally believable in that sinewy, old hippie kind of way, like the kind of guy who didn't know cycling shorts were or had been wearing the same wool socks since 1981.
He was also 65 years old. Amazing. The guy had lived in Hawaii for years (since the 2nd Ironman Triathalon, actually), and from what I could tell, spent most of that time camping. He told me his big break came at age 60, when he qualified for senior housing, which was very discounted, and he got a roof over his head. He had a friend who had paid for his trip, was staying with another friend. He was quite the nomad, and a little bit of a mooch.
And get this--his name was Shirk. I didn't want to ask him if it was a metaphor, because he shirks real life. I just figured it all fit together in a groovy, cosmic way, and if Shirk was happy, I was happy for him. He was a cool old dude. The world balanced out for him.
Of course, Shirk made me think about infertility. (What doesn't, right?) He made me think about how I'm seriously wanting to do some shirking of my own, with the next cycle coming up. And it's not like I plan to lay on a beach in Hawaii. I plan to be responsible as ever and pay my mortgage and my student loan and work hard. I'd just like to do it without shots and craziness and...failure. I am really sick of failure.
Seems to me, Shirk's got things about right...
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
Two Tears in a Bucket
A few years ago, I read the excellent book Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. There were many great, literary things about the book, but I guess despite being an English major, I'm a little lowbrow. Because the most memorable thing to me was the phrase of a sharp-tounged transvestite talking about things not going your way. Her reaction, handed down from the generations, was "Two tears in a bucket, motherf$*k it."
Yeah, crass, I know. But I'm starting to feel that way. I just had my last period before I have to start IVF #2 (#3? I don't know how you count a frozen cycle...): amazingly, almost a year to the day from IVF #1. Before it was anxiety and hope. Now, it's anxiety and dread. Dreading the needles, the stress, the craziness...and the likely disappointment. Tired of failing for the sake of failing.
Before, it was acupucture and supplements and meditation. It was days off after transfer to do nothing but obsess about getting pregnant, laying on my back. It was worrying about how many frozen I'd get, whether I'd get two kids. Ha. Not so this time. This time its red wine and working a lot and exercising as much as I can, seeing if I can not get horribly out of shape and maybe even train for a triathalon without breaking my stride with this three week break of shots and misery. This time it's feeling resigned to the misery of the few weeks, but hoping that what's on the other side is even better. Pregnancy, maybe, and maybe not. Maybe more red wine, working hard, getting in shape. I hope that in two months, when I'm actually finishing a round of treatment, what I'm saying to myself, at worst, is, "Two tears in a bucket..." Life goes on.
Yeah, crass, I know. But I'm starting to feel that way. I just had my last period before I have to start IVF #2 (#3? I don't know how you count a frozen cycle...): amazingly, almost a year to the day from IVF #1. Before it was anxiety and hope. Now, it's anxiety and dread. Dreading the needles, the stress, the craziness...and the likely disappointment. Tired of failing for the sake of failing.
Before, it was acupucture and supplements and meditation. It was days off after transfer to do nothing but obsess about getting pregnant, laying on my back. It was worrying about how many frozen I'd get, whether I'd get two kids. Ha. Not so this time. This time its red wine and working a lot and exercising as much as I can, seeing if I can not get horribly out of shape and maybe even train for a triathalon without breaking my stride with this three week break of shots and misery. This time it's feeling resigned to the misery of the few weeks, but hoping that what's on the other side is even better. Pregnancy, maybe, and maybe not. Maybe more red wine, working hard, getting in shape. I hope that in two months, when I'm actually finishing a round of treatment, what I'm saying to myself, at worst, is, "Two tears in a bucket..." Life goes on.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Gettin' Kicked out of the Club
Being part of an infertility group is great, except for one thing--when it works, you get kicked out.
It make sense. I mean, if you're in the middle of a treatment, or dealing with a failed one, it's hard to hear and see the success of others. Women struggling with infertility get it. It may sound callous but we understand it's self-protective; that while we see the line between you and me, the line is a thin veneer, sometimes almost indistinguishable. The flood of your positive emotions can bring a flood of my own, and those emotions can be ugly or sad or raw.
The problem is, relationships are personal. If you are really start to have a friendship with someone, you don't want to just cut it off. They're not in your club anymore, but they don't get kicked out of your heart.
I have a good friend who has succeeded in her journey to pregnancy. I miss her in the infertility group. But she's still my friend, and I feel lucky to have her. I know for her, the uncertain journey to parenthood has its own challenges, just as the uncertain journey to pregnancy did. I know it's a tough road, made tougher by the fears infertility instills. So I hope that even though she can't be part of the infertility club, I can still support her as my friend.
And that reminds of the "Mommy Club," because this person is the same one who introduced me to the concept. And I feel no fear of losing her to it. Sure, I know she may get obsessed with burpies and onesies and God knows what else that I don't get. It's normal. I get playgroups and mom support groups. They make sense. My sense of loss has nothing to do with the recognition that moms need support from one another, and need to share the unique experience of parenthood with each other.
What doesn't make sense is to stop relating to someone because what they experience is different from what you experience. THAT is what makes life richer, right? You're a mom, I'm not--you've got perspective I don't. I'm infertile, you're not--that has perspective too. It doesn't mean you don't care about me now, that you don't share with me or listen to me, that you only promise the hope of some kind of relationship if I'm ever like you. Because maybe I never will be.
So the benefit of a friend who has done it and gotten to the other side is that she sees both sides. She knows what it feels like to be where I am, and she knows the challenges of being where she is. Sharing both of that is what convinces me that a good mom can also be a good friend. Seems kinda serious if we're supposed to be laughing, I guess--but it makes me happy to think about what else she'll teach me; what else we'll share.
It make sense. I mean, if you're in the middle of a treatment, or dealing with a failed one, it's hard to hear and see the success of others. Women struggling with infertility get it. It may sound callous but we understand it's self-protective; that while we see the line between you and me, the line is a thin veneer, sometimes almost indistinguishable. The flood of your positive emotions can bring a flood of my own, and those emotions can be ugly or sad or raw.
The problem is, relationships are personal. If you are really start to have a friendship with someone, you don't want to just cut it off. They're not in your club anymore, but they don't get kicked out of your heart.
I have a good friend who has succeeded in her journey to pregnancy. I miss her in the infertility group. But she's still my friend, and I feel lucky to have her. I know for her, the uncertain journey to parenthood has its own challenges, just as the uncertain journey to pregnancy did. I know it's a tough road, made tougher by the fears infertility instills. So I hope that even though she can't be part of the infertility club, I can still support her as my friend.
And that reminds of the "Mommy Club," because this person is the same one who introduced me to the concept. And I feel no fear of losing her to it. Sure, I know she may get obsessed with burpies and onesies and God knows what else that I don't get. It's normal. I get playgroups and mom support groups. They make sense. My sense of loss has nothing to do with the recognition that moms need support from one another, and need to share the unique experience of parenthood with each other.
What doesn't make sense is to stop relating to someone because what they experience is different from what you experience. THAT is what makes life richer, right? You're a mom, I'm not--you've got perspective I don't. I'm infertile, you're not--that has perspective too. It doesn't mean you don't care about me now, that you don't share with me or listen to me, that you only promise the hope of some kind of relationship if I'm ever like you. Because maybe I never will be.
So the benefit of a friend who has done it and gotten to the other side is that she sees both sides. She knows what it feels like to be where I am, and she knows the challenges of being where she is. Sharing both of that is what convinces me that a good mom can also be a good friend. Seems kinda serious if we're supposed to be laughing, I guess--but it makes me happy to think about what else she'll teach me; what else we'll share.
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