Back to the In or Out Chronicles (which is much different from the ole in-out-in-out…ha ha ha…wink wink…nudge nudge. In-out-in-out? Boom chica wah wah!). And as another sexual side note, we found a Fisher Price dump truck this weekend that plays this song: “in and out / in and out / that’s what dump truck is all about.” And how can you NOT sit there and poke each other and raise eyebrows saying, “oh, yes, dump trucks are all about the fuck.”

On this lovely day of Yom Kippur, I started thinking about it again when Ms. C said that she needed to figure out a way to work the pomegranate into dinner since she wasn’t out to her family and couldn’t just ask them to eat the pomegranate with her. Talk about guerrilla fertility support. Thanks family. You have no idea that you just wished me fertility and a sweet new year. IN YOUR FACE.

As you know, I am out. I’m actually Out. With a capital O. Because that’s just how out I am. I wouldn’t have any problem walking through the grocery store wearing a shirt that says, “ask me about my luteal phase defect” if I thought it would help me connect to another person and ease their journey. Because you know that I’m a strong believer in passing along any information you have that could help another person (and, since this seems to be a post riddled with side notes, another huge thank you for everyone who is on the peer counseling list. And feel free to write others on the list with questions!). It’s how I jump ahead in my journey and it’s my civic duty to help others leapfrog past wasted months of trying in order to get to a diagnosis or a procedure that works best for them.

That said, there is an element of frustration when you are out and other people wish you were in. Or wish you weren’t quite so out. There are times when I have shared intimate details of our journey with another person and then they acted as if it were the white elephant in the room from that point forward. I turned to them for support and received none (I give them the long answer because they showed an initial interest in my fertility and asked a question such as “are you guys trying?” I tend not to answer the question, “how are you” with details about fertility treatments even though for my answer to be honest, it would have to include details about my progesterone levels. I know that when people ask “how are you” they are generally just giving you a longer version of “hello.” But when people specifically ask if we want another kid, I believe they either want to know the truth or are being nosy and should understand how these questions are inappropriate unless you want to hear all the saucy details of my last transvaginal sonogram).

If you ask me personal questions, and you receive personal answers, you now have a responsibility to support me. Don’t ask the question if you’re not prepared for all possible answers. Or at least say that you’re uncomfortable discussing my fertility issues so I know in the future not to share again.

But here is an off-shoot and an interesting question. That is prefaced by these two scenarios: (1) If you go into a restaurant bathroom and a woman is sobbing hysterically at the sink, do you ask her what’s wrong or do you ignore her? (2) If your friend got into the car and you saw that she had a black eye, would you ask her how she received it?

Because both of these scenarios open up a can of worms. That may make you uncomfortable. And you can’t shove them back in if you don’t like the answer. You now are tied to that person and have a responsibility to support them. Somewhat. I mean, if the woman just told you that she had broken up with her boyfriend, you don’t have a responsibility to follow her home and eat ice cream with her on the sofa. But you do have a responsibility to comment and comfort within the confines of the public bathroom. If your friend told you that she received her black eye from her husband, you now have a responsiblity to support her through spousal abuse and aid her in getting help. Yes, you can always step back and say, “oh. That sucks. Where do you want to eat tonight?” But what does that say about you? And where do our responsiblities to each other start and end? Just basic responsibilities because we’re all human. And then the next level of responsibilities because we’re friends. And then the next level (or perhaps the same level) because we’re family.

I was reading a book about pregnancy loss last weekend. I was reading it because (1) the topic interests me, (2) it has info about implantation issues and clotting disorders that I think will help me organize my thoughts before my hematology appointment, and (3) I’m currently working on the chapter on pregnancy loss. A family member asked what book I was reading. I flipped over the cover and said, “Preventing Miscarriage.” She said, “oh” and walked away.

Which is one of the drawbacks to being out. Because when you’re in, other people may let you down, but they don’t consciously know what they’re doing so you can only blame them so much. I mean, idiotic statements are idiotic statements. But when you’re out, you expect a modicum of support. Even a “are you reading that because you lost again?” Just a question to show interest. Granted, this person did not know the can of worms they were opening by asking what I was reading. It is very different then asking if we’re trying. But still. You know our history, give a little support. Show that you care.

Someone commented once that they’re only out when they get something out of it too. They share the details with someone because they receive support in exchange for the information. But what do you do when someone is asking you intimate details about your IF journey, yet they’re not giving you the support in return? Do you continue to share? Do you stop sharing and just answer each nosy question with a terse smile and a “nothing new to report” (even though there is plenty of news to report)? Do you walk to them about it? And what do you do when they continue to give you nothing in return? Is there anyone else in this world (besides you and your partner) with a RIGHT to know the details–other family members, friends, etc? For instance, grandparents-in-waiting are affected by your fertility (or lack there of) because their role can’t be fulfilled without you. So do they have a right? If you’re going to ask a sibling to help you take care of your kids once they’re here, does he/she have a right to know your fertility status?

Because being out and getting no support in return makes you wonder why you’re telling people the details in the first place. And I’m specifically speaking about when I answer a question with information. Not when I’m walking around the grocery store, volunteering details of my luteal phase defect.

Just as predictable as the police showing up at the wedding (come on, if they didn’t show up at the ceremony, they had to show up at the reception) is Mel blogging about the botched IVF storyline on Desperate Housewives. You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me.

Not only was it the least realistic IVF cycle IN HISTORY (don’t quiz me right now on why it made me so pissed off because I’ve put it out of my mind. That’s how deeply I suppressed it), but they finished off the storyline by having (1) the wrong embryo transferred (TRANSFERRED–not implanted–idiots idiots–you transfer an embryo) but (2) the couple lose the baby without one shred of emotion except some controlled anger with the fertility clinic doctor. They go home without a child and there is not one tear, not one conversation about loss or grief, not one speech about desperately wanting the child they had been carrying through surrogacy for nine months. And where is this child now? Left at the hospital? Given to the couple who produced the embryo? Can you imagine that phone call? Um…we seem to have transferred your embryo to another couple. And they just gave birth through their surrogate. So…congratulations. You just became parents. It’s that simple. Come on.

Give me ONE storyline where the couple wants a child, overcomes huge obstacles, and goes home to raise their child happily ever after. You can choose the method to parenthood–I’m not picky. A realistic adoption. A realistic IVF cycle. A realistic surrogacy storyline. Donor egg? Insemination? Anyone?

Just one storyline where the emotional aspects and financial aspects and physical aspects of infertility are presented to the public. Without a laugh track (because, truly, I don’t know about you, but except for laughing through tears when my husband whispered something like “boom chica wah wah” in my ear during an insemination to make me feel more sexy, I never laughed during fertility treatments. Oh…except for the times I made my husband sit across from me and pinch the fat on his stomach when I had to give myself an injection so I wasn’t the only person pinching fat in the room. But other than those two times…). Without apology or simplifying or dumbing down. Just a good, old-fashioned IVF cycle where the doctor uses the term “retrieval” and “transfer” to discuss retrieval and transfer.

I have got to get to Hollywood. Kick down the office doors at ABC (also home to Grey’s Anatomy!) with my steel-toed, knee-high boots. Or…um…my size eight Keens. Whichever seem more impressive.

Going to a NICU reunion is sort of like being Alice and getting a yearly trip to Wonderland. Except that the Wonderland contains things like isolettes and heart monitors rather than tea cakes saying, “eat me.” And doctors and nurses rather than oversized rabbits wearing top hats. So I guess it’s not really like Wonderland at all.

But that’s the only way I can describe the NICU reunion to other people. Life continues on the outside, but when you’re inside the NICU, time seems to stand still and you’re in another world. That time you spend with your child in the NICU is so intense and emotional, that there is a strange part of you that almost doesn’t want to leave when you’re finally released. I mean, you do want to leave. You want to run far from the building to the safety of your home where everything feels normal and healthy. But those intense relationships you’ve formed with your child’s caregivers are severed except for this one time every year when we go back for the NICU carnival.

Our children were born prematurely with IUGR and they spent three weeks in the NICU. Which was one of the worst times in my life. I still sometimes have panic attacks when I need to drive by the hospital. Full on, can’t breathe, panic attacks. Looking back with years of perspective between myself and the incident, I can see our stay in an entirely different light. It all worked out in the end. But while we were there, I was constantly panicked. No one could tell us when we would leave. No one could tell us when we would get off the heart monitors. Or if there would be problems into the future. Sometimes, if I’m at the hospital, I’ll swing by the NICU to say hello and I’ll talk to other parents who have children currently in the NICU. And I know that nothing I’m saying is helping. But I say it anyway. These parents will never calm down until they know that their child is out of danger. A stranger telling them that it could all work out in the end, that their child will put on weight and grow and be healthy years down the line isn’t a guarantee that it actually will happen that way. But now, with perspective, I can see that statistically it does. But when you’re in the middle of it, you don’t know which side of the statistic division you’ll be on. So you worry.

Then why do we go back to visit? Because I want the doctors and nurses to see how their hard work paid off. I want to see the nurses and hear how they’ve been (did N’s daughter get married to the jerk? Were M’s IVF attempts sucessful?) And because it’s a little bit like visiting the edge of the cliff where you almost jumped and shouting into the chasm below, “you didn’t get me.” We won. And it’s time to celebrate.

We told the kids that we were going to a party to celebrate how they left the NICU. They knew there was going to be a bouncey castle, a clown, and a giant cake. And when bouncey castles, clowns, and cakes come together, balloons usually follow. Before we left, we looked at pictures of them from those days in the hospital and when they first came home on heart monitors. We talked about the special clothes they had to wear with a space for their leads. And how we fed them through a tube in their nose, and that my daughter got very adept at removing not only her own ng tube, but her brother’s tube as well (and would give me a proud look when I would come into her NICU room and she was holding the ng tube in her little fist). Which is her personality to this day. They thought the stories were very funny and we thought the stories were very funny. And that’s the blessing of space and time. Because each time she removed the ng tube in the hospital, I went in the hall and cried because she cried when they put it back in. But now, with two years between us and the NICU, I could sit with her in my lap and joke about the ng tube. It’s perhaps not far enough in the distance to not have a panic attack when I drive through Glover Park. But it’s far enough away that I can talk about those days with only a small sniffle. Which is what I mean by shouting from the cliff’s edge.

When we pulled into the parking lot, my son gave us a dubious look. Even at two, he knows that not much good can come from a party held at his apnea clinic. But they jumped in the bouncey castle (and extra love goes towards my husband who took each of them back in for a second turn when Mommy decided that she was going to vomit if she remained in that airless hell for one more second). And played basketball. And watched (with a hint of fear and revulsion) a clown twist balloons into animal shapes.

We saw a few of our old nurses and our neonatologist. And we said thank you for the 100th time. And they marvelled at how much the kids had grown for the 100th time. And we left Wonderland with a deep breath as we clicked our seatbelts closed. A deep breath for all the parents who left the NICU empty-handed. A deep breath for the other side of the statistics. A deep breath that it worked out for us. A deep breath that even though it shaped who were are currently as a family, it’s behind us. It’s just a place we visit. We live at home now.

The sadness continues into the night. The Road Less Traveled lost her pregnancy today. Right after telling her father this week. And my heart is breaking for her. Please head over there and lend her a shoulder to cry on. And read the latest post. And remind her that she is special. She is someone very, very special.

Didn’t that sound extremely dirty?

My lady-when-waiting scored us her new neighbour’s etrog. Can you imagine that conversation?

My mother: Hi, new neighbour. Thank you for the invitation to your succah.
New Neighbour: We’d love to have you over.
My mother: Actually, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could my daughter have your etrog when you’re finished with it?
New Neighbour: Um…sure. What does she do with the etrog? Make jam?
My mother: Oh, no, nothing like that. She’s going to bite off the stem for extra luck when trying to get knocked up this year!

New Neighbour nods and quietly closes the door.

The End.

I’m sure it was just a shade less awkward than my imagined conversation. She did share with her mother that she had twins accidentally. Which is just what an infertile person whose having her mother beg for an etrog likes to hear.