Someone tells you to “just relax” and you snarl, “then send me to the beach!” And then you get there and you realize the whole place is overrun with children and their unworthy parents. So you spend the vacation feeling like crap. And it’s the fault of the person who said, “just relax” in the first place.

And it is all their fault.

This is the reality about the beach–it is the perfect vacation for children and parents alike. Amusement parks are almost entirely geared towards kids. And art museums are almost entirely geared towards adults. But the beach gives you (1) a tiring activity that is free, (2) low-standards of cleanliness (how can one complain about a french fry landing on the floor when the entire restaurant is coated in a fine layer of sand?), and (3) natural baby-proofing. If your child pees on the sand–no problem. Changing diaper in public–completely accepted. Can you see your child for miles–yes, depending on beach umbrellas. Does anyone care if your child is making noise–no.

There are beaches geared towards adults only, but to be frank, we can’t afford them. We can’t afford the Caribbean vacations and we can’t afford to travel too far when we’re already on the east coast near perfectly good beaches. BUT…one thing we notice on this trip is that not all beaches are created equal when it comes to enticing towards parents with children. Therefore, we reveal our pick and reasons for best beach for child-freeness and ask that you add in the comments other beaches to give people ideas.

Chincoteague, Virginia is easily accessible for anyone living in the D.C. area, Delaware, or Virginia. It’s about a 3 1/2 hour drive from D.C. And this is why it rocks–no boardwalk. And no boardwalk means no rides, no french fry shacks, no ski-ball or cotton candy. Which means…well…not “no kids” but at least fewer kids. Because they’re all up the coast at Ocean City and Rehoboth. We know. We saw them back in June.

Chincoteague is a National Park which means that it’s ultraclean and ultra-loved by bird watchers and those who would wear Birkenstocks through the winter. There is a wildlife loop that you can bike or walk (or drive after 3 p.m., but that’s cheating) that closely resembles how the Disney Imagineers see the African wetlands. Which is perfect bike riding for people who own single-speed bikes with foot breaks. The beach is actually contained on the nearby island of Assateague (which is not inhabited by people–Assateague is solely protected land and Chincoteague is where you stay) and you can bike or drive to the beach. Best of all–wild horses. Literally. Wild horses just roaming around. Minding their own business.

And this is both the pro and con of Chincoteague–the whole island pretty much stops by 9 p.m. Restaurants close. There is one movie theater on the island. There is a go-cart track and miniature golf that is tucked away on the main road and easily avoidable. The two ice cream shops still contain parents keeping their children up way past a reasonable bedtime. Which means that yes, you do have to see kids if you spend your day on the beach, but at night, there is no place like a boardwalk to bring kids so the kids somewhat disappear. No beer bong shops. No t-shirt shops advertising clothing that celebrates alcoholism. So while not child-free, it is certainly more do-able than some of the other beaches on the east coast if you’re looking to avoid babies galore.

And perhaps most of all, the reason I love Chincoteague is the entire place sometimes seems like a metaphor for life. Life. With a capital “L.” This past time, we weren’t seeing any horses and I felt completely let down. We made up a ton of reasons why they weren’t about. Wrong time of day, cars scaring them away, we’re in the wrong place. And just when you think the trip will be a bust. Just when you’ve given up hope. There they are. A big herd of wild horses running across the nature reserve. And it reaffirms this idea of hope–that things can happen. And now, I need to go vomit from that last bit of mush. But…come on…there is a huge wish-upon-a-star-big-sigh-happily-ever-after side of me and there’s no point denying it.

P.S. I have all of these great pictures that I want to add and Blogger won’t let me. I’ll repost if I can ever get Blogger working again.

Back from the beach (only a mother post IF comes back from her vacation early so she can tuck in her children–but more on that thought in another post). And wading through emails and laundry. But two thoughts–one that came out of a post on “At What Cost” and one that has been nagging me.

Another point about Domar’s quote is that it assumes both people in the couple are on the same page. Either that or it assumes that you would continue on your path to parenthood alone. Someone raised the point about the first part being hopeful–a reminder that things will get better and you will not be on this roller coaster forever. I know realistically that if I had to, I would get off the roller coaster and keep living. That’s the realistic me. But the emotional me believes that if I had to get off mid-ride, I would just stop. Yes. Stop. I would just break and cease to be me anymore. A bit dramatic, but I’m always reminded of a play a friend wrote in college called The Man Who Stopped and it was about a man who didn’t die, he didn’t break down sobbing, he didn’t jump out a window. He just stopped. And that’s how I imagine those moments would be after I call the RE or put away the adoption information. I would just stop. Before my mother emails me to tell me that she’s worried about me, I will also add that I know (again, the rational me) that I won’t stop. I will wake up and still be grateful for those little A.R.T. babies upstairs. But that’s what goes through my mind when I hear this quote and I consider the idea that secondary IF may not be resolved like primary IF. Finances are different now. Eggs are different now. There is more to consider than just ourselves and that changes the decisions too. Wanting more doesn’t mean I’m ungrateful or not recognizing what a miracle it was that A.R.T. worked for us. But I do believe that the need to parent is coded in our D.N.A. and the desire is almost primal. Almost stop-worthy. As in, if you couldn’t fulfill that function, you would just stop like a computer whose plug has been yanked from the wall.

Oh…but back to my point. Which was this idea that Domar’s comment also means that both people were on the same page. And I know that couples are not always in absolute sync and it doesn’t mean that you can’t keep moving forward. But a small step behind is different than being on a whole different page. And I realized that I have no idea which way is the average for couples–are more people in relationships where both people are on the same page (though maybe a sentence or a paragraph behind) or on different pages? Because how do you overcome that obstacle? How do you leave behind a marriage for a not-yet baby? How do you stay in a marriage when there is a not-yet baby that needs to be brought into this world? How do you leave behind the not-yet baby entirely? And if you and your spouse are on different pages, how did you get on the same page? What advice can you give others from your journey?

My other thought comes from my ninja nurse practioner. When we were going through which antibiotics I could take (due to allergies), she came up with Doxycycline. And she told me not to try to conceive during the cycle that I take this because the child could be born with birth defects including black teeth. She informed me that even the adult teeth have the possibility of growing in black. Looking back at my trusty IF book (where I kept detailed notes of every blood test, injection, and procedure) I noticed that I took Doxycycline as the antibiotic during my HSG. And I was told (as I believe everyone is told) that the best time to try is right after the HSG because blocked tubes may have been opened by the dye. So which is it? Was I given terrible advice by the RE or is the NP too cautious or confusing it with a different medication? Is the birth defect factor a new detail with this drug? It’s been nagging me because…I don’t know why. Because medicine sometimes feels a little too slippery for its own good. I want black and white facts. And it feels like we’re flirting with something grey here. Grey facts. Black teeth.

More thoughts on beach vacations tomorrow when I have finished another load of laundry.

Since sometimes my T.C. tends to come early (damn that luteal phase defect!), I thought I’d throw the Friday Blog Roundup out on Thursday in its honour. Or I’m finally getting to go on a short vacation. One or the other. You decide the excuse.

Calling all males–or females with husbands who can do a write-up for Operation Heads Up… We need a bunch of write-ups for male surgeries/procedures including testicular biopsy, vasography, and varicocelectomy (plus anything else I’m missing). We also need a write-up for IM injections. Any takers? Email me at thetowncriers@gmail.com if you can write it. Click on the link for Operation Heads Up in order to see the format if you’re not familiar with it already.

Which brings us to what others are thinking about this week…

At Miss E’s Musings, the lovely Ellen discusses a conversation that crept up on her without warning–one that I discussed a bit yesterday. She and her husband have decided to set some limits, move onto a different path, and take a break while they collect themselves. And I think the synchronicity that occurs in that conversation and the admittance that they are at the end of their rope show so much strength in their marriage. It’s a hard step, one that brings with it perhaps more mourning than a negative beta. I’m wishing them a lot of clarity and I hope a new path opens for them with bright lights shining down on it. Like those big, honking, parking lot lights so you can see every step of the way.

In a similar vein, over on IVF and ICSI, they’ve decided to continue doing a few more FET cycles while they start work on an adoption from China. She has a beautiful part of her post where she talks about how they wondered if they would be able to bond to a child through adoption. But then she watched the videos of people being brought together with their child for the first time. And she realized how emotional she could get for other couples which is just a fraction of how much love is going to be pouring out of her heart during her own process. She talks about all the steps and how she will become more and more bonded to this child. And I think it’s a great post for anyone who is still in the “consideration zone.”

If you think after that last post that I am little Miss Buzzkill, check out the comment given to GZ by her nurse on GZ’s blog, Gravida Zero. I’m always a bit blown away by comments made within fertility clinics by people who work closely with those going through infertility. Day in, day out, you see people coming through the doors of your clinic in emotional pain. By this point in your career, you would think they would have at least created some pat comments of hope (I know what you’re thinking–I just said yesterday that I didn’t want happy smoke blown up my bum by Ali Domar and now I’m asking all clinic nurses to blow happy smoke up my bum). Beyond the rude thoughts of her nurse, she was “outed” by a family member. Which requires a whole different post on my end–being in or out and with whom. But all in all, a tough week for Ms. GZ. Head over there and wish her luck in the 2ww. I hope she proves that nurse wrong. If she does, I’ll send my ninja nurse practioner to kick her ass.

Lastly, over at Come Undone, the INS form and homestudy application packet is out of her hands and in the loving care of UPS. She has two posts this week about her neighbour reference–choosing which neighbour and then getting to know the neighbour better. Reading her post made me pause and think who I would use as my neighbour reference. I have one person I would consider a friend on the street. And a bunch of people I would call if there was a cricket in the house that needed capturing (I wanted to write “killing” but every cricket is a Mommy cricket’s baby. And it just feels karmically better to say “capture”). I understand why they ask for a neighbour reference, but it’s just a bit of salt in a wound if you think about it. Anyone can naturally conceive a baby or use A.R.T. without anyone vouching for their home life. But once you open the door to adoption, it becomes a system of weighing your worth. And it makes me sad. I want what is best for the kids, but it also makes me sad. And frustrated. And makes me wonder what the neighbours would say. She’s quiet. She has a small garden. She checks her mailbox around 2 p.m. every day.

Have a wonderful end-of-week. We’ll be back mid-weekend for more thoughts on infertility as well as commentary on sunburn.

I’m always curious and want to learn the process when I encounter a blog were the author states that they’re stopping trying-to-conceive. They’ve either embraced living child-free or they’re on-hold for an indefinite period of time while they consider options. It’s always been the thing that scares me the most about trying-to-conceive with infertility. Talk about a ride Disney would never want to touch–the roller coaster with no off button.

Hello. My name is Melissa. I’m 32-years-old. And I’m a trying-to-conceive addict.

Because I’m not sure that I would ever have the courage and strength to say enough is enough. And that scares me. Because it all goes back to the idea of “at what cost.” Yes, a baby is worth the hard work (physically and emotionally) of A.R.T. or adoption, but at what cost? A loss of health? The breakdown of a marriage? Financial ruin?

I am a huge fan of Ali Domar’s book Conquering Infertility. It helped me get through many a negative beta. But I’ve always been bothered by a statement that brings other people so much peace. It’s tagged as her “message of hope”: You will be happy again. Life will become joyful again. And some how, some way, if you want to become a parent, you will.

Maybe it’s really revealing that I’m a half-full (wait…half-empty. No, half-full. Which is the negative one?) person at heart. And my intention is not to ruin this statement for you or drag hope from your clenched fist. If you feel strongly about Domar’s words, stop reading now and I won’t be offended.

The first part certainly brings me hope because I can compare infertility to other times in my life when I have felt pain and I know that life changes. And I like being reminded that I will one day be happy when I am in the midst of great uncertainty and despair. It’s the second part with which I find fault. And I’m not trying to be a buzz-kill, but the words just don’t ring true to me because I’ve read a few blogs lately from people who have given IF their “all” but who are finishing their final post with a sayonara to trying-to-conceive.

And I think these words bother me because at the end of the day, they place blame with the person rather than the uterus, the sperm, the eggs. It’s you in that sentence. Because the inverse is that if you don’t become a parent, it’s because you didn’t try all the some ways and some hows. Which again begs the question: at what cost. Yes, there are certain “some ways” I could try, but the result of those “some ways” may be a child I can’t afford to raise or a loss of overall health. And Domar’s statement completely disregards the possibility of secondary infertility since they’re already a parent and the pain that secondary infertility brings (the lack of respect for secondary IF is a whole different post…).

Which brings me back to the original question–when do you know that it’s time to stop and how do you stop? Do you believe you can reach this space? Most people will luckily never need to actually put this into action, but it serves as an insurance plan. I shouldn’t get on the ride not knowing how to get off.

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Addtional thoughts added in the afternoon…

I just wanted to clarify (and become a bigger buzzkill because I don’t think I’ve been enough of a downer today. Seriously, what is it with ovulation and my downer thoughts?)…

The reason I have concern with Domar’s words are that they don’t take into account anything but sheer will. Yes, if I’m willing to sacrifice everything, I can become a parent. Which takes us back to the idea “at what cost.” In our current financial situation, adoption is difficult though not impossible. But for many people, adoption is impossible because financially it’s impossible. So if they can’t conceive naturally, and they’ve spent a lot of money on A.R.T. to no avail…then what? Even foster adoptions cost money. And I’m only worried that someone will take Domar’s words to heart and feel like “I’m not doing enough–I’m not doing everything” and then self-blame. Because we take on enough guilt as is.

Which is not to say that finances don’t change, circumstances in life don’t change, and that what isn’t possible today may be possible years from now. I guess I’m thinking about a small sliver of the IF community–but a sliver of the community nonetheless.

I’m scared for that sliver when I hear Domar’s message of hope.

Because in the end, in MY situation, it is a message of hope because my husband and I are 100% on the same page (with our infertility…at least). Which makes a huge difference. We all know that there are marriages that don’t weather the storm. And I worry about that too when I hear those words. What if you want to adopt and your husband does not? Do you leave the husband in order to make yourself a parent? Do you stay in the marriage and feel like you didn’t explore all the some hows and some ways? These are the difficult questions–and yes, it’s a small sliver, but it’s a sliver nonetheless.

So I can still hold onto those words as a beacon: I will become a parent again (even if I’m not really included in that statement anymore…I wish she would add some parentheses to make it applicable to people going through secondary IF or people who are step-parenting). But there are people who will not reach parenthood for whatever reason. And I don’t want them beating themselves up because there were too many obstacles in their way and a cheerleader in their ear chanting: it will happen! Because I do want to have hope, I do want to have the cheerleaders, and I do need that support. But I also need the cheerleaders to step back with me and admit defeat if defeat happens. Which it hopefully won’t. But I can’t predict everything that life will throw my way. And regardless, even if it works for me, it doesn’t mean that everyone else has the same resources and chances at their fingertips. And my heart aches about that.

August 15th is an anniversary of sorts. It’s the day our little girl grew up and…sniff…lost her needle virginity. Unlike my real virginity (which…um…was lost on my wedding night) I truly had no idea that this was going to happen when it did. I don’t mean that I woke up with an empty Novarel vial in my hand and a look of horror on my face while I exclaimed, “dear G-d! What have I done?” It was more of the I’m-in-the-middle-of-a-meeting-and-I’m-taking-a-call-from-my-RE-who-informs-me-that-I-need-to-come-to-a-self-injection-class-because-I’m-taking-hcG-this-week variety.

I’m pretty squeamish around needles and hate blood draws as well, so infertility and I are not a great combination. And it’s a little trippy how they give you a quick lesson, a few practice needles, and tell you to purchase an orange while sending you on your way with very expensive drugs. Which happens in many other circumstances–self-injections are hardly unique to infertility. But I think I entered the whole thing in such a dream-state because I wasn’t expecting it. It was like a cricket jumping out at me during what I thought was a simple Clomid/Prometrium cycle.

This is what I wrote right after that first injection when I was running around the apartment like I was trailing infertility firecrackers of excitement:

I always said I would never be one of those women who diminshed the enormity of something (because all it does is make other people feel like crap) but I really have to say for the sake of anyone who has a shot coming up, it really wasn’t that bad. I was very nervous beforehand. But I just plowed through the whole thing and I think rushing the process rather than lingering in the anxiety helped a lot. I numbed the area with an ice cube, prepared the needle, numbed the site again because too much time passed , forced DH to sit across from me and pinch some fat too so I didn’t feel all flabby giving myself this shot, and then jabbed it in. I didn’t feel the needle go in because the skin was pretty numb from the ice. I think it was more psychologically troubling to see a needle in your stomach. I also felt a burning sensation for about 10 minutes after I gave the shot. And that area is a little sore right now. But really, for anyone who has a shot in front of them, I can say that it really is not as bad as having blood drawn. I never believed it when people said that but it turned out to be true.

I’m just on a high right now because I really feel like after doing that, I can do anything. It just gave me a lot of confidence in my own ability to overcome my fears.

Confidence building through infertility. But y’all know what I mean. That rush after you do something you never thought you could bring yourself to do. I think more interesting is the injection that took place the next cycle and the false bravado that carried it forward with the readmittance of enormity at the end:

I’m worried that I botched the hcG shot last night. I was hurrying through it, trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing. I was alone in the bedroom, trying to pretend the whole thing was commonplace and just a little nuisance. I ended up hitting a blood vessel. I now have a bruise on my stomach that is swimming in a sea of irritated skin. It hurts. I wish I had slowed down. The hcG shot really is a big deal.

Now that sounds more like the Mel I know. Because it is huge. Not pain huge, but psychologically huge. I think it goes back to that great write up Carolyn did for the HSG when she talked about the physical pain vs. the psychological implications of the procedure. The HSG may be the first step that pushes you from the “just trying” side into the Land of If. And the tears that come during that appointment may not just be from the actual physical pain (of which there is a lot), but instead the psychological pain of knowing that you are now on a very different road than the one you stepped onto when you first started trying to conceive. That first shot was a turning point for me and I didn’t understand that magnitude until the second injection when I tried to pretend it was nothing and all of my fears caught up with me. It is something. It’s something big.

Which is why someone with diabetes doesn’t have it any easier than someone doing their first self-injection ever. Because it’s not the needle. It’s not the burn of the medication. It’s the reason behind the shot–for diabetes, infertility drugs, other medications. I think we all can admit that there are many other painful things that we don’t fear like we do needles–needles seem to hold a special status on the fear hierarchy. But it isn’t the needles themselves. The pain is instantaneous. It’s the psychological effects–the why you’re holding a needle in the first place–that keep slamming into you long after the brusies are gone.