Eighteen some-odd comments later and I’ve got to believe you that you want a visible way to show others that you’re not some skanky easy-breeder
and instead worked hard for your embies. And while I love, love, love the pomegranate idea, here are my fears:

(1) the expense–I love the necklace from Uncommon Goods AND (in case you didn’t know) if you shop via the RESOLVE website, clicking on their Uncommon Goods link, they get a portion of the sale. But, I’m worried that it makes it undoable for the total community. While $30 isn’t a lot in the grand scheme of life (hell, it’s not even half a tank of gas out here), it is enough money to give someone pause. And if I had to choose between the vial of Follistim and the pomegranate necklace…well…Follistim (which is actually closer to $50 a pop, but what’s a little money between a girl and her dealer…I mean, pharmacist) will win out any day of the week. That’s not to say that my husband should not buy me this pomegranate necklace anyway. As a “just because” present. And he should purchase it via the RESOLVE website.

Can we pause for a moment to check out these photos and hyperlinks? I mean, as of twenty minutes ago, I didn’t even know how to upload a photo. And now there are photos peppering this very post. Amazing!

(2) I’m worried that if it can’t be discreet, people won’t wear it. If it’s not easy to get, people won’t wear it. If you take it on and off daily, people will misplace it and not wear it.

Therefore…I’m just throwing this out there…what do you think of returning to the purplish string idea? Here are the advantages…(1) embroidery floss can be found in any town in America–and throughout the world. (2) you can never lose it because it’s knotted around your wrist. (3) it’s cheap. (4) it’s easily replaceable over and over again. When I wore a red string, I replaced it once a year. (5) it is easily mail-able (is that a word) and if someone can’t purchase it where they live, someone else can send it to them. (6) it’s discreet.

Instead of Kabbalah red, I propose pomegranate…purple. Purplish-red. Though I had to use black for these sample photos because who has purplish-red embroidery floss lying around their house on an average day?

For those who don’t know the significance of the red string, it comes from a small study within Judaism called Kabbalah. In the Bible, Rachel and Leah are both married to Jacob (ooh, la la, it’s Big Love in the B.C.E.). Leah is popping out babies left and right while Rachel is unable to conceive. She finally tells her husband, “give me children, or I shall die.” Her husband admonishes her and points out that he is not more powerful than G-d and it is G-d who is making her barren. Well… My friends… G-d heard this and got pissed off and told Jacob that this was not the way to speak to a woman in distress–we do not judge harshly.

Rachel goes on to conceive two sons–Joseph and Benjamin, losing her life during the birth of her second child. She’s a woman I think many infertile Jewish women feel a certain kinship. Who hasn’t felt that level of despair–give me children, or I shall die. Not to be dramatic, but I think we’ve all had those moments. There are the five mothers of infertility in Judaism who represent different sides and paths of the struggle: Sarah (the laugh of disbelief when you finally get a BFP and the doubt that accompanies pregnancy), Rebecca (the hopes and magical thinking of infertility), Rachel (the desperation), Hannah (the promises–and if IVF existed back then, she would have been our lady of A.R.T.), and finally Michal (adoption).

Infertile women sometimes go to Rachel’s tomb in Israel and wrap a red string around the tomb. They cut it into smaller pieces and wear it on their left wrist in order to ward against bad luck. But I think it’s more than that. I think it’s that for some people, but I wore the string as a sign of community. I wore it to remind myself that other infertile women before me had children–my own mother had children!–and while they may not have carried those children in their womb or had them arrive when planned, they did end up becoming mothers.

So…I propose a purplish-red piece of string on the right hand (leaning more towards purple than red as to not create confusion). Why the right hand…I don’t know. It just seems like the better hand when bringing good luck. I remember the superstition from my wedding is that you have to start walking down the aisle on your right foot. And you step into your new house with your right foot. And I wanted to set out on the path to motherhood with my right hand. On the right path. With an obvious sign to all my Stirrup Queens out there that I’m one of them and it’s cool to stop me in line at the supermarket and ask me which green tea I’d recommend in order to increase cervical mucous. Because, yes, I did run a personal cervical mucous green tea test and I’d love to share my findings with anyone who wants the help.

What do you think?

Aunt Flo is so…old. And crotchety. And she wears stiff dresses that only look appropriate at church in Kansas in the 50s (with no offense meant towards church, Kansas, or people living in the 1950s). She is forever in a state of balancing a jello mold on her impatient, crotchety hand. And she says things like, “do you think you should be doing that?” And she has a little magnet on her refrigerator that says, “a slip on the lips is forever on your hips” so that you feel like freakin crud when all you wanted was one of the goddamn cookies you saw in there when she opened the refrigerator door to pull out the jello mold. And the worst thing…the absolute worst thing about freakin Aunt Flo is that she always shows up too early. You think you have two more hours to relax and there she is, primly ringing your doorbell, that goddamn jello mold balanced on her hand.

Can you tell that I have a luteal phase defect?

And no progesterone?

And as my husband and I have spent the last three days gleefully speaking to each other like Truman Capote, dramatically slamming the salad bowl on the table while hissing, “you. will. be. stunned!”, I have decided to relegate Aunt Flo to sorting hymnals and hire Truman Capote to be my new period.

But Melissa, you say as you gasp, you can’t fire Aunt Flo. That’s her job. Being a period is what she does!

To which I answer: um…not anymore. Not in this uterus. From now on, it’s my TC. My Truman Capote.

Because while no one would invite Aunt Flo to a party, Truman Capote (according to the documentary that accompanies the movie as a “special feature”) was one of the most sought after guests on the New York literary scene. And he’s adorable. And he has that great voice. And he’s very talented. And these are all things I want in my period.

Plus, I noticed a strong resemblance between Truman Capote and my cycle. He’s as manipulatively seductive as my CD1, filling me with hope for the month. And then he’s good-time-Charlie, partying through ovulation. He’s never there when I need him in the anxiety of my two week wait. And finally, Truman ends my cycle like he’s screwing over Harper Lee at the To Kill a Mockingbird screening, showing up to ruin the party when he’s supposed to be my good friend.

So, from now on–my TC.

And speaking of Harper Lee…I watched the exchange between them at the screening with an absolute pit in my stomach. A make-your-husband-hit-the-pause-button pit. In case you haven’t seen Capote, Harper Lee is his good friend and research assistant. While he is struggling to write In Cold Blood, she hits major success with To Kill a Mockingbird. He reluctantly goes to the screening of the film adaptation and he sulks at the bar. When she approaches him to collect accolades from her dear friend, Truman makes it all about him and doesn’t offer her any congratulations. It’s all about his pain–his frustrations with the novel. And the hit-pause question was…is that me with pregnant friends? Do I do that? Do I make it all about my pain and not celebrate with them? My husband reassured me that it wasn’t. But it all hit a little too close to home. Made me want to stand in front of the mirror and recheck my smile as I say with mock excitement: I’m so happy for you!

That is, if you told me via email or a letter. Beforehand. And if I’m not having my TC. I’m not sure I can be happy for anyone when I’m entertaining Truman.

So we all have this sliding scale of happiness. A few days ago, Ann wrote in the comments: “I think it’s because of this sliding scale that I’ve felt the need every time [I] tell someone that I’m pregnant, to add that it did take us a while, and quite a bit of medical help. Even to people that really don’t need (or probably want) to know. I just don’t want to rank low on someone else’s scale.” Which piggybacks on a comment written by a fellow Stirrup Queen directly to me a few weeks ago. Paz, who is currently pregnant after multiple miscarriages, discussed an incident that took place at Starbucks:

“So, back to Starbucks. I see a woman look at me and then look away, I mean really twisting her neck to look away as I am standing directly in front of her table. I thought I saw…did she wipe away a tear? I wanted to shout, I am not one of THEM. I am an IF! Is there an international sign or secret nod to say, I am one of you and I did it, so maybe you will too. See this belly, it’s the belly of an IF—we shall overcome! Proof that I am an IF: I might be imagining women cry in a Starbucks at the sight of my belly.”

Because who else is that sensitive that they notice the reaction of strangers than a fellow Stirrup Queen who currently has a big, pregnant belly? Who else but a Stirrup Queen–who should be happy and worked hard to attain that happiness–would be suffering from…Pregnancy Guilt.

Pregnancy Guilt: the overriding emotion one feels when she finally attains pregnancy but still remembers her sisters back in the trenches.

It’s survivor guilt. It’s not that you wanted to die too, but you don’t understand how you could still be walking around, shopping, loving, continuing life, while all these other people you know are gone. It’s the discomfort you feel when you wonder if you’ve lost your community. You are one of us, but now you’re experiencing the thing that makes them…THEM. So where do you fall? Are you infertile? Are you fertile? Are you fertile but holding your breath for nine months while you stress, stress, stress and never get to experience a carefree pregnancy?

Pregnancy guilt comes from remembering how you felt when you saw that big, pregnant belly at Starbucks when all you wanted was a five minute coffee break where you didn’t think about infertility. And you know we all feel differently when that pregnant belly is attached to someone who knows the sliding scale versus someone who is blissfully pregnant without a care in the world beyond putting on too much baby weight (because non-infertiles have post-baby exercise plans and Stirrup Queens have lost-baby emotional-insurance coping plans). So you want to let all the SQs know that you’re one of them. Not because you can’t deal with having someone secretly hate you–I think all SQs understand where those feelings come from and will never (I hope) utter the words, “why can’t you just be happy for me?” to another known SQ–but because you can’t stand the fact that you may have burdened a SQ with an additional minute of emotional pain.

Taking all suggestions for a secret handshake, nose wiggle, eye blink in order to convey community.

It’s Sunday morning and I just woke up from a nightmare. One of those terrible ones that take hours to fade and affect your whole mood. It seemed so real that I cleared my throat when I woke up, checking to see if it felt raw from screaming. Because I did a lot of screaming in this dream.

Buried inside a cast of thousands that included a pregnant woman (who was frustratingly ambivilant about her pregnancy and was swinging on a swing in the park–practically a child herself) and her fiance who informed me that he was sterile (yet the pregnant woman claimed that she became pregnant on their first try–strange) was an exchange between myself and a close friend. She flippantly told me that she was now pregnant again and that I was selfish. I should just be happy for her. And it wasn’t about me. And that I let infertility rule my life.

And it was so maddening because she negated all of my feelings while speaking kernals of truth–I know that it’s upsetting how I can’t be happy sometimes for others (recall my sliding scale and poor Katie Holmes who is living in bitchland for me?), but at the end of the day, I truly don’t believe that we have such control over our emotions that we can discard the pain we feel over whatever triggers it–the sight of a pregnant belly, the story of someone else’s child, a pregnancy announcement.

If we had this control, wouldn’t we use it in all facets of life? Why would I mourn a loss if I could just close that chapter and walk away? Why would I ever get angry at anyone–it’s a waste of emotional energy? I was so frustrated in the dream because essentially the friend was pointing out one more flaw. I’m not just infertile; I’m not just a lesser woman: I’m also a selfish person who has little control over her emotions.

And I know that it has to be frustrating for others–when you’re happy, it’s sometimes hard to remember that everyone may not be simultaneously happy with you. There was a great comment on the sliding scale post from Zee who said, “I don’t think you should be morally obligated to be happy for people who get what YOU want easily (or accidentally!) when you’re working so hard for it and still getting nothing. You should never wish them ill, but you have no obligation to celebrate their good fortune.”

And perhaps that’s it. Never wishing them ill, but being understanding that there is no obligation to be happy for the person. Or is that too small when it comes to a close friendship or family member? Where do our obligations fall on this topic? (bold because I really do want an answer). And there are three levels: friends, close friends, and family members. Does this work for all three? Does it work for only friends (those people who fall outside your inner circle, but are still important to you)? And does it make me a small person if I abide by this rule when it comes to someone who is ranked a close friend? Does friendship buy you a different level of interaction–one that rises above your own hurt to be happy for another?

My sister was separating from her husband around the time of my wedding. And I had no clue. She waited until we were back from the honeymoon to tell us because she didn’t want her situation to influence our own thoughts on marriage. I was very touched that she put our feelings above her own when she was the one going through the difficult time. The closest I have come to this level of putting my feelings aside are all the times I rolled on the floor with her daughter and babysat when my heart was breaking. I love my neice–I love her so completely with all my heart and she resides in a space that holds my own children. But it’s hard. It’s hard to love someone’s baby when you want one yourself. When you’re taking extreme measures to have one. But I never missed a trip or missed an opportunity to be with her. But is that the same level as celebrating a wedding when your own marriage is ending?

And where does this question of obligations fall when considered in this light–the ability to put your own feelings aside for a family member in order to celebrate with them? Is my sister superhuman or am I just truly that small? Or is it apples and oranges–divorce and infertility? This is all slippery ground that I can’t wrap my mind around. Or perhaps it’s just that post-dream haze.

In the dream, when my friend told me about her pregnancy, I started screaming. All-out-Prometrium-rage screaming. Tearing my hair out words: I hate you, I hate your children, I want you out of my life, never talk to me again, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

The good news (at least for the non-infertiles of this world) is that I woke up feeling terrible about myself. I didn’t think this behaviour was acceptable. But isn’t that just the theme of infertility? I’m angry at MYSELF at the way I manage my relationships. And I’m angry at MYSELF for my inability to naturally get pregnant. And I’m angry at MYSELF for not being able to make my husband a father easily. And I’m angry at MYSELF, at MYSELF, and…once again…at MYSELF. I’m not sure how many people not going through infertility understand how much of the anger is turned inward versus how much anger is turned outward. I would wager a bet that I’m not the only person who has more bile flowing towards herself than to others–though most people are only privvy to the bile flowing towards them. I mean, who sits around telling their friends how much they hate themselves? Husbands, therapists, perhaps a few family members. But when I talk about the emotions of infertility, it’s all about the sadness rather than the anger. I rarely talk about the journal entries where I talk about how angry I am with myself. Even when the rational me knows that so much of what happens with my body is out of my control.

I’d be curious to know how many people with other medical conditions turn that anger inward. Is it because there’s no question to the validity of other medical conditions? If you have cancer, you have cancer. But if you’re infertile, there are always the stories of someone who got pregnant via a miracle–8 years of fertility treatments and they got pregnant on the one month they weren’t trying. So people grasp onto that idea and start writing off infertility not as a dire medical condition but as a problem that is best addressed by not addressing it. Other people say it to you, but the inward anger reflects how there is a part of you that imagines it might be true too.

I think the anger accompanying other medical conditions stems from regret: I wish I had done this or I wish I hadn’t done this. But at the core, the anger is more at the situation than the self. And with infertility, I’m not just angry at infertility. I’m angry at myself for no good reason. Perhaps because there is such a lack of understanding–a pick-yourself-up-by-the-boot-straps-just-be-patient-it-will-happen-for-you-if-you-want-it-badly-enough attitude surrounding it that you start turning that inward and believing it (however slightly) yourself.

No one tells someone with cancer to not treat their disease because they’ve heard a story about someone who was healed by relaxing (even if you have heard this type of story). No, you direct them towards an agressive treatment. Because it’s life threatening. And people don’t consider infertility life threatening. It takes on the same status as mental illness–another condition that lacks the respect it deserves. It becomes a problem rather than a medical condition. A problem that should be set aside when someone tells you their good news so you can celebrate with them.

What to do, what to do, what to do? I’m truly asking because of the unrest I felt after this dream. How does one become that bigger person? How does one not dig these chasms between themselves and others (because none of us want to dig these chasms)? Or is that just it–I truly am that small and it’s my problem and no one else’s? Aaah…must go. I have an appointment with a little self-anger this mor
ning. So much navel gazing lately.

Operation Heads Up keeps growing and growing. Check the list and volunteer for any write up you can do. Or add more topics to the list. Check the sidebar for direct links to current write ups…

Ankle is healing. AF is coming. It’s time to talk about some blogs…

Thalia (and can we just pause for a moment and look at that beautiful hyperlink. No more awkward parentheses to take you to the blog in discussion. Now back to Thalia) has a brilliant post this week about SQ blogging during pregnancy and the trend for SQs to feel guilt/fear (as well as other emotions) when blogging about good news. Since all SQs fall on the right side of my sliding scale of happiness, I personally want to keep reading way into pregnancy, parenting, and beyond. Because, as I’ve said many times, I believe once a SQ always a SQ even if you move off the island and never look back. You’re still touched subconsciously (or consciously) by the experience and it changes your point-of-view. And I’m interested in that point-of-view. And it was an interesting post because it’s something I think about a bit. I mean, I’m in this limbo land between parenting after IF and TTC. And at times I need to mention my children to make a point and I feel a little twinge. Not a huge twinge because damn it, I worked hard to make those babies. And y’all know what I mean by hard work. I also wanted to create one blog–just one–that never changed. That never moves out of infertility so there could be a place like Cheers for SQ–a place where everyone knows your name and you can leave it for 10 years and come back and they’re still talking about the same thing. I love it when blogs move on, but I wanted to make one that remained the same. That never had a baby and started blogging about babies. There are many good ones out there–and I agree with Thalia. Keep blogging. If I was your friend when you were in the stirrups, I’m still interested in your life after the stirrups. And I’m happy that you got your positive pink slip from your RE and are enjoying parenthood. You deserve it. You worked hard.

Ms. C over at it could take three months is having a hard week and could use some support. Her post on Thursday hit home. Hard. Because it’s something I’ve thought often. And cried about often. The fight about something else that cuts down into the core of the matter–that I feel inadequate because I can’t easily produce a baby. There have been many fights that have come back to that point; the anger I feel with myself, the huge gaping hole of loss where the vision of myself as a woman used to reside, the disbelief that anyone would choose to love me when they can upgrade to a better model. And he reassures–as often as I need it. And I was well aware before that post that I’m not alone with these thoughts, but her sentence: “I never realized that this journey would make me feel like this” was beautiful. You start this journey giddy with joy that you’re creating a life, and then it winds and winds and winds until you’re inside a tight little knot. And it’s very painful when you find yourself in the center of the knot and remember how the ends looked so promising. I’m sorry, sweetie. Hang in there.

And I wasted all that birth control has an interesting post about the messages we pass along to our children. Her post is specifically about weight and how she does not want the cycle to continue of women hating their bodies. And even if it is inevitable that her daughter will be exposed to ideas when she enters the real world, she wants to change her own attitude about her body so that her daughter is not hearing her own mother speak negatively about her body. And it’s hard. It is so hard. And you feel a small sense of futility about it–sort of like curbing the usage of curse words–because you know that your daughter (or your son) will be exposed to stereotypes and negative thoughts once they leave the safe harbour of your house. I was walking through a toy store today and there was a door knob sign (the sort of thing you hang on your door knob like a do-not-disturb sign) that said, “no fat chicks allowed.” And it broke my heart. Hang in there, birth control waster. It’s a fascinating post. Go read the whole thing.

Lastly, Amy at Inconceivable has a sweet post about her husband and the thoughts that keep her jumping back in the stirrups after each loss. I hope the dream turns into a reality. I hope there is such an outpouring of great energy your way that it all comes true. The egg dropped on Monday. Please send a lot of good thoughts her way for this cycle.