Food for thought

DH is away this week on business, so I am left with blessed silence to contemplate why a grown woman can't play Scrabulous for hours on end. And also, I've been thinking about how to start my play. So I've been reading a few more blogs than usual, so memories and emotions have been washing over me. You can accuse me of staying stuck in the miseries of infertility, but those emotions remind me of how connected we are in this world. Despite maybe not having anything in common at all except infertility, if we cannot empathize with one another, how can we develop our compassion? Behind the safety of anonymity in the world wide web, we reach out across borders and lifestyles hoping that somebody out there in the Ethernet gives a shit. A public Dear Diary. There is so much material out there that I want to include as many aspects of it as I can.

I often wonder if once you become pregnant, you forget all your previous TTC troubles. Surely it's more about moving forward and attending to the incredible situation at hand. I mean, you've got a life (or several) growing in you, who cares about the past sadness when you're sitting in tentative joy. I say tentative because as we all know, it's not just a matter of getting pregnant. It's about staying pregnant and delivering safely. Beta levels, fetal sacs, cramps, the story of what's that on my pantiliner now? When innocence is lost, nothing is taken for granted anymore.


Some women have/had friends who did indeed seem to forget what it's like to be in the trenches. Friendships are lost, misunderstandings abound. Some stop blogging as they adjust to their future as non-moms. Sometimes healing takes years. Others who adopt, have other challenges they have to adapt to. There's the whole adoption triad thing, waiting for all the papers to be signed so you can breathe a sigh of relief, the guilt, the negotiations, the social worker visits, etc. All these transitions, require quite a mental shift. NOW WHAT DO I DO?

Someone wrote about being mad at infertility and asked others to write about what they were pissed about. I actually left a comment because as I was reading, all these emotions came flooding back and all of a sudden I genuinely felt angry and wanted to lash out. Wow. I didn't wake up angry, but there it was. And I'm not even in the game anymore. But there are residual effects, aren't there? It's like herpes. It's the gift that likes to keep on giving and giving and giving. I could have written even a longer list of things that make me mad, but I would still be writing. I can't do anything about the past anymore, it's over, I did my time in therapy and even did some EMDR to get over a particularly nasty and emotional event. I'll keep that anger in the back of my heart and drag it out to fuel my creativity but it won't cause me numbing grief again.

I once had a theme called Million Dollar Baby that my business coach gave me. Well my acting career went in to the toilet as well as my maternity plans. And I guess that's what really got to me. I'd built up my career to a point where I was doing quite well and making a living and then - well to make a long story short - nothing. I had no millions and I had no baby. I lost my confidence, my drive, and I had to develop my notetaking business in order to pay my Visa bill. Not that I was above working a "joe" job, but taking notes is not exactly what I had spent years sacrificing for. I had no degree, no fulfilling career to keep me occupied. I seriously debated going back to school but I couldn't figure out what I could do that would give me a decent income before I got to retirement age. You know those commercials on TV for so and so college where you can be a dental hygienist or medical office assistant in 6 months, I actually considered that. So what if I did some medical office assistant stuff 10 years ago and I thought working for doctors sucked?! Then I could be surrounded by pregnant women all the time! I felt old, broken and yes, bitter. I couldn't even chant anymore. It seemed disconnected somehow. I felt on the verge of my dreams, and then - poof! Whether I had manifested it or not, I struggled to keep my head above water.

This time, last year, I was nursing the effects of the last IVF procedure. I had transferred my last 2 eggs and waited for whatever was going to happen, which was nothing. I was actually surprisingly calm about it. And then I fell apart. And once I pulled it together in a reasonable fashion, I just focused on breathing. Victory, that was good enough for me! My prayers weren't going to be answered in the way I wanted them to be or perhaps it was going to take longer than I had realized. In any case, I knew a negative result was not going to kill me, it just felt like it had. I was breathing but not quite there if you know what I mean. Pretty much like my husband. Not quite there. He was in far, faraway land called Stoner Land. You might have heard of it. I loved him, but I wasn't liking him so much. And apparently he was waiting for the 1995 version of me to show up. Huh. I think this part is going into the play. The NOW WHAT DO I DO, WHO ARE YOU, YOU RED-EYED, STONED, JOYLESS, DECIDELY UNFUCKABLE IN DENIAL LUMP ON THE COUCH WITH PIZZA ON THE COFFEE TABLE AND A LAPTOP HEATING UP YOUR USELESS UTERUS OR PENIS part.

This could be like Angels in America and be done in 2 parts. Maybe 3.

There was a musical!

Okay, I had no idea but apparently there was a musical done on infertility in New York in 2004. Thanks for the info, LoriBeth.

http://www.infertilitymusical.com/

You can go to the Media tab and go to audio gallery for clips of the songs. Check it out.

Why the hell not?

I went to a play reading last night with a friend who's an actress and a playwright. Play readings help the playwright figure out what works and what doesn't when they hear actors trying to breathe life into it. You know, what stops people from creating is the constant fear that your work will not be as good as ... Van Gogh or Beethoven or Tennessee Williams. That's fair, it probably won't be. But whether or not you truly are talented, everyone has a voice to express. You may be brilliant, be just okay, or totally suck. You can even learn to be better as you go along, you may need some practise, some education, some guidance. And from what I saw last night, you can write beautifully, poetically, but not be able to understand just what a play is. I was a reader and though the play had some compelling imagery in it, it wasn't really a play. It was just scene after scene of great sentence structure and explanation.

Infertility is not a popular topic with people not dealing with it, but grief, loss, hope, bitterness and sarcasm are not exclusive to us. Lots of people have to redefine what is family. The world doesn't stop to address every individual's suffering (unless you're a celebrity), nor does any divine being in the sky have it out just for you. And in the depths of my despair, it had crossed my mind that if I could just reach out to Benny Hinn on the TV, become a born again Christian, that I might qualify for a miracle. Or I could have used donor eggs, hired a surrogate, or gone to a clinic in India to get some poverty stricken but fertile woman to carry a baby for me. I had these choices, however, they were not for me, for us. If I had more money, if I had married someone else who might have felt differently, if I was more desperate, more motivated ..... who knows?

The world of "what if" is full of all sorts of probable and improbable options. Then when I read the blogs of those who have chosen adoption, when I read about how they felt about their child, their choice, I felt hopeful, eager. Hopeful that I can learn to navigate a river that I'd never thought I go down.

Have you every white water rafted? I did once, years ago, down the Thompson River with a group. I don't swim, you see, so my athletic husband (boyfriend at the time) scoffed at me, he didn't think I'd be interested, that I'd be a scaredy cat. I love proving people wrong. The idea of it was exciting to me, I'd seen it on TV and everyone looked like they were having so much fun. The reality of not being able to swim, however, was a huge impediment. I sincerely did not want to die. So off we went with a group of friends. I stayed in the back of the raft with the guide and the other timid girl. He assured us we'd be fine and wouldn't fall out the raft. Well, everything was great until we hit the Class 5000 or whatever rapids (known as "the Frog") and the boat shot up in the sky, folded in half and everyone in the back fell out. Yes, we were wearing life jackets, but boy was I surprised to find out I was under the water, being sucked down. I didn't even have time to scream and close my eyes. I remember perfectly how badly I didn't want to die in that river that day and as I shot to the surface (I know, I know, I had a life jacket, that's what's supposed to happen, right?) I felt victorious that the river gods hadn't swallowed me. I didn't lose my glasses (had them tied to my windbreaker) or my paddle and I didn't swallow any water. A female friend dragged my ass back on the raft, my idiot boyfriend hadn't even realized I was gone (and for the next several years, I reminded him of how he had not rescued me), the other girl who had been thrown did actually swallow water and was quite shaken and ill, the guide was injured and had to be replaced. I had fought fear and uncertainty all day long. I can speak in front of thousands of people but put me in an environment where I have to rely upon my physical body? Not so good. For the rest of the day, I was hysterically happy to be alive. That's what usually happens when I avoid death, I don't get shaken, I get happy.

Okay, what the hell was my point? Oh, yeah, going down that scary river. It was scary and thrilling and I don't regret it. I learned something about myself, and nobody, but nobody is telling me what I can or cannot do.

So, yeah, I'm writing the play.

Life imitates art

Saw two plays this week. Tuesday night I saw Red Light Winter by Adam Rapp at the Havana. I really enjoyed the performances, they were outstanding and even better, I thought about it the next day. It was a disturbing portrayal of a twisted friendship between two men and the prostitute that is brought back to their room while they are on holiday. The characters aren't really likeable and yet the actors portrayed them with such sensitivity and pathos, it was hard not to be haunted by them.

The other play, Rabbit Hole by David Lindsay-Abaire at the Stanley Theatre, I saw last night. This play was about a couple who's 4 year old son who ran out into the street after his dog and was killed by a car and the aftermath of its grief. The script was somewhat superficial, but if you had ever suffered such a loss in your family, there would be moments that really have you crying your eyes out. Her whole family tiptoes around her emotions. What struck me was when the mother while packing up the little boy's bedroom asks her mother (who had also lost her son to a drug overdose) if the pain ever gets better. The mother tells her the hole never goes away but that's okay with her. I got that. The wife even snaps and slaps a woman in the supermarket who studiously ignores her son who gets upset when she won't buy him fruit roll-ups. She feels justified because how could she felt the woman didn't appreciate the fact that he was even there. And when her mother explains that her daughter is grieving the loss of her son, the irate stranger does not press charges. Question: would you expect infertile people to receive that kind of sympathy?

You see there are so many women suffering through infertility, miscarriage, infant loss and for those who never have a happy ending; there's a hole in them that never goes away. As was demonstrated in the play, grief can be isolating. The wife tried to keep herself busy baking some perfect creation in her spotless kitchen, always holding tightly wound self together, the husband watching videos of his son and not wanting his son's things to be put away; he starts to spend time with another woman from their grief support group because the wife pushes him away; her irresponsible younger sister becomes pregnant and she struggles to be okay with it; her friendship with another woman with kids slides away because the friend won't speak to her. The husband tries to explain that people can be awkward about those things. You see the similarities? At the end, she agrees to go to a BBQ of the friends they used to hang out with. The husband reminds her there will be kids there, but she's ready to go anyway. She asks him, "Now what will we do?" and goes they talk about what they'll do and how they'll handle it.

My husband once questioned how I was going to get through a shower of a former friend of ours. I told him I'd bring the present, help with the food, stay for an hour maybe an hour and a half, and then I'd leave. I had it all planned out. I did that 3 times before I called a halt on attending any more baby showers.

It occurred to me to write a play about infertility. I wonder how many people would come see it? Does it really matter? Instead of wondering about the end result, I should write it anyway. There are so many misconceptions about infertility, it would be great if I could contribute something that would bring some enlightenment on the subject.

Ding Dong, the Witch is gone! ... for now....

AF and her terrible posse (Mrs. Bloodsworth, the Notorious RRV (a.k.a Red River Valley) and the dreaded bitch, Clottia and her dog Spot have left the building! Can I get an amen or a nam myo ho renge kyo from the crowd?! It's been 3 days and though she and her kind had threatened to linger, they left and I hope not to see her and her kind for a long, LONG, time.

So I celebrated this morning by getting some good loving this morning. Yay!

Now I've been slacking off on the diet (hate that word) thing for about a week now. I only gained 2 oz. last week, but this week could be another story. Had the in-laws over for an early Easter dinner thing. It was supposed to be an easy thing, but it turned into a turkey/ham/ and all the fixings ordeal. I actually left the turkey roasting to attend a Buddhist youth meeting much to everyone's amazement. Yep, no more not doing what I really want to do. They're adults, they survived. I picked up my mum on the way home and my husband's friend came over as well. Everyone enjoyed hot, hearty food and guess what? My mum stopped everyone's chowing time to do grace. I couldn't believe it. It was a little lengthy, she forgets sometimes what word she wants to use, but she did a great job! I was really touched. I have to cut up her food and remind her to use her fork instead of her knife, but she always keeps it real, you know?

Yeah, I know, I'm Buddhist but I still celebrate the Christian holidays in terms of the food part anyway. My in-laws are Anglican, but they don't go to church except for wedding, funerals and Christmas carols. But they love getting together with family and sharing food. I made a vanilla bundt cake with homemade caramel sauce and dark chocolate sauce. Did I tell you how much I love cake? No, seriously, I LOVE cake and I haven't made one in months! So it's a wonder there's some still left. It must be thrown out. (Did you know you could microwave it for a bit if it's stale and put some sauce on it and it would still be fabulous!) I could literally eat cake for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And as you know, once you get on that sugar train, it's hard to get off. And the MIL and I polished off a couple bottles of red wine. I love my MIL. But I may have to add a bootcamp routine to my workouts.

Being at peace with my body

I went to my gynecologist yesterday for my follow up and he suggested the wait and see approach to my marathon bleed before pharmaceutical intervention. As long as it's not out of control or have pain or fever, I should wait it out. Which is what I thought he would say. No surprise. He also said he had no idea of whether I was having a true menses or whether it was a result of the embolization. Really? Once again, I am the expert of my own uterus. My patience is wearing thin, and my sluggishness is making me look for sugary comfort in treats. I'm just going to let my body do its best to heal itself and return to its regular programming. I'm taking my iron (as I am soooo tired), keep working out, and I'm also going to look at alternatives. If anyone has any suggestions, please let me know.

I should have brought my husband along so he could complain. He's very unhappy about not having access to my skinny self, but in a way, it's kind of funny. Everyone is high fiving me and complimenting me and calling me hot and he can't get a piece. I've told him that a brave soldier shouldn't be afraid of blood, but so far he's holding out. I don't feel particularly sexy with AF tagging along everywhere I go anyway.

I just spent the last two evenings in a coaching workshop with other actors and creative people. My assignment for Friday (that I had to fit in between the doctor's appointment and a funeral -which is another post). I was supposed to go to a very high end store and go try on fabulous, sexy clothes. This was a risk for me because for years, I never would have dared because number one, I couldn't afford it and two, they would never have my size.

Do you know how humiliating it is to see a wonderful outfit in a window, go into a store and then as you're looking through the racks, you realize they don't even carry your size? Can I help you? Uh, no, just looking... for my younger sister. And yes, I went to a Lane Bryant store at one point when I was in the States cause I thought their fashions were really hip and the salespeople ignored me and when I finally did get their attention, the smallest of their sizes didn't fit me properly because I actually didn't have the proportions of a plus sized woman. I'm not a teenager anymore but I'm not a matron either. And when The Limited stopped carrying size 14 a few years ago, I just about killed somebody!

So anyways, after finally getting parking (which isn't easy in this city), I opened the door to a boutique whose windows I've admired for years. Lo and behold, I didn't like anything in the store and it was geared for petite middle aged (though fashion forward) women. I wouldn't have been able to get my arm in any of the blazers. So on to the Max Mara store next door. By the way, did you ever notice how heavy those doors are to get into the stores? Like only the wealthy have the nerve to go in. Okay, so I go in and I take a good browse around. There was this very pretty Asian girl trying on a beautiful lavender flowered gown. I start to get nervous, she's a size 0, do they even have that in my size? I look around but I don't see any of those dresses. Maybe it was a special order. I try to find a dress (I currently own 2) because my friend is getting married in Europe in the summer and she asked me to be her maid of honour and I get to wear what I want. I settle on a black and white checked, empire waisted number, the skirt is silk and flows away from the body. I swallow and ask for a size 12. The salesperson doesn't laugh out loud. They don't have it, but because of the cut, I figure I can try the size 10. I get Nine West high heeled shoes to try on with it. If she thinks I'm coming out of the room to stand next to the size 0, she's crazy. I actually get into the 10, zipped up and all, but the ribbon straps are too short and I'm a bit squeezed in. I've got broad shoulders. I start to focus on the small dark scars on my ankles and my big bat wing arms and quickly tell that evil you're not small enough, you're not good enough,take it off you might break it voice to SHUT UP.

BUT I actually look pretty good. I look at the price tag. it's over $1200. Cough. It's rent money, down payment on a car, for crying out loud! Calm down, it's okay, they don't know I can't buy this. Yet. The detailing, the stitching, the silky material is incredible. I feel - ohmigosh - glamorous. This is what it must feel like to try something on without considering the price. I suddenly feel like I MIGHT ACTUALLY BE WORTH IT. If I actually worked out some more, I might actually be able to fit into this and look even better. I've never actually put on something I couldn't afford. I've seen my soon to be married friend shop this way. I've never seen anyone try something on without looking at the tag first.

The salesperson brings me another dress when I tell her this one doesn't really fit. She brings me a black, jersey knit dress with a shirred waist and a deep V neck. Looks like shit, but I try it on anyway. It's a size 48 European which is 14 American/Canadian. It's too big. Hah. I stay safely ensconced in my spacious dressing room. That size 0 still might be out there. And it looks really blah. The jersey draped nicely over my hips, and it feels heavily exquisite. But still blah. which is what I tell the woman as I leave. She offers me a catalogue which is written in Italian and full of impractical things to wear, but I take it. I ask her if they will be getting more "colour" in. I might even go back to look at the pants.

I can't believe it took me over 10 years to go into those stores. I'm worth it.

Bits and Pieces

We were in Cosco on the weekend and I picked up a Baby Einstein flash card set for our friend's baby boy. And as I was browsing through the kids book, hubby says" Why don't we stock up?". I say, "Are you teasing me?" "No", he replies a bit indignantly. "No, not yet" I say. And move on to the adult book section.


Got a birth announcement in my email last night. Another trip to the store for a new baby something. Another moment where I will think about buying "extra". I feel cautious. Should I be making up a baby room? Collecting bits and pieces? This is weird. We've got two weddings this summer that we have to fly to, I have no idea when our life will change, how does one plan for this? What if we're getting ready to leave to go to Europe and we get a call that leads to a meeting? Yeah, I know, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Maybe I should paint the 2nd bedroom... maybe I should get some baby clothes... maybe it's time to hope again. Maybe getting the bits and pieces will nudge the universe into the right direction. Mmmmm.

It's in you to give...

Maybe I should just put in some sort of creepy widget that counts down days of bleeding. Just a thought. If I were an escaping slave, the dogs would have caught me by now.

It is now Day 15 of this nonsense and I'd like to have some sort of spiritual epiphany by now. I know, I know, worse things could happen to me. I have an appointment with my gyno this Friday for a checkup. Note to uterus: Thanks uterus, I know you're just healing yourself. Take your time, I don't mind, really!

I know this sounds weird, but after years of analyzing my menstrual cycle, all this blood just reminds me of the stupid hope I used to cling to that an embryo was either implanting or that I was still going to test positive at some point because my friend did or a friend of a friend did. I have thoughts of other women who are having miscarriages, women worried about their early pregnancies. All those bloggy pals whose day depends on what shows up on their pantiliners. I spoke to a friend last week about it and my experience just reminded her miscarriage. Infertile women are obsessed by blood. We look for signs, for portents, we know consistency, range of colour,texture, the smell. When you go for natural treatments, the acupuncturist wants to know all the gory details. Before ttc, I never paid that much attention, but boy, did I learn. I once saw a short film during the African American Cultural Festival (something like that) in Atlanta. Not entirely sure of the name of the movie, but it was great. This young black woman, is about to get ready for a fun weekend with her friends, and her cousin unexpectedly shows up on her doorstep, all crazy and whacked out. She doesn't actually speak, but she comes busting in with luggage and proceeds to demand all her attention and wrecks her weekend. She can't go anywhere without her cousin and when they go to the beach, her cousin refuses to go swimming, so she can't go either. She was very emotional, very intrusive and bratty, but when it was time to go, she just packed her bags and left. It was hilarious.

Hey, man, he's my blood. That's blood, man, you don't turn your back on blood.

Did you ever notice how squeamish men are around blood? My high school boyfriend cut his finger once with a knife and as I looked at the damage, the tall, strapping young man practically swooned. My husband, after watching the vet cut a tumour off our dog's foot, passed out on the floor! Dropped like a sack of potatoes. After the surgery was done. DH still insists he was fine with the blood, it's just cause he didn't eat any food that day. Yeah, okay, tough guy. Whatever. I was supposed to be there so hubby wouldn't have to miss work, but I had to be at the fertility clinic for an ultrasound.

It's in you to give.

In medieval days, monks would bloodlet people to cure illness. How they figured that cured people, I don't know. But apparently, leeches are still in style. When was the last time you donated blood? That doesn't include all the vials you gave at the fertility clinic/blood lab. I used to when I was younger, but at some point my low blood count disqualified me. I've got AB positive blood and I'd love to donate, so I'll work on improving my iron levels.

What are your thoughts on blood?

A letter to my body

http://www.blogher.com/letter-my-body-3

Dear Body:

I owe you one big fat apology. I've been pretty hard on you. Not physically, really, but I've taken you for granted. I've spent too many years wishing you looked different, weighed less, or were shaped better. I never fully appreciated you. You know the saying, youth is wasted on the young. But you kept my silly ass out of the hospital anyway because you were strong and didn't get sick. You put up with drugs and alcohol and late nights and hours and hours of dancing.

When I was young, I cursed my coordination and my lungs that kept me from being the expected basketball star because I was tall and black. You know what? Never cared for the sport. I was better in arts and crafts anyway. I cursed my eyes which were bespectacled at an early age and invited taunts in the schoolyard. But I've read thousands of books and seen beautiful sunsets.

Then I spent years bemoaning my cute little boobs and padded them and taped them and apologized for them. I even wished I had money so I could make them bigger. Now they're hanging a little lower than they used to be and I should have enjoyed them more! I should have let them enjoy the sunshine more. What was I thinking?!

Oh, don't think I forgot you, poor crappy uterus. I have maligned you these past few years, haven't I? I'm sorry. Things didn't work out as I had hoped, but we've had some good memories. Remember that time I saw inside you and you were all pink and fluffy like candy floss? That was lovely. I'll always remember that. Those bastards think you're good for only one thing, but you and I know differently don't we? Okay, so what if you like to bleed a lot and give me cramps? You're a tough bitch. We've had our battles but we still need each other. I'll never let anyone take you from me without a fight.

You really are a treasure and I've been remiss in polishing you and keeping you as fit as I could. I'll be better from now on. You deserve better. I will treat you to massages as often as I am able. I will put good food in you and go easy on the junk. I'll ease your aches and pains and rest when you need it, we have so much to do in the future. Thank you for keeping my heart beating after I thought it was broken. Thank you for giving me strength to run a 10K. Thank you for getting up after I fell down time after time. Let's smile more, laugh more, you are brilliant!

Love,
Your crazy ass friend.

Musings on Womanhood

Warning. This may be in the TMI category. Then again, we're veterans here and we've shared some graphic details. Men, close your eyes, think of hockey and step away from the blog.


I am really sick of bleeding. After my uterine artery embolization in January, I had a discharge for about 8 days or so, but then it stopped. Whoopee. I thought the 3 months warning wouldn't apply to me. Hahahaha. Then about 2 weeks later, I got my "period". Then that stopped after 6 days. Okay, great. Then 3 days after that, you guessed it and it's now been 9 days. The aftercare instructions say to contact the radiologist if you start passing tissue, which occurred big time on Friday but has since slowed down. I didn't have any pain or fever or anything. I called the department today and I was told he would call me back some time today. So I guess, I'll sit right here and wait til he calls. NOT! I'm sure it's not really an urgent matter, I think it's just part of the process.


Do you remember when you first got your period? I was 11 yrs old. My mother called it "seeing your health". I tried to keep it a secret, but she figured it out. I was so embarrassed. I had heard of "period" talk, but I thought it was that. A period. As in the dot that comes after a sentence. As in a red dot in your panties. So much for clarity in health class. I had a lot of pain which a hot water bottle wasn't going to take away. I confided in my gym teacher that I had really bad cramps and she told me that I was exaggerating and that it must be because I was denying my womanhood. Mmmm. Thanks for the words of wisdom.

Mum told me I couldn't take a bath for a week (just bird baths) and bought me these horrible plastic panties that you attached Moddess pads into. I'm surprised a seclusion hut wasn't built for me, I felt like such a pariah. Changing for gym class during that time became an exercise in humiliation. All the cool girls used tampons. Whooo. My mother thought tampons were only for "those type" of girls. Read non-virgins. She refused to buy them for me. No "welcome to womanhood" celebrations for me. Just a vague warning about not going into dark corners with boys. Oh, yeah, and a lesson on making a sanitary pad out of moss and waxed paper if you have to. I suppose that came out of her West Indian roots. We didn't really talk too much about it. There was just this box of huge diaper like things that my younger sister would bug me about. Until she got her period at 9 years old and she wasn't laughing any more. I really did sorry for her. That shouldn't happen to a 9 yr. old. It's just not right.

So it wasn't until adulthood when I could finally get a hold of the Pill, tampons and some decent drugs (Midol never worked for me). And then I could taste sweet freedom. I could go swimming (okay, I can't really swim) and ride horses! I was happy to get my period. For years, it was like whew, I'm not pregnant! And then course, it came to mean, oh, crap, I'm not pregnant. Failure. Dread. A monthly reminder of what I didn't have. Cycle after cycle of sadness and money down the drain. You know the song.

I know this is just a process of the embolization and all that. I just really hate bleeding.

Getting my groove back

First of all, thanks to everyone who put in their 2 cents worth about my whether or not my Buddhism was putting people off our adoption profile. You're right. The right birth mother, the right child will make their way to us. During our home study I explained a great deal about my Buddhist practise and if our profile is chosen then the home study will be provided so more details will be provided. I want raise my child as a Buddhist but really, once they're old enough they can decide for themselves.

Second of all, a quick shout out to Teendoc. We had a real life phone chat. She rocks.

For what it's worth (FWIW - thanks Lori, I'm stealing that acronym), I think I know why I was so full of complaint and lethargy last week. People have really started noticing my weight loss and I'm really uncomfortable with it. And yes, I was embarrassed that I even had weight to lose to begin with. I think I had a number and/or size in my head (like what I weighed when I met my husband) and figured out that I shouldn't receive acknowledgement or kudos from myself or anyone else til I got there again. So I've been whining that nothing fits me instead of actually enjoying looking good. It's like I was starting to feel "visible" again and I didn't like it. Hence the desire for chips (i.e. unhealthy food) to shove those uncomfortable feelings away. I don't actually have any forbidden foods; it's the reasons behind wanting them that I need to pay attention to. The layers of protection I had put on were off and I felt vulnerable and exposed.

You know, when I was younger and single, I had no idea of how attractive I was. An old boyfriend commented that he found it amusing that I never seem to notice that I turned heads when I walked down the street. I had no idea of the power of my sexuality. I rarely dressed provocatively (unless I was prepared to do a lot of drinking). I was no shrinking violet, but even if I had chased boys, I would have had no idea of what to do with them once I caught them. True enough, part of the reason was that as a black girl growing up in a predominantly white society, my ethnic looks were never acknowledged or celebrated. Even within my own race, I didn't have the right skin tone, the "right" hair. I was used to being brushed aside for my white counterparts, particularly by black men. I was smart, I was "cute", always the "good" girl. Always waiting to be picked, never had the nerve to do the picking. Of course, a great deal is also the proverbial "daddy" issues. I started to figure it out in my 30s. Not distracted by pesky attachments, I just started to get the hang of "dating". I had just moved to a new city and lo and behold, I was actually getting some attention. From all the wrong types, but hey, I had to start somewhere. I started to realize that I could indeed do the picking, I didn't deserve to be stood up or treated like an afterthought. And don't you know it, the minute Stella started getting her groove back, I met the man I would marry. Better late than never.

Anyways, I digress. I finally decided to ease up on myself and I need to learn to just say thank you for noticing and leave it at that. So dear hubby gave me some shopping money and I bought 3 pairs of pants. I even bought one that was 3 sizes smaller than I'm used to.

Hah! I'm worth it.