Out of the mouths of babes

Kids just say the derndest things sometimes, don't they? My Grandmother had an amazing wit and very sharp sense of humor. When we were there last year over Thanksgiving, I got together with some friends one night for a girls night out. One of them gave me a small notebook and said that I MUST start writing down my Grandmother's little quips- "Gammie-isms" as I called them. I searched for that notebook tonight, unable to locate it- I suspect it's been tucked amongst my miscellaneous memorabilia in the storage loft. I'll be damned if I'm climbing a ladder to hunt for it now- I'm already snug in my nightgown sitting up in beddy-bye. I do recall, though that I was only able to write down three things in this notebook. One of them was "102 and I can still Charleston" (which she really still could. The woman was amazing.) Another was "102 and still constipated" (no comment), and the third I do not remember verbatim but I know it was something along the lines of "The men my age can't keep up with me. Mostly because the men my age can't stand up in the first place."
My kids seem to have inherited Gammie's wit. I really MUST start writing down their funny quips.
Today, when we drove over a large bump in the road (the kind that pushes your stomache up into your throat if you're going fast enough) Sophie said, from the backseat, "I just love going over big bumps. It makes my 'gina go sour."   !??
Last night, we were talking about my Mom. A bit of back story here, my kids are very savvy when it comes to death. They have already lost someone really important to them (Gammie), and witnessed the demise and death of Pete's oldest childhood friend and best man from our wedding, to cancer. They know all about my Mom's struggle with cancer, my Aunt's current struggle with it, and other family and friends all lost to various forms of cancer. In my opinion, they are altogether too familiar with cancer for 6 year-olds. Such is the way of the modern world. Alex asked what kind of cancer my Mom had, and I said, "colon." To which he replied, "OH- because she drank too much cola!" (You must understand that we do not drink soda, nor do my kids, They've never even tried it. I guess in telling them that soda is not very good for them and full of sugar, they must also have assumed that it's something so bad that it has its very own form of induced cancer!) OH- the explanation after this was just priceless. 
I will be purchasing a small notebook in which to write down forthcoming "Alex- isms" and "Sophie- isms." Hopefully I will get the chance to break it out in the future and do some serious embarrassing at their weddings.

Glitch

We took the kids to see the new, not very widely advertised Disney movie, "Wreck it Ralph" last weekend. I'm so glad to see that John Lasseter has learned a lesson from Cars 2, and gone back to a kinder, simpler script formula. Cars 1 and Toy Story 1 were such lovely, heartwarming movies- filled with lots of good wholesome messages- and they were fun for grown-ups, too. Cars 2 and Toy Story 3 all started taking very dark turns. Cars 2, especially, was shockingly violent and so far removed from every "nice" theme in the first movie- what happened to those characters we cared about so much in the first film!? Did they all suddenly go off their med's?
And then there was "Brave." Oy vey with this one. Sophie spent most of this movie with her face buried in my lap, sobbing and terrified. What has Disney been thinking lately? have they forgotten their YOUNG audience in an attempt to keep up with other animation houses, appealing to older audiences? I'm not condoning the "Prince and Princess get married at the end and everyone lives happily ever after" every time scenario, by any means. But seriously, explosions and murder and very frightening killer bears, and deception and lying and betrayal all so profoundly portrayed? Really? Can't my kids just be 5 for a LITTLE while, before they know everything ugly about the world?
I loved that Wreck-it Ralph was endearing without being saccharine. I loved that the other main character, Vanellope Von Shweetz was a "glitch." She was borderline saccharine, but she was supposed to be. She was a flawed computer code. And she could also "glitch" at will- meaning she could manipulate herself to go off-center when she needed to, in order to get what she needed. I loved that about her. I often think I'm a glitch. Maybe my code just wasn't written pristinely, or somehow got shifted along the way. But I can alter myself or my own thoughts enough when I need to, in order to stay in the game and remain sane.
I like to think maybe my infertility is a glitch. Or maybe infertility in general, is a glitch. Somewhere along the way, our genetic code got a slight flaw, or at some point, that code has become tainted- and maybe that taint is spinning out of control as more and more families are struggling with infertility. That "glitch" is starting to become the "norm." This is a frightening thing to me. I'm reminded again of the movie "Children of Men" in which our future society has become completely sterile.
In my book, I want to explore the idea that perhaps infertility has become an environmentally elicited thing. I'm also intrigued by the notion that maybe it's an inherited trait. What I really think, though, is that somewhere along the way, there was a glitch- maybe environmentally caused, that then BECAME an inherited genetic marker. It's a big, huge hypothesis, I know. It's so huge, in fact, I'm not even sure where or how to begin even researching such an idea.  The only place I have been able to start, is with my own family history. The first chapter of my book, begins by talking about the fertility history of my own family, and how it seems to have become altered with immigration and assimilation. Here's an excerpt from that first chapter:

When my great, great, great Grandmother, Bertha, (also called Betsy) and her husband Seligman came to this country in 1848, they had already had 2 daughters: Rachel and Sophia (Sophia was my great-great Grandmother.) Rachel was 4 years old and Sophia was two when they came over from Prague, Czechoslovakia. Seligman had come two years earlier to establish a place in New York for the family, on Delancey Street. Betsy then had another six children: Pauline, born in 1849, (who died), Emanuel born in 1850, Fanny (Jerome Kern’s mother) born in 1853, Julia born in 1859, Moses born in 1861, and Leo born in 1864. Eight children. Sophia married Bernard, in 1863. She was 17. Sophia and Bernard had five children: Jennie, born in 1865, Sidney, born in 1867, Henry (who went on to become a somewhat famous painter) born in 1868, Elsie (my great- Grandmother), born in 1870, and Josephine (Josie) born in 1873. OK. Lots of children, to a family who were immigrants (the “first generation” family), and to a second generation family.

Elsie Levy married Samuel, a dashing gentleman from England, in 1903. Elsie and Sam would then have been the third generation family. Elsie was what Gammie called a “big woman”- she was 5’-7”, and a bit plump. She is who I get my entire body from. (Although I’m short!) Elsie was 33 when they got married: very old for 1903. They tried to have a baby for 6 years before my Grandmother, Sophie Jane (Gammie) was born, in 1909. Elsie was 38 when Gammie was born: that’s even considered an “older” mother today- imagine in 1903, it was unheard of- and her father was 54!  I do not know the circumstances of Elsie’s infertility, nor did Gammie. Elsie died of breast cancer when Gammie was 7 years old. Elsie was 45. Fertility seems to have taken a dive by only the third generation family. By the fourth generation family, there appears to be the start of further fertility and childbearing troubles in the family.

Gammie married Edwin in Chicago in 1927. (They are the fourth generation family.) She was 17. Her father, whom she adored, died the following May from pneumonia which he developed from standing in the rain, at a fight. (This was pre-penicillin.) Two years later, when she 19, Gammie got pregnant. She had a hard time with her first child, Caryl. When Gammie was pregnant, she was young and very naïve (having been sent to a convent school by her stepmother). EW (my Grandfather) insisted she see the “old family doctor,” Dr. Schiller. When they discovered that the baby was breech, approaching the delivery date, EW’s half-sister, Lou (who had been like a mother to Gammie), insisted that she go see Dr. Joseph B. Delee- a famous doctor of “modern” obstetrics (he had delivered Gammie herself).  Dr. Delee told her that considering how small she was, she should have a C-section to deliver the baby safely. This scared Gammie. She approached Dr. Schiller about this, and, being an “old school” practitioner, he said no. When she went into labor, Dr. Schiller used forceps to pull the baby out, and he injured the baby’s head, causing severe brain damage. Caryl never could walk. She could eventually crawl, but she was never, as Gammie put it, “quite right.” Caryl died at the age of 19 months from pneumonia, while Gammie and EW were in California for “a rest.” They had to take the train all the way back to Chicago, knowing they were coming home to bury their first child.

Gammie had another pregnancy, but had a very unpleasant miscarriage. When she got pregnant again, she did go to Dr. Delee right away. When she started spotting, he immediately put her on very strict bed rest, “until she feels life.” She was on bed rest for over 3 months. This baby, (my Dad,) was fine and the birth went well for her. She had one more child, my Aunt Sue, four years later.

The women on EW’s side also had lots of children, in the previous generations before he was born. Henry, born in Germany, and his wife Rosa, came to the US @ 1847 or 1848. They had had two children born in Germany; Emanuel and Samuel. After they settled in Maryland, they had another 7 children. Nine children. Their daughter, Caroline, married Isaac, and they moved from Norfolk Virginia, to Chicago. They had 5 children- the youngest was EW’s mother, Florence. Florence married Isaac and had only one child- my Grandfather, EW.  It’s very interesting to me, that on both sides of Gammie’s family, the first generation families who emigrated to the US had a lot of children; the subsequent generations had a bit less, and the generation of Gammie and EW’s parents, had only a single child each, after what seems to have been struggles with infertility. Could it be something in the water, in the newly industrialized United States? It really makes me wonder. I do not know very much about my mother's side of the family, except that her mother, Margaret, had troubled pregnancies and miscarriages between when my Uncle was born and my Mom. Margaret and my Grandfather, Sheldon lived in rural Ohio. Margaret was eventually sent to a specialist in Chicago for treatment and bed rest when was pregnant with my mom. Mom was born very prematurely at a time when these babies typically did not survive. She beat the odds, however and did survive. My mother never had any real problems (at least that she ever told me about) with pregnancies or with getting pregnant. She had a miscarriage between when my brother was born and when I was born, but she never considered it as anything out of the ordinary.   

So when and how did this glitch occur? Has it been gaining speed, like a snowball rolling downhill? Am I simply the glitch? One thing our RE told us in the midst of our journey, was that my daughter could perhaps inherit my infertility trait. I am hoping against all hope that she doesn't. Or at least, that by then, science will have figured a way around or how to fix the glitch. 

Glitch: Fertility Interrupted. 

 

Home again, Home again

...Jiggety Jig. So glad to be home! It was very nice spending time visiting with my brother and his family, but I am always so glad to come home. I love my home. I love my beddy-bye, and my own bathroom, and my cats and our fireplace, and our yard, and New Mexico. I especially love having a day of flying when my fear seems to be no where in sight. This does happen from time to time, and it's always such a nice change of traveling pace for me. I must admit my kids are a joy to travel with. They are really pros. We started flying with them when they were 6 months old, and by now they know the drill. They help with security bins, they don't have any inclination to wander off, they can figure out their own entertainment on the planes, and they were never "screamers."  When our kids were babies, I had a "flight kit" in the diaper bag. It consisted of two bottles, separate from regular drinking or feeding- at the ready for just take-off and landing. I had small amounts of baby cough syrup (yes, I did do this) so they would be just drowsy enough not to have fits. I had toys, coloring stuff, movies and games on both an ipod and iphone. I had snacks, diapers, wipes, changes of clothes, books, gripe water for gas, anything I could think of to handle whatever situation might potentially arise. And yes, sometimes there were flights when I would have to walk up and down the aisle with each one in turn, doing the "football hold" while they cried- but not very often.
On our first flight today, there was a young mom with her almost two-year old right behind us. She'd obviously never flown with this child before- she was very ill-prepared. She did not seem to have any kind of anything to entertain, distract, or feed this child. Especially during take off and landing, when his ears must have been hurting. And so- this child would let out the most unbelievable ear-drum piercing shrieks every- oh, 2 or 3 minutes. I kept trying to doze off, then "RRRAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!" And she would just oh-so-quietly go "shhhhh, honey." I wanted to smack her. I really couldn't believe it when I heard her saying to the poor man sitting next to the two of them, "oh- he's being so good!" Jeez- if that was him being GOOD, I'd hate to see him being BAD!
So here's what I don't understand about this: Why don't people discipline their children in public situations like this? What are young parents afraid of? I would never have tolerated that kind of shrieking from my kids. For a second. That doesn't make me a hard-ass parent. It just makes me THE PARENT. So what's up with this new theory of non-disciplining? Any thoughts?

Grateful

I think that I would be remiss if I allowed the Thanksgiving holiday weekend to go by without writing SOMEthing about being Grateful. This was the first Thanksgiving since my Grandmother passed away, last December. Last year, we were at her home in Florida- it was the last time I got to spend with her before she fell and fatally wounded her head.  Last year, I made the cranberries (the same recipe I've been using for many years), but they turned out very tart- borderline sour. My Grandmother, being 102 at the time, didn't have much left in the way of tastebuds. What she did have, was mostly for sweet. They must have been intolerable for her. When I looked down the table to watch as she tasted them, her face screwed up into the most gruesome pucker I thought she might turn inside out. She turned to my cousin sitting to her side and whispered, "who made the cranberries?" and my Cousin, eyeing me watching, whispered back, "Maggie did" at which point Gammie looked straight down the table to me. As she noticed I had been watching, her face popped out of its pucker and she very graciously lied to me, telling me they were wonderful. Inside I was hysterically laughing to myself- it didn't bother me that she might have hated them. What I loved, though, was that she didn't want to hurt my feelings and let me know they were too sour for her. And by G-D, she choked those suckers down. Looking back on this, I just love this little story all the more. It's so indicative of Gammie- and of how she always made me feel special- no matter what.
We ate Thanksgiving dinner at Gammie's table, sitting on her chairs, with her tablecloths this year. Except the table, chairs and linens all now live at my Brother's house in Utah. For years, I have been the one to order the flowers for her table. I know the dimensions of the table, and parameters under which to keep the arrangement; colors, width, height, length, which flowers she liked and which she didn't. When I ordered flowers for the centerpiece last week, I stopped mid-sentence on the phone with the florist when I realized that I was ordering flowers for the SAME table- with the same parameters and dimensions and preferences. Only now, the table is somewhere else. And so is Gammie.
We went around the table, naming things we were each grateful for. When it was my turn, like everyone else, I stated how grateful I was for family, blah blah blah. But I also mentioned that I was grateful that Gammie had died when and how she did. When I saw everyone's raised eyebrows at this, I went on to explain what I meant by this. Gammie was 102. She was spunky, fiesty, funny, fiercely independent, and truly marvelous. She was also very tired. And, in a way, lonely and sad. Her last husband (number 4) who had been her true life's love, had preceded her in death by 10 years. She had lost all of her friends,  her nephew and his wife, and was starting to lose some of her mobility- and along with it, some of her independence. Which she never wanted. Her live-in companion, who was a friend and skilled nurse and who ended up becoming a part of our family, had noted often to me how she felt that Gammie was "slowing down." She was ready to go. One of the things she kept saying last year was, "how old am I?" and when we would tell her, "102 Gammie," she would roll her eyes and drop her jaw, and look up to the ceiling and say, "I think they forgot about me." I think she was ready to move on. She was someone who would NOT have accepted having a lingering illness, or a debilitating injury. She died the same way she lived her life: with dignity and grace, and very purposeful. There was no other option when she hit her head on her marble floor as hard as she did. That was it, and that was going to be the end. And I'm glad for her, that she did not live long enough to have to fall ill, or be removed from the home she so loved, or to have had to lose her faculties in any way. I'm glad that she went out when she was vital and strong and independent. I'm glad that she didn't linger in a coma. I'm glad that she wasn't in any pain. I'm glad she never got to the point of having to have had to depend on someone else to help her walk, or eat, or speak. I'm glad that she went out when and how she did. I'm glad that she lived long enough to know my children, and for them to be old enough to have solid memories of her. And I'm glad that I got the privilege to help usher her out of this world.
When my uncle called at 7AM on the morning of December 7 of last year and said, "your Grandmother has fallen," my heart just sank to my feet.  I leaped out of bed, and said, "Gammie is going to die today. I have to go." I got my kids off to school, and raced to make a noon flight. We had just come home from having been there for Thanksgiving, and all of our suitcases were still unpacked and exploded open on the floor of the upstairs hallway. I simply closed mine back up, and brought it with me again. My dad and step-mom were on the flights with me- we changed three times before we got to Florida, at 9PM. We went straight to the hospital, and I went straight to her side. She was and had been unconscious since they had taken her for CAT scans earlier that morning after they had brought her in the ambulance. I grabbed her hand, and told her I was there- and she squeezed. They say that speech is the first thing to go with a fatal head injury, and hearing the last. Although she could not respond with anything other than a squeeze, I know she could hear me. And I know she knew I was there. My oldest brother had already arrived from Chicago that afternoon. He, I and M (her companion, caretaker and friend) all stayed up with her that whole night. The three of us took turns sitting in the chair next to her, or on the bed next to her, holding her hand, brushing her hair, cleaning out her mouth, wiping her face. When her breathing would become labored with fluid, we would call the nurse in to suction out her airway and give her some relief. We hooked up my iPod to the TV and watched movies she loved- funny ones, Jane Austen-ish ones, romantic ones. We talked to her, we laughed, we spent one last amazing night with her life still present in her body, in that hospital room. As the morning drew nearer, we each started dozing off. One of the nurses brought in a roll-away bed for me to curl up on for an hour or so. When her breathing started becoming more and more labored, and shallower and shallower, I went and sat on the bed next to her again and clutched her hand. It became obvious the suction wasn't going to cut it much longer and they gave her an injection of  lasix to help dry out some of the fluid gathering in her throat and lungs- in an attempt to give her some kind of ease, or comfort in the death process. In this time, her hands had become really hot and clammy- and I could no longer force her fingers to twine with mine. Her hand wanted to be  in a fist, as her extremities were shutting down. So I held her fist. When the much deliberated-over decision was made later in the morning to give her a tiny bit of morphine to further help give her some "ease," I had a few moments alone with her. I put my face next to hers and whispered whatever comfort I could think of- all the time, still hoping she could hear me. I told her that we all loved her so much, but that we would all be OK when she went. I told her how she would see her own parents soon- that they were waiting for her. I told her that it was time for her to let go and fly. After they gave her the morphine, we all sat or stood around her and watched and waited. I hadn't left my spot next to her on the bed, and I hadn't ever let go of her hand. Her breathing would stop for a moment, I'd stroke her arm, and she'd start back up again. At one point, her eyes opened for an instant-  I felt her whole body rise up in a moment of complete muscle tension, and her hand in mine jerked- I thought she might suddenly awake- then her eyes closed, and she softened back into the pillows, as the last breath left her lungs in a loose trill, and she was gone.
I have had the privilege of being present when many a baby has taken its first breath of life in this world. This was the first time I had the privilege of being present for someone who breathed their final breath in this world- and I'm so grateful that that person was Gammie- probably the single most important and influential person in my life. After she was gone, and I sat there and had a REALLY cathartic full-belly-anguished cry, I got fully up on the bed next to her body and curled up with her, putting my head on her chest as I had done so often with her in life. I stayed there curled around her body for close to an hour. Other family members arrived from their own long journeys to get there, and I  relinquished my spot. She died just a bit before noon. The hospital staff had some lunch trays set out for all of us in a nearby gathering room- which I found to be such an incredibly sensitive and lovely thing. We all needed to eat and drink, and take a breath. For the rest of the day, we all as a family, sat around her room then, I on one side of her again on the bed, her daughter on the other, and told stories. Most were really funny, some were melancholy, others sad. I'm not sure what other patients on the floor must have thought at this site: A family sitting around their deceased matriarch, talking and telling stories and every once in a while the sound of peeling laughter coming forth from the room. It was really wonderful. Gammie would have loved it. We all stayed until the funeral home employees came to take her body at 5PM. She was still warm. And her jaw muscles had tightened, so her mouth had closed- and she was smiling. No shit.
And so: I'm grateful for having had Gammie as my amazing Grandmother. I'm grateful she lived as long as she did. I'm grateful for the beauty of the life and death process. I'm grateful for compassion from amazing health care workers. I'm grateful for incredible friends and loving family. And I'm grateful for having the privilege to BE grateful.

Nada

Soooo tired. I don't think I'll be meeting the "30 posts in 30 days" challenge for November. I get a big fat FAIL. Oh well. Too difficult a month to try for a post every night.
I hope to post something wonderfully prosaic tomorrow about gratitude, and more miracles- it being Thanksgiving and all. But don't be surprised if, after having consumed much wine, I'm unable to do so.  A post with real substance may be a few more days in coming... please bear with me.
Now I must go make cranberries. I'm soooooooo sleeeeeppyy.......
Night night, world.

Flight

Well, we made it safely to Utah- no tears shed on the planes. Both flights were pleasingly short in duration, and otherwise uneventful. Except for the last bit of the flight coming in to Salt Lake City. The sunset as we descended was the most amazing one I think I've ever seen. First, there were the mountains beneath us- snow capped and huge, and well, majestic. Then there was the color of said mountains: beneath the snow they were a deepening shade of purple-turning to deep iris blue. The snow caps were bright fuschia pink. This was below. What was on the horizon was an incredible orange-y white and yellow glowing HUGE sun, tinged behind whispy clouds like spun sugar. Then there was the sky itself. More whisps of clouds in every shade from more deep iris to their underside, tinged with pink and coral. Then we came over the water of the Great Salt Lake- and all of this was reflected on the perfectly smooth glass surface. It was an unbelievable sight, and it just kept getting better and better. Now I've seen some sunsets in my time- some spin around and break into The Hills Are Alive With The Sound of Music kind of sunsets. This trumped every one I've ever seen. This was the kind of sight that makes you believe in G-D if you hadn't previously. This was the kind of sight that made everyone on the airplane gape open-mouthed out their windows and take pictures. This was the kind of sight that inspired the bad comedian flight attendant to get on the speaker and wax rhapsodic about the beauty of the world and how lucky we all are and thankful we all should be. This was the perfect sight to begin Thanksgiving weekend. Flying fear, upon witnessing this glory? Gone. Freaky twitches of nerves and tension about hurdling through the air at 500 mph in a metal bullet? Quelled. Increased sense of awe and wonder at our amazing world? Check. Completed sense of gratitude? Bingo.  

Vomitus

We are supposed to get on an airplane tomorrow. Two, actually. The kids and I are going to my Brother's in Utah for Thanksgiving (And no, they're not Mormon. Because I knew that's what you were thinking.) My kids adore their cousins, and they have never been to visit them. Then Sophie started barfing at dinner. Apparently, this stomach bug has been making the rounds in their school. Out came her dinner- I timed it perfectly so she was very tidy about getting it right into a tupperware container I had just handed her- while I held her hair. One really great thing about being a Doula- barf does not phase me in the least. I've been puked on countless times- sometimes projectile, sometimes even getting a splatter in the mouth. Phased? Not a bit. Turned my own tummy? Not a bit. I'm just one of those people. It's just another bodily fluid. No biggie. But when it's timed with an impending vacation? I'm phased. I didn't let her take another sip of anything before bath and bed. She's barfed a few more times- but not much after the initial launch. Now she's basically just dry-heaving. I let her rinse her mouth, but no sips of anything yet. I'm going to starve this fucking bug right out of her little body. Because we are going on this vacation. I need this break. I need to hang with my brother and cook cranberries and put on my eatin' pants and stuff myself silly, then pass out from all the turkey tryptophan. I need Thanksgiving vacation. It's like heroin. Maybe I'll just strap some kind of feed bag around her neck to get on the plane so she can simply put her chin down and barf into it. I hope Alex doesn't get this bug. Or me. I have some eating to do. I'd like to keep Thanksgiving down.
Getting on an airplane is traumatic enough for me. I HATE flying. It terrifies me- and I don't mean, "oh, yeah, traveling is such a hassle, I hate it to.." I mean I'm the one you see saying prayers, holding special talismans, crying in my seat and burying my face into the shoulder of the huge stranger spilling over their seat into the space of mine. I'm THAT one. I have a ritual (many, actually) when I get on a plane- I go to the cockpit and have a little chat with the pilots, and shed some tears so they know how serious I am. We've been flying with the kids since they were 6 months old, and I"ve sincerely tried to diminish this in front of them- I don't want them to adopt this same fear. I can't hide the fact that I'm terrified, though- they know how scared I am. And they're getting to the age where they comfort me- so far, they haven't adopted my fear for themselves. I hope they don't because it's seriously debilitating. It's my worst thing. It turns me into a completely irrational, blithering idiot. When we land, I'm fine. If there are bumps, I freak. If there are bumps in the clouds, I freak. If there are clouds, I freak. I'm better if I can see the ground. I can get distracted when I can see the ground. Not a whole lot else helps. Except having my kids with me. I am also better when I'm with my kids- because I really do know that I should and do try to squelch the intensity of my fear. I don't want them to see it in all it's full regalia. It's not pretty.   Add potential barfing to this equation, and tomorrow could be REALLY interesting. Wish me luck.
Oh- did I mention I've had a horrible sore throat all day that's getting worse and turning into a cough?
Because I don't have enough stacked against me for taking this trip tomorrow.
Did I mention how much I hate flying?
Aaaaaaand my Bears just got smashed by the 49ers. Think I'll go vomit.
GOO'NIGHT, FOLKS!!

Outrage Fatigue

As a friend of mine said on a Facebook reply tonight, "I have outrage fatigue." One of my closest friends came over last night with her kids- she and I started talking about this blog, and some of the posts I've been publishing. The conversation evolved into a very intense discussion about abortion, women's health, and the latest travesty of justice regarding Ireland's recent lapse of judgement concerning their stance on abortion. Her son came into the room and gleefully asked if they could have a sleep-over. Having had a glass of wine already (she's not used to drinking at all anymore- I'm such a bad influence), she and I both said, "sure, why not." When her son then said, "right now?" we both, once again, said "sure- why not!" We put the kids to bed, set up the bed in the studio for her and the baby, and commenced to pouring ourselves some more wine. (Hence, no post last night- sorry!)
She continued to tell me the story of Savita Halappanavar, a 31 year old woman from India, living and working in Ireland with her husband. She was 17 weeks pregnant, a very wanted pregnancy, when she started to miscarry. She was admitted to the hospital with ruptured membranes, great pain, and a dieing fetus. Because of  Ireland's lack of any legislature or policy regarding abortion separate from that of the Catholic church, they remain a country where abortion is illegal. Savita and her husband were told that indeed, she would lose the baby. When they begged for termination, or even induction to help the inevitable loss, they were told, "this is a Catholic country" and that there was nothing that could (or would) be done as long as there was still a fetal heartbeat. When they told the hospital that they were neither Catholic nor Irish naturals, they were simply given the same "we can't do anything" rhetoric. I hope I'm hearing some palms being smacked on foreheads right now.
It took THREE DAYS for the baby to die. In that time, Savita's health declined as she developed septicemia. After the baby died, it was removed surgically, and she slipped into a coma and died 4 days later. More foreheads being smacked? I hope so.
Now my friend, being from Ireland, while being appropriately outraged and disgusted, is also completely disappointed and saddened by her own country's lack of rational judgement, and lack of governmental policy concerning abortion. There was a case in the court system in 1992 involving a 14 year old girl who was raped by her neighbor, and wanted an abortion. It was known as the case of  "X" as the girl's name was never made public. She and her family successfully sued the government, with the girl threatening to commit suicide. Since then no incumbent government has been able to implement any real policy that honors exceptional cases, and accepts life-threatening circumstances as grounds for a legalized abortion. Instead, innocent healthy women are at risk of being killed by a government that operates under legislation established in 1861.
I don't mean to get political. Nor do I wish to bash Ireland. But I am outraged.
And why all this talk about abortion? "I thought this was supposed to be a blog about infertility!?"
Well- because, 1. It's a women's health issue- as is infertility. 2. It hits close to home for me, (have you read My Story- parts 1 and 2?)
My friend (I'll call her T) and I were talking about the "My Story" posts I've published, and about how there seemed to be a recurring theme of the lack of respect, and abusive ill-treatment towards me both times I was faced with this issue. In both instances for me, there was a certain doctor who, for whatever reason, decided that perhaps their own personal views on the matter took precedence over their treatment of me. I fear this is a more common phenomena than people know or talk about. If I have been so medically mistreated, I cannot even imagine how women are being treated who come to the issue from other avenues or other countries. What has happened to women's health? Has it always held so little regard for the lives of women!? There is a Jewish law concerning this very thing, and it says, basically, that the precedence is to save the ESTABLISHED life. So Savita died because her already doomed fetus still had a heartbeat (no brain function or chance of survival in any way). I do NOT understand this thinking. So it's OK for mothers to die, but G-D forbid that non-viable fetus be harmed!? WTF!?
OK- I know it's not so black and white, and I know that it's such a huge and complicated issue. I get that. I really do. It's a huge and complicated issue for me and my own viewpoint, and I went through an abortion and an attempt at a second. It's this very set of experiences for me, though, that resonates with my entire history of infertility. Because I will forever be suspicious of that first abortion and second attempted one having somehow caused my infertility. I'm outraged. On so many levels. And I'm tired from the outrage. I have outrage fatigue.
Sleep peacefully, dear Savita- I hope you go somewhere where you are surrounded by loving children, and I hope your death was not in vain.

My Story Part 2

OK-I promised "my story part 2" for tonight, so here goes...
In the summer of 1996, I moved out to New Mexico from Boston. I didn't know anyone here, nor did I really have any kind of handle on what part of town to live in, so I rented an apartment in a very new, very large apartment complex right up next to the mountains. It was the kind of newly developed apartment complex in which people rented for short-term, or visiting situations. Not exactly the type of place families were settling for years on end. Generic, white-carpeted places with a central "clubhouse" and pool- sort of a long-term mid-level hotel. NOT my kind of place. A few months after I had been living there, (by this time I had made some friends, and even managed to establish a casual affair) one of my closest girlfriends from Boston decided to "follow me" out west, and moved out here to be my roommate. We switched to a larger apartment in the same complex shortly before Thanksgiving in 1996. In the spring of 1997, she decided it was time for her to go even further west, and she and I drove all her belongings and her cat, out to L.A. That was a really great trip and worth its own post or two entirely, but not tonight....
When I got back from this road trip, I immediately began looking for some kind of small house or condo to buy- this time, in the exact opposite part of town. I wanted something old, adobe, wood floors, in the Valley, surrounded by big trees and cozy. The antithesis of where and in what I currently was. I found exactly what I was searching for- a small older adobe condo which had one shared wall with another- really a "casita" (small house) in a well established adobe condo complex. Lots of big, old cottonwood and elm trees, near the river- perfect. Almost. It was dark and dated, and had awful old brick floors. But it had good bones and I saw its potential. Plus I got it for a steal!
I had some friends through work, who were also good friends with an independent contractor who would do all the work I proposed to bring the place "up to scratch." Which was a LOT. I pretty much gutted the place and started over. One of the workmen on this job, was a cutie-pie who I "took up" with. This was a very weird relationship (and I use the term relationship VERY loosely). It was really more of series of getting drunk in various bars, then going home and having lots and lots of sex. Really stupid, immature and irresponsible. And did I mention really drunken?  Sometime in the late winter of 1998, we made a big mistake. We had always used something, but one night (isn't it funny how things always seem to happen the 'ONE TIME' you're not careful!?) when I had a nice fire going in the fireplace,  we laid out blankets and pillows on the floor- all very romantic, we decided not to use anything. Well, a few weeks later- you guessed it- preg-o.
When I called to tell him, the immediate response was, "You connived and planned this"... along with a further abusive barrage. Nice. Really nice. I can't even remember what my reaction was. There was a great deal about this time that I do not remember. It was pretty traumatic. I do recall deciding that perhaps I might keep this baby. I had a good job, I owned my own home, had health insurance, and I was going to turn 30 in a few months. Seemed like an OK time to be a single mom- I could do it. I called my parents to talk to them about it, and my Mom (who had been diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer only a few months previous) sobbed into the phone that "I was killing her." Great. Let's add a large helping of guilt with guilt, shall we?
I do not remember how I came to the decision to not take the pregnancy any further, but somewhere along the road about a week or two later, I did. I never had any sickness with this pregnancy. My breasts became larger and tender, and darker. I developed a very early ligna-negra that stayed for a long time. I never threw up or had any real nausea. I did have a very heightened sense of smell, but no odd cravings of any kind. Somehow, the "guy" (who I'll refer to as TM), decided maybe he should step up. On the day we were to go to my doctor's office for an abortion, I drove over to his apartment to pick him up, as he said he'd go with me. Sitting in his small living room, he looked at me with sheepish shame, and asked if I would drive him over to a clinic "after" so he could get an STD and AIDS test. Apparently, the entire time he had been seeing me, he had also been "taking up" with a woman he had said was "his Ex," who, upon hearing that he had gotten me knocked up, insisted he go get a bunch of tests, assuming I was some nasty Ho. When I heard this, my initial instinct was pure fight-or-flight and I jumped up and ran out of his apartment and into the street. It was like a bad movie. A really bad movie. When I stopped running to catch my breath, he came trotting up behind me, and said to come back in, not to worry about it, that he would figure something else out, etc. He did come to the doctor's office, though I never spoke another word to him. When they did an ultrasound, they would not let me see the screen, or hear anything (along the lines of a heartbeat.) I have no idea what was seen on that imaging. The doctor came back into the room and told us that they couldn't do the abortion that day. That I wasn't FAR ALONG ENOUGH to be sure to "get everything out." I honestly can't remember where I dropped TM off after that- probably back at his apartment. I never spoke to or heard from him again. Good riddance.
My Mom and I had never had a very great or close relationship growing up. Her reaction when I told her about the pregnancy of "you're killing me" was pretty typical of her self-centered attitude toward me. I'm not "mom-bashing" by any means. I loved my mom, and our relationship was really not that out of the ordinary as far as mothers-and-daughters goes. But I called her. Because I really needed her.  For the very first time in my life, my mom came out to be with me- just because I really needed her. I picked her up at the airport a couple of weeks later. I had just gotten a new SUV, and I had to help her climb up into it (she was already going through her own cancer treatments.) 
On the morning we were to go back to the doctor's for the abortion, I started bleeding. Heavily. I had started to miscarry. When we went in, the doctor confirmed that I was already or had already lost most of the pregnancy, but she would do some precautionary "clean up" by performing a D and C. Right there in an exam room. No novocaine. Of any kind. Mom had to throw her entire body over mine, to hold me down on the table while this doctor yanked my cervix- my non-numbed cervix, open. Open enough to get a large syringe into, to "suck out" whatever was left inside my uterus.
When we got home, I was shaking so badly, mom had to lay on my pulled-out sofa bed with her body mostly over mine again, to help control the shaking. I remember for the next few days just hibernating on that sofa bed, ordering Chinese take-out, watching movies, drinking wine, talking and laughing. It was one of the best times I ever spent with her, after the worst time of my life.
For many months after this, I developed recurring uterine infections and complications- heavy bleeding, pain, passing huge clots, fevers, intermittent periods, you name it. My body was a mess. My uterus must have been a mess. My psyche was a mess.
This experience sparked a time to follow, of intense inner turmoil, along with revelations and epiphanies. It was my bottom. I definitely came out of it much wiser and more cautious. But it was a rough go for a while.

Alone

Halfway, baby!! Tonight marks post number 15 out of 30 for the National Blog Posting Month on the Blogher challenge... "30 posts in 30 days" Can I get a woot woot?
Writing every night has been a serious challenge. Especially trying to write anything I think might be in the least bit interesting for anyone else but me to read. But "a writer writes"- right? Not that I consider myself a writer, more maybe just someone who enjoys writing, and find it a cathartic and mind exercising thing to do every night. Sitting on the couch in the den in my nightgown and sweater with a roaring fire, 4 cats, a good movie (with the sound turned off) and a glass of wine after everyone else in the house is snugly tucked into their beds, I'm sort of finding my bliss.
I'm posting very late tonight, because I got sucked into a movie called "Multiple Sarcasms" with Timothy Hutton, Dana Delaney and Mira Sorvino. (I had obviously turned the sound on for this one). The basic premise of the film, as described in the blurb on DirecTV reads,  "Gabriel is a successful architect but, one day, realizes that he hates his life; he quits his job to write a play, a decision that ruins his marriage but brings him happiness."  Well- thought I- HUH. Doesn't that sound familiar!? OK- not the hating my life to that extent or ruining my marriage part, but the hating the job, being an architect, wanting to write part- certainly. Haven't quit the job yet- still too terrified with no other employment prospects as of yet to fall back on. My responsibilities outweigh my own mishigas at this point. There was a great line in the movie, which I wrote down:
Timothy Hutton and Mira Sorvino are best friends, sitting in the park talking about what life is like for him a year after he and his wife (Dana Delaney) have split and she and their daughter have moved out. He says, "I loved the idea of being alone when there was someone in the other room. But when there isn't..." and Mira Sorvino cuts him off and says, "yeah. You're alone." The way she speaks the word "alone" at the end of that response sort of hangs like and echo in the air. What a perfect summation of so much! How often I've felt exactly that same way- haven't you? We love the concept of being alone as an abstract,  but the hard reality of it is something else entirely. It's an amazing moment as films go, and the whole movie is filled with great writing like that. I want to be able to write like that. I want to be able to convey life in ways that make people stop and think, and say "hmm" to themselves. Writing every night helps... even if it's just a rant, this blog is my only creative outlet right now. So thanks for reading (if there IS anyone still reading) and thanks for sticking with me!

Tomorrow night I will continue with my story- part 2. Get ready for some good drama...

Suddenly Sweating

I offer for your enjoyment, tonight, the preface to the book I'm trying to write, called Suddenly Sweating.

August 30, 2012

Sitting here on our back patio, listening to the playlist on my iPod entitled, “samba lounge,” I’ve had an epiphany.

Why write a somber, maybe even morose essay about my trials and tribulations with infertility? I had originally planned on pouring over boxes of notes, medical files, research, journal entries, online “tips” and other people’s similar experiences in order to regurgitate it all into a serious expose of “one woman’s journey through infertility to motherhood and beyond.” When suddenly, the new book idea presented itself to me through a post on Facebook I made this afternoon mid-hot flash at my desk at work. I posted my status as “Suddenly Sweating” with the byline of, “sounds like a good name for an all-girl band, doesn’t it?” This prompted a slew of responses and hysterical song titles by friends:

“45 Layers” by Suddenly Sweating.

“Why am I Awake at 3AM?” by Suddenly Sweating.

“Why am I Awake at 3AM Soaking Wet and Stuck to my Pillow?” by Suddenly Sweating.

“Why Did I Walk to the Kitchen?”

“Where is the KY?”

“Why is everything sagging?”

“Oops! I sneezed and wet my pants a little”

“Please Excuse me While I Stick my Head in the Freezer.” 

By Suddenly Sweating. You get the idea.

A light bulb burst in my brain then, when I looked out into our vineyard and saw a hawk sitting quietly on one of the end posts, taking in the evening air. Was he sent here by providence? Was he symbolic of some great endeavor I’m supposed to embark upon? Maybe.

Why not write a light, pithy expose- filled with humor, realism, and soul-bearing about my journey?

Why not share experiences and stories from so many of the women I know who have become mothers through varying methods?

Why not write something that takes a hard look at the infertility crisis in this country, through personal experiences of me and almost every mother I know? Certainly women will be much more inclined to read and identify with women who have been through the proverbial ringer of infertility, who can help other women going through similar experiences with some uplifting stories, not taking oneself too seriously while maintaining the necessary HOPE that fills the head and heart of every woman trying to become a mommy? Perhaps I can find a way to tell my story and inspire women who have lost some of that hope, or are in any part of their own journey to motherhood with a bit of humor, and raw reality?

As I head into menopause, it seems fitting that “Suddenly Sweating” should be not just the book title, but the title for the next phase of my life altogether. While I am struck by the irony of this next phase, after so many years on the infertility roller coaster, I am also struck by what I can only be described as an inner smile, a secret chuckle I hold inside. How many years have I spent in the hope that “maybe this time” I’ll miraculously get pregnant, this round of IVF will work, or this embryo will stick, only to now find myself at what is truly the end of my fertile years. Oh the irony. A few years ago, I would have crumbled at the very thought of it. Even thinking ahead to the time when I could realistically no longer somehow miraculously become pregnant and actually hang on to it, would have sent me into a depressive and anxious tizzy. I would wallow in my hopelessness in those instances. For some inexplicable reason, now that the next phase of my (fertile) life is actually upon me, I find that I’m somewhat relieved. How can this be!? RELIEVED- seriously!? Yes. I think I can finally begin to let go. Halle-fucking-luliah. It’s like a thousand pound elephant is suddenly being extricated from my back. (Actually, I wouldn’t mind if a metaphorical thousand pound- well, OK maybe a 50 pound elephant could be extricated from my ass.) But that’s another story.

I have asked myself often why I seem to have this driving force to write my story and to share other women’s stories of their battles with infertility- and why now? I think there are probably fifty thousand answers to these questions. Perhaps because I want to inspire other women struggling with infertility- to reassure them that there is hope; That there are many ways to become a Mom; That the very definition of Mom is wider than they could ever imagine; That their hearts are stronger than they know; That the process itself is what will make them the strongest women alive; That the end result of a baby isn’t necessarily their defining moment as a woman and that it shouldn’t be; That even if a baby or child never actually does come into their lives, they are still strong, important, loved, worthy, WOMEN. And maybe, hopefully, to share some laughs and smiles of recognition along the way. Also because when my husband and I were embarking upon our journey of Gestational Surrogacy after 5 failed rounds of IVF, I found that there was virtually nothing out there for me. I found no books that spoke directly to my situation, no collection of shared similar experiences, no website that was targeted for anyone going through exactly what we were and no laws in our state regarding Gestational Surrogacy at all. I vowed then, that I would try to rectify this. Surely there were other women out there, going through what I was going through!?

Maybe now, because of all the loss I’ve experienced this year. The one person with whom I had the closest relationship of my life, and who understood me more than anyone ever has or probably ever will, my Grandmother, died within this past year, along with numerous other friends and family friends. Devastating. But strength building, too. I’m suddenly finding myself re-defined in the world. Without the approval from Gammie for almost every aspect of my life, I am now forced to change how I think, feel, react, see the world, and discover my own place in it. My role in my family has changed virtually overnight, from dependent, from victim, from Granddaughter, from maiden; to independent, victorious, Mother. Holy shit!? Now I’M the freaking MOM- in every sense. I am the one my daughter will come to with questions about the world, and about becoming a woman. I’M the one to provide the answers. I can’t call my Grandmother or my mother. I’M the one now. I’ve moved up a notch. Shit.

Now it’s time for me to write it all down, and to share the stories.

Suddenly I’m sweating.