The Infertility Disease

So, did you know it's National Infertility Awareness Week? I didn't either. April also happens to be National Poetry Month, National Manatee Awareness Month, National Marching Band Appreciation Month, and National Arab-American Heritage Month.

I discovered National Infertility Awareness Week (NIAW for those acronym-ically inclined) when I was perusing Facebook, and a law school acquaintance had posted this as her status:

"April 24 - May 1st is National Infertility Awareness Week. Please take a minute to empathize with the couples struggling to achieve a family. And if you really want to be helpful, don't ask a childless couple when they plan to have kids. Or ask parents of an only child when they plan on another. Or tell a couple who are struggling "to relax." Or tell them that infertility is "God's will." Or to "just adopt!""

I'm pretty sure I was telling you this just the other day.

So, I was relaying this to Jeff last night while we were walking the dog. He asked if there were ribbons. So, I went to my trusty search engine and found that green ribbons are, in fact, available. For your information, I will not be sporting a green ribbon this week. That seems to be an invitation to disaster. It'd be like wearing a big name tag that reads, "Hi! My name is Katie! Ask me today about my struggle with infertility!"

But here's the thing that really got to me. I went to the NIAW website and the following fact was posted, front and center: "National Infertility Awareness Week is a movement to raise awareness about the disease of infertility which affects 7.3 million Americans."

Disease.

Disease.

You've got to be kidding me. Webster's Dictionary defines the term "disease" as an abnormal condition of an organism that impairs normal bodily function. It manifests itself with specific signs and symptoms. Over the past few weeks, I've felt and thought a lot of different things about myself, but I've never thought of myself as a person with a disease. But according to Webster, I guess I've got the infertility disease. If you take the NIAW at their word, then it's apparently a normal bodily function for women to get pregnant and have children. Women who can't have children are, apparently sick. After all, we have a disease.

This whole concept of being "diseased" has led me to ignore the week designated for the infertile. So, for the remaining days in April, I will be devoting my attention to the other groups being honored this month. So, expect to find me in a coffee shop, listening to some Arabic prose, while reading a book about manatees, with an iPod play list devoted to great marching bands.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

Alright. I’m sitting here waiting. For many things. For inspiration and motivation to come, for my estrogen to kick in. The plumber. The contractor.

Last night was not a good night. I took my estrogen pills late last night and it kicked in right as my husband walked in the door. And I don't need to remind you that science found a way to bottle PMS in capsule form and dish it out. While the last few weeks, I’ve turned into a weeping mess after taking these lovely hormone-enhancing drugs, last night was just the opposite. It also didn’t help that I discovered a leak in one of the pipes directly above our kitchen. My agitation only increased when my husband wanted to watch the end of the Twins game (they were in the bottom of the 8th inning, ahead by two runs), and that, when I finally did get to watch American Idol, my girl Bowersox didn’t rock like she normally does. So, all in all, the circumstances for Hurricane Estrogen were just about perfect.

I was snotty, I was snide. I was, in fact, down right malicious. To my cowering husband and to all the contestants on American Idol. And, it spilled over into Glee as well. It happens. About two hours into my tirade, my husband told me to can it, and to find some serenity. He didn't want to play "What Will Simon Say," our favorite American Idol past time. As if. I went to bed, feeling crabby, weepy, and of course, very sorry for myself.

Fast-forward the scene to the present.

The plumber just left. I wonder if he could smell the waves of estrogen and rage billowing off of me. He was kind when he broke the news to me, gently telling me that I'll need to have my bathroom redone. It's the little things we should be grateful for, I suppose. I pity the claims adjuster that has to deal with me today.

I need a break. I need a remote control on my life. Something that lets me hit pause just so I can take the time I need to comprehend it all and throw an all-out temper tantrum. Or, preferably, something to DVR my life, so I can record what I've done and watch when everything is over, and fast forward through the low points and bursts of crazy, skipping to the feel-good portion where you know everything turns out well in the end. You know, something with a lesson to be learned at the end. Kind of like an episode of "Full House."

But I suppose that's the point of life. You have to muddle through your own twists and turns to discover your own rainbow. I'm just hoping mine has a pot of gold at the end. After all, we do need a new bathroom.

The Loaded Question

Helen Keller once said, “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle.” At least I think she was the one who said that. Coming from her, that’s a pretty powerful statement. Blind and deaf, she still managed overcome obstacles to convey a sentiment that should ring true in everyone’s life. And let’s be honest, Helen Keller probably had a lot more adversity to overcome than you or I do.

I would love to say that I abide by this rule. But, sadly, I don’t. I judge. I am judgmental. In fact, I even judge people who use poor grammar. I also happen to have an opinion on just about everything. And, of course, my opinion is the only one that counts and the only one that should matter. I imagine that there are many people that feel like this.

So, why should it bother me when other people choose to give me their own take on my life?

Consider Scene One:

The scene opens on me and a group of co-workers, enjoying cocktails in a local bar. There’s laughing, cajoling, a general sense of frivolity and of course, copious amounts of alcohol. I am enjoying my favorite (a glass of champagne) while talking with another woman in my office. For anonymity’s sake, let’s call this woman Fran.

Fran: So, are you and your husband planning on starting a family soon?

Me: Actually, we’re having some difficulty getting pregnant. I’ve been undergoing hormone replacement therapy for a few weeks now to try and help with that. Keep your fingers crossed for us and send fertile thoughts our way!

Fran: You know, if God had wanted you to have children, he would have given them to you already. These drugs you’re taking are just your attempt at trying to change His plan for you.

Me: (Sense of incomprehension on face) Oh. Well. Excuse me please.

And the scene ends with me exiting stage left and bee-lining straight for the ladies room.

Consider Scene Two:

The heroine (that’d be me) is seen on an airplane, dressed professionally, sitting next to the window. I am seated next to a woman who can only be stereotyped as the classic Minnesota Mom. She is short, slightly plump, wearing a flower-print tracksuit, glasses, sneakers, carrying a knitting bag, and an open Reader’s Digest it’s clear she has no interest in reading. Oh – she also sports the classic “mom” haircut. If you don’t know what this is, ask my stylist Charlie. He’s got loads to say on that subject. We’ll call her Cheryl (since I have no idea what her actual name was).

Cheryl: So, are you and your husband planning on starting a family soon?

Me: We’re working on it! (Read this line with enthusiasm and optimistic inflection).

Cheryl: Well, it’s just a shame that you and your husband waited so long to start having children. I had four children, and now I’ve got two grandchildren and it’s so nice that I’m still young enough to enjoy them. You know how grandchildren are. Oh…well, I suppose you don’t. And what did you say you did for work? You’re a lawyer? Well, of course you’re going to stop working when you finally have children, right? You know you should do that because it’s just terrible for the children to have two working parents….ad lib, ad lib. For several minutes.

The scene ends with me staring wistfully out the window, silently sending thoughts towards heaven, wishing God would send me a Xanax to slip into her tomato juice.

So, I was relaying these episodes to my friend, Catie, the other day. She and I got on the subject of the loaded nature of such a simple question: When are you planning on having children? She mentioned that, between friends, the question is relatively benign. And besides, as she pointed out, your friends probably already know your family planning timeline. However, when the question is posed by casual acquaintances or random strangers on a plane, it becomes much more of a precarious situation and the question becomes much more dangerous.

To be honest, I don’t think that this question is meant to hurt or drudge up any suppressed feelings. The question, quite simply, is small talk asked by nosy individuals and the one you seek to avoid at family dinners. My friend, Ashley, was sympathizing with me earlier today, telling me that she’s so tired of being asked when she’s going to get a boyfriend, or if she’s planning on settling down. We concluded that the questioner genuinely wants to know your answer, even if he or she is unaware of the uncomfortable environment it creates.

The point of this, really, is that family planning decisions should only be made by two people. Three people (and their opinions) are not needed to create life. So, if you choose to pose this question in the future, keep your opinions to yourself. And remember Helen Keller.

A Brief History of Me

At some point, I started narrating my life. In my head, I mean. I don't really think of myself in the third person, but rather as though I was reading a book, where I would be the main character. The story of my life, told by me, inside my head.

For some reason, resulting to this default level allows me to remove myself from it all. It's as though what's going on in my life is actually happening to another person and I'm just reading about it. Others might call this living in denial. But it helps. And, like you've never imagined a soundtrack accompanying your life.

Right now, at this chapter in My Life, the main character would be at the point of the story where the plot just begins to thicken. The song accompanying the newly encountered twists and turns would be "Breathe Me" by Sia. Note that my story starts at the beginning of the book.

So, enter me. Up until the point my story begins, I've been a relatively normal person. I live life, work hard, love my husband, and spend time with friends and family. There isn't much there that is different from anyone else. We've all pursued the American dream of a house in the suburbs with a mortgage, an SUV, and 2.4 kids. And that's when my story takes a screeching detour.

Kids.

You see, up until now, my reproductive plans had been carefully laid out. Get married and remain childless for two years, enjoy time with my husband, work on my career, travel, spend Saturday mornings sleeping in, and lounging over long Sunday brunches. And of course, make sure there's a baby on the way by the time I turn 30. I've got six months until my 30th birthday...or, more precisely, 23 weeks and five days. Not that I'm counting.

Poet Robert Burns once wrote, "The best laid schemes...oft go awry...And leave us nothing but grief and pain for promised joy." Or perhaps the Stones said it better when they told me I couldn't always get what I wanted.

By now, I've danced around the subject enough. So, you might as well know that my doctors don't believe I'll be able to have children. And it's the only thing I want. All women assume that they'll be able to conceive and carry children. It's what we, as women, are literally built to accomplish. I've got all the right parts, it just doesn't work. Kind of like that Leksvik coffee table you bought from Ikea. It's like God forgot to throw in one extra bolt or piece of laminated cardboard when he made me.

And again, I suppose I'm getting ahead of myself. There's a chance I won't be able to have children. No one has told me to forget the possibility of bringing giant-headed Storms babies into this world. Yet.

So, next Wednesday, I'll be going in for surgery. I'll put on my serious hat just for a minute. I'll be undergoing three procedures - three surgeries for the price of one. Not really though, because what insurance company would ever let you get away with that? I'll be having a laprascopy, a cystoscopy, and a hysterscopy. They're going to take samples from my endometrial layer, clean up the cysts, take a look at my bladder and cervix. Anything that they encounter in the surgery will be fixed at that time.

It's an easy procedure and all the scars will be "bikini friendly." And I know this because I asked. Hey - if I can't have kids, I might as well make sure I can rock a bikini for as long as possible. So, universe, wish me luck. Send fertile thoughts my way.