Little Victories

This past month has been pretty great.  I've been so happy.  I'm loving life, loving my husband, my family and friends...even my job.  There have been moments where I've stepped back and realized I'm perfectly content with my life.  It's a wonderful kind of serenity, whether hormone-induced or not.

I still faithfully follow my baby-making plan, though.  I take my temperature every morning, drink special teas at night, practice yoga, take my vitamins, and avoid alcohol (well, I may have slipped up once).  These little things have become almost a ritual, and life as I know it has become pretty great.

I was speaking with my mom this morning about how emotional I've been over the past month.  She mentioned to me how sensitive we all are around the holidays.  She told me that, oftentimes, we get so focused on what we do not have, that we forget to be grateful for what we have in front of us.  The pressure of the holidays can get to everyone - we all want Christmas to be perfect - and that thought tends to lead us to ignore what actually is perfect about the holidays and what this holiday season is all about.  And I think that's what I was getting at around Thanksgiving.  I've been feeling so badly for myself that I've forgotten to remember that I am extraordinarily luck.  And so, I vowed to be thankful for what is right in front of me.  And I've stuck to my promise.  

Which is why I'm grateful for little victories.  My basal body temperature has been holding steady since I started on fertility treatments which, in and of itself, is a small victory.  Before starting on the Clomid, my monthly temperature chart looked like a child's drawing of the Rocky Mountains.  Lots of peaks and valleys.  According to Colonel Sanders, it's supposed to look like a "gentle rolling hill"...which is how he could tell I wasn't ovulating in the first place.  So, the fact that it's been pretty constant over the past month is a great thing.  Over the past few days, however, it's been dropping substantially and was several degrees below average.  Whatever, I thought...our bedroom is cold and it's not like we live in the tropics.  But, this morning, my temperature was several degrees above what it usually is and so, I took an ovulation test. 

Turns out, Clomid works.  I know that my odds of getting pregnant this month are still slim, but at least I have something to work with.  At least we know that I respond to Clomid.  And this is the little victory I'm grateful for. 

The Week of Highs and Lows

So, the Clomid Experiment is in full swing around the Storms household these days.  In truth, I am pleased with the amount of emotional control I've been able to muster.  While there have been a few low points, overall, I've felt like I'm on an even keel - and dare I say it, even happier?  Perhaps it has to do with this time of year.  There's so much going on, so many parties to go to, presents to buy, family events to attend, that there really doesn't seem to be a dull moment.  The decorations are up, the Christmas carols are playing, and everything about this season makes me downright jolly. 

Where is the sarcastic and cynical woman of yesterday, you ask?  I've sent her packing and into hibernation. 

For the first time in a long, long time, I'm actually optimistic about the future.  Somehow I know that things will work out.  I don't know how they will work out, but I know that they will.  I haven't had that feeling in a long, long time.  I'm concerned though that the Clomid has made me hallucinate and giving me a sense of false hope.  But I'm banishing those thoughts to the back of my mind.  So, perhaps this day is just a "high" day of the week and tomorrow I'll be a weeping mess again, but I'll just deal with that later. 

The actual day of Thanksgiving was rough for me.  It resulted in me, crying on the ride to church and pretty much through the entire church service.  Don't ask me why.  I couldn't tell you.  I think it had to do with something Jeff said to me about the defroster in my car.  Seriously.  That's how sensitive I've been.  As we were leaving church, I turned around to greet the couple behind us, and inquired about her health, as she has been going through treatment for breast cancer.  She told me that she has to be on hormone replacement therapy for five years...yes, five years.  I couldn't do that.  Or rather, society wouldn't let me do that.  It would require court orders and straight jackets.  In any case, her plight only increased the tears.    

Dinner was pleasant, however.  We had a full table, full bellies, and great conversation.  However, my dad wanted to play a game where we had to write down what we were most thankful for this year.  As I was thinking, I started to panic, as I couldn't think of anything I was really, truly thankful for.  In any case, that's when I kicked my own ass.  How selfish and short-sighted I've been!  I've been so wrapped up in this whole idea of conception and my own personal drama that I've failed to see and appreciate anything else in this world.  And that's when my perspective changed.  This is the season for being thankful for what you have, not wasting time pining away for what you don't have.  

And I've been given so much.  

I have a family that loves me, a faithful husband who adores me (and is willing to put up with the Clomid rages and night sweats), a nice house, fantastic and supportive friends, gainful employment, and a very handsome puggle.  The list is endless.  How many people can say that?  

So, for this holiday season, I'm resolving to appreciate what's in front of me.  I want to work hard each day, and make sure my husband, family, and friends know that I love them, and am eternally grateful for the profound effect they have had on my life.  The baby obsession can wait, for now. 

Of course, I say this today.  I'll get back to you tomorrow. 

"C" is for Clomid...That's Good Enough for Me...

I spent a good portion of last week in Iowa.  Being that I'm a native Minnesotan, I can safely say that I hate Iowa.  The land of cornfields...Idiots Out Walking Around...you get the picture.  I was "fortunate" enough to stay at the Holiday Inn near downtown Des Moines.  Apparently, this Holiday Inn books up like a Las Vegas Hotel during Convention Week.  There wasn't a spare room at the inn, so to speak.  I arrived down there at 8:30 on Wednesday night and checked into my room.  I was on the top floor, which pleased me and I was put at the end of the hall, which pleased me more.  However, as I entered my room, I was hit with a blast of frigid air.  Working quickly to identify the source, I note that my window is open, sans screen, and I'm ten floors above street level.  Code violation!  Code violation!  I call down to the front desk, requesting that they remedy the problem since I couldn't figure out how to close the window.  Instead, they brought me a space heater.  The formidable housekeeper was also able to slam my window shut (almost) but it was open just enough to allow a draft and the noise of the highway into the room.  Ugh.  Still, the space heater proved to be a lifesaver, as it quickly brought the room up to a satisfying and sweltering 85 degrees and provided just enough background noise to allow sleep to overtake me. 

So, I wake up the next morning and turn on the news.  I usually lay in bed for a few minutes, take my temperature, check my email, and make sure I didn't miss anything important while I was sleeping.  As I'm lying in bed, a commercial comes on the television.  A young couple is seen, getting busy in a darkened room when there's a knock at the door.  The couple initially ignores the knock and goes about their biz-nass only to be interrupted again.  The woman gets up to answer the door, and there's a stork there, wearing a Baby Bjorn, complete with infant.  The message of the commercial "Ninety-Nine out of One Hundred Couples Who Practice Unsafe Sex Will Become Pregnant."  It's a good (and scary) message.  Is it true?  Eh. 

According to Colonel Sanders (er...Dr. Rhodes), you're only able to get pregnant thirty-six hours out of every month.  If you take an average calendar month of thirty days, that's 720 hours.  Therefore, you can only get pregnant 5% of the month.  The remaining 95% of the month is safe.  Kind of crazy statistics, huh?  Granted, if (and when) Jeff and I are ever blessed with children, they will be raised with the message that, not only can you get an STD 100% of the time when you practice unsafe sex, but you can get pregnant twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year.  No sense in throwing statistics at them they can't (or perhaps can) comprehend easily.  Still, when looking at the facts, you can understand why conception is called "a miracle" because in actuality, it's a statistical improbability. 

However, let's take someone like me.  I haven't ovulated since June.  We know that.  So, let's assume that I'm on a six month ovulation-rotation.  There are 8,760 hours in a year.  If I ovulated twice this year, that means that I have less than a 1% chance of getting pregnant.  FML. 

Which brings me to the present.  Today is my first day on Clomid.  I woke up this morning and popped the pill.  I'm waiting for my miracle now.  The idea behind Clomid is that it should turn me into an ovulating machine  I should resemble a Las Vegas Slot Machine that hit the jackpot.  In theory.  In actuality, I have no clue if it's going to work.  However, I will say that I took the pill a little over three hours ago and I haven't wanted to strangle anyone yet, so I guess that's progress.   

A Departure from the Norm...I Think

I'm sick of talking about fertility.  Jeff and I were watching "How I Met Your Mother" last night, and Lily, one of the characters on the show, is trying to get pregnant.  She kept bringing up all sorts of random baby issues when someone mentioned relatively benign words, such as "rattled" or "crib" that people wanted to stop hanging out with her.  Granted, it was comically dramatized, yet I received a few pointed glances from Jeff, but he kept his mouth shut, lest Hurricane Estrogen should choose to hit land. 

So, out with the old, and in with the new (or the old). 

This blog has seen rebirth several times throughout the years.  I started it in law school and passed along my random thoughts and experiences on life.  Mostly, it was self-depreciating, as I continually find myself in awkward or embarrassing situations. 

When I was a sophomore in college, my roommate, Mindy, and I went over to the boys dorm to "hang out."  Because that's what you do when you're a sophomore in college.  I'm sure one of us had a crush on someone over there (or perhaps both of us did) and we went over to play "wing man" or "study" or "something."  I can't remember why we were ever over there in the first place.  Regardless, that's not the point of the story.  We must have had a few cocktails or we missed the last bus back to St. Ben's, because we called our friend, Cristin, to come and pick us up over at St. John's.  Cristin drove this fabulous grey Buick, I think...it had wonderfully cushioned back seats, and the front seat felt like a couch.  It wasn't unusual for several of us to pile into the car because you could pile four people alone in the front seat.  Anyways, another friend of ours, Molly, rode along with her to pick up Mindy and me from St. John's.  Cristin drove around to the back of the dormitory and pulled up a relatively steep hill and waited for Mindy and I to make our way down.  Of course, I was probably wearing completely inappropriate shoes and it was wintertime.  As I trip-tropped down the hill to the waiting couch on wheels, I hit a patch of ice, causing me to slide down the hill and under Cristin's parked car.  Only my head and shoulders remained peeking out from the underneath the front fender.  Of course, hilarity ensued.  Mindy may have lost bladder control.  I believe that Molly jumped out from the front seat to pull me out from under the Buick. 

This has been something that has been recalled fondly by us over the years.  If we ever need a good laugh, you only really need to say, "Remember that time...?" and we will dissolve into fits of laughter. 

So, fast-forward to the present day.  I'm now gainfully employed, and I continue to wear equally inappropriate shoes.  The parking garage attached to my building is comprised of five and a half levels, however the elevator only goes up to the fourth floor of the garage.  This parking ramp is constantly under construction.  Bits of concrete routinely flake off and I firmly believe that, one day, we will get a call telling us that the entire structure has fallen down and has taken all of our cars with it.  Of course, however, the ingenious ramp designers have decided that, to get the most "bang for their buck" they'll also try and cram as many cars as possible into the ramp, so the spots are incredibly narrow. 

In any case, if you're not parked at the ramp before 8:00 a.m., you're forced to park on one of the top levels.  I arrived at work yesterday around 10:00 a.m., as I had an appearance in Bloomington.  Therefore, I was resigned to the fact that I would have to park on the top level of the ramp.  What's particularly difficult about this fact is that I own a briefcase on wheels, like most attorneys do, and it's always jam-packed and really heavy.  Since the elevator only goes up to the fourth floor, you're left with the choice of either carrying your fifty pound bag down a set of concrete (and often slippery) stairs, or rolling it down the ramp to the fourth floor to catch the elevator, consequently dodging oncoming traffic as they make their way to the upper floors of the ramp.  I've always chosen the latter option. 

From late October through April, there is not a spot in Minnesota that isn't icy.  Yesterday, this ramp was no exception.  Yesterday, my "load" was particularly cumbersome.  I had my purse, my briefcase on wheels, two bags of caramel corn that I had brought in to share with the office, and a cup of scalding hot coffee.  I managed to balance and carry this, and I'm trip-tropping down the ramp when a car turns the corner.  So, I move out of it's way, only to hit a patch of ice.  I went ass-over-teakettle, and slid directly under the yielding car.  The caramel corn goes flying, as does my purse, and my cup of Jamaican-Me-Crazy coffee spills down the front of me, onto my cranberry colored, silk skirt.  I lay, dazed, under this car for a minute, doing a mental check that all my faculties are still present and nothing is broken.  By this time, the woman of the car I'm lying under has jumped out, and is screaming at me, wondering if I'm okay.  Since I decide that I am, for the time being, I attempt to slide myself out from under the car, only to discover that I can't grasp onto anything, as everything around me is covered in a thick coating of ice.  She attempts to pull me out, and subsequently falls down with me.  After a few moments of attempting to scramble and scoot out from under the car, we realize that we're stuck.  Fortunately, a man working on the parking ramp comes over and hands us the end of his broom, which we use to pull ourselves out from under the car.  

I make a motion to go and retrieve my belongings from the various points where they've landed and I lose my purchase again, and subsequently fall down.  This time, however, I can stand up and realize I must look like a fawn who just learned how to walk.  He comes over (with his rubber-soled shoes on) and picks me up and carries me to safety.

As I make my way into the office, I note that the Glad Resealable Bags used to contain the caramel corn have done their purpose, and the bottom of the bags suffered the most damage.  My purse is unscathed (God bless Louis Vuitton), and my coffee is still half-full.  Granted, I smell like it, but at least its still drinkable.  I, unfortunately, am the worst off.  My elbow has begun growing to disproportionate degrees, is changing colors, and my right leg loos like I tried to slide into second base.  

Point being, some things never change.     

Baby Steps

This week has been full of very high "highs" and very low "lows" so to speak. On Monday, I don't know how much lower I could scrape before I hit bottom. I was upset with myself, upset with my doctor, and generally angry at just about everyone. I took a swipe at my friends, and really should have just hung a sign over my head which told people to come back another day.

Unfortunately, Tuesday was no better. I went to the deli in my building to order a sandwich and there was a woman in front of me with an ass so big, it should have had it's own zip code. I'm not even exaggerating that. I almost pulled out my phone to take a picture of it so I could submit it to Ripley's Believe it or Not.

In addition to the incredible amount of space this entity occupied, it's owner could not concentrate on the task before her. She could not order a sandwich if her life depended on it. It was the most obvious case of ADHD I have ever personally witnessed. I stayed behind her in line for about five minutes, listening to her start her order, "I'll have a turke......." and then my email ping sounded and she had to figure out what the noise was. Then, "I'll have a chick...." Only to hear someone laugh behind her and she had to check that out as well. She also had to turn around numerous times, mouth agape, to stare at all the people in line behind her. To me, it was as if she was actually enjoying holding up everyone's lunch break. The deli employee assisting her was being extraordinarily patient.

Finally, another clerk came up to the second cash register and asked if he could help me. The ass obstacle was in my way, so I attempted to sidle around it, only to have it check me in the gut. She didn't apologize. I attempted again to skirt around Butt Mountain. This time, I got nailed in the hip. At this point, I politely begged the pardon of the ass (and it's owner) and motioned to the second employee, standing there, and indicated I would like to get up to the lunch counter. Apparently, she had been saving all her focus for the death stare she shot at me, telling me, quite snidely, that it was her turn and I should learn to be patient.

Now, I was pretty hefty at one point in my life. Granted, I didn't feel as though I needed to register my ass as its own township, but I remain sensitive to the weight struggles of many Americans. But, at this point, I'm hungry, hormonal, and more than a little fed up with the ass entitlement antics on display from this individual.

I'm also pretty sure this woman has never had anyone stand up to her in her life based upon the way she ordered me around, but I was not going to go down without a fight. I asked her if she enjoyed monopolizing the counter space at the deli and then I stood behind the Ass Wall and shouted my order to the waiting employee. I ended up yelling almost directly in her ear. Granted, the ass did also double as a sound barrier so I don't think she was too gravely harmed. Yes, I was immature, but I didn't care. As I ordered, this woman's mouth fell down around her equally ample bosom, and she stood, staring at me while I completed my order and moved down the line to fill my soda. The other people behind me followed suit. I still don't think she had finished ordering after I picked up my sandwich and left.

I'll just say this: It was delicious.

The Clomid Connection

It's been sixteen weeks since my miscarriage. I guess there's a part of me that hoped I'd be pregnant by now. And, Lord knows we've been putting forth maximal effort in that endeavor. I've been doing everything under the sun to try and help. I take my temperature every morning. I've become a pro at using ovulation kits. I drink teas, I attend fertility yoga (yes, there is such a thing), and I take my vitamins. In fact, I do everything short of standing on my head...oh wait, I've actually done that as well.

Because we haven't gotten pregnant yet, I made an appointment to see my friendly neighborhood fertility specialist, Dr. Rhodes. I think he looks like Colonel Sanders. I debated whether I should even attend the appointment, thinking I was behaving irrationally or that my decision to discuss fertility options was premature.

I'm so glad I went.

He took one look at my temperature chart and told me that he saw no signs of ovulation. I've been stuck in the "twilight" of my monthly cycle, meaning that I haven't ovulated since my miscarriage. So, the next step is ovulation therapy.

I really have mixed emotions about everything. In some respects, I know that it was a wise decision for me to try and conceive naturally. My friend, Krissy, says that it's always better to try and do things naturally before taking the next step. I know this is true. Another part of me is really angry with myself. Dr. Rhodes wanted to put me on Clomid after my surgery in June. I keep thinking that, if I had listened to him back then, I would be well into my pregnancy already. Another part of me worries that I'm putting all my "eggs" in one basket, so to speak and I'm gearing myself up for an even bigger let down if the Clomid doesn't work.

Everyone keeps telling me to be patient - that God's plan for me isn't written in correspondence form. I've heard countless stories of people who've tried to conceive and the one month they weren't trying, it happened. This is not helpful. And maybe part of it has to do with the fact that I'm not a patient person. But I think it goes deeper than that. I've wanted a family for as long as I can remember. And for some reason, I can't make it happen. And I don't know if "patience" has anything to do with it. It's not easy - hell, I'd even say it's impossible - to be "patient' when your life literally revolves around getting pregnant. I can't be "patient" when I wake up every morning, take my temperature, pee on my ovulation stick, and take my vitamins. It's not easy to relax when you make a conscious effort to avoid caffeine, sushi, alcohol, and Brie, all in the off chance that this might be "the" month. That serves as a constant reminder of the fact that I'm not pregnant and constantly reminds me that I was at one point.

I need a plan. I have a goal, and I need to work towards achieving that goal. It's how I was wired and I'll never change. Now, I have to change my game plan. Clomid is the new name of the game.

A New Lease on Life

So, this weekend I turned thirty. In reading all my past entries, I had one goal in mind - getting pregnant before I turned thirty. Obviously, mission unacommplished. I have mixed emotions about this. In some ways, I know that this is the way things are supposed to be. There's a path that I'm following and deviations from the game plan are not up to me. But, even six months ago, that goal seemed so possible. I've made no secret of the fact that I want children. While I haven't exactly been open and honest with the world about my difficulties conceiving, I'll talk about it with those who want to know.

Right now, I'm planning a baby shower for one of my co-workers. I really want this occasion to be special for her. I've put a lot of thought, effort, and time into the details - making sure things are perfect. In some ways, I have found this theraputic and in other ways, it's like I've painted myself a prison. The constant nagging questions float in the back of my head, "When is this going to happen for me?" Or in moments of deeper dispair, "Is this ever going to happen?" I was at Target last week, picking up a few things for the party and I stopped to get a card. In the middle of the aisle at Target, I started sobbing for no particular reason. It just happened. I understand fully that this makes me look like a crazy person.

In fact, it's probably why I haven't picked up a gift yet. I think I'll just forego a cute little outfit and settle on a gift certificate for a pedicure, just so I can avoid walking into a baby store. I'd like to avoid fits of hysteria - I don't think I want to cause them.

My co-worker has been a wonderful source of support over these past several months. She was there for me when I started having difficulty conceiving and covered for me when I was out, miscarrying and dealing with the psychological fall-out. I got a card from her today, and this is what it said inside:

Hey you

Wild Child with the smile on your face

And the sparkle in your eyes

With the wind in your hair

And the world at your feet.

Can't wait to see

All the great things

You're going to do

With this brand new year ahead of you.

On the inside, she wrote, "Thirty is the beginning of all the good stuff. You are still young and sassy, yet have the experience to do it right. I wish all the best for you as you start the next chaper - start a family, travel, and savor the good moments. It goes by fast."

I couldn't have said it better myself. This day, this week, this year, this decade will be filled with wonderful new experiences. I will be able to have a family and I will experience everything I want - it will come. I know many women are sad to be turning thirty, but I can't wait. This is my year - this is my decade. I can't wait for it to begin.

What Makes a Mom

I haven't written much lately, and I suppose I was hoping it would be because I didn't have to. As it turns out, that isn't the case. And so, I turn back to you. I've been talking to so many people out there who have gone through the same thing I have, who have struggled with infertility, but I don't know what good this is doing me. I think it causes me to dwell on everything. Most of the time, I feel like I'm walking around with a big "M" stapled to my chest. The sideways head tilt, the calm, soothing voice, asking me "How are YOU doing?" I know they expect me to reply, "I'm alright" with a smile, but sometimes I just can't get there. Telling this to my friend, Shan, she sent me a link to her friend's blog...who's going through the same thing I'm going through...who's had the same experiences I've had. In reading the blog, I came across this poem that I'm going to re-post here.

What Makes a Mother

I thought of you and closed my eyes

And prayed to God today

I asked, "What makes a mother?"

And I know I heard Him say

A mother has a baby

This we know is true

But, God, can you be a mother

When your baby's not with you?

Yes, you can, he replied

With confidence in His voice

I give many women babies

When they leave it is not their choice

Some I send for a lifetime

And others for the day

And some I send to feel your womb

But there's no need to stay

I just don't understand this God

I want my baby here

He took a breath

And cleared His throat

And then I saw a tear

I wish I could show you

What your child is doing today

If you could see your child smile

With other children and say

"We go to earth to learn our lessons

Of love and life and fear

My mother loved me so much

I got to come straight here

I feel so lucky to have a Mom

Who had so much love for me

I learned my lessons very quickly

My mother set me free

I miss my Mother oh so much

But I visit her each day

When she goes to sleep

On her pillow is where I lay

I stroke her hair and kiss her cheek

And whisper in her ear

Mother don't be sad today

I'm your baby and I'm here."

So you see, my dear sweet one

Your child is okay

your baby is here in My home

And this is where they'll stay

They'll wait for you with Me

Until your lessons are through

And on the day you come come

They'll be at the gates for you.

So, now you see

What makes a mother

It's the feeling in your heart

It's the love you had so much of

Right from the very start

Though some on earth

May not realize

Until their time is done

Remember all the love you have

And know you are a special mom.

~Author Unknown

And so it goes...

How can I ever get through this?

I have asked myself that question a thousand times over the past week. You see, after all my moaning and groaning, wishing and waiting, I found out I was pregnant. It was incredible. I felt shocked, unprepared, and unapologetically happy. I saw myself in nine months, holding a little baby, growing fat with pregnancy, and yelling at Jeff to get me ice chips while bringing that life into the world.

Yet, a week ago, that dream died. Literally. Anyone who says life begins at birth has never been pregnant. All of a sudden, you're walking around and carrying the best secret of your life. And then, as it was for me, that secret leaves you and you never know why.

I have my theories, of course. I place blame everywhere I can. It just makes the pain more raw - more intense - when you look back, wishing you could have done something different. And now, I'm left picking up the pieces of a dream and trying to remember who I was before. And the thing is - I can't remember. I don't know where she is, what she's doing, or why she left.

It's not like I'm a stranger to heartache. I visited my friend, Tia, yesterday. She lives out by where I grew up. As I left her house, I started driving through my old neighborhood, driving past places that all hold memories for me. I remembered my first heartbreak. I was seventeen years old. I thought I would never be able to get through that. I remember crying into my pillow every night for weeks, wishing I could go back, change something, do something different, try to get him to change his mind. But that didn't happen. And, truthfully, I know I'm a stronger person now because of that. And that's what this feels like.

It's funny, in a macabre sort of way, to think that this event will literally change who I am. Forever. I don't really tend to think of life's moments in that sense. I suppose meeting my husband, my engagement, and my marriage have all changed me. Going to law school radically altered who I was. But, those were happy changes - and ones I was happy to make. This feels like a part of me has irrevocably broken and a sadness I'll have to carry around with my for the rest of my life.

I know that things will get easier. Like that first break-up, I'll eventually stop thinking about him and move on. But I'll be different. And so, right now, I mourn. I mourn the baby I never had a chance to meet. I mourn who I was before this happened.

People keep telling me that I should be happy I got pregnant at all - that at least one hurdle has been overcome. That I'll eventually get pregnant and have another baby. That's like pouring salt into an open wound. That doesn't matter to me. Another baby will still not be this baby. And I wanted this one so much. I see sadness around every corner and I hear it in every song. It's like the world is out to constantly remind me that I'm grieving and to show me what I'm missing.

It helps to write. It helps to talk. I'm so scared of being alone right now because I'll have to cope with my own thoughts and emotions. It's easier, right now, to let someone else do that for me. I'm trying to stay busy. I'm trying to put my best foot forward, and look towards the day that I wake up and this isn't the first thing that I think about. Right now, I'm just hoping for another miracle.

The Soundtrack of My Life

Have you ever been struck by a particular song? There's something about the lyrics or melody that catch you, connects with you, and becomes your mantra for a day, a few weeks, or forever. My "song" came to me today as I was driving down the highway towards work. It was nothing particularly special - I'd heard the song at least a dozen times before, however I had never really understood the lyrics or grasped what they meant to my life.

So, before you know it, I'm crying in my car. But then again, most things make me cry. I've been struggling to put the words to my emotions for so long now, but Michael Buble did it perfectly. In perfect reproduction, I've put the lyrics to paper...just to read and sing when I need to remember what it is I've been fighting for.

Haven't Met You Yet

I'm not surprised, not everything lasts

I've broken my heart so many times I've stopped keeping track

Talk myself in, I've talked myself out

I get all worked up and then I let myself down

I've tried so very hard not to lose it

I've came up with a million excuses

I thought, I thought of every possibility

And I know some day it'll all turn out

You'll make me work, so we can work to work it out

And I promise you, kid, I give so much more than I get

I just haven't met you yet.

I might have to wait, I'll never give up

I guess it's half timing and the other half luck.

Wherever you are, whenever it's right

You'll come out of nowhere and into my life

And I know that we can be so amazing

And baby, your love is going to change me

And now I can see every possibility

They say all's fair

In love and war

But I won't have to fight it

We'll get it right and we'll be united

And I know we can be so amazing

And being in your life is going to change me

And now I can see every possibility

And someday I know it'll all turn out

And I'll work to work it out

And I promise you, kid, that I give so much more than I get

Than I get, than I get, than I get

Someday I know it'll all turn out

And you'll make me work so we can work to work it out

And I promise you kid that I give so much more than I get

I just haven't met you yet...

Being Auntie Koppy

It's that time of year again...

We dust off our finery, accept the invitation, head out to find gift registries, get together with our friends, and celebrate the impending addition of a new family member.

I'm twenty-nine years old, and it seems that just about everyone I know is having children. I love being an Auntie. I really, really do. I love it when the kids learn my name, I love looking at their pictures, I love holding a newborn, and I really love playing with them and making them smile. There is nothing I love more than being Auntie Koppy.

I've always been good with children. There are some people in this world that are clearly "baby" people. I am one of those people. But for me, relating to children is much easier than it is to connect with adults, or at least I think so. A child's world isn't comprised of much more than mom, dad, school, and play group. They're proud of their new shoes, of their pretty dress, or of their new toy. It's just a matter of finding what they love to really get them to open up, laugh, and feel special.

Okay. I just re-read that paragraph, and I sound like I'm writing an instruction manual for child molesters.

So, this weekend was filled with baby-related activities. Last night, I went over to my friend Molly's for a Sip 'n See to meet Baby Maddie. I got to hold Maddie for a bit, give her a bottle, and I read stories to Gracie and Greta. And I could do that stuff for hours. Today, I went over to Tia's for a baby shower, honoring Jocelyn. Baby Maddie was there again and I got to hold her again. Baby Drew also made himself available for a little one-on-one. My cup runneth over.

All of my friends have children of their own, or they have nieces and nephews, so I suppose the idea of being around children is somewhat customary for them. Obviously, I have no children and I'm not an aunt in any official capacity. So, for me, the time that I get to spend with my friends' children is that much more meaningful for me. Still, as my girlfriends are trading pregnancy, child birth, or baby stories, I've got nothing to contribute. It's like being the only girl at Prom that wasn't asked to dance. They show pictures of their children, marvel at their growing bellies, and I...well, I get to show off pictures of my dog.

Relating this to my friend, Kelly, today, she tells me that it could be worse. I could be a cat lady.

And, not that I'd admit it to anyone, but these sort of things are hard for me. But, I don't want to be "that" girl. I don't want to be the one that can't overlook her own struggles to appreciate a friend's successes. So, I save my pity party for my own time. I reflect, I think, I re-read my ovulation calendar, this journal, I talk to my husband, and occasionally, one or two tears will leak out. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I do feel sorry for myself. It's stupid, really.

These past few months have been nothing but a roller coaster of emotions - drug induced or not. But more recently - and maybe I've just been doing a good job of forgetting - I feel a measured level of acceptance setting in. Maybe I'll never been the proud owner of a ceramic ashtray or drink out of a "Best Mom in the World" mug, but I'm starting to realize that with every success comes struggles. Every cloud has a silver lining. To quote the Pussycat Dolls, "Be careful what you wish for 'cause you just might get it." This is what I'm supposed to be, this is what is supposed to happen to me.

Until the course changes, however, I will continue to proudly display (and keep) all artwork made for Auntie Koppy and will always, always be available to babysit. Promise.

Beware of 'Roid Rage

I went in for another check up the other day - just a follow up after my surgery. My doctor takes a look around, peeks at my incisions, and declares me "cured." I look at him, questioning what this means. All my Internet research has never drummed up a cure for PCOS. If it had, you can guarantee that would have been the first thing I'd gone looking for.

"Well," he says, "I don't mean cured. You're still not ovulating. But, your internal organs look great. There's no evidence of endometriosis, and we've taken out some of the cysts. You should be able to have children. However, be aware! It can take women with PCOS longer to conceive."

I let the words wash over me carefully. This is good news, I think. This is what I had wanted - and waited - to hear. However, recalling my seventh grade sexual education classes, I ask if there's any evidence of ovulation, since I'm certain that needs to occur before I can conceive.

"No," he replies, somewhat cautiously. "And I'm not sure why. But, never fear! This is why scientists invented Clomid!"

Clomid is a drug used to stimulate ovulation in patients with PCOS. It's also an anabolic steroid, used by body builders. Side effects include overstimulation of the ovaries, hot flashes, mood swings, and 'roid rage. And, as my doctor informed me, I may have a more severe reaction to Clomid, considering my the reaction I had when I was on hormone replacement therapy.

So, I think to myself, I am now in a Catch-22. Taking Clomid may make increase my chances for ovulation, but my husband will be so scared of me that he won't come near me. What's a girl to do and why can't I seem to catch a break? So, I tell my doctor, thanks - but no thanks.

You see, my body has been on a number of drugs for a really long time. I've been on birth control since high school - for at least ten years. And, let's not forget the number of painkillers I've taken after all nine (yes, nine) of my surgeries, as well as all the hormones and antibiotics prescribed after the most recent procedures. It needs a break - I need a break. I want a few months to myself to let my body figure out how it's supposed to behave without pharmaceutical interference. Maybe everything just needs to clear out of my system and everything will turn itself right again.

But again, I need to have a plan. So, I left armed with graphs and charts so I can plot my basal body temperature. We'll continue in this fashion for a few months to keep track of any potential for ovulation. If I continue to remain in this infertile state, I'll consider taking Clomid. But don't worry - I'll make sure to warn you all first.

Book Club

I've been looking for new material to read. I'm an eager reader by nature, and my Aunt Jill passed along a list of books she's working her way through over the summer. Happily, I have been making my way through the titles.

I stumbled across a new book entitled "Look Again," written by Lisa Scottoline. It's about a single mother, who adopted a little boy only to discover that he was kidnapped when he was an infant. The story is just an adaptation and variation of a story that's been told countless times on television, as well as through movies and books.

I can't seem to make my way through it.

I don't know if it's because I know the inevitable conclusion or if it's because I identify too much with the main character. The story scares me. Maybe I watch too much television.

When you're faced with the possibility of infertility, adopting seems to be the most logical solution. I've looked into the option. I've gone to meetings and I've run the numbers. First of all, adoption is expensive. The people I've talked to say it costs, roughly, about as much as it would to have children naturally. But, to even have someone come into your home - just to determine if you're "qualified" to adopt - costs over $2,000.00.

And then, I start ruminating. So, let's pretend that we make the cut and we're put on a list of prospective parents for mothers to choose from. Who would choose us? We're both workaholics, and we live in downtown Minneapolis. If I was a woman looking to give her child up for adoption, I'd never choose us. I would want to pick a family where one parent stayed home - a couple with a nice house out in the suburbs. A house with a yard and a swingset - close to great schools and big parks.

I'm begging for someone - anyone - to tell me I'm being irrational.

Because here's the thing - I know we will be incredible parents. We'll never let our child go to school with a runny nose. We'll let her learn life's lessons the hard way but we'd never let her fall down. She would respect adults and never be teased by her classmates. We love her now and we've never seen her.

But adoption scares me. There are things beyond my control. What if she hates us? What if her parents change their mind?

It's time I found some serenity, as Jeff is so fond of telling me. I want peace of mind. I want to know my future. I need to learn to relinquish my control and remember that some day, some how, there is a little child out there just waiting to join our family.

I hope she gets here soon.

MTV can Bite Me

I'm starting to get irrationally angry at certain television shows and movies. The latest one I'm starting to get upset about is a show on MTV called "16 & Pregnant." First of all, from an objective view point, it seems contrary to give a television show to pregnant teenagers when we should be teaching them about practicing safe sex and abstinence. To me, MTV is saying, "Hey, you made a completely irresponsible decision, but we'll put you on T.V. and in magazines." It's like rewarding irresponsibility and encouraging other girls to show the same lack of restraint. As if the only thing standing between them and stardom is a just a baby away.

From a completely subjective perspective, though, I get so mad that those girls can get pregnant without even trying...and then, most of the time, they don't even want the baby and they act like it's a huge burden that they're saddled with a child. Now granted, I probably would have felt the same way if I had a baby when I was a teenager. However, had I known that I probably wouldn't have been able to have children, I might have been promiscuous, which I wasn't. It may have been a double-edged sword at the time.

I am at that age where everyone seems to be having babies. I see round baby bellies everywhere. It seems every time I turn around, another girlfriend is pregnant or another one has just given birth. I don't mean to sound bitter. I'm not. Truthfully, I am so jealous that sometimes I have to hold my breath until the feeling passes. Which, I suppose, makes me sound like a bitter (and barren) woman. And, it kills me that no one else seems to be having the problems I am. I've read the statistics. I know that 6.1 million women are affected by infertility. Some indicate that the as many as one in five women have difficulty or an inability to get pregnant. Other figures indicate it's closer to one in ten. Guess what? I know five women. I know ten women. I probably know one hundred women. So why, then, do I feel singled out? Why do I feel like I'm the only one with this problem?

But again, I sound ungrateful. I have been given so much. My husband supports and loves me. My friends will listen for hours. My family cries when I do. My sister offered to be a surrogate for me. I am overwhelmed at the amount of support I've been given. How, then, can I feel so unlucky?

So, that's why I put this blog out there. Maybe someone will stumble across it some day and she can realize that she's not alone out there either.

Roe v. Wade (The Real Story)

The Supreme Court's decision allowing a woman to do what she wants with her body is one of the most contentious pieces of litigation that this country has seen in the last sixty years. Abortion is a hot-button issue, and you'll rarely find anyone in this country that doesn't have an opinion on it. However, this issue has got me thinking, and I find that I'm viewing things in a much different light, given my lack of ability to reproduce.

The name, Jane Roe, was obviously a pseudonym. Her real name was Norma McCorvey. She had two children by the time she was nineteen. Her first pregnancy occurred when she was sixteen, and the result of an abusive relationship. Her second child was placed up for adoption. Her third pregnancy, and the one at the heart of the Roe v. Wade dispute, was actually born. She never underwent the abortion and the baby was placed up for adoption. Since then, Norma McCorvey has led an interesting life. She's a lesbian and has lived with her partner for many years in North Texas. She's also a Republican, a devout Catholic, and now campaigns tirelessly for an unborn child's right to life. She has continually expressed remorse for her contribution in the class action, claiming she was simply a pawn, utilized by two ambitious (and female) attorneys.

I've read the text of Roe v. Wade at least a dozen times. You'd have to believe that this was part of the law school curriculum, and it was even more hotly debated at the Catholic law school I attended. In essence, it gives a woman the right to do with her body as she sees fit. I believe that this characterization, even if painted with broad brush strokes, should be something that women hold dear. I can say, with absolute certainty, that if the government ever tried to legislate on what I can or cannot do to my body, I would be one of the first people on the steps of the Capitol, trying to protect my right to privacy.

But this is about the bigger picture. Last year, there were over 800,000 abortions performed in the United States alone. In China, you can't have more than one child, and abortion is technically a free service offered by the government. The "one child" policy has become more relaxed in recent years, but it surprised me when I learned that the policy has been in place for almost thirty years. In contrast, Chile and El Salvador prohibit abortion under any circumstances, even if the mother's life is at risk. The theory behind the law is that Chileans believe that the life of the unborn child is greater than it's mother's life.

At the end of the day, I think I still come down on the side of a woman's right to choose. I think. I suppose, more objectively, I believe that the government shouldn't control my reproductive rights, in the same way I believe China shouldn't be able to control the nation's family planning. But I see the way my friends carry their pregnant bellies around, and you can already tell they'd die for the life inside of them, and I wonder if Latin America doesn't have an equally good argument as well. I don't suppose there's ever going to be a policy that all Americans can agree on.

I was talking to my friend, Steve, last night. Steve and I have been good friends for years, and I've always been able to talk things over with him, even things as uncomfortable as infertility. I should also mention that Steve is a die-hard Republican, and this has been the source of many hearty debates over the years. Steve calls to tell me what he's been learning in his "Natural Family Planning" Class (side note: He's getting married in July), hoping to pass his recent knowledge on to me. I told him I'd heard it all (because really, I have). And, as it usually happens with us, we got on a political subject where our opinions diverge. Abortion. I told him what I thought about it, feeling as though my opinion should carry much more weight than his, since I am obviously a woman. He told me to think about how many aborted babies could be put up for adoption, and increase my chances if abortion weren't legal.

It makes you think.

According to some (possibly unreliable) statistics, there are two million couples in the United States that are infertile. Now, who knows how many of those people actually want to have children, but at the end of the day, if we take a lesson from Chile and put the baby's life ahead of our own needs and short foresight, we could decrease that number of childless couples.

But, that's just a thought.

It's in the books...

This morning, I woke up and decided to take a pregnancy test. I have no idea why I thought that would be a good idea; it's not like I don't already know what the test is going to say.

So, I went to the bathroom, took the test (read: peed on a stick), and set it on the counter while I brushed my teeth. The box said results could take up to two minutes, so I brushed my teeth really well, staring at the display screen the entire time.

It didn't take long before a picture of a book popped up on the screen. Yes, it was a book. I picked up the test and shook it a few times, and banged it against the bathroom sink. That book stayed right where it was. Puzzled by this, I went in search of the instruction booklet that came with the test, figuring that's what the test was telling me to do. Perhaps I forgot a step? But, anyone who's taken one of these things before knows there's not much you can screw up or forget to do.

The instruction manual was missing. I decided I'd research the issue at work. Still, as I was getting ready, a little light started growing inside of me. It wasn't negative. There was a picture of a book, staring straight at me. And then, my imagination started running wild. Perhaps I'm pregnant with the next Shakespeare or Dickens? Perhaps a Bronte sister has been reincarnated? Mary Faulkner? Hell, I thought, I'd even settle for a Danielle Steele or Nicholas Sparks. The thought of being the mother to such a prolific writer made me dizzy to think about. And, perhaps unjustly, got my hopes up a little too high.

I got into work and the first thing I did was find the E.P.T. website. But, I couldn't find anything referencing a book icon on the webpage, so I called Johnson & Johnson to determine if I had a literary genius growing inside me. Because you know, telemarketers know everything. It didn't surprise me when they told me that the book icon that showed up on the test this morning was an error message. And perhaps, I'll admit I knew that all along. The daydream I had for a brief moment this morning was dashed by "Felicia," who promised to send me a $20.00 E.P.T. coupon in the mail for my troubles.

Still, it wasn't negative. And, for someone who's spent a small fortune on negative pregnancy tests, that means more than you can imagine.

Cinco de Mayo

I haven't really felt much like writing over the past few days. Call it apathy, call it indifference brought on by Vicodin.

So, Wednesday morning came and went. I showed up at the hospital right on time. I marched right on up to the surgical wing of the hospital with determination. However, my strength of resolve seemed to fail when I was stripped, shaved, and poked. Shortly after my IV was placed, they began sending wondrous, magical drugs down the pipe. My sense of resolve and fortitude crumbled. As I was laid down on the operating table, I began rambling incoherently. I started crying for reasons I still can't explain. The last thing I remember is one of the nurses calling my anesthesiologist "Doogie." As in Doogie Howser, M.D. I took her at her word and looked nervously at the doors of the operating room, expecting a fourteen-year old boy to waltz through, scalpel in hand. I would have picked other names to call the doctor, as my expectant eyes landed on a dwarf when when the doors swung open. At least I think he was a dwarf. He hopped up on a step ladder and proceeded to send me off into my coma.

I awoke, in tears, yet again. Thank you estrogen. Next to me was a man who had his leg splinted, and being held in the air by some sort of contraption attached to his hospital bed. He wanted to talk. A lot. I don't remember what he was saying to me, but he would not shut up. If any of you have ever had surgery, coming out of anesthesia is horrible. You're confused, you hurt, and your throat stings. And, the last thing you want to do is converse with the guy next to you about the weather. So, I hit the nurse's call button and requested a change of venue. She looked surprised, until Motor Mouth started hitting on her. He was taken away shortly after that. I withdrew into unconsciousness again.

I remember my doctor coming up to me in the recovery room. Apparently, as Mini-Me was administering my coma cocktail, I began telling everyone who would listen about infertility. I made everyone in the operating room promise to take good care of my ovaries. I have no recollection of this. Apparently, my issues with fertility have permeated even to my deepest levels of consciousness. He told me this, as I looked up at him with nervous and expectant eyes, waiting for him to get to the results. At least that's the look I tried to convey. In reality, I was probably looking at him like he was some sort of sea creature.

So, the good news is that there's nothing structurally prohibiting me from conceiving. They cleaned me out, cleared up the cysts and the endometriosis. Incidentally, the doctors also decided to do a D&C, which means I'm starting "fresh" again. This should be good news. It is good news. However, we're not out of the woods yet. My cysts can come back, as can the endometriosis. In fact, it will. But hopefully, this will spur good changes in my body. I'll start ovulating, and I'll get pregnant. Before my thirtieth birthday. At least this is what I'm telling myself. My own internal, daily pep-talk.

Do you know what one of the worse feelings in the world is? Waking up after drinking way too much the night before, only to be tasked with cleaning up the remnants of the party. Something about the smell of liquor in the morning just makes my stomach churn. When I was in college, my girlfriends and I used to fill water bottles with vodka (Karkov, blech) and bring those to parties, instead of drinking keg beer. We were hardcore. But occasionally, in a blind attempt to hydrate the next morning, you'd reach for the vodka-filled water bottle and take a swig, which instantly produced retching. The old "hair of the dog" adage never held true those mornings. But right now, that's how I feel. And I don't think it's because of the operation.

I hate waiting. When I want something, I want it that moment. Yet, days and weeks go by and nothing changes. I'm still not pregnant. And currently, I can't do anything about that. I've been told to be "patient" and that "good things come to those who wait." I would like to tell people to shove it. I'm sick of waiting. I've stopped reading celebrity gossip because all these movie stars keep talking about "what a gift" children are, and how "amazing and life changing" pregnancy can be. They're acting like they're the first people to ever give birth. So, Giselle Bundchen, Angelina Jolie, and Jessica Alba can all shove it too. Their partners can take a walk off a cliff too. Do you know there's a whole section on the People Magazine website devoted just to celebrity babies?

Of course, I'm just jealous. I know this. I want my turn. I love presents, so why doesn't God give me a child? I want that life-changing experience. I want my husband to laugh over my cravings. I want to marvel at him holding the life we've created. Is that so wrong?

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.