Reflections

I still think about this particular couple I encountered in my reproductive endocrinologist's waiting room over two years ago. We didn't officially meet, of course. I don't even know their names. A doctor's waiting room before seven a.m. on a Friday morning is not the ideal setting to make small talk. 

I don't even remember what number IUI attempt we were there for. Third? Fourth? While I can't place the exact date, I do remember that I'd lost some hope, but not all. I had a tenuous grip hoping "minor medical intervention" to conceive would actually work for us. 

Looking at her across the room curled low in her chair, clutching blue rosary beads in her hands I thought, please let them get pregnant. Please let this procedure work for them. I was committed to this stranger's success – absorbed in a future she so clearly deserved. 

She whispered soft prayers in a language that I couldn't decipher due to her hushed tones. Her partner looked tired. That special kind of exhaustion that comes when you've resigned yourself to the idea that no matter how hard you try in life, shit typically doesn't work in your favor. He wasn't praying. But he cocked his head slightly to the left and leaned into her. 

I remember thinking, I hope their child gets her hair. Bursting brown curls framed her face and made her appear younger than the lines of worry on her face portrayed. She wasn't totally present. Her eyes were open, but they didn't take in the dull waiting room furniture in muted tones of beige, brown, and cream. Instead, she was fixated on a vision in another dimension. A future she yearned for with abandon. I couldn't take my eyes off her. 

In a waiting room with people desperately trying to conceive, likely with a few failures in the rearview mirror, it's a faux pas to simply make eye contact. Ironic really, because we're finally surrounded by like-minded people who truly get it. This awkward and fleeting time spent in cramped, ugly rooms should actually be sweet relief from the trite pretension of daily life where we constantly promise others and ourselves that everything will be okay. 

We fear that if we look too closely, we may just shatter into a million tiny irreparable pieces. We're barely keeping it together as is. Confused by an odd mixture of a heavy heart, tired body, and a hopeful mind we're constantly attempting to balance and reconcile every minute of every day. 

If we look too closely, we'll find our own vulnerabilities made plain on a stranger's face. We'll see our own pain and suffering too starkly and we simply won't be able to continue the charade of hope and optimism. Before getting shuttled into the small exam room crammed with well-meaning medical professionals to put our feet in stirrups and watch millions of microscopic white sperm get released into a hormone pumped uterus; we look up, we look down, we look all around, but we certainly don't look at each other. 

But not me. Not that day. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. When the nurse quietly called them back, I held my breath as they disappeared behind the door. Was the searing pain in my gut and heart for those two strangers? Or was it for Scott and I? And who's to say that pain isn't the same?

An unexplained journey

In my early twenties, I would boast that I didn't want children. I suppose I thought it made me edgy, different. It was a minor act of rebellion, something I did so little of. Totally opposite of what I thought others expected from me. Besides, at the tender age of 13 I watched my older sister go through a horrendously painful labor experience, and I thought "absolutely not for me". It was an excellent form of birth control.

Before Scott and I married, I made it clear to him that I didn't want kids. I didn't see it in my future, and he needed to know what he was getting into. He always said that I'd change my mind, and I'd usually retort that he "clearly didn't know me".

He knew me better than I knew myself. At 26 I started getting this nagging feeling that maybe I did want kids after all. I'd look at babies and wonder what mine and Scott's infant might look like. I started to envision a life with a little one running around. I'd broach the subject with Scott tentatively at first, bringing up the idea of a family carefully. With trepidation, I'd ask, "what do you think about kids? Should we have them? I think I may want to ... one day."

Scott and I were epic at kicking the can down the road. Yes, he wanted kids. One day. Not today. He was in grad school and we were broke. Not a good time to start a family. And then we moved back to San Diego, Scott got a real job, and we were less broke. But we were thoroughly enjoying our time in San Diego. We wanted to relish in the SoCal lifestyle. Just the two of us.

We made the mutual decision to go off birth control in August 2014. Not necessarily to starting trying for a baby, but to give me a break from the hormones. A baby step toward building a family, although we deluded ourselves into saying we still weren't entirely ready for children. But if we did get pregnant, that would be okay. We didn't use any protection. Relied on the pull and pray method for a few months. And then eventually stopped any minimal form of prevention.

A year passed. No pregnancy. Oddly not a single scare. I was also suffering from debilitating menstrual cramps and horrible periods. I shared my concerns with my primary doctor, and he referred us to a reproductive endocrinologist.

I'll save you the mind numbing details. But after months of various types of tests, we were diagnosed with unexplained infertility. I'll never forget the appointment when the doctor told us we would need medical intervention to get pregnant. My secretly held hope and romanticized view of "accidentally" getting pregnant gone.

So, now, the girl who originally never even wanted kids was going to need medical assistance to get pregnant. It took us six months to digest this latest reality. I tortured myself with thoughts that I was being punished for vehemently pronouncing that I didn't want children. That the universe was somehow seeking revenge on me. Wracked with guilt, regret and frustration, it took me months to deal with my anger. To be honest, I may still be dealing with it.

Our first round of treatment was filled with hope and excitement. I felt like a deer in headlights, overwhelmed and vulnerable at each appointment. I dissected every symptom and obsessively googled what other women in my situation experienced. While I knew it could fail, I didn't really think that it would. We were finally getting the appropriate medical treatment!

Scott is a champ in the doctor's office. He asks all the right questions. Questions I wouldn't even think of to ask. He's at every appointment. Even the ones he doesn't need to attend. He's done additional research, talked about odds with the doctors, and tightly held my hand through it all.

Due to an over-response to the medication, we had to cancel the first round of treatment. We've since undergone four additional rounds. I'm smack in the middle of the fifth round. Somewhere in the whirlwind, I developed this terrible habit of referring to myself as broken. It started as a joke. A way to make light of another failed round of treatment. But I internalized the message in a way that's difficult to describe. My body can't do what it's biologically made to do. My body is incapable of producing a child.

My counselor took a serious issue with my overused "I'm broken" line. She actually teared up when I told her about it. It took me by complete surprise. It was heartbreaking to her that I took one medical instance, of which I had no control, to describe myself. That I had reduced myself to a medical diagnosis. She challenged this concept, "Is someone with diabetes broken? Because their body can't process insulin properly? How about someone with cancer? How is that any different than what you're experiencing?" She helped me in ways that she probably doesn't even know. I honestly no longer consider myself broken.

We're less hopeful now. Still vulnerable with guarded optimism. Each failure is a donkey kick to the gut. The second failure was the hardest. I was coming down with a horrendous head cold and I started spotting three days before my period was due. I remember coming out of the shower completely nude and breaking down in the kitchen. In between congested sobs, Scott held me and promised that it would be okay. We'd try again.

And try again we did. They've all failed. The last negative didn't impact me at all. No tears. No frustration. I'd expected it. I didn't need to pee on that pregnancy test to know that it was negative. I intuited it.

This round I'm experiencing more negative side effects to the treatment. These last few weeks have been challenging. Headaches. Acephalgic migraines. Extreme bloating. Mood swings. Fatigue. It's the same treatment, so I have no idea why my body is choosing to react this way now. As I've been told countless times during this journey, biology is complicated.

And while I'm less hopeful and uncertain of what the future holds, Scott's right. It will be okay. No matter how it all turns out.

Now in my early thirties, I proudly share that I want to be a mother. I'm adamant about this visceral desire to raise a child with my life partner. And I have faith that it will all work out someday. The journey may not look like what I expect it to. And that's okay.

To Forgive

I’m a hypocrite.  As humans most of us are.  Honestly ask yourself – have you ever dished advice to others that you find almost impossible to follow yourself?  I know I have.  And more regularly then I care to admit.

But here I am, admitting.  My husband often tells me to cut myself some slack.  In at least one phone conversation per week, my mom tells me to be nicer to myself.  My typical responses range from “I’ll do my best” to “I’m truly working on it”.  The truth is I have no idea how to actually put said advice into action.

On paper it all sounds simple – don’t take things too seriously, forgive myself for my mistakes, and embrace my imperfections.  It’s not that I want to be perfect all the time, nor that I want to be mistake free.  I just don’t want to let myself down.  I have this inner voice, a moral compass if you like, that guides me when making most of my decisions.  This voice comes from a place of goodness and heartfelt sincerity and only rarely steers me in the wrong direction as long as I am tuned in to its frequency.

There are times, mostly hectic or stressful situations, when I’m not as connected to my instincts.  I make a rash, quick decision and later realize it wasn’t the right one to make.  Typically these decisions are small, they don’t bear any significant consequences; yet I berate myself later for the misstep.  It can be something as simple as forgetting to return a customer phone call before the end of the workday.  Sometimes it can wake me up in the middle of the night, my subconscious stumbling upon the mistake jerking me into an alert awareness that can keep me up for hours.

Truly it’s not that dramatic.  I can usually move past the mistake in 24 hours or so, but will feel the guilty remnants for days afterwards if I let my mind drift back.  It’s absurd really.  If someone else were to make such a small mistake, I would dismissively tell them not to worry about it and make a joke about how silly they were to overreact to something so meaningless.  And I mean it.  For them.  Not for me. 

It’s so much easier for me to forgive others, and to rationalize a mishap done by someone else.  They’re only human, of course.  But I’m human too, so why can’t I forgive me?  I am sure a psychologist or two could reference different experiences in my life that have led to this complex of mine, but a professional opinion is outside of my current budget.

I think I am similar to many other women today.  We hold ourselves to superhero standards, and when we don’t meet the impossible ideal we are disappointed and embarrassed.  For me, my pride definitely takes a hit and that’s one of the lowest blows. 

The fact of the matter is Wonder Woman isn’t real.  We would all love to be the perfect wife, friend, daughter, employee, student, yogi, runner, surfer, wine connoisseur, but where would we fit it all in?  And if we are striving for perfection in so many different aspects, when do we have time for ourselves?  Time to put into our inner core beings?  And maybe that’s the problem.  If you don’t take the time to nourish and cherish your inner self, you’re left vulnerable and insecure.  You’re susceptible to place unrealistic pressure on yourself in situations where mistakes are bound to happen.

Everyone says to learn from your mistakes, and I hold that mantra close to my heart.  I’ve learned hard lessons from many of my mistakes, but they have made me the woman I am today.  And although I am not always nice to the person in the mirror, most of the time I am proud of who she is.  As I continue to grow and change, while continuing to make plenty more mistakes both big and small, I plan to treat myself more gently.  Step back, take a deep breath, and be a little more empathetic to my inner self.  Because I realize as I finish this blog, I deserve it.    

The Inevitability of Change

It’s funny how life evolves.  One minute you are freezing your ass off in the middle of winter in Michigan quietly wondering if you will ever be warm again, and the next you are sweltering in your small apartment in San Diego cursing yourself for not specifying a place that offers central A/C. 

To me these events only feel days apart.  In reality, they are months.

We have been through quite a lot of change in the last 6 months.  We bid farewell to our life in Michigan – well most of our material possessions anyway – and started anew, or should I say again, in Southern California.  Michigan was a difficult chapter to close.  It was akin to a novel that although starts out very bumpy at first, turns into an incredibly heartfelt and rewarding story.  It’s like rooting for the underdog you never thought you would give a second glance.

Michigan is where Scott and I started our marriage, bought our first home, adopted our first dog.  And where I started my first big girl job, learned how to drive in snow, and discovered the importance of a down coat.  It’s the place where Scott perfected blobbing as a sport, the art of microbrew beer drinking, and received his PhD.  And although some of the aforementioned activities may suggest otherwise, Michigan is the place where we took on the role of adulthood.

And as many of us are acutely aware, being an adult is seriously overrated.  Especially on a Monday morning when you only have $4 in the bank account and another paycheck isn't due to arrive until Friday.  In the early days, balancing our limited budget definitely wasn't our strong suit.  We survived, and dare I say, even thrived.  We had an amazing network and community of friends to tap into for good laughs, and even better booze, when things were too much to handle.  If there’s one message Michiganders have communicated the clearest it’s to not take life, or myself for that matter, too seriously.     

So I return to San Diego with a new perspective.  And although San Diego hasn't changed all that much since I was last here, I sure have.  Although to be fair not everything has changed, I’m still feisty as hell, typically willing to take on a good argument, and occasionally have the ability to make a sailor blush with my language when so inclined.  But I digress.  Simply put, I have matured from a naive college undergraduate into a married woman with a career.  As expected with those major life changes, I have developed a different worldview, more responsibilities and a slower approach to life.

At first the transition wasn't easy.  Sure, I was living in a tropical paradise, but I missed my friends like I imagine an amputee misses a limb or like a mother misses her child when she leaves the baby with a sitter for the first time.  It was painful.  I wanted to share our wondrous experience with this amazing city because although most things looked the same as when I left, it all felt so new and thrilling!  And I wanted to share these emotions with the same people that we had created so many exciting memories with in years prior.  I have since adjusted, and although I still miss my Michigan family daily, I have rekindled relationships and friendships out West to expand my community.

I’ll tell you this much.  Since returning to San Diego, we have yet to take a sunny day for granted.  And if you know anything about San Diego, it’s mostly sunny here so we have been quite busy.  It’s been a grand adventure thus far.  Now that the stress of putting a home together is behind us – Scott and I struggled on a shared vision for furniture and home decorations – we are reacquainting ourselves with the Southern California lifestyle.  Our evenings and weekends are filled with time spent in the ocean, mostly surfing, but when it’s flat and I’m desperate even a swim does the trick.  The beautiful landscape inspires me daily, and when Mea and I take our lunchtime walk, I quietly give thanks to live in such a perfect place.

The ocean speaks to my soul in a way that is difficult to describe.  I feel at peace in the water.  While sitting on my surf board, I feel humbled by the vastness and enormity of the ocean.  Scott and I don’t talk too much out on the water- other than to compliment him on a good wave or critique my latest wipeout - we are mostly left to our own thoughts.  I reflect upon the past, and think about all of the people and events that have led me to this moment.  I fantasize about sharing these experiences with the people that matter most, and look forward to the day when I get to tell some of you “We’re going surfing!”

Furry Child

I love my dog. A lot. My Facebook and Instagram posts can substantiate this claim. It's pure fact. About 70% of my updates on social sites are Mea related. She's awesome. Sweet, smart, pretty, affectionate and exceptionally loyal. My husband even gets jealous from time to time.  At his weakest moments he wonders aloud if I love the dog more than him. Notice when he's jealous Mea loses her identity. She becomes, simply, "the dog".  

Many have joked that Mea is our trial run for having and raising children. If kids are as easy as Mea then sign me up! Mea was potty trained in a matter of weeks, and even though she has had the occasional spit up, I can honestly say it's never landed on me or my clothing. Mea will eat anything in sight and has no particular inclination to a specific type of food. She's an equal opportunity eater. She was sleeping through the night by her third night in the crate. My hubby may contest this claiming it took a few more nights for Mea to sleep through until the morning. Apparently I could sleep through the Apocalypse and definitely would not have heard a couple of whines from a little puppy downstairs. 

Regardless. I've heard of children who don't sleep through the night for years.  Family members actually take turns watching the child on a 24 hour cycle so each member can get a decent bit of rest.  A child who is on the bottle until they are almost 5 because they refuse to eat any other solid foods with decent nutritional content. This same child is colicky and spends most of her waking hours screaming, or fervently trying to pass a stool. The worst part - I am said child.

Some of you may argue that I have turned out better than most. First off, why thank you. However, I credit that to excellent parenting, supportive neighbors and a sister 14 years my senior. Truthfully, there was a crew raising me making great sacrifices including taking me down to the Las Vegas strip at 2 a.m. hoping that the lights will be enough of a distraction for me to forget about the pain in my stomach and stop screaming to eventually fall asleep. Think I would enjoy driving around at two in the morning to get Mea to stop whining? Especially if it had been going on for a couple of years? And I still had to get up for work the next morning? Let's put it this way - most of you should be very skeptical.  At best. 

I'm a firm believer in Karma. What you put out into the Universe you get back. Ten fold. In my early years, I gave the world a lot of screaming and difficulty. Although they are reluctant to admit now, I am positive that I pushed my wonderful parents to their absolute limit. They aren't patient people, this isn't much of a stretch. What's in store for me, Sweet Karma?

The fact is, I got lucky with Mea. It's the Universe's special gift to me before the hard work begins. If you're lucky enough to know her, you understand how precious she is. At times she is so expressive and insightful, I swear she is part human. My mother attests that Mea's sweet nature and good behavior has everything to do with mine and Scott's parenting. "If your dog is this well trained, I can't wait to see what your children will be like." Here's to hoping.

Erratic Changes

Each month I undergo a major personality change, along the lines of a seismological shift of epic proportions.  I regress from being a capable, well-rounded, friendly individual into a whiney, emotional, bitchy shadow of a human being.  Shadow used intentionally as most of my actions can’t seriously be referred to as humane. 

And to address the obvious, yes, I am referring to my menstruation.  Period.  The Red Devil.  Aunt Flo.  Crimson Tide.  The Curse.  Whatever the hell you want to call it, because based on the mood I am currently in, it absolutely does not matter. 

It’s genuinely surprising that I make it through each month.  It’s even more shocking that as a group women are able to make it to the other side without committing a serious crime.  The type of crime that involves jail time.  Personally speaking, my mood fluctuations are so severe that if I were to be under the supervision of a professional, I could be diagnosed as manic and bi-polar.  Which is important to point out, under normal circumstances, I am neither.

To my husband’s credit, he treads this territory very carefully which ensures his survival when his wife is replaced by an insane lunatic.  He frequently inquires about my overall well-being and when I respond with, “I am definitely getting a sex change, and I hate being a woman!” with rage filled eyes, he doesn’t even bat an eye.  He’s quite used to this erratic babbling.  Overuse of the word “yes” also guarantees his safety.   

I want ice cream!

Yes.

I want to crawl into a corner and die!

I am not sure that’s a good idea, honey.

BUT I WANT TO NOW!! AND NEVER, EVER, EVER, NEVER COME OUT AGAIN!

Yes, whatever you say.

Eventually I have nothing else to say.  He isn’t arguing with me – so what the hell is the point?  It’s genius on his behalf.  Although to be completely fair, he doesn’t always make it to the other side unscathed.  No matter how many yes’s he dishes, or sweet toned responses delivered, sometimes it just isn’t enough. 

I don’t like you right now.  I might love you, but I sure as hell don’t like you.  Please don’t touch me.  Why are you breathing on me?  Do you have to breathe so loud?  Stop asking me questions.  IN FACT, JUST STOP TALKING TO ME PERIOD!

And to his credit, he does, upon which time the weepy alter ego makes her grand entrance.

I am so sorry.  I love you so much.  I don’t know why I feel this way.  Life’s just so hard, and I just feel overwhelmed by everything that is going on.  I feel so guilty about the bite sized Kit-Kat I ate after lunch.  I’m so fat.  And I feel like the lady at the check-out counter was judging me when I picked up ice cream.  My uterus is in danger of exploding.  I’m uncomfortable all the time.  It’s not you at all, you are wonderful.  I just feel like I could burst into tears at any moment.

And then I typically do- lots and lots of tears.  It’s embarrassing really, but Scott’s such a good sport about it.  He opens his arms to the same woman that tried to claw off his face only hours earlier, and attempts to calm me down.  Depending on the day into Aunt Flo’s visit, his embrace can be the perfect medicine.

Sometimes I fantasize about when all of this comes to an end.  I imagine that one day I will be celebrating menopause - saying good riddance to a monthly period!  It will be the return of a permanent, rational and, dare I say, even keeled Davina.  But from what I hear from women in the transition, menopause is a whole different ball game and may even be much worse.  And that my dear readers, is impossible to imagine.  

Seafarer

I'd like to believe I am open to change. That overall I am a forward thinking person ready to adapt to evolving situations and new opportunities that come my way. And generally, this is true. But when major change comes along (such as making a decision to move cross country again) or something totally new presents itself to me, the dark fear monster raises it's ugly head and nags.

"I happen to like things just the way they are," I defensively think. I've got a good thing going, why should I change it? Don't people always say the grass isn't always greener on the other side? Besides, my mother always told me the devil you know is better than the devil you don't. And thus, the cycle begins.

I'm like a toddler in a candy store refusing to leave. Internally, I'm throwing a full blown temper tantrum with arms and legs flailing at hyper speed. I'm screaming at the top of my lungs that I'M NOT GOING ANYWHERE! And even if someone does buy me the new Hollywood Barbie, I'm still probably not moving. So there! (followed by a literal forceful sticking out of my tongue)

Fear takes over, I begin to feel like a child, and I'm too anxious to make a move. Most of the time, my rational self comes back into the picture and has the ability to talk logic to my terrified, four-year-old self.

"Change has always been good to you," my logical self soothingly promises. "Most life changing events have been very positive and you are glad you took the leap!"

As I begrudgingly give into my rational thoughts, I realize this is true. I've embraced a lot of change over the years, and most, if not all, have actualized a positive experience. I start to remember that I do, in fact, like change. That I am ready for something new. I'm going to tackle the unknown head-on and jump with both feet first without even looking back for a split second glance!

"But things are great the way they are. Do you really think you'll get so lucky again?" doubt asks. "Or are you going to screw up the perfect balance you have going, and end up regretting this change?"

And so it continues, and sometimes much longer than I care to admit. But eventually I come around and realize that adapting to change is a process. I am definitely open to it, albeit in a highly guarded fashion, and I understand the importance of evolving. Getting stuck is far more terrifying than trying something new.

So with the help of my ever-loving, patient husband and my good natured, opinionated parents, I'm usually able to navigate the rough seas of change. Not only do they make the process so much more enjoyable, but they help me appreciate the positive impact it has on my life afterwards.