Not With The Ham

“If you’re not laughing, you’re crying…”

For the past few years, this has become my mantra (or trauma response, depending on if you’re talking to my therapist or not). But I believe it is our very nature as humans to process and get through hard times with the help of humor. Bringing it back to the discussion of experiencing conflicting feelings simultaneously, I would argue you HAVE to laugh when things feel so heavy…to lift you out of the darkness even if it’s just for a few moments. For me, it’s usually due to the seemingly never-ending Murphy’s Law type of situation that causes me to pause, contemplate every life choice I’ve ever made, and wonder if I’m on some new, twisted version of Punk’d.

So we laugh. Because what’s the alternative? I don’t mean that to say, “There’s no crying in infertility,” because believe me, countless tears have been shed. What I mean is sometimes you have to just laugh at the absurdity of it all—like the time I was actively experiencing an ectopic pregnancy and in the midst of that chaos, I lost my job. Probably not a great pitch for Netflix’s next original rom-com storyline, but the sheer audacity of this comedy of errors was LAUGHABLE. I also feel that laughing at a traumatic situation is almost like an act of rebellion against the pain intended to be inflicted. It feels like I’m taking the power back in a way that diffuses and deflates its effect on me. And who doesn’t love an opportunity to tell the universe to “suck it”?

So when we started this first round of IVF, I was very meticulous about researching and organizing our medications. It was a lot of inventory, and it all had to be stored in the refrigerator. I was describing this endeavor to my high school bestie Marco Polo group when I uttered a phrase I never thought I would ever say in my whole life: “We decided to make this giant ham for the two of us, and now it’s taking up half of our damn fridge. Ugh. So anyway, I’ve got all the meds organized and put away…BUT NOT WITH THE HAM!” It’s so dumb and ridiculous and to be honest, it’s really one of those “you had to be there” types of funny moments, but for me this was HYSTERICAL. Here I am dealing with this very big, very scary, very overwhelming thing, and I’m worried about giving my meds their own VIP fridge space for fear of cross-contamination with a spiral-cut ham. Again, the absurdity of it all. L.O.L.

But in the hard moments of this process, it’s nice to have bits of levity…like the time my husband had to give me my first injection and (for some reason) decided to do it while on one knee like a marriage proposal or as if there were an injury on the field and almost fell over (and gave me a gnarly bruise) in the process…or the time I had to give myself an injection and had to FaceTime my best friend to hype me up while she was driving and I was redfaced-crying and dancing around my bathroom wielding a syringe…or the time I got two injections in one night and later called my husband when I noticed I somehow had acquired three injection marks, to which he casually replied, “Oh yeah, I think I accidentally poked you before I did the first one. My bad.”

Sometimes we laugh in the moment. Sometimes we laugh in hindsight. Sometimes we laugh to keep from crying. Tough times will continue to find ways into our lives at one point or another, so we must continue to find ways to laugh—to put that trauma on the shelf if only for a few moments…just not with the ham. ;)

Losing Control

“Control Freak”

This is a term I bestowed upon myself for years, but lately, it has grown to give me the “ick.” I mean, is it human to want to be in control of your life and the goings-on within it to an extent? Sure. Is it possible to perhaps take that a little too far? Also yes.

For instance, I didn’t drink (or get drunk, I should say) for the first time until I was almost 22 (and even that was unintentional…but that’s another story for another time). I don’t say this to demonstrate the lamest flex of all time but rather to illustrate how unwilling I was to not be fully in control of my person. If you’re a parent (and more specifically my parents, lol), this may sound like a green-flag situation…and without context, you wouldn’t be wrong. But the problem, at least for me, is that the control I so desperately seek is fully and completely rooted in fear—fear of the unknown, fear of repercussion, fear of failure.

I’ve always been an overly-cautious person. I evaluate and then reevaluate the risks, and if at any point I feel as though I won’t be able to manage the situation—or at the very least be able to remove myself from the situation—then 99.9% of the time I’m just not going to partake. Granted my general anxiety definitely plays a role in this as well, but it all usually comes back to my need to be in control. And when you’re faced with a situation, like infertility, that removes all aspects of control, it absolutely rocks you to your very core.

Because even in the pursuit of medical interventions—whether it’s medications, IUI, or IVF—the first thing a fertility doctor will tell you is that there are no guarantees. You can’t control how your body responds, you can’t control potential monkey wrenches, and you can’t control the outcome. So not only was I being faced with the circumstance of having no control over my body in the way of reproduction, but I also was about to embark on a (painful and expensive) journey with the full disclosure that I would have zero control over what the end result would be…and that terrified me.

But as I often say, multiple feelings can (and should) exist at once…and as soon as I grieved the fact that we get to have to pursue IVF, I was met with a strange sense of relief. I didn’t realize just how (mentally, physically, emotionally) exhausting it was to hold on to an idea or plan so tightly, paired with the constant mapping out of every logistical detail and risk analysis. I’m slowly learning that there’s something almost freeing in relinquishing control and a level of peace knowing I’ve done (or am doing) all that I can do in regard to the little control I do have.

Don’t get me wrong…it still kills me that this is our path and that there’s nothing I can do to change it, but one thing I can control is my attitude and my perspective in this endeavor. So I am choosing to just take it one day at a time and focusing more on what I’m gaining and less on what I’m losing: a revelatory life lesson, a new form of resilience, and—hopefully—a baby.

I Get To Have To

IVF. Oof.

After 2.5 years of actively trying (and failing), we were finally faced with this next step. A year earlier in one of my therapy sessions where we were discussing our infertility struggles, my therapist asked me if we were open to the idea of pursuing IVF, and I immediately shut it down with a firm “absolutely not.” She looked at me somewhat surprised, and I, too, found myself quite taken aback by my knee-jerk response. It was a perfectly fair question considering our many attempts with various medications, three failed IUI’s, and two naturally-conceived miscarriages. But for some reason, I found just the thought of IVF absurd and promptly dismissed it. And after unpacking that with myself and with my therapist, I think it was because a part of me felt that by pursuing IVF, I was giving up—having to admit that my body had failed me…failed us…and we truly could not make this happen on our own.

And when I say “giving up,” it sounds silly considering the act of pursuing IVF in and of itself means quite the opposite. I guess what I mean is that it felt like I was having to give up this idea of what I thought our path to parenthood would look like…my dream of how we would expand our family and all that goes with it would be just that…a dream. It was a reality that I was struggling to accept. More than struggling if I’m being honest. It was yet another thing I had to grieve in this journey to motherhood, and as it tends to do, with that grief came so. much. anger.

I had been grappling with all of these feelings for weeks, trying (and failing) to pinpoint the axis of all of these emotions I was experiencing enough to articulate them. It made me begin to wonder if I really had any reason to be this upset. I mean, we were fortunate enough to have made and saved quite a bit of money the past year to where we could afford this option. Aside from the fertility issues, I was in good health and a good candidate for IVF. And although being unemployed is normally not ideal, for our situation it allowed me the time to actually relax my mind and my body (for the first time in a very long time) and the space to take on this effort fully. Then one night I was having an especially emotional moment while discussing this ordeal with my husband, and it just came out: “I’m so incredibly grateful that we get to do this…but I’m so fucking angry that we have to.”

And that was it. That one sentence perfectly encapsulated every emotion that I’ve felt throughout this entire journey and why I was resisting this next step so hard. Then the guilt comes—guilt over the fact that we have the opportunity and privilege of this option when it’s so far out of reach for so many, and yet…I’m still furious that this is our circumstance. But then I’m reminded that as humans we are a spectrum of emotions that can and do coexist: we can be sad and also laugh…we can grieve and also have hope…we can be angry and also be grateful. We must.

I don’t subscribe to the sentiment that time heals all wounds, but I do believe it gives us perspective. Now that I’ve had time to process this next step and move through the anger, I’m ready to take it. And I’m going to take the advice of the ever-enlightening Elyse Myers and her fresh take on the Nike slogan: “Just do it scared. Just do it anxious. Just do it overwhelmed.” I am going to just do it angry…and that’s ok. Because all that matters is that I’m going to do it. For myself. For my family. For this little life that deserves to be fought for. And dammit…fight I will.

Maybe Next Year...

As I sit here taking in this beautiful, cool spring Sunday morning (which is a true anomaly here in mid-May Alabama), it seems almost offensive to be anything but joyous and at peace—and yet, here I am...crying into my coffee...where not even the warmth of the sun nor the coolness of the breeze are enough to dry my tears. Grief is strange in that way.

And even though I had anticipated these hard feelings today, it still doesn't ease the pain of what feels like a whole day dedicated to reminding me of something I am so desperately longing for and fear will never come. A social media feed full of sweet messages and pictures that makes me smile while simultaneously breaking my heart. And logically I know that this day is not a personal attack or some crazy conspiracy to get me down, but again...grief is strange in that way.

But I am also incredibly grateful for the many amazing women I have in my life who also happen to be phenomenal mothers and have taught and inspired me more than they'll probably ever know and who deserve to be celebrated today (and let's be honest, EVERY day). And of course, the pièce de résistance of motherhood (IMO), my mother, who truly should have a holiday dedicated to her alone. I cannot emphasize enough how impactful the women in my life have been on the woman I have become (and am still becoming) and the mother I hope to become someday. I love them...I respect them...I envy them. Grief is strange in that way.

Through this journey of infertility, I am learning every day just how complex we are as humans in our emotional capacities. Sadness and happiness can coexist. Joy and sorrow can coexist. Gratitude and jealousy can coexist. They can coexist because they must coexist. We have to allow ourselves permission and the space to process all of these feelings without guilt or shame, knowing that there is no wrong way to feel and no one emotion that defines us or a particular moment in our lives.

So as I take this gorgeous spring morning to process my feelings and sit in my sadness, I know that these feelings are not permanent and do not define me or this day...because tonight I will be genuinely and happily celebrating my sweet mama. I recognize that others also find today to be tough due to the loss of their own mothers or a strained relationship, and I don't ever want to take the time or the relationship that I have with her for granted.

If you are a mama, know that I am celebrating you.

If you have lost your mama/child or have a strained relationship, know that I am thinking of you.

If you, too, are struggling with infertility, know that I see you.

I don't know if I believe in speaking things into existence, but just in case: here's to celebrating Mother's Day 2022 as we had hoped we would be celebrating this year...as mothers.

All I Wanted for Christmas Was You

Since the dawn of its creation, music has always had an incredible way of evoking our deepest emotions. As someone who is an extreme empath and an owner of #allthefeelings, I have always found empowerment, connection, and solace in music. When I was younger and my level of angst was unable to be expressed through my own limited vocabulary, I turned to the songs of the emo-est of bands (picture teenaged Lisa scream-singing MCR and Yellowcard whilst scribbling madly in her diary—bless her). When I went through a horrific breakup, I sought refuge in the melancholy lyrics of the sappiest singer-songwriters (shout-out to Jack Johnson and T-Swift). And when I need a serious mood boost (or a dance party of one), I immediately crank up the show tunes or some '90s-'00s hip hop (if you've seen my curated playlists, you get it).

But have you ever had a moment in your life—a new milestone, a big move, a messy breakup—that caused a song that you had heard a thousand times before and mindlessly sang along to all of a sudden truly resonate or take on a whole new meaning?

A few days ago I was on my way to the gym and in an effort to get myself pumped up and excited about working out at 6:30 AM (which is truly a monumental effort) I queued up my favorite Christmas playlist. Because I love all things Christmas and am no fool, “All I Want for Christmas is You” was the first song up. I was singing and bee-bopping along per usual until I was about a minute in and then something shifted. I started honing in on the words, unintentionally at first, and it was like I was suddenly hearing them for the first time. And then I felt that all too familiar feeling...a meltdown was coming. And boy did it. I finally parked the car and sat there in the gym parking lot, letting the feeling wash over me like a catastrophic tidal wave.

“Every month I have quietly prayed and hoped that this month would be the month it would all change...and every month I have silently wept and cursed when it was made clear that it wouldn’t.”

I’m sure by this point you’re probably thinking, “How could (arguably) the greatest Christmas song ever sung by one of the most iconic voices of our generation cause you to lose it like that?” And that's a completely valid question. I know the intended meaning of the song is wanting to be with the one you love for Christmas so desperately and not needing anything else but that. And on a very deep level—deeper than I even realized—that’s exactly what I was (well, am) feeling. But it’s not a significant other I’m longing for. The thing is...I have just begun my twelfth month of 2020 still not being pregnant.

By now most of you are aware of my experience last year, but I haven’t really spoken about it again until now. I honestly don’t like to, or frankly want to, talk about it—not because I’m ashamed or feel it shouldn’t be a topic that is openly discussed (it should!) but because it makes it that much more real for me. Before my miscarriage last year and even until recently when the subject of if we were ever having kids came up, I would say, “Ehh...if it happens, it happens” in the most nonchalant tone I could muster. That has been my chosen response because saying what I really feel hurts too much. In my mind admitting out loud that we have been trying (and trying...) and knowing that it isn’t happening makes each passing month feel like one giant failure after another. That my body is failing me. That I’m failing us. Every month I have quietly prayed and hoped that this month would be the month it would all change...and every month I have silently wept and cursed when it was made clear that it wouldn’t.

“In true Enneagram 9 fashion, I have always struggled with moving outside of my comfort zone and taking risks. Not for fear of judgment or of being vulnerable, but of failure.”

And until my therapy session this week (can I say, “Thank god for therapy!” enough?), I don’t think I realized just how important this is to me. I believe that a part of me has tried to convince myself that it doesn’t really matter if I ever have kids as some sort of a defense mechanism because admitting how desperately I want to be a mother would somehow make the pain and reality of it not happening that much deeper and truly unbearable. This has been a constant theme in my life—doing everything in my power to not get my hopes up over something for fear of the (in my mind, inevitable) let down. In true Enneagram 9 fashion, I have always struggled with moving outside of my comfort zone and taking risks. Not for fear of judgment or of being vulnerable, but of failure. And this just feels like an extension of that.

And here we find ourselves, at the end of what has undoubtedly been the most dumpster-fiery year in recorded history chock-full of immense tragedy and shared trauma. This holiday season will look and feel so different for almost all of us. I know for me that this time last year I was almost certain that we would be celebrating our best year yet and our first Christmas as a (human) family of three. But like most things in 2020 that, too, was tossed into the dumpster fire. And although seeing others getting to live out that experience—precious family holiday cards, cute kiddos unwrapping their gifts, festive pregnancy announcements—will undoubtedly cause a pang of envy in my heart, I also know that there is no shortage of love and joy in my life. I have the most phenomenal partner in my husband, an incredible support system in my friends and family, and (IMO) the world’s greatest therapist—and I am so ridiculously lucky. And grateful. Because I know there are so many others who are having to navigate a similar journey that may not have some or any of those same resources. But moreover, I am hopeful.

I hope if we have learned anything from this godforsaken year, it is the importance of human connectivity, the need for more empathy, and how truly resilient we are as people—individually and collectively. I hope this year has forced us to understand what’s really important in this life—not beautifully wrapped boxes under a tree but our relationships with those we love most. I hope that even though we are all going through shared and personal struggles, we can find a moment or two to appreciate what we do have—not just focus on what we didn’t get. I hope that for myself...and I hope it for you. So Happy End of 2020, friends! We may not have gotten all that we wanted, but we made it here. And that is truly a gift in and of itself.