I'm Trying

Once you have your first child, and that first child starts abandoning infancy for the world of toddler hood, or yet as it is now for me, preschooler age, it's most certainly unavoidable that everyone will start asking you that inevitable question; "So when is the next one coming?" They'll ask with a spark in their eye, innocently prodding for information as a means to make general conversation. And I'm guilty of this too, I've asked this very question to friends and acquaintances alike without a second thought. I know that overall it's a harmless question, but truth is, I never know quite how to answer that question when it's directed at me.

It's not that the question looms over me because I've never yet considered another child, I've sought out parenthood with the intention to include more than one, but because how do I answer the question when I have no control over the matter. I find myself constantly answering with an awkward, "As soon as it can happen," for that's the only hope I have.

From the time Abel was born we wholehearted welcomed the idea of adding to our family as soon as it could happen, because we knew the complications that we face regarding infertility issues, Abel himself being conceived by aid of fertility drugs and months of acupuncture treatments. So we decided directly after his birth that we would let nature have it's way in hopes that surely within the next few years following, we would be pregnant again, and better yet, naturally.

And it did happen!

Once.

I think that is why I still struggle with our miscarriage even though it's been over two years, the loss still felt just as deeply now as then. My body had beat it's odds, and just that once it did what it was designed to do. Only it couldn't carry it. What a slap in the face. I blame myself. Blame this diseased body with which I was cursed. It felt like a cruel joke, especially for it to happen on such a momentous occasion such as Abel's first birthday. Every year my heart experiences the joy of celebrating the anniversary of my first child's birth, and the sadness that it shares the anniversary of my second child's loss.

After that loss that is when my obsession began. My deep, and dark, secret world of closet pregnancy testing. Sometimes several times per day, just because, 'what if...'

What if there is some sort of possibility. It said negative yesterday, but it may read positive today. Just because it showed one line this morning doesn't mean I won't see two lines tonight. I am obsessed. I buy tests and hide them. I use them then hide their evidence in the garbage, every negative reading becoming a constant reminder, almost too painful to look at. I hold each one under every light possible, at every angle, straining my eyes in hopes that somehow, some way, it's really a faint positive. I even go as far as taking the test apart to get to the test strip beyond the plastic window, and do the same.

Robin would think me crazy if he knew just how often this happens, and perhaps I am. Sometimes he'll see a test in the garbage, and offer me his, "I'm sorry." Maybe I should be labelled as crazy. All I know is I'm so terrified of being pregnant and not knowing it, and I've got to know right away. I got to do things differently than last time. I've got to hold onto this one because it may be my last chance.

Looking back, there was not one part of me that didn't believe it wouldn't happen again. I thought for certain by at least now I would have two sets of little hands tugging at my shirt while I stand to wash dishes, and two little voices calling me, 'Mama.' Time keeps on passing, Abel keeps growing older...growing up an only child. I never wanted this for him. I wanted him to have someone to grow up with, to make memories with. Family he'd still have to hold onto even after his parents are in their graves. He deserves a sibling that I may never be able to give to him. I'm sad for him just as much as I am for myself.

Last week I saw a picture of a dear friend of mine surrounded by her four little boys, the youngest being a new born, and I cried. It was the most beautiful picture in so many ways, it was so full of love. She was surrounded by love. You see, I always thought that would be me. When I was a young girl I imagined myself surrounded in children, at least eight. Then as a teenager thought I could settle for just five. That seemed a bit more logical, and realistic for this day and age. Now I find myself trying to convince my mind and heart I can be content on settling for just my one child. I'm not being greedy, and don't get me wrong I know how very fortunate I am to even have him, but I'm struggling. When I looked at that picture I mourned the loss of the very idea, that it would ever be me. It's a hard pill to swallow.

And now we are dealing with the fact that my body is just not responding to the hormone replacement and fertility drugs, and facing the humiliating and invasive procedures of semen analysis, and hysteroscopy. They are only giving us one more cycle before we have to move on to the next steps towards intrauterine insemination because of my age. I am thirty-two. My ovaries are getting progressively worse, coupled with the fact that fertility rates decrease in general after the age of thirty-five. I've got one more cycle, one last chance before things get more complicated, and I'm dreading it. I just do not know if I have it in me to put my body though the ordeal of hot flashes, mood swings, and irritability again. Or to endure all the horrible cramping that comes hand in hand with it one more time.

I feel defeated by this.

Angry, but mostly sad. I was never suppose to be this woman. This grieving, wishing, hoping, praying, empty-womb woman that you hear about, and read about. Not me. Anything but that. I was suppose to be the 'fertile myrtle' type, or at least that's how I always saw myself. Letting go of that vision is so incredibly difficult that no one will ever understand, unless they have too grieved a part of themselves.

So for all who innocently ask me if I'm going to have another...

For they who want to know when we plan to grow our family...

And especially for those who feel the need to constantly remind me of Abel's age, and suggest that we not wait too long before having another because it's better to have them close enough together to grow up together. This is my simple, and uncomplicated answer for you.

"I'm trying."

With every tear shed, every prayer asked, and every possibly resource within my means, I'm trying.

The Lord Gave and the Lord Hath Taken Away

In this day and age I find it most surprising how the topic of miscarriage is so taboo, in a world where everything is so openly 'on the table', and publicly displayed, from sex, to menopause, to every other aspect of motherhood being discussed and dissected, all aside from this. People tend to keep it hidden like a shameful, dirty secret, and keep it to themselves, the pain they feel with the loss, the guilt, and confusion that stems from that. And perhaps it's just one of those things that make people feel uncomfortable, after all, what do you say to someone who experiences a death before a birth?

All of my life I have heard the term "miscarriage", and knew it meant, what it entailed; nature's way of terminating a non-viable pregnancy, also called spontaneous abortion. I know it is common reality, and know many people, whether it be close friends or family who have dealt with a miscarriage, or multiple miscarriages, and I'd think to myself, "That's too bad," and tell them I was sorry, without fully understanding. But here is the thing, if it is so common, and statistics show that it is, varying slightly, but roughly 1 in 4 pregnancies end in a miscarriage, then why do people continue to suffer in silence only intensifying the feelings of shame when there is an entire support system out there of other woman with whom can they can empathize with?

Perhaps this is the very reason I feel the need to share my story...my feelings, because I know there is many other woman out there who have dealt with the same emotions attached with the term, "miscarriage," that I know will understand how I feel, so I don't feel so all alone right now. Also, the written word has always been a form of therapy for me, it is just the method in which how I prefer to express my thoughts and feelings right now, it's a coping mechanism for me.

I remember being pregnant with my son, in those early months, and I would pray out of fear, "God, if I'm ever to suffer a miscarriage, please just don't let it be this baby, I just couldn't bear it." And so I'd plea that prayer regularly for peace of mind, and in faith that it would be heard. And now upon recalling that, I think to myself, 'I should have prayed to never miscarry any baby!' Never could I have ever imagined, or been prepared that actual heart brokenness that grips you when you are told, "You're miscarrying."

Life and it's irony.

The day we celebrated my son's first birthday, a real milestone, was the day we lost what would have been our second child.

We were devastated. Are. To find out we had conceived on our own, without fertility aid intervention unlike Abel, a true surprise pregnancy, only to be told it was being taken from us, this gift, for which we were only temporarily granted.

That kind of pain you feel is raw, and all consuming. I can't help but wonder, am I crazy for feeling the way about it that I do, or do all woman struggle and battle with these same emotions? This guilt? I feel like a failure somehow, that my body failed me, or that I failed my body, of which I'm not entirely certain, a bit of both I guess, and that resolves into the guilt.

The knowledge that my baby must have ended up in a septic tank disturbs my mind to no end, the very realization keeps me awake at nights now, feeling tormented that any life should have that kind of ending. He/she was a part of me, and I feel like they deserved better than that, it was a human life just the same no matter what stage of development. It was a baby, makes no difference it's physical make-up at 7 weeks gestational. Our baby. A combination of Robin and I, and it would have had an audible, and visible heart beat at that point.

Although I'll never get to know them, to even hold them, I love my baby with a mother's natural unconditional love, with the same ferocity that I feel for my 1 year old toddler, and nothing less, in spite of the fact I only carried them for a short while of time. I'm sad and I'm broken over it, and I'll forever feel that loss of missing them, and nothing will ever change that, not even time. We feel robbed that we'll never get to share in all the milestones with this baby that we did Abel...no first smile, no first word, no first steps...

I watch Abel now and suddenly I feel saddened that he is playing alone, that he'll never get to play with what would have been his little brother or sister. People tell me not to worry, that it will happen again, and truthfully, I'm not worried that it won't, nor do I feel the need to get to hurry and replace this lost pregnancy with another, like it will somehow make all this pain go away, cancel this last child-to-be out, like it no longer matters. I never want to pretend like it never happened, because I never want this baby to be forgotten. If anything, it's memory at least deserves to be preserved in my mind, and in my heart. I have no doubts, and truly believe that at some point Abel will get his sibling, and playmate, but even then, when I'll watch them play, I'll still be sad that I'm only seeing two heads in the sand box when there should have been three.

This past winter I read a book, titled, "Heaven is for Real," a recollection of events as told by a 4 year old boy, after his brush with death on a surgeon's table. A funny little story about this book was that before Christmas I was at a Christmas market and I only had so much money to spend. I came across the book and took thought of purchasing it upon reading the summary on the back, but then seen another book I wanted to get for Abel, and therefore spent the money on him. Come January, I was walking by the bookshelf at home when this bright yellow spine jumped out at me. I curiously went to pull it out, to see what book it was, and low and behold, it was that very book I never got to buy myself. Robin and I still have no clue as to how a brand new copy of that book appeared on our shelf.

In a part of the book, the little boy, Colton, talked of meeting his sister in heaven, that in his words, had "died in Mummy's tummy," to the shock of his parents whom never disclosed to the preschooler that in the past they had suffered a miscarriage, nor ever tried to explain to him the concept of it. They didn't even know the sex of the baby, and upon questioning the boy as to what her name was, he simply stated, "You didn't give her a name," which was true.

The past few days I find myself rereading those pages of the book because it gives me hope. Hope that one day I will see my lost baby, and that they are in a far much better place, and that God is taking care of them for me. I believe, much to the argument of some, that first before physical life, there is spiritual life, a living soul, and that God is the giver all of life. I also believe that there is a purpose, and reason for everything, even if we are unable to understand, or comprehend it at times. Like I told God last night as I said my nightly prayers over my sleeping baby boy, You've given me a child, and now I've given you one.

A poem I wrote in memory of our baby blueberry who would

have been due to join our family January 21, 2013.

Oh how I love you precious one,
though you never got to be.
My mind envisions a tiny face,
that my eyes will never see.

My arms will never hold you,
or rock you fast asleep.
Robbed of chance to do so,
is the reason why I weep.

I wonder who you were to be;
A Daddy’s girl? Or Mummy’s boy?
I’m sad I’ll never get to bask,
in the revelation of that joy.

I’ll never get to feel you kick,
butterflies dancing at the start.
But yet your footprints will reside
like tattoos upon my heart.

How do I mourn your death,
when you never had a birth?
God must have thought you too special,
for the sorrows of this old earth.

Though only the size of a blueberry,
vast pain you left in your wake.
The physical pain I can stand,
it’s the emotional that leaves the ache.

Your tiny heart beats no more,
but in Heaven you have breath.
For God painted you as an Angel,
when His brush stroked upon death.

I carried you only a short while,
I must accept it as His will.
But know this, precious one,
Mummy will always love you still.

I bid thee a bittersweet farewell,
to my flower that did not bloom.
Who went to be with Jesus,
the moment you left my womb.

"Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these."--Matthew 19:14

Parenting Fears 101

Wow. It's been a long while since I updated this blog. So much has happened and changed since my last entry. As most are aware, I am currently expecting my first son, due to be born in May. I'm ecstatic, over-joyed, emotionally overwhelmed by my extreme happiness, but most of all I'm scared. Robin always tells me I worry too much, and think too much, but hey, it's the way I've always been, and sorry to say, always will remain.

I can only assume that any expecting parent feels some sense of fear when it comes to bringing a life into this world. I mean, after all you are responsible for this helpless individual, and that's a scary thing alone. But then you realize that it's your parenting and child rearing that directs them and guides them to become the person they'll be. You're to shape and form them, teach them right from wrong, instill in them values, and live an example for them. It's up to you to make sure they have all they'll need. And more than just providing basic necessities, every child deserves to have all their emotional needs met as well. A healthy mind is just as important as a healthy body. All of the decisions you make affect them in one way or another. You cannot be selfish, you must think about everything you do and say now, as little eyes are watching, and little ears are listening. This is all some pretty heavy stuff. How can I not be scared that I'll mess it up somehow?

People have predicted that I'll be a bit over-protective as a mother, and heck, even I will agree. I already dread the first time my son gets sick, and I know it's bound to happen, but just knowing I can't protect him from illness scares me. I want to be able to catch him before he takes his first fall and scrapes his knee, or bumps his head. As his mother I want to protect him from everything bad in this world, and this world is a frightening place. Just look around you. He's not even here yet, and I'm already terrified of somehow losing him.

Time is so precious, only to be wasted wisely, and I never want to miss a moment or milestone in his life. He may be my only child, there are no certainties, and I want to remain in constant frame of mind to savor every second I'm granted. I want him to remain an innocent child for as long as possible, and not let him have it robbed from him too soon by all the filth and garbage he may hear or see. He deserves better than that from me. I never want him to know my problems so his little mind will have to worry about them. I never want him to hear his parents argue, I want to respect him enough for that. I want him to see a healthy, and loving relationship between his parents so he'll grow up knowing what how to be in one himself one day. I want him to be as respectful to woman as his father is to me. He's special, he's my son, and I want him to have nothing but a happy and healthy environment all way around.

It's up to us as parents to set a prime example for him to prepare him for the harsh realities of this life. A good head on your shoulders will take you far in this life, he'll need that. When it comes time for those adolescent years, I want him to be able to make good decisions, and not be waived by peer pressure. Having said that, I'm not fool enough to think that he'll never make any mistakes, but I always want him to learn and grow from them. I'll never cover for him and uphold him when I know he's done wrong, but I will always support him and and love him through his wrong turns, and try and steer him in the right direction.

My wish for Abel is that he'll grow into a great man, and I want to do everything in my power as his mother to ensure that happens. I want him to love deeply, and affectionately, have a charitable heart, to be kind, considerate, respectful, and appreciative. I want him to have the self-esteem, and self confidence that I myself never had, and to always know that he has the ability to do anything he sets his mind to. I never want him to go a second without knowing deep within how much he's loved, and how much he was wanted. He's already everything I ever wanted, and the completion to everything I've spent my life waiting for. He never had the option of choosing me as his mother, so I can only hope to always do right by him enough that he'll never feel bitter that he ended up with me, but always proud that he got stuck with me anyway.

One thing for absolute certain I know, is that I'll forever remain in constant awareness of what a blessing he is to me. I am blessed. So blessed.

Preheating the Oven

BBT, short for Basal Body Temperature, is the lowest temperature attained by the body during rest. It is recorded immediately after being awakened before any physical activity has been undertaken. Before you so much as sit up, or talk. And so there sits a Basal thermometer on my night stand, easily accessible, used every morning at 6am as soon as my mind registers that I am awake. It's part of my morning routine now, I roll over ever so slowly, and lie perfectly still as it records my temperature, all while the antagonizing alarm spews forth it's wretched sound. I want to shut the darn thing off, club it to death even, only I can't. I can't move yet, not until the beeping of the thermometer sounds. Dear Boyfriend doesn't seem to mind, I dare say it's part of his routine now to, be awakened before his time, listen to the alarm blare while I do my thing, knowing not to utter the words, "Good morning," or "I love you," because I cannot return the sentiment yet.

Some of you may know all about the abc's of BBT, and to those that do not, let me explain, it's rather fascinating.(Or perhaps I just fascinate way too easily) From the first day of your period it is known as the follicular phase of your cycle, when estrogen dominates. Then once ovulation has occurred, you've entered your leutal phase where progesterone is now leading the hormonal tango, until your new cycle begins. Then cue a rise in estrogen, and let the bi-polar woman begin again. While on topic, and come to think of it, men have no right to complain about our mood swings, and all that jazz. We have a legit reasons when you consider the changes our bodies have to go through over and over again, month after month. It's exhausting just thinking about it, isn't it? I do believe we've earned our God given right to be a irritable, weepy, bitch. Wear that badge with pride ladies. We are woman, here us...moan in pain with cramps?? Pfft, roaring is for the lions anyways.

Where was I, oh yes, back to the point...So what does all this have to do with recording your temperature you may ask? From the first day of your period if you start consistently recording your basal body temperature, and charting it every day on a graph, you'll notice dips and spikes by month's end. Too small to feel physically, but they are there, and have hidden signs. Your temperature should remain low, on average in the low 97 degrees Fahrenheit. After ovulation it should spike to the higher 97 degree Fahrenheit, and up into the 98's degree Fahrenheit. And there it should consistently remain higher until it takes a huge dip, usually right before, or on the day of your period. Every woman is different, and temperatures will vary. Another fascinating thing about this, is that your BBT can indicate pregnancy. If your temperature remains spiked for over 15+ days, it's usually a sure sign that there's a bun in that oven.

I do not have yet a regular cycle established, but once I began my acupuncture, and treatments by the Naturopath, I started charting from my first period, looking a regular pattern, and for those hidden signs. Namely, looking for that temperature spike that signifies ovulation has occurred. The only catch is, your spike will happen around two days after your ovulation has occurred, not when ovulation is at it's peak. But hey, at this point, just for proof that it has occured is enough for me, and it is a very good sign, especially seeing as I had amenorrhea, and was anovulatory. If say, I had a regular, by the book, 28 day cycle, after a few months of charting, I could see and predict that exact day I would ovulate and release that egg, and know when that small fertility window was opened. Do you all feel schooled on the subject now? Good.

Now, I've been charting and graphing now for 3 months, and am still hoping for that regular pattern to show. Months may turn into years before I see anything remotely consistent, if ever I fear. I was going into my 5th week of my cycle, and it was looking like a dud. My baseline temperature was sitting at 96.8 - 97.2 degrees Fahrenheit, every morning, morning after morning since the first day of my last period, May 11th. I felt nothing, so signs of a pending period, no physical signs of ovulation, or post-ovulation for that matter. I can't lie, this evidence depressed me, and I cried about it many days due to being so frustrated with my own body. It's my body, but yet I feel like a stranger in it. I have no control over it, it control me, I just have to go along for the ride. I cannot will it to do anything, I cannot demand it. I try and persuade it, as opposed to unnaturally manipulating it, but it doesn't seem to even appreciate my efforts. Stubborn body. Stubborn Ruthie. Perhaps I'm too impatient? It's true, when I want things, I do want them to happen yesterday.

It was all too much for me, I was gonna break, so I came home from work one day last week, and got straight into bed. And I cried - You know, that homely cry that you want no one else ever to witness? Where the sounds of an animal dying escapes your lips? Where your nose is dripping, and your head is so stopped up it might explode from lack of oxygen? - I cried myself to sleep, praying to God out of desperation, while cursing my body. I always said I wanted to be a better person, not a bitter one, but I'm bitter. Bitter about all this. A part of me is bitter towards God. Hey, don't judge me, God says not to! I questioned God why He'd let this happen. How he could do this to me when He's always know how I've wanted children more than anything. How it was the only thing I've ever asked for out of this life that I've been forced to live. How he could bless people with children day after day, when they are not wanted. The world if full of people raising other people's children, people abusing their children, ignoring them. Drug addicts giving birth to drug addicted babies. People using their children solely as a means for government income. They should be shamed of themselves! Fie on you! You wouldn't know a blessing if it hit you in the face! So why, God, WHY? Why did you have to make it so hard for me? Am I being punished for something? It's a question I can only hope will make sense one day. That I will have my answer. That one day I will understand the reasoning.

Three days later I was crampy. Four days later something happened, and it happened at 6am, my temperature spiked. Could I have ovulated and not realized it? Was I so preoccupied with worrying about no ovulation, that I missed it? If I did in fact ovulate, it would have put my peak day around June 9th, which just so happens to be my birthday. (This is the part when you all smile with me) Could the anniversary of my own birth been blessed with the beginning of an other's life?

Riddle me this, had my oven been preheated, or was it just a glitch in my thermostat?

Fantasy vs. Reality

This morning I'm feeling the ache. Like a weight on my chest, making it hard to breathe. An ache of the heart. I swallow, but the lump doesn't dispense, it only grows. I try and think about something else...anything, but for some reason my mind is inanimate, and holds fast, refusing to allow any other thought to penetrate it's hemispheres. I groan, but no sound escapes, I cry, but no tears fall. I'm drowning in this ache, this emptiness, like I'm missing something. Something is missing.

How is it possible to love a child so much that has yet to have life? And yet I do. I love this unconceived child with everything within me. I find myself letting go of reality for a period of time, imagining he or she. How can I not when even my unconscious dreams possess images of this tiny new life? I awake from those dreams reluctant to let go of that place, I am content there, I can breathe there. This nightmare only exists when I'm awake.

I can imagine everything. I close my eyes and slip into a place in my mind that is safe. Nobody can find me there, it's my secret. My favorite place to reside. I feel whole there, never feel that gaping void......

I'm not feeling quite myself...just off. Is it possible? With shaky hands, I'd pee on that stick. It's Positive. I'm in disbelief. I take two more tests. They're all positive.

He comes home from and says I'm glowing. Does he know already? Maybe it's just because I'm beaming. I tell him in the way I've planned. He didn't suspect a thing. I watch his face register shock, then realization, then there it is...now he's beaming. This is a great moment.

I'm at the doctor's office, we're excited. I've got butterflies fluttering in my tummy, their wings snapping, synchronizing with my rapid pulse. With baited breath we wait for it, the sign of life, a heartbeat. This finally feels real now. I laugh and compare it to a galloping horse.

I look at the clock, he's late, he's supposed to meet me here. He had to take the afternoon off. I know he wouldn't miss it. They call my name, and as I start to rise, I feel him take my hand, and hurriedly kiss me, out of breathe. He's anxious, too.

There's a cold sensation, and then a lot of pressure from the probe. If they press any harder there's going to be a clean up on aisle gurney. I'm bursting from all the water I was told to drink to get a better picture from the ultrasound. I push the urge to the back of my mind, focusing on the monitor. My eyes cannot leave the screen, I can see nothing else, I'm in awe. They ask if we want to know the sex. We do not, it's one of life's far precious few surprises.

I am slightly round with child, my hand lovingly placed over the swell of my abdomen. I feel a flutter...a rippling effect, then a small tap - or at least that's how I imagine it to be - and it has finally happened. That first tiny kick. I am ecstatic.

I experience a tightening of my skin, it's stretched beyond it's limit. I'm swollen, tired, and can't hardly bend over. None of this matters.

Is it time? A stabbing pain grips me. We time the pains. It is time!

I'm restless and exhausted. I can't take this no more. I start to question why I had wanted this...was I crazy? No. I focus, keeping my mind on the end result. I draw the strength I need, I press on.

I wait for it, holding my own breath, and then it happens. I hear that first wail, that, lungs-cleared, ear-piercing squawk flooding my ears. It's the most beautiful sound in the world. No choir or world-renowned orchestra could compare.

Love cannot be measured, has not a capacity, a volume, or mass, but yet I'm cradling love in my arms. I look down, and am so overwhelmed by the waves of emotion that I feel. I am now drowning in my own tears.

Weak eyes struggle against the light of this new world, trying to focus on my face. "Hello there," we'd both say without a physical word spoken. "I've been waiting for you."

I am no longer empty. I am complete. My soul yearns no more. Everything has lead up to this moment. I am thankful. I've been blessed...

Reality is a real bitch, isn't it?

'Cause I've Got Friends in Administrative Places

Having all the right friends in the right places means everything in a world of, "It's not what you know, it's who you know." And just how true that statement is. I know people, and that worked in my favour. I'm neither ashamed to have used my resources, or feel guilty in the least. It's the way the world works. Take it or leave it. I took it. And all it required was contacting a certain individual, and asking them to pull my file and get me in to a specialist asap! I received a phone call from them a few days later with an appointment to see a OB/GYN on Tuesday, May 25th. It was less than a 6 month wait for me, as compared to the year and a half I was first informed of.

To say I was very anxious for my upcoming appointment would be an understatement. I took the day off work, as did dear boyfriend, who said, it was far too important for him to miss. (Cue some, Awwwws). Finally, I could stop worrying, find out directly what my options were, and get started on the road to fertility. Time is of the essence, and my biological clock has struck turbo speed. At least, that's the way it feels to me. I've got a case of empty womb syndrome, and to anyone who has ever experienced it, it's an ache like no other. It's mourning for a life not lived, not like mourning over a life once lived. It's different, but yet the same, if you can make any sense out of that.

I was prepared for this, the day couldn't get here soon enough, but by the evening before, I had worked myself into a ball of nerves, rattled nerves. Sleep couldn't find me, but I managed to track it down by 2 am. Unfortunately my sleep was that of a restless one until 5:40 am, at which time I got up. I went for a run, got my entire exercise routine under my belt by 8am. They claim exercise releases endorphins, but it did nothing to calm me. And when I thought I could not get any more ancy, we were in the car, and on our way. My heart picked up pace, I was fidgety, and my stomach was in knots. Just just one of those loose knots, but one of those knots a Boy Scout learns on his first wilderness excursion. I was ultra quiet and deep in thought the entire drive. For the sake of dear boyfriend, I tried to act all was well, but who was I kidding, he always knows, I can't get anything passed him. I swear he knows what I'm feeling before I even feel it! He just covered my hand with his own and lightly squeezed, a way of reminding me I wasn't alone. Then when he began his silly car-radio singing where he incorporates my name into every song, and changes the words around to suit, try as I might, I could not fight a ear-splitting smile. It's those little things though, isn't it?

Once we arrived and got registered, the clerk directed us to Dr. L's office to await him. I'm not sure what happened, but I began to feel as though the walls were closing in on me, like I couldn't breathe. Dear Boyfriend was talking to me, my eyes were scanning a pamphlet they had given me to read over, but I did not hear a word he said, nor could my mind process the information before my eyes. My heart started pounding, flooded my ears with the pulsating sound, I could feel that of an anxiety attack coming on, and then I said it, "Could you leave the room when the doctor comes in?" The look on his face said it all, the look of hurt, and it was what snapped me back to reality. I'm not sure why I said it, I sure as heck didn't mean it, I wanted him with me. We are in this together, after all, but nonetheless those words left my lips. Once words are spewed forth, they can never return to place of unspokenness, although I wished with all my might, just this once they could. I tried recanting, explaining, but I could still see that look in his eyes. I felt like a big stupid jerk. I'm selfish when it comes to my feelings, I focus constantly on what I'm experiencing...feeling, never taking into account that this affects him, too.

A quick rap at the door then Dr. L was there, in the room, closing the door behind him, keeping Dear Boyfriend right where I wanted him, and where he belonged. First thing he asked was why I was there, and what I wanted him to do for me. Direct. Straight to the point. He knew why I was there medically, he had my chart, but personally, it mattered just as much. I liked that. I was quick to say that fertility was my biggest issue, and the most important factor in all of this, as far as I was concerned. He informed me that they had some time to work with me seeing as I am 28 (well, technically not until next week), but this condition will progress, and once the age of 35, chances and success rates were low. I quickly did the simple math. 7 years. I've got 7 years to have my family. What if it took years to have even just one? I always wanted more than one child, at the least, three. Would hoping for at least two be greedy of me? Should I content my mind in only settling for one, just in case? All these question plagued my mind instantly, whirling around like a cyclone.

Dr. L told me it was up to me when I wanted to start trying, with his aid. And his aid? Clomid, a fertility drug. Success rates - pretty good; My luck - pretty bad. Here's the thing, you only get 6 months to try Clomid, after which time, you are thought of as 'infertile', and many tests and examinations would ensue. You know, the testing of, ahem...his marching soldiers, my fallopian tubes spring cleaned until they whistled, that sort of thing. Then next on the list would be looking into fertility procedures. Ex. In-virto...yada, yada...you get the point, the need for some cold hard cash. Fertility procedures are not cheap in the least!

There are some medications that will help with certain symptoms of my disorder, to which I've been offered to try, but seeing as none are safe to take if you are pregnant, or could become pregnant, I opted out. The best thing I can do to help control symptom flare-ups for now, and for life, is to maintain my body weight, and eat healthy, exercise often. Dr. L asked about my periods, and that's when I told him about my seeing a licensed Naturopathic Doctor the past 2 months, and filled him in on all my progress with Dr. B - 2 periods in a 6 week time frame! He said it was extremely important to have at least 4 periods per year. A uterus that is not shedding, and build up, is at a high risk for uterine cancer. Not to mention, due to my condition, I'm already at a high risk for diabetes (hormone imbalance = messes with insulin resistance), and heart disease. Fun stuff. I think not. So then came the prescription for hormone replacement called Provera. A form of progesterone that tricks your body into having a period. Then once you're having your period, on day 3 of your cycle you'd commence the Clomid. 8-10 days later, you should ovulate. Sounds easy enough, right? Oh, but nothing is without side effects. Hot flashes, cramping, nausea, that feeling of, 'down-in-the-dumps', are just a few that were mentioned. Here's my dilemma, all these unnatural man-made drugs are what I wanted to avoid in the first place, so what do I do now? I expected to leave the specialist feeling utter relief. Rather, I felt overwhelmed with what I wanted to do. I had to start re-evaluating everything, and quickly before my mind combusted from overload.

What was wrong with this picture? I left the specialists office more tormented than before I entered. It all weighed heavily on my mind. I mauled it all over a thousand times, with still no satisfaction or contentment. What should I do? Should I start the Clomid next month? Should I give up on acupuncture and Naturopathy? Then I started to fear taking Clomid...what if it didn't work? Starting it meant one of two things. It either meant I was 6 months closer to having a baby, or 6 months closer to finding out it wasn't going to work. The latter was what frightened me. And then with our pending move to Halifax, would it even be smart of me to start taking it now?

A good old heart to heart. The most open, and raw conversation two individuals can have. And that's just what Dear Boyfriend and I did. I poured my heart out to him. Admitted how torn I was about what to do. As much as I craved to feel the relief that I'll only experience when I become pregnant, when I know it has happened, and is possible for me, it all just didn't feel right. I was at such odds with myself. I wanted to feel that relief, but I hate feeling rushed to make a decision. He was patient with me, and tried his very best to understand my insane ramblings, and scenarios - God bless him! He reassured my fears, and reminded me of what I first wanted. And so, together we decided to continue with the Naturopathic route. It has been what has brought me thus far, and many positive things have happened. I need to give it more a chance, it is what feels right to us. Once we move, get settled into our new lives and environment, and if it still hasn't happened, perhaps then we'll reconsider it. For now though, we're just gonna relax, enjoy the summer, our time together, and continue seeing the Naturopathic, and having the acupuncture treatments. Only time will tell.

My mind is still now, silent, I've found my peace.

The Weight of the Matter

The bigger you are the more of you there is to love...

That was always my Grandmother's motto when it came to me feeling down on myself as a child over being, for lack of better words, a chunker. At least she always said it with a hug, and it was, believe it or not, with her form of sincerity.

At the age of 7, I began going through that awkward phase where I was free of my baby teeth, and trying to grow into my new ones. And ironic enough, my baby fat had made a triumphant return. You know how they say, kids are cruel? Well, yeah, they totally are, I got teased and was called such things as "fat, and "pig" on the playground, and strange enough, that has never left me. They say that we as humans never remember the positive things we hear, but yet we zoom in on, and never forget the negative. For example, fifty people could compliment you and tell you that you looked nice, but it would only take for one person to say the opposite, and that would be all you hear, all you'd recall. All those other lovely comments be damned. That goes to show, negative feeds negative. Perhaps that was when my self-esteem problem originated, of that I'm not exactly sure. One thing I do know for sure is that was when my battle with weight first began. Or as some call it, "the battle of the bulge." Now true, once I reached that ever wonderfully adolescence stage (sarcasm), and puberty made it appearance, I experienced a growth spurt, and grew up, rather than out for a change....BUT, I still felt uncomfortable in my own body, and that I was still "fat", so hence, cue the early teenage years of eating disorder stage.

Some call it anorexia, but I can't say that I was anorexic, after all I did allow myself to eat one popsicle every day. Always either grape, or orange. I suppose in some twisted way I thought that counted as a serving of fruit for the day. It took some dedication of staying away from food, but I managed to achieve my goal weight of 115lbs. And the real catch? I still felt, "fat." Now upon looking back at old photos of that time in my life, I looked horrible, pale, collar bone sticking out. I simply looked ill and not at all healthy. What was I thinking?

Finally after my immune system took a hit, and getting really sick, I slowly started introducing food back into my diet, or should I say, the lack thereof a diet. Then slowly, and ever so frequently I began gaining weight...and weight...and weight. I went from one extreme to another. By the time I graduated high school I didn't think it was possible for me to gain any more weight, and yet, I still did. I couldn't stop, I just kept gaining. I was always active, always worked nothing but physically demanding jobs, it wasn't as though I sat around stuffing my face with Twinkies all day or anything. True, I didn't have the best of eating habits, but if I was going gain weight at warp speed anyways, I would have rather enjoyed it and went all buck wild on all the foods I love.

For the next few years until the age of 25, I continued my battle. I was unhappy, miserable, depressed, my anxiety was getting the best of me, and I was to my emotional breaking point. Something needed a change. I needed to change. And so, I changed my way of thinking, started adding regular exercise in my daily life, and became more food conscious, and at turtle speed, I started losing weight. To say it was easy would be a lie, losing weight is the hardest thing there is to do, if anyone ever claims different, they're lying. There's no such thing as "dieting", it's a way of life, starting firstly with mental preparation, and self-encouragement. I do not own scales, nor like knowing my exact weight. The last time I was on a set of scales was about a year ago (my sister harped until I did), so therefore I do know for sure that I have lost over 50lbs to that point. At least once a week I have a run in with an individual who comments on my weight loss, or some who have exclaimed, "I didn't even know who you were, you've lost so much weight!" As much as I like hearing that, it also makes me sad, I'm saddened for the old me and all her pain.

I'm still not happy with how I look, so my goal for this calendar year is to lose another 20lbs. I feel that's reasonable, and will not result in setting myself up for a great disappointment. I tell you though, it's so hard! I try, and try, and try, and it's as though I'm at a plateau weight-wise right now. The doctor tells me that with my hormone levels the way they are, and my estrogen gone a-wall, it makes losing weight more difficult. Then come to find out, my condition (which you're born with, to which there is no cure) would have been a contributing factor in my gaining so much weight in the first place. Estrogen causes your body retain a lot of water, and the imbalanced hormones affect insulin resistance...meaning, I've got a lot stacked against me. And get this...losing more weight aids in balancing hormones, but yet, hormones will keep you from losing weight. A real catch-22! So frustrating!

I refuse to give up, and I keep pushing myself - now having been upping my cardio by jogging rather than walking. It's getting easier, my wind is getting better, and I can feel myself getting stronger each time. Also, having an ipod (thanks to dear boyfriend), with some upbeat workout music really helps, too. Just one dilemma now...a bull moose hanging around my running trails. Hmm, I'm not sure if I should be alarmed due to the many tales I have heard about moose charging...they are pretty massive...

Nah, what's more scary, a charging bull moose, or a woman with a hormone imbalance? Exactly! Like any other male, he'd run from me.