So here I am, checking out one of Karen's genius recent posts. An issue of contention has turned out to be non-pregnant women parking in the parking spaces reserved for the poor, neglected pregnant ladies. These women that are parking in these designated spaces (of which Karen is not even one), are adopting, and therefore are by definition "expectant mothers". Somehow, people find this objectionable. Somehow, adopting mothers are just evil bitches with a hateful vengeance for knocked up women. Of course. All infertile women detest the pregnant. Perhaps it is not pregnant women that piss us off, but the veneration they receive when long-suffering infertile women are viewed with disdain and tremendous misunderstanding. You would think that as pregnancy seems to be the pinnacle of life's experience as ordained by society, that women who struggled so long unsuccessfully to be so would not be the enemy but rather admired for what they have endured but failed to achieve.
What I wanted to focus on is not this perceived notion of the pregnant versus the non-pregnant, but rather how this long slog of infertility has made me jaded and cynical with all things pregnancy and parent-oriented. If I got pregnant, I wouldn't use a parking space designated for pregnant women on principle. Pregnant women aren't disabled. I figure if they are mobile enough to waddle around a store and shop for onesies, they can walk an extra 20 paces from a normal parking space.
Wouldn't the natural inclination be that if someone struggled so long to be pregnant, that she would grab onto this opportunity to park in a space and for once be seen as "normal"? To me, this notion of the feeble pregnant woman is irritating and outmoded. Easy for me to say, I know, being distinctly not pregnant, but it's the reproductive equivalent of "women and children first". Women's lives are more valuable then the lives of men in times of disaster, and pregnant women need to park an inch outside a shop entrance because they can't walk. They'll walk around plenty IN the store, but don't ask them to walk too much OUTSIDE the store. The moral to this story is - no pregnancy parking space for me. Well, principles, and I don't drive.
Secondly, you will never hear me talk about how my baby is my little "miracle". It ain't no miracle that unites the sperm and egg in a petri dish. It's science. A miracle would be me getting pregnant naturally; polycystic posterior ovaries, tilted cervix and small-headed sperm uniting to create a life. That said, even if this happened I would still never call the child a "miracle". The very thought makes me want to roll around in babydust and set myself alight.
I am a member of a mailing list for American ex-pats residing in the UK. One of the women on the list had a baby last week and announced his birth to the list today. After giving the rundown of the usual crap - length, weight, disposition, etc...the beaming new mother said, "I probably won't have much to do now except be a mother", at which point I threw up in my mouth more than just a little. Christ on a bike woman, did you not have anything to do pre-baby? She wasn't even infertile! Surely it is just infertile women, people who have spent ages focusing on procreation, that would momentarily forget that there are more things in life than pregnancy and children? Oddly enough, we are the women who don't say things like that.
That is my drug-induced rant for today. Stay tuned for the next installment when I write 4 paragraphs on how my co-worker's stirring of Cup of Soup makes me want to crawl out of my skin and beat her with the pelt.
11/14/2005
11/11/2005
Spread those legs and bare that stomach
Ah yes...here we are again, popping pills, sticking needles in the abdomen, and resting comfortably in the stirrups. It's been too long.
Today is cd3. Thank you to all of those who offered up the advice that no dumbass, spotting does not count as day one. I think The Dude probably even had an idea. Well, if the very thought of menstrual blood didn't make him get the vapours that is. I'm sure there were dozens of women reading that post that found me a disgrace to infertiles everywhere, for which I almost apologise for my ignorance.
Today I had my first onset-of-IVF WHYBAML appointment. Last night I dreamt that The Dude went to the appointment and was miraculously knowledgeable on all matters gynocological with a specialisation in IVF. In this dream he countered everything WHYBAML said, often offering an alternative to whatever treatment protocol WHYBAML suggested. In the end WHYBAML agreed with him, and it led to me laying on a table with some sort of barrel type contraption underneath me whilst The Dude and WHYBAML fondled antiquated medical instruments and discussed their next course of action. See, this is why I like the fact that The Dude barely even knows what a vagina is.
I sighed in relief tonight when I realised my dream would not come to fruition, as The Dude asked WHYBAML: "Is the retrieval (score! Who knew he was even aware such a term existed?) likely to be on a weekday? If so, when they put them all back in at the thing...the...the...putting them back in time, can that sometimes fall on a weekend?" Aww...bless. "The putting them back in time." I did whisper, "TRANSFER", but he looked at me like, "Shut up woman! I know of what I speak!"
Nothing exciting about day three scans. I am still enamoured of WHYBAML, as he told me not to worry when I apologised for sending him three emails and leaving one voicemail over the fiasco that is spotting day 1 vs proper day 1. When I asked if my posterior ovary would cause problems in retrieval, he said that it wouldn't, as "you're anaesthesised anyway, so they just jam that needle around in there until they get what they want...haha", and then he patted my shin reassuringly. Thankfully I shaved.
My next scan is on Tuesday. Until then, I am shooting up 125iu of Puregon every night, and popping a Letrozole as well for good measure. I felt like a delirious junkie tonight when I jabbed the needle full of Puregon into my more-than-an-inch, because I enjoyed it far more than I should. I have bruised before because I left the needle in too long due to staring at the whole procedure in amazement. I know, I need to find a hobby that doesn't involve needles and fertility drugs.
I did ask WHYBAML if he could write a letter stating briefly that I would need post-op recovery and may be off work for a couple of days. He said that he is accostomed to writing non-specific gyno problem letters, but I asked him to drop any mention of gyno issues. I mentioned the work situation and how I refused to divulge that information, and he agreed that it was none of their fucking business. Uh, yeah...WHYBAML kinda rules. For the record, he said it in a far more diplomatic manner. He is English, remember. If he did have to tell them it was none of their business, it would probably be to the effect of "I do beg your pardon. Kindly refrain from enquiring as to the nature of Ms Prufrock's procedure. 'Tis a private matter that does not concern her employer. I humbly request your understanding in this rather delicate and personal situation. Kindest regards, WHYBAML"
So that's where everything stands at the moment. I am sometimes struck with disbelief that I am at this point in the infertility roundabout. 27 and at the final procedure already. It's grim. Obviously I can carry on going in a circle, IVF 2, 3, 4, 5 and so on. It's the next step that I'm debating at the moment, and it's a topic for yet another day. I've been rolling the ideas around in my head without much clarity, so any post will probably just be random thoughts spewed in a blog post. Nothing new there. You lucky people. If it's not inane rambling, it's me waxing lyrical on the Puregon Pen. It's a surprise anyone is even reading this thing anymore. At least weary internet travellers searching for "fucky mother", "vegetable insertion" and "wife won't do what I tell her to" will still find their way here. Thank heavens for small mercies, eh?
Today is cd3. Thank you to all of those who offered up the advice that no dumbass, spotting does not count as day one. I think The Dude probably even had an idea. Well, if the very thought of menstrual blood didn't make him get the vapours that is. I'm sure there were dozens of women reading that post that found me a disgrace to infertiles everywhere, for which I almost apologise for my ignorance.
Today I had my first onset-of-IVF WHYBAML appointment. Last night I dreamt that The Dude went to the appointment and was miraculously knowledgeable on all matters gynocological with a specialisation in IVF. In this dream he countered everything WHYBAML said, often offering an alternative to whatever treatment protocol WHYBAML suggested. In the end WHYBAML agreed with him, and it led to me laying on a table with some sort of barrel type contraption underneath me whilst The Dude and WHYBAML fondled antiquated medical instruments and discussed their next course of action. See, this is why I like the fact that The Dude barely even knows what a vagina is.
I sighed in relief tonight when I realised my dream would not come to fruition, as The Dude asked WHYBAML: "Is the retrieval (score! Who knew he was even aware such a term existed?) likely to be on a weekday? If so, when they put them all back in at the thing...the...the...putting them back in time, can that sometimes fall on a weekend?" Aww...bless. "The putting them back in time." I did whisper, "TRANSFER", but he looked at me like, "Shut up woman! I know of what I speak!"
Nothing exciting about day three scans. I am still enamoured of WHYBAML, as he told me not to worry when I apologised for sending him three emails and leaving one voicemail over the fiasco that is spotting day 1 vs proper day 1. When I asked if my posterior ovary would cause problems in retrieval, he said that it wouldn't, as "you're anaesthesised anyway, so they just jam that needle around in there until they get what they want...haha", and then he patted my shin reassuringly. Thankfully I shaved.
My next scan is on Tuesday. Until then, I am shooting up 125iu of Puregon every night, and popping a Letrozole as well for good measure. I felt like a delirious junkie tonight when I jabbed the needle full of Puregon into my more-than-an-inch, because I enjoyed it far more than I should. I have bruised before because I left the needle in too long due to staring at the whole procedure in amazement. I know, I need to find a hobby that doesn't involve needles and fertility drugs.
I did ask WHYBAML if he could write a letter stating briefly that I would need post-op recovery and may be off work for a couple of days. He said that he is accostomed to writing non-specific gyno problem letters, but I asked him to drop any mention of gyno issues. I mentioned the work situation and how I refused to divulge that information, and he agreed that it was none of their fucking business. Uh, yeah...WHYBAML kinda rules. For the record, he said it in a far more diplomatic manner. He is English, remember. If he did have to tell them it was none of their business, it would probably be to the effect of "I do beg your pardon. Kindly refrain from enquiring as to the nature of Ms Prufrock's procedure. 'Tis a private matter that does not concern her employer. I humbly request your understanding in this rather delicate and personal situation. Kindest regards, WHYBAML"
So that's where everything stands at the moment. I am sometimes struck with disbelief that I am at this point in the infertility roundabout. 27 and at the final procedure already. It's grim. Obviously I can carry on going in a circle, IVF 2, 3, 4, 5 and so on. It's the next step that I'm debating at the moment, and it's a topic for yet another day. I've been rolling the ideas around in my head without much clarity, so any post will probably just be random thoughts spewed in a blog post. Nothing new there. You lucky people. If it's not inane rambling, it's me waxing lyrical on the Puregon Pen. It's a surprise anyone is even reading this thing anymore. At least weary internet travellers searching for "fucky mother", "vegetable insertion" and "wife won't do what I tell her to" will still find their way here. Thank heavens for small mercies, eh?
11/08/2005
Drained
I started typing up a lengthy post about what comes after IVF if such a thing is necessitated, but it was dull and pointless and I soon lost the will to live. I'm sure I'll go back to that at another time, but at the moment I don't have the drive to talk about these pressing, life-changing decisions. Oh, to have a month or even a week that infertility is not weighing heavily on my mind. What is it like to be normal and not do this anyway? None of us will ever know and I think that is an absolute travesty.
I was bordering on giddy today for about 2 whole hours when my period decided to show her delinquent ass after much delay. Well, I'm spotting, which I assume will lead to a proper period. I have been let down before, so perhaps I should hold my tongue for now. So my question is - does spotting count as cd 1? I tend to spot for up to two days before full force is exhibited. I should have asked this question three years ago, thus possibly explaining why I'm still not pregnant.
I told my boss today that I would need to have off for a few days for "minor surgery", which I requested to be kept between us. I don't need my co-workers getting me cards and balloons thinking I'm on my deathbed. I later received an email from her stating that I would need to supply a doctor's note (fine), as well as a brief description of my procedure. Pardon? Now, this may surprise some of you, but I'm a bit outspoken. I have yet to respond to this email, but when I do tomorrow you can be certain that no further details of my "procedure" will be divulged. I think it's a violation of my privacy and I refuse to do it. I have failed to come up with a reason as to why they would need to know this. I'm willing to give them a note from WHYBAML, but that's as far as it will be going.
My boss has said that this info will be requested by her manager, a woman who, two weeks ago, asked me what my last name was. I have worked in my department for two years and this woman, though not my direct manager, has had a lot of interaction with me in this time. I will not give such sensitive and personal information to a woman who cannot be bothered to even know my name. The Dude has said that if I say that in defense of my privacy, he will buy me the bracelet I have been coveting for the last two months. I know what I will be doing first thing tomorrow morning.
So that is where I am at the moment. I should be excited that all of this is finally kicking off, but I cannot muster that level of emotion. My apologies for the most boring and moaning post in the history of BarrenAlbion. I felt like I needed to post, despite not knowing what to coherently post about. The harsh realisation has just hit me that I am not even in the mood for Sex and the City or Freaks and Geeks. These are truly dark times. Remind me again why I don't drink?
I was bordering on giddy today for about 2 whole hours when my period decided to show her delinquent ass after much delay. Well, I'm spotting, which I assume will lead to a proper period. I have been let down before, so perhaps I should hold my tongue for now. So my question is - does spotting count as cd 1? I tend to spot for up to two days before full force is exhibited. I should have asked this question three years ago, thus possibly explaining why I'm still not pregnant.
I told my boss today that I would need to have off for a few days for "minor surgery", which I requested to be kept between us. I don't need my co-workers getting me cards and balloons thinking I'm on my deathbed. I later received an email from her stating that I would need to supply a doctor's note (fine), as well as a brief description of my procedure. Pardon? Now, this may surprise some of you, but I'm a bit outspoken. I have yet to respond to this email, but when I do tomorrow you can be certain that no further details of my "procedure" will be divulged. I think it's a violation of my privacy and I refuse to do it. I have failed to come up with a reason as to why they would need to know this. I'm willing to give them a note from WHYBAML, but that's as far as it will be going.
My boss has said that this info will be requested by her manager, a woman who, two weeks ago, asked me what my last name was. I have worked in my department for two years and this woman, though not my direct manager, has had a lot of interaction with me in this time. I will not give such sensitive and personal information to a woman who cannot be bothered to even know my name. The Dude has said that if I say that in defense of my privacy, he will buy me the bracelet I have been coveting for the last two months. I know what I will be doing first thing tomorrow morning.
So that is where I am at the moment. I should be excited that all of this is finally kicking off, but I cannot muster that level of emotion. My apologies for the most boring and moaning post in the history of BarrenAlbion. I felt like I needed to post, despite not knowing what to coherently post about. The harsh realisation has just hit me that I am not even in the mood for Sex and the City or Freaks and Geeks. These are truly dark times. Remind me again why I don't drink?
11/03/2005
Question Time
In carrying on this theme of "Help--I have no idea what the bloody hell I'm doing" in regard to IVF that has, and will be, permeating my blog for the next month or so, I have some questions for all you learned folk out there.
1) Retrieval: Tell me all about it. I know a local is used, but I truthfully don't even know what that means. Well, I know it isolates a certain area, but how much does that affect the rest of your body post-surgery? Will I be wandering around in a drugged stupor akin to the Nyquil Haze I know and love? I know, a child-like question to ask but the only surgery-type thing I've had was a tonsillectomy 15 years ago. How much recovery time is needed? A day of bedrest? 2 months (crosses fingers)?
1a) What do you tell your employer? I've got the added complication of needing to travel to London - 2 hours away, so I might need to get there the night before. With all of my IUIs and their related scans, I have just told my boss that I have hospital appointments. Since I have always been back within an hour and a half, no one has asked any questions. I would be inclined to take a sick day or two, but obviously as I could be in transit the morning of the transfer, it would be difficult to phone in sick without arousing suspicion. I know I could just *tell* my boss but that's not going to happen. I work in a small office and I don't trust her not to spread the news. I'm thinking I may just tell her ahead of time that I'm going into the hospital for a small outpatient procedure and I will need to take the rest of that day off for recovery.
2) Egg quality: I have this fear, which I hope is irrational, that I'll get to the point of retrieval and realise my eggs are baaaaaaaaaaad. Though it would explain a lot, it's not something I want to hear. How often is poor egg quality discovered at this time?
3) Transfer: Is this just like the process of IUI? If so, I can handle that.
4) Coffee: Yay or nay? I know you are told that to increase your fertility you should cut down on caffeine. I tried that for three months last year and guess what? There ain't no baby in this here stomach. Hence, I'm sticking with the caffeine.
5) I did have a fifth question, but my caffeine adled mind has deleted it.
I do know that I would like to kick my faux British ass for totally dropping myself in it the other day. I left a comment on a blog in reaction to a post about the high cost of IVF meds in the US. I was all, "Check this out muthafuckas, I pay next to nothing here in the UK. God bless the Queen" and all that shit. The next day, I got a bill in the mail that was all, "Check this out bitch, here is a bill for £600 for your medications and an added bill for £200 just for blood tests." Now deflated, I was all, "Fuck the Queen and George Bush."
After the foot-in-mouth debacle, I tried to be optimistic. When compared with paying for IVF itself, the bill for the meds is virtually inconsequential. I likened the situation to when I used to drive a much loved, but truthfully rather rustbuckety 88 Honda Accord. My Accord, christened Rudy the Bohunk after "Rudy Ricecheck" in Sixteen Candles, had all kinds of problems. It was in the shop at least once a month for one problem or another. After two or three major repairs in the region of $500 draining my already limited finances, anything under $300 was considered fantastic news. After yet another car problem, my mechanic phoned and said, "Pru, I'm afraid it's bad news." :::major exhalation from him:::: "It's going to be expensive to fix this. I think you're looking at $200-$250." Expecting the worst, I was thrilled, much to the mechanic's surprise.
I'm saying that I am an 88 Honda Accord. Light blue. A fair amount of money has been poured into this old wreck, so what is another £600? I just hope that if this IVF fails I will not meet the same demise as Rudy the Bohunk, may God rest his jalopy soul.
1) Retrieval: Tell me all about it. I know a local is used, but I truthfully don't even know what that means. Well, I know it isolates a certain area, but how much does that affect the rest of your body post-surgery? Will I be wandering around in a drugged stupor akin to the Nyquil Haze I know and love? I know, a child-like question to ask but the only surgery-type thing I've had was a tonsillectomy 15 years ago. How much recovery time is needed? A day of bedrest? 2 months (crosses fingers)?
1a) What do you tell your employer? I've got the added complication of needing to travel to London - 2 hours away, so I might need to get there the night before. With all of my IUIs and their related scans, I have just told my boss that I have hospital appointments. Since I have always been back within an hour and a half, no one has asked any questions. I would be inclined to take a sick day or two, but obviously as I could be in transit the morning of the transfer, it would be difficult to phone in sick without arousing suspicion. I know I could just *tell* my boss but that's not going to happen. I work in a small office and I don't trust her not to spread the news. I'm thinking I may just tell her ahead of time that I'm going into the hospital for a small outpatient procedure and I will need to take the rest of that day off for recovery.
2) Egg quality: I have this fear, which I hope is irrational, that I'll get to the point of retrieval and realise my eggs are baaaaaaaaaaad. Though it would explain a lot, it's not something I want to hear. How often is poor egg quality discovered at this time?
3) Transfer: Is this just like the process of IUI? If so, I can handle that.
4) Coffee: Yay or nay? I know you are told that to increase your fertility you should cut down on caffeine. I tried that for three months last year and guess what? There ain't no baby in this here stomach. Hence, I'm sticking with the caffeine.
5) I did have a fifth question, but my caffeine adled mind has deleted it.
I do know that I would like to kick my faux British ass for totally dropping myself in it the other day. I left a comment on a blog in reaction to a post about the high cost of IVF meds in the US. I was all, "Check this out muthafuckas, I pay next to nothing here in the UK. God bless the Queen" and all that shit. The next day, I got a bill in the mail that was all, "Check this out bitch, here is a bill for £600 for your medications and an added bill for £200 just for blood tests." Now deflated, I was all, "Fuck the Queen and George Bush."
After the foot-in-mouth debacle, I tried to be optimistic. When compared with paying for IVF itself, the bill for the meds is virtually inconsequential. I likened the situation to when I used to drive a much loved, but truthfully rather rustbuckety 88 Honda Accord. My Accord, christened Rudy the Bohunk after "Rudy Ricecheck" in Sixteen Candles, had all kinds of problems. It was in the shop at least once a month for one problem or another. After two or three major repairs in the region of $500 draining my already limited finances, anything under $300 was considered fantastic news. After yet another car problem, my mechanic phoned and said, "Pru, I'm afraid it's bad news." :::major exhalation from him:::: "It's going to be expensive to fix this. I think you're looking at $200-$250." Expecting the worst, I was thrilled, much to the mechanic's surprise.
I'm saying that I am an 88 Honda Accord. Light blue. A fair amount of money has been poured into this old wreck, so what is another £600? I just hope that if this IVF fails I will not meet the same demise as Rudy the Bohunk, may God rest his jalopy soul.
11/01/2005
This night has opened my eyes
Yeah, another Smiths/Morrissey quote. I can't help myself. It may be lost on most, but I know Pamplemousse will get the reference, she's well-versed in Morrissey. She pretty much rocks.
So I wasn't going to join in this little blogging célébration de l'amour, but after the breakdown I had over The Dude's health and well-being tonight, I have been provoked to talk about our story. The Dude was supposed to pick me up from work tonight, and after 25 minutes of waiting without him appearing, I decided to walk home. Already working myself into panic mode as The Dude is never late, I had to focus on walking when my first instincts were to not vomit or hypervenilate. Yeah, I'm a freak. There is no grey area with me, it's all black and white. Alive or dead. Alive = you're picked up on time. Dead = 25 minutes late.
With each block closer to home I became more nervous, taking into account all the signs throughout the day that surely pointed to his early demise: MP3 player on random playing songs about death, lost love, and other gothic musings; mobile left at home, preventing the police from contacting me; he said he loved me twice before we parted ways this morning, but I was too busy sorting out my jacket and purse to reciprocate. Things like that. As I started to walk up our street I actually avoided looking in the direction of our building, anticipating that I would see a police car parked outside. Once I arrived at the parking bay, it was only The Dude's car parked in our space. He was waiting at the front door, but I was too busy crying and trying to breathe to say anything to him. Yes ladies, I'm all kinds of fucked up. In honour of my rediscovered (not that it was ever buried too deep) immense love for my husband, this is our dysfunctional love story.
I was a young, fresh-faced maiden of 16. He, a red-headed, freckled man of the world and six years older. The Dude was employed by a company that brought soccer-coaching Brits to the US to teach the ignorant suburbanites the true spirit and methods of the game. My brother was to attend the camp, and upon hearing it would be run by hot athletic British men, I made it my mission to scope out the talent. My mother inadvertently helped me out with my plan by enabling one of the coaches to stay at our house in exchange for reduced tuition to the camp for my brother. Unfortunately, this one was married, but the benefit was that the other coaches often came over to plan the sessions.
When I met The Dude, I must confess that I was enamoured of the accent more than anything. Well, that and his mighty fine legs. When I knew he was coming over to meet with the other coaches, I would change my outfit numerous times until I was satisfied, and put on Portishead's "Dummy", which I knew he liked. When he inevitably commented that he really liked Portishead, I tried to act surprised, though I imagine I failed miserably. We flirted a bit, but nothing transpired that summer due to Pennsylvania having some rather firm statutory rape laws.
After he left that summer, I didn't think of him much. I was in my senior year of high school and was taken with a platinum-haired boy who wore leather pants. Unfortunately he found it difficult to not have a threesome with a friend and a random skanky underclassman, so that ended and I was free to dream of men with British accents again.
When The Dude came back, the flirting and playing of Portishead resumed. On the night of my 18th birthday, I was relegated to staying at home doing laundry, as none of my inconsiderate friends had bothered to invite me to go out to celebrate. As I had my back to the laundry room door, The Dude shuffles up to me reluctantly and says,
"So...do you want to go to a movie or something? I feel bad leaving you at home to do laundry on your 18th birthday." to which I replied:
"Sure. Nothing keeping me here!"
Those words will haunt me for the rest of my days, as this faked ambivalence is thrown back in my face regularly after nearly ten years have passed. Oh Pru, you poor stupid girl. Little did you know that those apparently harmless four words would be the punchline of your relationship with this man for decades to come.
We went to see "Phenomenon". I can only assume there was absolutely nothing of worth on the other screens, as I cannot fathom paying money for a John Travolta weepfest these days. However, it seems my hormones were all over the place back then as well, because I cried and my eyeliner etched itself into my skin and presented my emotional vulnerability for all to see. Rather than trying to be sensitive and impress upon me his kind nature, The Dude laughed at me, pointed and said, "Haha. You cried." Fuuuuuuuuuuuck you.
Despite his lack of consideration, we continued to see each other. He had some trouble with the family he was staying with, so my Mom offered him a place at our house. After a couple of months of this permutation of living together, he had to go back to the UK. For about a month or so after he left I slept in his bed just so I could smell him and pretend for a moment that he was still there. I never mentioned this during our lengthy trans-Atlantic phone calls because he was obnoxious and arrogant enough as it was and I didn't want to make him even more so.
After numerous trips to the UK, often sacrificing my college classes for 3 week trips overseas, and his many trips to the US, *perhaps* violating certain Immigration laws, he decided that he was getting too old or some such nonsense. During one of his extended trips, we went out to dinner to celebrate our 2 year anniversary. After dinner, we went to a local park to stroll around the moonlit pond and act like a stereotypical, Hallmark-style couple. He stopped on the footbridge and said he wanted to ask me something. Being stupid, naive, and ignorant, I had absolutely no idea what was to follow. He whipped out (minds out of the gutters ladies) a gorgeous, and heavy platinum and diamond ring. I grabbed the railing of the footbridge to steady myself and tried mightily to refrain from vomiting. My answer: "I'll think about it." to which he handed me the ring and walked to the car. Oops.
We had a silent 15 minute drive back to my house. Upon arriving, he jumped out of the car, ran into the house and locked himself in the guest bedroom. Oops. After much crying and gnashing of teeth, he allowed me in the room. I told him that I wasn't ready for marriage yet, and he convinced me that the engagement was meant to be long-term, which satisfied me. I said yes, and all was right with the world.
We became increasingly tired of conducting a very long-distance relationship, and decided to get married for erm...reasons other than just love that may or may not involve something green. On 6 July 1999 I put on a dress and he put on a non-soccer shirt and we made our way to the Justice of the Peace. We were out of there inside 10 minutes, and because I still didn't feel ready for marriage as such, we treated it as a practical arrangement. We agreed to not share the news with anyone outside our immediate family, and emphasised to them that this was not a "real" wedding.
The "real" wedding came later - on 18 December 2001. As I mentioned in a previous post, we were married in a 14th century church, and the bride wore white despite being more fond of something in black. So here we are, in wedded bliss...yadda yadda yadda, blah blah blah. You know.
One of my best friends wrote in my yearbook senior year: "Go forth young Pru and find yourself that boy across the pond with rings on his fingers and sexy sideburns. I know you'll find one."
Well, I found my boy from across the pond. He doesn't wear rings, he doesn't have sideburns, but he does have damn fine legs and verges on perfection.
Apparently there will be no photograph of the engagement and wedding rings. My digital camera has decided that zoom with any clarity is soooo last year. Bastard. Maybe next year.
So I wasn't going to join in this little blogging célébration de l'amour, but after the breakdown I had over The Dude's health and well-being tonight, I have been provoked to talk about our story. The Dude was supposed to pick me up from work tonight, and after 25 minutes of waiting without him appearing, I decided to walk home. Already working myself into panic mode as The Dude is never late, I had to focus on walking when my first instincts were to not vomit or hypervenilate. Yeah, I'm a freak. There is no grey area with me, it's all black and white. Alive or dead. Alive = you're picked up on time. Dead = 25 minutes late.
With each block closer to home I became more nervous, taking into account all the signs throughout the day that surely pointed to his early demise: MP3 player on random playing songs about death, lost love, and other gothic musings; mobile left at home, preventing the police from contacting me; he said he loved me twice before we parted ways this morning, but I was too busy sorting out my jacket and purse to reciprocate. Things like that. As I started to walk up our street I actually avoided looking in the direction of our building, anticipating that I would see a police car parked outside. Once I arrived at the parking bay, it was only The Dude's car parked in our space. He was waiting at the front door, but I was too busy crying and trying to breathe to say anything to him. Yes ladies, I'm all kinds of fucked up. In honour of my rediscovered (not that it was ever buried too deep) immense love for my husband, this is our dysfunctional love story.
I was a young, fresh-faced maiden of 16. He, a red-headed, freckled man of the world and six years older. The Dude was employed by a company that brought soccer-coaching Brits to the US to teach the ignorant suburbanites the true spirit and methods of the game. My brother was to attend the camp, and upon hearing it would be run by hot athletic British men, I made it my mission to scope out the talent. My mother inadvertently helped me out with my plan by enabling one of the coaches to stay at our house in exchange for reduced tuition to the camp for my brother. Unfortunately, this one was married, but the benefit was that the other coaches often came over to plan the sessions.
When I met The Dude, I must confess that I was enamoured of the accent more than anything. Well, that and his mighty fine legs. When I knew he was coming over to meet with the other coaches, I would change my outfit numerous times until I was satisfied, and put on Portishead's "Dummy", which I knew he liked. When he inevitably commented that he really liked Portishead, I tried to act surprised, though I imagine I failed miserably. We flirted a bit, but nothing transpired that summer due to Pennsylvania having some rather firm statutory rape laws.
After he left that summer, I didn't think of him much. I was in my senior year of high school and was taken with a platinum-haired boy who wore leather pants. Unfortunately he found it difficult to not have a threesome with a friend and a random skanky underclassman, so that ended and I was free to dream of men with British accents again.
When The Dude came back, the flirting and playing of Portishead resumed. On the night of my 18th birthday, I was relegated to staying at home doing laundry, as none of my inconsiderate friends had bothered to invite me to go out to celebrate. As I had my back to the laundry room door, The Dude shuffles up to me reluctantly and says,
"So...do you want to go to a movie or something? I feel bad leaving you at home to do laundry on your 18th birthday." to which I replied:
"Sure. Nothing keeping me here!"
Those words will haunt me for the rest of my days, as this faked ambivalence is thrown back in my face regularly after nearly ten years have passed. Oh Pru, you poor stupid girl. Little did you know that those apparently harmless four words would be the punchline of your relationship with this man for decades to come.
We went to see "Phenomenon". I can only assume there was absolutely nothing of worth on the other screens, as I cannot fathom paying money for a John Travolta weepfest these days. However, it seems my hormones were all over the place back then as well, because I cried and my eyeliner etched itself into my skin and presented my emotional vulnerability for all to see. Rather than trying to be sensitive and impress upon me his kind nature, The Dude laughed at me, pointed and said, "Haha. You cried." Fuuuuuuuuuuuck you.
Despite his lack of consideration, we continued to see each other. He had some trouble with the family he was staying with, so my Mom offered him a place at our house. After a couple of months of this permutation of living together, he had to go back to the UK. For about a month or so after he left I slept in his bed just so I could smell him and pretend for a moment that he was still there. I never mentioned this during our lengthy trans-Atlantic phone calls because he was obnoxious and arrogant enough as it was and I didn't want to make him even more so.
After numerous trips to the UK, often sacrificing my college classes for 3 week trips overseas, and his many trips to the US, *perhaps* violating certain Immigration laws, he decided that he was getting too old or some such nonsense. During one of his extended trips, we went out to dinner to celebrate our 2 year anniversary. After dinner, we went to a local park to stroll around the moonlit pond and act like a stereotypical, Hallmark-style couple. He stopped on the footbridge and said he wanted to ask me something. Being stupid, naive, and ignorant, I had absolutely no idea what was to follow. He whipped out (minds out of the gutters ladies) a gorgeous, and heavy platinum and diamond ring. I grabbed the railing of the footbridge to steady myself and tried mightily to refrain from vomiting. My answer: "I'll think about it." to which he handed me the ring and walked to the car. Oops.
We had a silent 15 minute drive back to my house. Upon arriving, he jumped out of the car, ran into the house and locked himself in the guest bedroom. Oops. After much crying and gnashing of teeth, he allowed me in the room. I told him that I wasn't ready for marriage yet, and he convinced me that the engagement was meant to be long-term, which satisfied me. I said yes, and all was right with the world.
We became increasingly tired of conducting a very long-distance relationship, and decided to get married for erm...reasons other than just love that may or may not involve something green. On 6 July 1999 I put on a dress and he put on a non-soccer shirt and we made our way to the Justice of the Peace. We were out of there inside 10 minutes, and because I still didn't feel ready for marriage as such, we treated it as a practical arrangement. We agreed to not share the news with anyone outside our immediate family, and emphasised to them that this was not a "real" wedding.
The "real" wedding came later - on 18 December 2001. As I mentioned in a previous post, we were married in a 14th century church, and the bride wore white despite being more fond of something in black. So here we are, in wedded bliss...yadda yadda yadda, blah blah blah. You know.
One of my best friends wrote in my yearbook senior year: "Go forth young Pru and find yourself that boy across the pond with rings on his fingers and sexy sideburns. I know you'll find one."
Well, I found my boy from across the pond. He doesn't wear rings, he doesn't have sideburns, but he does have damn fine legs and verges on perfection.
Apparently there will be no photograph of the engagement and wedding rings. My digital camera has decided that zoom with any clarity is soooo last year. Bastard. Maybe next year.
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