My emotions have been getting the better of me the last few days. On the way to a family dinner last night we were listening to one of my favourite Johnny Cash CDs and I started to cry, with my running makeup leaving me looking like a demented clown. What is there to cry about on a Johnny Cash CD? Yes, Johnny Cash is dead. This makes me sad. When I hear "Hurt" or see the video, this makes me sad. Thinking of the song or video makes me sad. I can't win.
The Dude is coping well with my outbursts, which range from spontaneous tears to glaring daggers at him when he asks the very charged question, "What would you like to drink with dinner?" I'm trying to supress the bitch, but it's not working too well. In order to release some of my frustration and pent-up hostility, I'm going to air recent grievances. I have nowhere else to do it, so I'm afraid you, dear readers, must suffer.
1) Smug Fertiles that think I want to hear about every single thing their darling offspring does in life. I don't. I no more want to hear about how precious Kayleigh has learned how to say "hello" in Spanish than I want to be probed by GLCP at 8 in the morning. I don't care about your child. Why can't adults just have adult conversations without children being a constant presence in the conversation? This is not because I am infertile. I don't like other peoples' children enough to invest any sort of emotion into then wishing I had one of my own based on their cutesy stories. I just want to carry on a conversation without having to act interested in the goings-on of an 8 year old. Tip: If Smug Fertiles engage you in this sort of discussion, counter it with mentions of your pet, which I know can often be regarded as children. I often quell a Child Bore discussion by talking voluminously about my beloved canary. Their eyes glaze over much like mine do when I have to sit through their child-focused ramblings. It's only fair.
2) My mother-in-law. A few days ago I wrote quite a lengthy post on my mother's impending visit. Today, whilst discussing the visit, my MIL proceeded to slag off my Mom for no apparent reason. My Mom recently sold her horse because she could no longer devote enough time to him. MIL says, "I don't see why she got a horse in the first place. It's not as if she doesn't have enough pets at the house anyway. What was she going to do with a horse?" Uh, ride it?
My Mom is also looking to sell her house so she can downsize and manage the space more easily. However, she seems to be obsessed with the idea of having a rambling old Victorian, so she keeps looking at houses much larger than her current one. To this my MIL opined, "Why would she get a bigger house when she can't even manage the one she has? It's not as if housework is a priority of hers." Right. Let us just say that MIL has met my Mom three times and visited her house once for about a week and a half. MIL is not an animal lover, whereas my Mom is. MIL is a lifelong housewife that spends most of her week cleaning her house, and my Mom chose to put her education and career before housework. To each their own is not a concept my MIL is familiar with. Not only that, but for god's sake you vicious old bat, keep these feelings to yourself! It's one thing for me to pick on my Mom, but I cannot stand it when other people feel as if they can criticise members of my family.
3) IUIs. Seriously, do these things ever fucking work? Browsing the host of infertility blogs I love, I can't remember the last IUI that actually was successful. You just can't help feel that you go through all of this emotional and physical effort for nothing.
Ok, I'm finished for now. Bring on Monday.
2/27/2005
2/25/2005
The Crying Game (aka how to embarrass yourself publicly in a forum such as a blog)
The other day I was boasting to The Dude that this cycle of injections has not made me nearly as moody and emotionally vulnerable as the two previous times. I thought I had mastered the most bothersome of side effects, and ordained myself victorious. However, sometimes life thrives on leading us into a false sense of security. I was watching Curb Your Enthusiasm this evening and began to get teary during one scene that wasn't particularly sad nor moving. It is a comedy for god's sake, and a bloody good one at that.
Larry organised an orchestra to play in the foyer of his house for his wife's birthday, and though the scene quickly become comedic rather than touching, I was still sitting on the sofa like a big blubbering idiot. Who cries at comedies? Well, aside from unstable, sore-nippled dweeby nutjobs like myself...I suppose I should gain some solace from the fact that this time last month I cried for the duration of an episode of Pimp My Ride. Yes, the same Pimp My Ride on MTV where Xzibit (or however you spell it...let's not kid ourselves. I know how to spell it. How lame is that?) soups up some old bangers and then surprises the owner with a fancy new car that has built in DVD players and other tremendously expensive, highly complicated technological gadgets. Tragic, heart-wrenching stuff you know. Apparently.
So as not to focus too much on me being totally pathetic, I'll change the topic. The two week waiting period is up next Wednesday, though GLCP told me not to test until at least day 17, which would be Friday. I chuckled to myself when she said this, and would have every intention of testing prior to that point if need be had The Dude not been giving me the total hairy eyeball. He knows I'm a closet tester, so he likes to think he monitors me close enough at these times so I'm not resigned to stick peeing in the bathroom stalls at work. I will attempt to be disciplined, but I imagine my period will show up before the need for a test is reached anyway.
When The Dude and I were discussing the outcome of this month's IUI yesterday, he told me that if this is yet another failed cycle, he wanted me to "be good". When I asked him what this meant, he couldn't elaborate very well, and then came out with: "I just want you to realise that if it's bad news, there are two people involved in this, it's not just about you." Hmph. For a brief moment, I understood what he was saying, but then my emotions took over.
As we know the problem is with me, I don't feel like it is "our" problem. I can't fathom ever thinking of it in that way. Yes, because of my problem WE are having trouble conceiving, but that doesn't make it OUR problem. I do understand that there are two people that are disappointed when my period arrives, but I do feel as if my pain is greater, more raw. Not only do I have to deal with the frustration of still not being pregnant, but I have to cope with being the one that is letting us down. I don't want to seem as if I'm trying to quantify the emotions involved, but it is like I've got much more to lose when each month yields a negative result.
Well, perhaps it will all come up roses in the end. My mother has just informed me that she has added my plight to her prayer circle. She tried to sell me on the idea by saying, "Remember that girl I told you about that just gave birth to twins? She was added to the prayer circle right before she conceived. Three years of fertility treatment and nothing. It looks as if prayer is all it took." Shit...drugs schmugs, just whip out the bibles and bob's your uncle. The cure to infertility has arrived!
Larry organised an orchestra to play in the foyer of his house for his wife's birthday, and though the scene quickly become comedic rather than touching, I was still sitting on the sofa like a big blubbering idiot. Who cries at comedies? Well, aside from unstable, sore-nippled dweeby nutjobs like myself...I suppose I should gain some solace from the fact that this time last month I cried for the duration of an episode of Pimp My Ride. Yes, the same Pimp My Ride on MTV where Xzibit (or however you spell it...let's not kid ourselves. I know how to spell it. How lame is that?) soups up some old bangers and then surprises the owner with a fancy new car that has built in DVD players and other tremendously expensive, highly complicated technological gadgets. Tragic, heart-wrenching stuff you know. Apparently.
So as not to focus too much on me being totally pathetic, I'll change the topic. The two week waiting period is up next Wednesday, though GLCP told me not to test until at least day 17, which would be Friday. I chuckled to myself when she said this, and would have every intention of testing prior to that point if need be had The Dude not been giving me the total hairy eyeball. He knows I'm a closet tester, so he likes to think he monitors me close enough at these times so I'm not resigned to stick peeing in the bathroom stalls at work. I will attempt to be disciplined, but I imagine my period will show up before the need for a test is reached anyway.
When The Dude and I were discussing the outcome of this month's IUI yesterday, he told me that if this is yet another failed cycle, he wanted me to "be good". When I asked him what this meant, he couldn't elaborate very well, and then came out with: "I just want you to realise that if it's bad news, there are two people involved in this, it's not just about you." Hmph. For a brief moment, I understood what he was saying, but then my emotions took over.
As we know the problem is with me, I don't feel like it is "our" problem. I can't fathom ever thinking of it in that way. Yes, because of my problem WE are having trouble conceiving, but that doesn't make it OUR problem. I do understand that there are two people that are disappointed when my period arrives, but I do feel as if my pain is greater, more raw. Not only do I have to deal with the frustration of still not being pregnant, but I have to cope with being the one that is letting us down. I don't want to seem as if I'm trying to quantify the emotions involved, but it is like I've got much more to lose when each month yields a negative result.
Well, perhaps it will all come up roses in the end. My mother has just informed me that she has added my plight to her prayer circle. She tried to sell me on the idea by saying, "Remember that girl I told you about that just gave birth to twins? She was added to the prayer circle right before she conceived. Three years of fertility treatment and nothing. It looks as if prayer is all it took." Shit...drugs schmugs, just whip out the bibles and bob's your uncle. The cure to infertility has arrived!
2/22/2005
Fine art and sore nipples
Careful...the title does not say "The fine art of sore nipples", because though I feel I am an expert on the topic, I would hardly say I have elevated it to an art form. I know I'm being annoyingly pessimistic when I attribute things like sore nipples and exhaustion to the onset of my period, but I have no faith. Why do pre-period symptoms have to be so damn similar to pre-pregnancy symptoms? You'd think that because they are virtually opposite that they wouldn't have so much common ground.
The real focus of this post is meant to give me the warm fuzzies and remind me why I have subjected myself to doing a master's degree. I am so sick of reading about art that I need to rediscover why I love it in the first place through the eyes of others. So, my challenge to you is - what work(s) of art or artists are your favourite, and why? I understand that many people have no interest in art whatsoever, but I think most would be able to come up with something/someone that has moved, inspired and/or intrigued them.
I find it extremely difficult to narrow this field down, but the first painting that comes to mind is Millais' Ophelia. A former professor berated me for daring to like the work of a group as "twee" as the Pre-Raphaelites, but hey...we like what we like. It was a major pilgrimage for me to see this painting 7 years ago on a trip to Tate Britain, and of course the bastard painting was in an exhibit in NYC at the time. You know, the NYC that was about 3 hours' drive from my house, rather than London, 4000 miles away from where I lived. Rest assured, I finally got to see it in person a few years ago and it's just as I hoped it would be.
I am endlessly intrigued by the work of Lucien Levy-Dhurmer. Particularly his haunting portrait of the Belgian Romantic poet Georges Rodenbach. I love the Symbolists.
Frida Kahlo. Always, and forever. Don't worry, I'm not a Kahloist. Crazy fuckers.
Now it's your turn. Answer me people, or else I shall quit my degree and blame you lot.
The real focus of this post is meant to give me the warm fuzzies and remind me why I have subjected myself to doing a master's degree. I am so sick of reading about art that I need to rediscover why I love it in the first place through the eyes of others. So, my challenge to you is - what work(s) of art or artists are your favourite, and why? I understand that many people have no interest in art whatsoever, but I think most would be able to come up with something/someone that has moved, inspired and/or intrigued them.
I find it extremely difficult to narrow this field down, but the first painting that comes to mind is Millais' Ophelia. A former professor berated me for daring to like the work of a group as "twee" as the Pre-Raphaelites, but hey...we like what we like. It was a major pilgrimage for me to see this painting 7 years ago on a trip to Tate Britain, and of course the bastard painting was in an exhibit in NYC at the time. You know, the NYC that was about 3 hours' drive from my house, rather than London, 4000 miles away from where I lived. Rest assured, I finally got to see it in person a few years ago and it's just as I hoped it would be.
I am endlessly intrigued by the work of Lucien Levy-Dhurmer. Particularly his haunting portrait of the Belgian Romantic poet Georges Rodenbach. I love the Symbolists.
Frida Kahlo. Always, and forever. Don't worry, I'm not a Kahloist. Crazy fuckers.
Now it's your turn. Answer me people, or else I shall quit my degree and blame you lot.
2/20/2005
Mommy dearest
I had some upsetting news the other day...my mother has planned a visit in March. For three weeks. Eternity. A long time. Forever. Two weeks too long. Three long, tortuous, agonising weeks. Did I mention she's staying in our small two bedroom flat for three weeks? Yep, three weeks. Three weeks...
My mother is a wonderful woman. She manages to always see the good in people, a characteristic I will never possess. She was a working mother that sometimes held down two jobs to ensure that my brother and I had enjoyable childhoods. She fought for a doomed marriage for years in the hopes that both my brother and I could remain the few children in our respective grades that had parents that were still together. She is an educated, strong woman whom I admire greatly. However, all of these fantastic traits do not lend themselves to me wanting her to stay in my flat for three weeks.
"But Pru!" you shout, "You live 4000 miles away from your family and only get to see them once a year. Have some compassion woman!" To that I must quote a character in the quality flick Pee Wee's Big Adventure - "I'm a loner Pee Wee, a rebel." The Dude and I are hermits. We do things on our own, when we want. The flat is our little haven of Usness. If we want to go out to dinner, go to the movies, go to a museum, we make that decision mutually and make sure no one else is included in those plans. With my Mom hanging around the place functioning as a third wheel, that independence has vanished.
I think what I'm most fearful of is my Mom's personality versus the British way of being. Apologies for the forthcoming generalisation, but my Mom exemplifies the stereotypical American as envisioned by Europeans. She doesn't ramble on about America being the world's only superpower, or talk about how if it wasn't for the Americans, all the British would be speaking German. Politically, Mom is forever a peace-loving hippie, so I am safe there. However, my Mom likes a good talk. She'll talk to anyone, she doesn't discriminate. Scruffy drunken guy stumbling up the street - Mom will talk to him about the weather. Supermarket checkout woman -- lengthy chat about the inconvenience of not being able to get quality cherries in the winter. Toll booth operator -- A chipper, "Why hello there! How are you doing this fine day? I hope the day isn't dragging on for you!".
This inherent Americanness does not translate here in the UK. When she tries this behaviour here she's greeted with blank stares and looks of amazement that anyone would dare speak to another without being spoken to. My Mom views this as a shortcoming of British culture rather than *perhaps* just a societal difference. I was struck with terror when she said to me on the phone the other day, "When I come over, I just want to meet people, y' know?" Cue stammering from me, and visions of her trying to forge an everlasting friendship with the post man, or the server in a cafe. At these times, when the person she is attempting to become bosom buddies with looks at me desperately for help, I try to give them a look which says, "Hey, I'm with you. I feel your pain, trust me. I may be an American, but I've lived here for a few years now and believe you me, I'd never start a conversation with a stranger. I'm one of you now!"
My Mom is also a hugger. When she first met the in-laws she ran up to them screeching, with arms open wide. They were like deer in the headlights, seeing this crazy, ranting 50 year old woman with bright red dyed hair and a pierced nose hurtling toward them. They stood there rigidly as she gave them massive bear hugs, looking as if they had just been violated in a most unfortunate way. Naturally my Mom perceives none of this, instead believing that they want to then have hugs every.single.time.she.sees.them. on her visit. We told my in-laws she was coming (for three weeks you know), and though the poor dears managed half-assed smiles, you could tell I struck fear deep in their hearts of which they know no parallel.
So in a few weeks' time, if I'm making posts to the effect of, "MUST KILL. THIRST FOR BLOOD IS GREAT.", you know why.
My mother is a wonderful woman. She manages to always see the good in people, a characteristic I will never possess. She was a working mother that sometimes held down two jobs to ensure that my brother and I had enjoyable childhoods. She fought for a doomed marriage for years in the hopes that both my brother and I could remain the few children in our respective grades that had parents that were still together. She is an educated, strong woman whom I admire greatly. However, all of these fantastic traits do not lend themselves to me wanting her to stay in my flat for three weeks.
"But Pru!" you shout, "You live 4000 miles away from your family and only get to see them once a year. Have some compassion woman!" To that I must quote a character in the quality flick Pee Wee's Big Adventure - "I'm a loner Pee Wee, a rebel." The Dude and I are hermits. We do things on our own, when we want. The flat is our little haven of Usness. If we want to go out to dinner, go to the movies, go to a museum, we make that decision mutually and make sure no one else is included in those plans. With my Mom hanging around the place functioning as a third wheel, that independence has vanished.
I think what I'm most fearful of is my Mom's personality versus the British way of being. Apologies for the forthcoming generalisation, but my Mom exemplifies the stereotypical American as envisioned by Europeans. She doesn't ramble on about America being the world's only superpower, or talk about how if it wasn't for the Americans, all the British would be speaking German. Politically, Mom is forever a peace-loving hippie, so I am safe there. However, my Mom likes a good talk. She'll talk to anyone, she doesn't discriminate. Scruffy drunken guy stumbling up the street - Mom will talk to him about the weather. Supermarket checkout woman -- lengthy chat about the inconvenience of not being able to get quality cherries in the winter. Toll booth operator -- A chipper, "Why hello there! How are you doing this fine day? I hope the day isn't dragging on for you!".
This inherent Americanness does not translate here in the UK. When she tries this behaviour here she's greeted with blank stares and looks of amazement that anyone would dare speak to another without being spoken to. My Mom views this as a shortcoming of British culture rather than *perhaps* just a societal difference. I was struck with terror when she said to me on the phone the other day, "When I come over, I just want to meet people, y' know?" Cue stammering from me, and visions of her trying to forge an everlasting friendship with the post man, or the server in a cafe. At these times, when the person she is attempting to become bosom buddies with looks at me desperately for help, I try to give them a look which says, "Hey, I'm with you. I feel your pain, trust me. I may be an American, but I've lived here for a few years now and believe you me, I'd never start a conversation with a stranger. I'm one of you now!"
My Mom is also a hugger. When she first met the in-laws she ran up to them screeching, with arms open wide. They were like deer in the headlights, seeing this crazy, ranting 50 year old woman with bright red dyed hair and a pierced nose hurtling toward them. They stood there rigidly as she gave them massive bear hugs, looking as if they had just been violated in a most unfortunate way. Naturally my Mom perceives none of this, instead believing that they want to then have hugs every.single.time.she.sees.them. on her visit. We told my in-laws she was coming (for three weeks you know), and though the poor dears managed half-assed smiles, you could tell I struck fear deep in their hearts of which they know no parallel.
So in a few weeks' time, if I'm making posts to the effect of, "MUST KILL. THIRST FOR BLOOD IS GREAT.", you know why.
2/17/2005
The power of positive thinking
I doubt I could resist rolling my eyes at anyone that would dare utter the above words to me in seriousness. Both the magnificent Bugs and Deborah have pondered the role of positive thinking in the past few days, and I greatly enjoyed reading what they had to say on the subject. I am probably not coming from the correct vantage point, given that I am a raging cynic and a lifelong member of the "I'm not a pessimist, I'm a REALIST" club. I even think my cynicism and reluctance to be positive have protected me from a lot of pain, but then again, am I in denial about this? Have I orchestrated this concept of protection from pain to justify being so negative?
After I had my first IUI in October I felt the onset of positive feelings creeping in, slowly trying to overthrow the long-festering negativity that had settled in after two years of disappointment. Driving home from the procedure, The Dude and I kept joking that he could be sitting next to a pregnant woman, and my mind was swimming with happy thoughts of what could be occurring at that moment. My logic was that ovulation was certain to have occurred, The Dude's little soldiers were numerous and not simpletons that would crash into the uterine wall and get disoriented, and hell, they were injecting the things directly into my uterus, virtually ensuring success, right?
The nurse did suggest that if this cycle was to be unsuccessful, that we might want to wait another month or two in order to get over the disappointment. I stupidly said to The Dude on the day of the IUI, "Pfft...we're professionals in the disappointment stakes, why would this time be any different? We'll get over it right away like we always do and move on!" Fast-forward to the day exactly two weeks later when I got my period, and I was certainly not feeling so blase. My rationale is that had I been a bit more realistic, none of that would have happened. Had I been true to myself, I would have realised that making these assumptions would end up hurting me much more than being negative would.
A day after IUI #2 I think it's quite transparent to see how I'm feeling. I'm trying desperately not to think ahead to what comes after this, as I'm only one IUI away from moving on to IVF and that terrifies me.
I once had to read a collection of F. Scott Fitzgerald's short stories for a class in college. I didn't get past the introduction, which said, "In a real dark night of the soul it is always 3 o'clock in the morning." I read that line and decided that nothing in the rest of the book could possibly compare to that single statement, which I felt described my emotions perfectly unlike anything I'd read before. That, and I don't really like reading F. Scott Fitzgerald. I think of that line when I'm facing an IUI that I don't believe will work, and I live that line when the two week wait concludes in the way I fully expected it to.
After I had my first IUI in October I felt the onset of positive feelings creeping in, slowly trying to overthrow the long-festering negativity that had settled in after two years of disappointment. Driving home from the procedure, The Dude and I kept joking that he could be sitting next to a pregnant woman, and my mind was swimming with happy thoughts of what could be occurring at that moment. My logic was that ovulation was certain to have occurred, The Dude's little soldiers were numerous and not simpletons that would crash into the uterine wall and get disoriented, and hell, they were injecting the things directly into my uterus, virtually ensuring success, right?
The nurse did suggest that if this cycle was to be unsuccessful, that we might want to wait another month or two in order to get over the disappointment. I stupidly said to The Dude on the day of the IUI, "Pfft...we're professionals in the disappointment stakes, why would this time be any different? We'll get over it right away like we always do and move on!" Fast-forward to the day exactly two weeks later when I got my period, and I was certainly not feeling so blase. My rationale is that had I been a bit more realistic, none of that would have happened. Had I been true to myself, I would have realised that making these assumptions would end up hurting me much more than being negative would.
A day after IUI #2 I think it's quite transparent to see how I'm feeling. I'm trying desperately not to think ahead to what comes after this, as I'm only one IUI away from moving on to IVF and that terrifies me.
I once had to read a collection of F. Scott Fitzgerald's short stories for a class in college. I didn't get past the introduction, which said, "In a real dark night of the soul it is always 3 o'clock in the morning." I read that line and decided that nothing in the rest of the book could possibly compare to that single statement, which I felt described my emotions perfectly unlike anything I'd read before. That, and I don't really like reading F. Scott Fitzgerald. I think of that line when I'm facing an IUI that I don't believe will work, and I live that line when the two week wait concludes in the way I fully expected it to.
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