The open road

I spent yesterday in Other Ohio City with my sister in law and mother in law. Over lunch, while my sister in law was in the restroom, my mother in law asked me in a meaningful way how things are going. (I told her last year that we'd been trying for a while. She's so desperate for grandchildren that I couldn't leave her wondering whether we were ever going to be ready. But Mr. Bunny doesn't want her all up in our business, so she doesn't know anything more than that.) Not well, I replied. She said, What you're going through is one of the hardest things in life.

I was surprised. By now I'm accustomed to no one understanding the pain that IF brings. I take it for granted that people's reactions will always be: BUMMER! Let's talk about ME! She offered to listen any time I wanted to talk. It was a pretty perfect offer of support, really. And it will remain perfect, as I will not be taking her up on it. Part of me wants to, but a) Mr. Bunny is not okay with that, and b) the chances are good that she'd say something awful soon enough.

ANYWAY, the nicest part of the day was the drive to and from. There's something about a solitary multi-hour drive that makes me really weepy. I think it's the combination of several things: listening to music (often stuff I have strong emotional associations with), the fact that driving is hypnotic and puts me in mental state where things start bubbling up, the special kind of aloneness that comes with driving (you're solitary, but there are other people everywhere), and the open road stretching out...all the space around you... I don't really know what brings it on, but I know it's a thing for me. I once drove from New Mexico back to Berkeley and basically wept all the way through Arizona. In my black volvo with no AC, listening to the same Pixies tape over and over...

Anyway, this drive was far from epic, but I did find myself weeping. (Aren't you glad you weren't sharing the road with me, what with me being all hypnotized and blinded by tears?) Life is just wretched and sad sometimes, and a girl needs a Big Weep.

It also happened to be day 21, my normal day o' PMS. That might have had something to do with the tears as well...

The days have slain the days

Because I am olde schoole, I have a paper calendar. For those of you who have never seen such a thing, it's like the calendar on your phone, but made of paper. (You can find out what paper is here.) Of course I use electronic calendars too, but it's nice to have a hard backup in case there's no internet. Anyway, I get an academic insert for my Filofax, meaning it starts in August. So I just got my 2010-2011 insert, which is always a happy moment for an organization and tidiness nut like me. Out, out, ye old grubby insert! When I put in the shiny new one, one of the things I do is mark people's birthdays, which requires going through the old calendar. This year, the process really highlighted the prominence of my attempts to get pregnant. All those discretely marked cycle days, all those appointments...all those subtextual DISappointments.

It's wonderful to be able to put all those days aside and start with a nice, clean slate. But I don't have any illusions about what this year's calendar will contain. However irritating it may be to you guys that I don't have any real hope for myself, I don't. I anticipate another year's worth of fighting the good fight. But I am at least ready to fight again. I guess. Since I must.

Now that I think about it, the poem from which my title comes is full of great lines for IF, if you sort of squint and ignore the exact source of his grief. I myself am off to depart and ponder whilst driving 3 hours to Other Ohio City, to pay an exciting visit to Mr. Bunny's sister and mother. NEVER FEAR! You'll get to hear more about that soon.

IT'S MY CHAIR

I'd always wanted a wing back chair, because they are so lovely for curling up in. But I could never find one that didn't offend my fairly modern sensibilities (plus, most of my life I couldn't afford to buy furniture). Luckily, they became fashionable a few years ago, so my husband got me one from Restoration Hardware. It's perfect: blue-green with dark wood legs. It's my chair, just as the low-backed chair is Mr. Bunny's. I'm very fond of my chair, even though I don't spend much time in the living room (where it resides) unless we have guests. Yesterday I was wandering around house tidying things, and saw the chair from across the room. I realized I haven't sat in it for a while, and this is because when we have people over, BFB* is almost always there, and it's become her chair. It's good for nursing, you see. So I get the couch. And I realized that I've got all these mental  images and, indeed, plenty of photographs, of her being all MOTHER in my chair. That shit ain't right, I concluded. So I sat down resolutely in my chair and told myself the following: This is your chair. You will sit in this chair pregnant with your child. You will nurse your child in this chair. You will sit in this chair while your child runs around the house, when he (turns out it's a boy) leaves for school for the first time, when he tries to sneak into the house as a teenager, when he comes home from college. This is YOUR chair.

Don't think I actually believed myself. AS IF. But the nice thing about such pronouncements is that I won't find out that I'm wrong for a few years, most likely.



*Have you started wondering why I'm friends with this person when all I do is complain about her and resent her?  Well, this is a particularly tough year for our friendship, plus this is the place where I come to vent. And to answer Pundelina, I'd say 70% of the time I tell her when she pisses me off, but sometimes you gotta let it go. Or else you spend all your time hashing out your feelings. And I gots drinking to do.

In which I complain about my best friend some more, 'cause that's how I roll

BFB came over yesterday. The moment she got in the door, she thrust something at me and was like, Make me some of this. I looked down at the object in my hand. It was a packet of Nursing Tea. To promote lactation.

FUCK YOU, I thought to myself, while dutifully making her tea. It's not like I can ever forget that she is hella fecund, but does she have to rub my nose in it? I wish I could find some I Have a Tenure Track Job and You Don't Despite Years on the Job Market Tea, so I could flounce into her house and tell her to make me some.

OWWWW!

First, thanks so much for the thoughtful and beautiful comments on yesterday's post. I feel like you guys took my random selection of opinions and turned the post into something that could actually be useful to others, just by sharing your experiences and feelings. (I particularly like that some of you articulated the therapy is stupid point of view. Because it seriously is not for everyone. And people shouldn't feel like they have to do it just because all the cool kids are!) A few things: Sienna, Secret Sloper left you a message in her comment (in case she didn't also communicate it to you). CGD is a practicing therapist and has offered to answer questions about the process, which is very generous; you should take her up on it! She also pointed out that Resolve is a great resource for finding help. And finally, I meant to mention that I'd often decide I needed to see someone when I was feeling really awful (in crisis, as they say), but when the awful passed, I'd shelve the idea out of laziness. So if you're contemplating the whole therapy thing, set it up even if you're not currently wanting to crawl into a hole. You'll thank yourself later.

But on to more important things: my BREASTS HURT. No, I'm not pregnant--that would be physically impossible...unless I produce Super Embryos that implant in a single day. (Ooo! Maybe it will turn out to be a vampire baby!) Plus this happened last month as well. Normally the old bosoms start hurting on day 21 of my cycle like clockwork, but last cycle it was around day 15, and came with ADDED LUMP. This month, again on day 15, but the lump has moved to the other breast. I seem to have picked up fibrocystic breast changes! I never should have sat down on that public restroom toilet...

Maybe this would have happened anyway--it's a common condition (Andie, you said you have this--do you remember anything about the onset?). But the suddenness with which it appeared is really suspicious. I  think this is some kind of unpleasant side effect brought on by either the Lupron or the surgery. So I have something else to thank infertility for.

Apparently I can go on oral contraceptives to reduce the discomfort...sweet.

My therapist said...

I've read a lot of posts from people who are thinking of seeing a counselor, and I always have TONS of opinions about what they should do. And I'm like blah blah blah blah all over their comments. So rather than clogging up comments with my opinions, I thought I'd put them all in one place. That way I can just be like LINK.

Some of you know I'm a psychologist, but I'm not that kind of psychologist. I don't deal with people's problems, I try to figure out how the mind works by conducting experiments. You know, making people pretend to be prison guards and keeping them locked in cages with only a cloth mother and so forth. But as a result of my professional training, I do know a bit about basic processes in human cognition. And I've seen a therapist for a few months at a time, a couple of times in my life. So it's my informed opinion that therapy is a good thing. I know it's a very stigmatized activity for a lot of people, but if you think you want help, don't let the stigma stop you. Also, therapy may be covered by your insurance. I've got no coverage for IUI or IVF, but do have coverage for therapy. The common questions that I see in blogglyland are:

1. Do I even qualify as someone who could profit from seeing a therapist, or do I have to be super fucked up? I mean, I have no real problems, I'm just miserable all the time.
2. How do I find someone who is not scary?
3. I hate the person I found. What do I do?
4. I think therapy is stupid

So I'll voice my opinions on each in turn. Keep in mind that while these are just opinions, I am obviously right about all of this. If you disagree, you'll receive an electric shock when you try to click away.

1. Do I even qualify as someone who could profit from seeing a therapist, or do I have to be super fucked up? I mean, I have no real problems, I'm just miserable all the time.
Yeah, you totally qualify. Infertility is something therapists specialize in. I know what you mean, though. When I most recently went to see someone because of the IF shit and my dad's death, I had that same sense of not being entitled to take up someone's time. But I shared that with her first thing and she was like, Dude, you have a right to be here. You are dealing with serious stuff. Plus, you're paying me, and if you find me helpful, that's all I need. I guess I also think wanting help and wondering whether you deserve it strangely resembles Mel's Pain Olympics, where we rank the horribleness of different varieties of suffering. If you're hurting, you deserve support.


2. How do I find someone who is not scary?
While your clinic may have a recommendation, I think it's nice to have choices. Go to Psychology Today's find a therapist page. Enter your zip code, select IF from the pull down menu. (Or loss /grief, or do both and see who's experienced with both). Read the profiles of people who are conveniently located, choose someone who doesn't completely creep you out. My personal preference is for cognitive/behavioral therapists. They deal with mind-body relationships, and there's often a scientific basis for their practices. For example, a cognitive/behavioral therapist might tell you that your limbic system (a set of brain structures that deals with emotional regulation) is hyperactive as a result of the stress of IF, which is why you feel so anxious and unhappy. She might give you some coping strategies and exercises to reduce limbic system activity. She might also offer you DRUGS. I personally am not going to take drugs for something that is situational, even though they might make me feel better. This is totally my own deal. There's nothing wrong with drugs. (Hear that, kids?) There are some safe drugs to take while trying to conceive. If you don't want drugs, tell her you don't want drugs. If she keeps forcing them on you, kick her to the curb as she's no good.

3. I hate the person I found. What do I do?
There's nothing wrong with ending a relationship with a professional. But I totally get it--it makes me really anxious, too. I suggest you tell the person, I've gotten enough out of our session(s) that I don't need to come back. That's a bit easier than saying, We're not a good fit, which is another option. Then go find someone else.

4. I think therapy is stupid.
That's not a question. But okay, that's a fair view. The most useful thing I was told by the person I saw about IF was that I was going to feel like shit until the IF was resolved. That while she could help me cope, nothing I could do (unless I wanted some of her DRUGS) would fix me, because the problem was situational. Did I need to pay someone to tell me this? Well, yes, actually, I did. Otherwise I would have continued blaming myself for not being able to snap out of it. And learning about the typical experiences women in my situation go through was very useful to me, as was being told that my distress was real and valid. But therapy is obviously not for everyone, and I'm aware that a lot of people have a negative experience that leads them to the view that it's stupid. I'm not here to change your mind, man, but consider this:

People undergoing prolonged stress need an outlet for expressing their feelings. That sounds all patchouli-scented, but there are good neuroscientific explanations for why talking about your feelings helps to regulate them. Blogland is awesome for expression and support, but the support is only semi-objective and doesn't come with any professional training. For those reasons, a therapist may be able to contribute something.

Want me to express my opinions about anything else? Because I totally will.

News Flash: Men have feelings

Last night Mr. Bunny asked me how I felt about our return to the conception mines next month. (I've decided that's the metaphor I'm going with--it really does feel like descending into a dark place and chipping away at something immovable, with an ever-present threat of a cave-in... Oh, and there's the black lung...) We agreed that we are not overly psyched about it, but hey, it's got to be done. Then I asked him something I've been wondering about, to wit, how does it feel for him to be around BFB's baby. He said it was hard at first, but is getting easier because babies are so boring. And that BFB is really annoying with her constant yammering about her baby's development, and her foolish belief that her child is precocious. But mainly he just doesn't want to be around her because he's pissed at her for all the suffering she's caused me. I was like, dude, what? I mean, yes, there has been much suffering, but it's not exactly her fault, and what was she supposed to do? Not have children? He said it's an irrational anger, but he feels it anyway. I was kinda charmed by the idea of him being all protective! And it's kinda nice having someone who can be pissed at her so that I don't have to. Marriage is all about division of labor, no?

I met Mr. Bunny through BFB (at her wedding), and I know that their friendship has suffered since I came on the scene. He's obligated to take my side in any dispute and has gotten to listen to all kinds of me complaining about her, because many aspects of her personality are super fucking annoying. (I can say this because I am well aware the same is true of my personality.) But it does seem that our infertility is putting some extra pressure on their friendship, so it will be interesting to see if they can figure it out. I suppose it might depend entirely upon whether we hit that vein of baby, or whether we end up buried alive under tons of rock.