A funny thing happened on the way to the RE’s office…

*I am going to put a little disclaimer on this post because I use the word “vaginal” a lot! I mean a lot!! So you have been warned.*

I had planned on continuing my exploration of the first question I asked on my very first blog post…

How did I end up here?

My first blog post briefly explored the possibility that ending my relationship with my High School Sweetheart (HSS) might have landed me where I am today.

And one year later for my blogoversary, I took that exploration a little further and explored “the one that got away”.

I told you the story of my sailor.

And to be honest I think telling the story of my sailor has been very cathartic for me.

I was ready to move forward with a salacious tale about the Breadman.

I promise you ladies it is a tale to be heard and I will continue it.

But in the midst of all this story telling I had 2 cycles cancelled, a surgery and then finally I started a new cycle.

And that’s when it happened…

When I started driving to Dr. Wow’s office for my baseline ultrasound, I was overcome with this enormous fear that something was going to go wrong.

I wanted to turn around.

I used to drive to Dr. Wow’s office with some kind of hope or excitement and a little crush but now…now it was total dread.

That’s when I realized something…

I realized I am suffering from Post Traumatic Vaginal Ultrasound Disorder or Post Traumatic IVF Disorder or Post Traumatic TTC Disorder.

Whatever you want to call it, I am damaged.

And in actuality I think that I am truly suffering from all 3.

PTVUD

It starts with Post Traumatic Vaginal Ultrasound Disorder because that is where all the bad news comes from.

The Vaginal Ultrasound.

On my very first Vaginal Ultrasound over 2 years ago, I was told that I had very little eggs left and given a “Practically zero percent chance of conceiving”.

It was the Vaginal Ultrasound that always made Dr. Doom let out a little grunt of disappointment.

Then it was the Vaginal Ultrasound that told me I had a cyst on my 1st IVF cycle.

It was the Vaginal Ultrasound that showed very few eggs for retrieval on all 3 of my IVF cycles.

It was the Vaginal Ultrasound that told me I had a cyst on my last 2 recent attempts to cycle.

It was the Vaginal Ultrasound that told me that my lining wasn’t shedding and I wasn’t baseline for both of my cancelled cycles.

And it was the Vaginal Ultrasound that told me I was going to miscarry.

Actually it was a total of 3 Vaginal Ultrasounds that I had to endure all telling me the same horrible news.

The funny thing is, I’m not sure if I ever told anyone this before but the night before that last Vaginal Ultrasound confirming my miscarriage I had a dream that I was at an RE’s office but it wasn’t my RE’s office from the time (that would have been Dr. Doom) but it was kind and gentle RE. And when this RE did my Vaginal Ultrasound he turned the monitor towards me to show me my beautiful, healthy baby.

But that is not what happened the next morning…

The next morning Dr. Doom’s partner Dr. Darth Vader callously delivered the heartbreaking news that I was going to miscarry via Vaginal Ultrasound.

So, yes I have PTVUD and although I am trying to make light of it, I don’t mean it in a humorous way.

*Although the word itself “Vaginal Ultrasound” is very funny!!

But you see I am a girl that loves and enjoys her downtown area. I can appreciate it for all its glory and I never knew it wasn’t anything but glorious until I met the Vaginal Ultrasound.

But now…

Now, I want to close down, downtown.

Every time they go in to take a look around something is wrong.

And that feeling of dread I had going to Dr. Wow’s...

It was unfortunately spot on and of course the Vaginal Ultrasound once again gave me bad news.

But Vaginal Ultrasound’s partner Bloodwork actually gave me good news so I will be moving forward with my cycle.

And that brings me to…

PTIVFD

Post Traumatic IVF Disorder.

I cannot get excited about this cycle.

I cannot talk about it.

I cannot share and I cannot even breathe the word “cycle” without that horrible feeling of dread creeping over me.

That feeling of doom.

That feeling of failure.

And that fear that I will go in for my next Vaginal Ultrasound and “KABOOM!!”

Which brings me to…

PTTTCD

Post Traumatic TTC Disorder

And this is the worst part or the hardest part for me…

I am angry and bitter.

I have no hope or faith.

And I don’t want to be this person and I don’t want to feel this way.

But I don’t know how to stop these feelings.

But I don’t want to do this anymore…

I don’t want to cry when I hear a friend is pregnant.

I don’t want to cry when I read a blog post about a BFP.

I don’t want the pangs of jealousy when I see a happy family; a baby’s picture; an ultrasound picture (that means the Vaginal Ultrasound didn’t let them down).

I don’t want to fake a smile, fake a laugh, fake excitement or fake joy.

Shit I have faked a few orgasms in my life (very few because my downtown is glorious but still); that was enough. I don’t need to fake anything else.

I don’t want to hide my fears, feelings, anger, jealousy or tears either.

And I don’t want that feeling of wanting to tell people to “Bite me!” or “Fuck off” when they are expressing what they naturally should be regarding cycling, pregnancy, family or their babies.

I want to share it with them.

I want to rejoice and be happy.

I want to have hope and determination.

That same hope and determination that has gotten me this far.

But I can’t for some reason. I feel like I am the one left behind.

Left behind to drown in my disorders…

And I never felt this way before.

I never felt this way Pre Vaginal Ultrasound.

Pre IVF.

Or Pre TTC.

It’s all post and it’s all traumatic.

We now return to our regularly schedule program already in progress…

Episode 64: The root of all evil!

Previously on “A Single Journey”, our single gal Michaela just finished telling the story of her sailor…or did she?

So that was it.

That is how it ended between me and my sailor.

It didn’t end with what one would really call closure.

Actually it’s the farthest thing from closure you can get.

I know there are many of you wondering if I ever tried to look him up online or on Facebook and some suggesting that I do so.

And I don’t mean to sound coy but:

“Come on!!”

“Are you fricking kidding me??”

Of course I tried!

I tried repeatedly!!

I even joined some kinda of “British Forces Re-United” website and tried to look up him up by the crew information from different ships.

As a matter of fact I am still a member of “British Forces Re-United” and get their monthly email updates!

And I still try every once in a while.

But here’s the thing.

My sailor has a really (I mean REALLY) common name. It couldn’t be any more common than if he was John Doe himself! And when you Google it or try to look it up on Facebook there are thousands…actually tens of thousands of entries that come up and I have no way to narrow it down except to add England or the Royal Navy! Neither have proven fruitful.

And then there is this cold hard fact.

The one that is a little hard to swallow but speaks volumes.

I have a very unique name and when you put it into Google or Facebook I am the only one (and well maybe my brother) that comes up.

He could find me.

If he wanted.

I have had other people track me down.

I am Facebook friends with so many people from my past that looked me up.

He could find me.

Easily.

If he wanted.

So I guess I have my answer.

And a pretty definitive answer.

But if that is not a definitive enough answer I actually got the closest thing to closure that I think I am ever going to get just about 2 years ago. Just about at the same time I embarked on my journey.

I had over the years, wrote so many letters to him. Most I never sent but once in a while I would send one to his mother’s.

I never received a reply.

And then about 2 years ago when I started on my journey, I decided to send this letter out to as many addresses as I could find:

“Over the years I have written you so many letters. I have no idea why I never sent them and now after over 10 years, I have no idea if you’ll ever get this. I am sending this to all of the last known addresses I have for you, to your mom’s address and one address I got from a computer search. I hope this reaches you and if you have no idea who I am, I obviously sent this to the wrong address. So here it goes:
You were a huge part of my life. I loved you so much and losing you was the most devastating thing I ever had to go through. I just wanted you to know that you have never left my thoughts or my heart. I would love to be able to talk to you again; see how you are doing…anyway… if you get this and would like to talk you can call me or write me. I would really love to hear from you.
Love,
Michaela”

And I actually got a response.

Well sorta…

Can you imagine how fast my heart was racing when I opened the mailbox and saw a letter?

But it was my letter returned, ripped open and then taped back together with a note:

“Hasn’t lived here in 15 years”

Written in large black letters across the front and back of the envelope.

I thought it was odd and a little bit of overkill.

I mean they opened it.

They read it.

Taped it back together and sent it back to me with a message.

A pretty clear message.

And that takes some effort.

So why go through the effort?

Did they know where he was?

And why after reading my letter would they in no uncertain terms want me to know he’s not there anymore?

I told M3 about it.

I told her I had his brother’s old address, all his old ship addresses and his mom’s old address.

Well, I figured they were old addresses. I assumed (and we all know what assuming does!) that they had all moved by now.

And I also had a bunch of old phone numbers. One of them his mother’s phone number.

I told M3 that there is no way after all this time his mother could still live there. Plus I’d sent letters to her. She had to have moved.

So M3 was like:

“Let’s find out”

And she called his mother’s old phone number from the early 1990’s.

And his mother picked up.

Only M3 could have handled it the way she did.

What we found out is that she doesn’t want to tell my sailor about the letters and she doesn’t want to tell us how to get in touch with him.

She kept asking: “Why now? Is she sick? Is there something wrong with her?”

M3 kept saying things about closure and reconnecting.

But she told M3 that he was very hurt for a very long time and she doesn’t want him to be hurt again.

And then she said…

The one thing I didn’t want to hear but knew was coming…

She then said he’s married with a young son.

I will say my immediate reaction was “She’s lying”.

Not about the young son but about being married.

But she probably isn’t.

She’s just trying to protect her son.

And so, that’s it.

Done.

Done?

Done.

So is that the root of all evil?

Is that the reason I haven’t been able to find the one. Why I am still single and childless?

Could it all boil down to my sailor leaving?

Have I been spending all this time waiting for him?

I often wonder but I don’t think so.

I have had many relationships after my sailor and some of them with very strong potential.

There is a part of me that thinks it might be because I became “gun shy” or in this case “love shy”.

But I feel that I am more than ready to open my heart and love that way again.

And I have been for a very long time.

I think that the sum of one’s parts doesn’t necessarily equal the whole.

And I’ll just have to keep on going forward.

I think I also have to examine my transient perception of men. There were a few times where I was the one who left in order to stop something from being too serious at the beginning.

I would leave before they could get the chance to leave me.

And I know in those cases I have hurt them in the way that my sailor hurt me.

I think there is a part of me that thinks I might be paying off some kind of karmic debt because of that.

But really this is a price that is just too high to pay for any transgression!

Some might even think why bother going over the past. The past is there in the past for a reason but when you’re faced with a future that you are not quite sure where it is going and you are not sure if your dreams will ever come true you search for a reason.

You desperately search for a reason.

You try to look for what brought you to your present state.

So, could my sailor be the root of all evil?

I am a firm believer that it is not what happens to you in life by how you handle it.

And I cannot blame my sailor for the things I did after I lost his love.

That is on me.

What has brought me to this present state I have to accept responsibility 100%.

And if I was going to be fair I would have to start reexamining all of my relationships to see if one of those is where I went astray or went off course.

After my sailor there were a couple of notables in a sea if unnotables.

So could the root of all evil began after my sailor left?

My sailor broke my heart but maybe the root of all evil started after that with the man that broke my spirit.

Could it have happened on Superbowl Sunday in 1996 when the handsome Breadman came into my bar to watch the football game?

Stay tuned...

We interrupt this regularly scheduled program…

My sleep was being interrupted by the obnoxious sound of the telephone ringing. My head was pounding. I was hungover. It was too early and the phone was too loud. I shook Sio.

“Who is it?”

Sio looked at the caller ID and grumbled: “It’s your sister.”

In slight outrage I declared “Oh this better be good!”

It better be good because my sister (and my mother and my other sister) all knew “the rule”.

“The rule” was that because both Sio and I worked late in the restaurant and in actuality because both Sio and I partied too much, there were no phone calls before noon.

It was way before noon! This before 9!

I picked up the phone with a very distinct: “What!”

“Are you in the city now?”

“No. I answered the phone didn’t I? Why?” with a distinct tone of sarcasm.

Sissy L was definitely annoying me. She had a way of doing that with early morning phone calls. As a matter of fact her early morning antics are why we had to invoke “the rule” in the first place.

“You’re not going to the city today.”

But there was alarm in Sissy L’s voice that immediately made me sit up.

“No, I don’t have class today. Why?”

Now Sissy L has always been up before the “ass crack” of dawn so she knew as soon as it happened…

“Something’s happening in New York. Turn on the TV”

Shaking Sio: “Get up! Turn on the TV. Something’s happened in the city”

“A plane. Something. Thank God you’re safe.”

“I’m fine. Is that the World Trade Center? Sio what’s going on?”

“A plane hit the World Trade Center.”

“I’ve got to go!”

I don’t think I even remembered that I had a hangover or about my rule. I knew I had to call my friend Corby. He worked in the World Trade Center and he was in the elevator in 1993 when it was attacked but really at this point we only thought this was an accident.

His wife answered.

“Ellen where’s Corby.”

“He’s home. He didn’t feel good this morning so he called in sick.”

“Can I talk to him?”

As soon as Corby got on the phone I started ribbing him.

“Sick eh?”

“I’m telling you Michaela I felt sick to my stomach this morning.”

“Well, let me tell you something Mr. Corby, God must really love you! You escaped a bomb and now a plane. Find another place to work!”

We laughed. And then discussed how it must have been a small plane, some kind of accident and as we were talking, on the TV, almost in slow motion and really actually kinda fake looking, a plane cut through the top third of the 2nd tower.

We stopped talking.

It felt like time stopped ticking.

And then Corby said to me almost monotone:

“Michaela, what are we watching?”

And I replied in that same slow tone: “I have no idea. I’ll call you back.”

I never did call him back that day.

The only other call I made before we lost reception completely was to my mom to make sure she was safe.

To get her certification, my mom was taking a class in the lower 20’s in the city with a yoga master named Dharma (Dharma, I find his name ironic now). She was so proud that she could get in and out of city by herself (my first trip to the city for acting school, she was a nervous wreck). She was supposed to take the early morning class that day but at the last minute decide to do the afternoon class. She would have been far enough away to be safe but close enough to be caught in the chaos. Because on this day if she had gone in to the city, there would have been no getting out.

Sio and I ran out of my apartment and to the top of the hill that had a full view of the most magnificent skyline ever.

Manhattan.

My Manhattan.

We lived close to the Lincoln Tunnel and for as far as the eye could see there were cars.

Cars everywhere.

So many cars that you couldn’t tell if they were trying to get out of New York or if they were trying to get in.

We stood on the top of the hill and watched.

Others began to join us.

And we watched.

We watched as the towers fell.

Miles and miles of cars with their occupants sobbing and a vagabond group on top of a hill that looks outwards towards NYC with their head in their hands too stunned to comprehend what had just happened.

And although my friend Corby was safe, later that I day I found out one of my girlfriends from our shore house was not as fortunate. My friend, Cira Marie Patti, was on the 89th floor of the South Tower. The 2nd tower to be hit. She had time to call her mom and tell her she loved her. May she rest in peace. I am sure I can speak for all my girls from the shore house when I say Cira we love and miss you!

That is where I was 10 years ago.

And today…

Today…

Today in regards to what has happened, I haven’t move on. I have not gotten over it. I just haven’t. I’ve moved forward but I have not moved on. Thinking of that day. The sites. The sounds. The stories. And thinking of my friend, all brings me down to my knees with my head in my hands too stunned to comprehend.

It is just too hard.

Maybe someday I will move on. Just not today.

Today I got up and went to church with my sister. We sat in quiet remembrance.

Today I also started my 8th cycle in my journey to motherhood.

This morning I gave myself my 200 hundredth and something shot.

Today, on a day when I am mourning the loss of a dear friend, mourning the loss of a piece of my city and mourning the little piece of my heart that died that day I will be embarking on a journey of hope. I will be taking new steps towards my dream.

I am starting a new journey on a day that is forever burned into my memory and makes me weak from the enormity of the pain…May this journey ease that pain and someday in remembrance be a day filled with some kind of happiness that might possibly take a little dent out of the pain.

Today I do remember. I will not forget. I am not healed and I am not over it.

But today I am moving forward with a little glimmer of hope.

Men ALWAYS Leave…

They say that in your adult relationships you are “mimicking” the relationships you witnessed when you were little. You learn how to be in a relationship basically by how your parents were in their relationship.

I am not sure if I believe that cock and bull, load of crap, psycho-babble or whatever it is you want to call it, but I guess if I did believe it, then I have moved forward into adulthood and into relationships with the belief that “Men ALWAYS Leave”.

And I am pretty sure that is what I thought when my sailor left.

Because after months of not hearing from him, no letter, no phone call, I went with the assumption that would make any Psych 101 college student proud and believed that he left, just left, never to turn around, never to think of me again.

He walked away without a second thought. Because that is what most men in my life have done since I was a little girl.

It fits.

It’s perfect.

I mean it is the meaning of “textbook”.

My father left when I was little.

Then there was a very close friend of the family who became my surrogate father and he left.

And then there’s my stepfather who basically raised me and I haven’t heard from him since my mom and him divorced.

Now not all of these are in succession but when my sailor left I guess my innate response was that I was abandoned once again.

I did write to him.

Letter after letter after letter.

I can’t remember exactly what I said in each letter but I think there was a progression from: “Where are you?” to “I miss” to “Please let’s work this out” to “Fuck you!” over the course of many, many months.

And every trip to that empty mailbox increased the feelings of the latter.

And it hurt more than any other hurt I ever felt in my life.

I would call my mother on the phone everyday for months on end crying hysterically “Why!!” “How come…” “I can’t” “This hurts so much” “I want him back” “I want us back”…

And I kept going over everything in my head.

The house he bought. Re-enlisting. All pointing to me being a fool.

And there were other behaviors that raised red flags that I didn’t realize until I spent months listening to sound of my own tears and trying to figure out what happened.

And just like the hurt little girl that I used to be, all my feelings of insecurity and abandonment filled my being and I blamed myself. Feeling that there must be something intrinsically wrong with me that makes men leave.

But I did have the Theatre and I dived into school every day immersing myself in order to try to move past the pain. And I guess the funny thing is; acting school is probably the only place where not only do they allow you to express your feelings but they encourage it.

It truly was my life preserver at the time.

And after about 8 months and a lot of prodding from friends, I started going out.

I even had a date.

I started dating Stockbroker boy in an attempt to move forward.

The first time we were “together” I remember going home and crying. It felt as if I betrayed my sailor, even though I hadn’t heard from him, no letter, nothing.

Because he just left right?

Because men always leave.

And I was moving forward right?

I was moving on.

I mean really, I was never going to hear from him again and I had to face that right?

Well that is what everyone was telling me and in my head I knew they were right but my heart…my heart wasn’t ready and it was clear that my heart wasn’t ready since being with another man only brought me to tears.

But I covered up the pain. Put on a brave face and marched on because that is what I had to do whenever the men would leave.

That is what I did after my father left and so that is what I did after my sailor left.

And my brave face marched its way out to the mailbox in September of 1995, 9 months after my sailor had left and in the mailbox was 2 letters. 2 letters; one with a post mark from March and the other was from May.

And in those letters…

Well, let’s just say it was not what this little abandon girl had expected.

He was asking what was happening with us because he keeps writing and I am not responding.

He wrote that hadn’t heard from me in months and that he wanted to come see me on his leave in August to work it out.

It was now the middle of September.

So although he left, he actually did turn around. I just didn’t know it.

Somewhere, somehow our letters never reached each other.

I went to the post office and I asked: “Why did it take so long for me to get these letters?” and I was told that the postage was off by 1 penny.

1 penny.

The funny thing is (or should I say tragic); is in this day and age with emails and Facebook and always having constant contact this would have never happened.

In 1995 there wasn’t internet and emails. And for those geeks out there if one of you makes a comment: “The internet was in use in 1960 blah blah and people had email by 1970 whatever…” I am going to smack the dork right out of you (oh and by the way I absolutely adore geeks. I am a geek wanna be) because in reality, the internet and use of emails didn’t really become mainstream until late 1900s, early 2000s.

So in 1995, the post did us in.

1 penny…1 stinking, lousy, penny put an end to us.

As soon as I received those letters that September and realized that he didn’t just leave, I called his mother. I told her how I never got his letters until now. I told her to give him the message.

I started writing again but he had changed ships.

I called his brother. Left a message again. No response.

Now I don’t know if he ever got my messages. I will never know. But I have a sneaking suspicion that he did not.

But this time…yes this time…

I never did hear from him again.

And once again that little, abandoned girl inside of me became more acutely aware that Men ALWAYS Leave!

All the King’s horses and all the King’s men…

I’m going to be honest.

This is something that is hard to admit.

And I know there will be some of you who aren’t going to believe what I am about to say.

Many of you are going to shake your head and wonder “How could you forget?”

But in all honesty, I can hardly remember what happened that day.

The day he left.

What we said standing in the airport…

I don’t remember.

But when you’ve spent so much time trying to move past the pain.

So much time trying not to think about it.

So much time trying not to remember.

I guess eventually you do succeed and forget.

It’s like physical pain. You remember that it hurt but you don’t quite ever really remember the details of the pain.

I guess the same holds true for emotional pain.

Til this day I can still cry over the loss but I can’t remember all the details.

But what I do remember is…

I was living my dream.

Soaking up every site and sound.

Every drop of wisdom from my acting coach, my voice coach, my Shakespeare coach and on and on.

Every day was something right out of the movie "Fame" and I was living it.

And I was doing this.

And I was doing that.

And to be perfectly honest I don’t think I said we since I got on my “I Horse”!

It was Christmas 1994.

One year later.

One year after I faced the unimaginable and rescued myself from my own suffering.

It was a long hard fight but I was on the other side.

And it was my turn to go to England.

And I knew this.

My sailor wrote me a letter, like he had done so many other times before but this letter also included plans for me to go to England.

He wanted me to come stay with him and his family and it was my turn but I…

Well I was in love with Manhattan and the Theatre and my acting classes and my dance classes and my voice classes and I had to rehearse and needed to practice and…

I think he had other plans and me going back to school didn’t fit into those plans.

And somewhere along the line he also got on his “I Horse”.

And even though I was riding high on my “I Horse” none of it would have interfered with our plans.

But his “I Horse” even though it included me none of it was part of the plans we made.

He had bought a house with his brother.

But there was more to this house.

So much more. That house was like a condemnation notice.

He condemned us.

But I didn’t know it at the time.

I told my sailor that I couldn’t go to England and that he had to come here.

I promised him that the next time I would go there…next time (little did I know there would be no next time)

And so he did. Come here. But he wasn’t happy about it.

As a matter of fact he was downright angry about it.

He was angry about everything.

When I talked about anything he would say he didn’t like it.

“We’re studying Anton Chekov. Aren’t his plays amazing?”

“NO! I don’t like Chekov.”

“Shakespeare?”

“Hate him”

“Arthur Miller”

“Hate it”

“The Beatles?” “Journey?” “The Doors?”

“Horrible!” “Awful” “Abysmal”

“Mac & Cheese, Beer, Pizza?”

“No, No, Not anymore!”

You get the point. MAD!!

But I had to go to rehearsals while he was here even though it was Christmas vacation.

I tried to include him in my excitement. I tried to show him what it was that I loved so much.

So, I brought him with me a couple of times to NYC, to my new home and of course to the Theatre.

And I asked him what he thought of my school, my new friends, the director, my scene.

I bet you can figure out his response…

“Et, Uck, Hmm, Ehh”

MAD!

I don’t know if it was me he hated or the fact that I went back to school and ruined his plans.

But here is the thing. Here is why that house turned into so much more.

It wasn’t in our plans.

That was his plans…

The ones he didn’t tell me about.

Our plans…

He told me he was going to leave the Navy in 1995 and move to the United States. This is something we started planning years earlier and the last I knew was that he told me that he already contacted the British and American Embassies to put our plans into motion.

But then he bought house in 1994 and re-enlisted in the Navy for another 4 years.

Not our plans at all.

If he bought a house and re-enlisted, he had no intention of moving to the United States or leaving the Navy.

That means somewhere we lost OUR plans and I guess we had just his.

He had new plans and without knowing it I think I threw a monkey wrench into those plans.

But as I said I can only speculate.

He never told me what the new plans were.

He never told me why he left.

I can only hypothesize about what it was that couldn’t put us back together again.

I came home from rehearsal and he was gone.

And you have to remember that this was a time before cell phones.

I think the only people at this time who had cell phones were those who were pretty “well to do” and the cell phone itself was the size of a regular phone with a long, retractable antenna.

And actually I think it was only car phones that you could get at the time, but anyway, I couldn’t just call and see where he was. Or text to find out.

I had to figure it out.

And I did when I noticed it was not just him that was gone but everything was gone.

All his clothes, his suitcase.

I called my mom.

She had brought him to the airport.

She said he wanted to be home with his family.

He called her for a ride.

She didn’t know what to do.

I frantically drove to the airport.

And that’s where it ends.

That is what I can’t remember.

I remember crying.

I remember yelling at him:

“How can you do this to me after all I went through last year!?!?”

Once again I was on my “I Horse”.

I remember him leaving but I don’t think I realized at that moment that I would never see him again.

But that was the last time I ever saw him.

And I never loved that way again either.

But what happened when I heard from him again over 8 months later is even more tragic then that fateful day in the airport.

Turnabout is fair play…

**Before I continue with my story, I need to send out prayers to Shannon at Chasing Rainbows for her precious little boy Finn. Know in your heart that it will all be okay!**

Human beings are the only animal able to rescue themselves from their own suffering. ~ From a sermon from Pastor Bill Davis at the First Presbyterian Church of Whippany NJ

I spent Christmas in the hospital.

I spent New Years in the hospital.

But my Christmas present that year in my eyes was nothing less than miraculous.

It is still the best present I EVER received.

I did not have Leukemia.

So what was it?

Without getting too technical, basically what was causing the bruising was a lack of platelets in my blood. Platelets clot your blood.

The average person has around 200,000 platelets.

When I arrived at the hospital two days before Christmas in 1993, I literally had 2. 2 platelets (2 might actually end up being a theme here).

My doctor told me it was the lowest he had ever seen and if I had cut myself at any time before I got to the hospital I could have bled to death right on the spot. Crazy right!

There are a lot of big fancy doctor-like words but I will break it down in laymen terms (or in other words non-doctor language):

Platelets are produced by your bone marrow. Since I had so few platelets, the first round of tests, tested for Leukemia which is cancer of the blood.

Being told you might have cancer is a moment no one should have to face.

I couldn’t even begin to describe what I was thinking or feeling at the time. Because your brain can’t wrap around the worst case scenario and the worst case scenario is all you can think about.

My results were absolutely, positively negative!

And THAT is a new lease on life! Something everyone should be graced with.

So the cause?

My spleen.

The spleen filters your blood. My spleen (for some unknown reason) wasn’t working and it was “killing” my platelets.

The treatment…tons and tons of steroids to “jump start” my spleen.

As I said the average person has about 200,000 platelets.

I had 2.

On my first day in the hospital, they gave me 10,000.

I needed 20,000 to get out of jail.

That took 14 days.

And all the while they were pumping me full of mood altering (anger inducing) steroids.

When my sailor had left I was still in the hospital.

When he came back I was staying with my mom.

Anyone who has ever been on steroids can tell you that the side effects are unbearable.

There is depression, weight gain (lots of weight gain); depression, my hair fell out, more depression and to add to the depression a good dose of insomnia.

Days upon days without sleep.

I went from the bed to the floor, to the couch, to the floor all in hopes of falling asleep. And this went on night after night. I even took my pillow and blanket into the bathtub one night in a desperate attempt to bring on the zzzs.

And let’s not forget the mood swings.

I was crazy, hysterically crying, irrational and angry.

And I mean angry.

I remember being in the supermarket with my sailor and I needed a new toothbrush. He said he needed one too. So I grabbed a double pack but he wanted a different kind in a single pack.

No big deal right!

Wrong!

I was infuriated. I pictured myself jumping on his back and sticking that toothbrush “you know where” after he gingerly grabbed it off the shelf and turned to walk down the aisle.

And I couldn’t figure out why.

There I was standing in the middle of the Pathmark envisioning murder by toothbrush.

I knew it was irrational but I still felt enraged.

Why I was feeling this way?

I didn’t know. All I knew was that I was suffering.

And my sailor…

He had no choice.

Once again he had to leave and I was still pacing the floors at all hours of the night begging for sleep or sweet release.

I was so alone.

The depression was so intense that every morning when I woke up or I should say got up from my very minimal sleep, I felt like I was being crushed under a concrete block.

I actually remember thinking that if I get hit by a bus today that would be the best thing that ever happened to me.

It took me a while before I equated all of this with the steroids.

I just kept thinking: “What is wrong with me!!”

But once I did put 2 and 2 together I knew something had to change.

So there were two things (I guess 2 really is a theme) that I decided I needed to do.

The first:

I needed to get off the steroids.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I do not like to gamble. I get pissed if I lose a roll of quarters in a slot machine.

But this was a gamble I HAD to take.

I knew I couldn’t be on these steroids “indefinitely” like my doctor said I would be.

So I had to bank on the fact that for most of my life I have been a very healthy person and that this must have been a freak occurrence.

I placed my bet that my body had healed and I could live without the steroids.

So, every day I would lessen my dose and once a month I would go to my Hematologist (who was this funny, little Asian man) for blood work.

And every time I would say: “How are my platelets?”

(Waiting for the house to win!)

And every time my Hematologist would reply: “Good. Good. How are you doing with the medicine?”

And I would say: “Good. Good.”

(Knowing I was left to play my hand one more time!)

Until one day after months of this wager, I turned and said: “How are my platelets?”

And he said: “Good. Good. How are you doing with the medicine?”

And I said: “I stopped taking the medicine 3 months ago.”

I’m pretty sure he was shocked and I knew the lecture was coming.

He told me in no uncertain terms that if my platelets started to drop and I refuse the medicine than he would have to remove my spleen.

I said: “So be it.”

And he folded.

I really don’t remember too many appointments after that.

But I won.

I knew I won.

I had to win because I couldn’t keep living like that.

And I felt better.

And I looked better.

Now I had to take care of the second thing that had been eating away at me since I got my new lease on life:

And that was I had to start living the life that I so graciously got back.

Ever since I had graduated college and met my sailor all I did was wait tables and bartend.

Waiting for him to return.

I wasn’t pursuing anything.

I wasn’t doing anything.

I wasn’t living my life.

I was biding my time.

I knew that none of this was his fault.

I loved him. I loved him more than life itself.

But when I was faced with losing my life…

I knew that I had to start living my life.

I actually had a friend at one time say to me: “You are too young to be sitting around pining away.”

So I decided to go for it.

I decided to pursue my dream and I auditioned for some of the best acting schools in Manhattan.

The process of auditioning was exhilarating in itself but getting accepted to one of the best Acting Conservatories in NYC…

I was over the moon.

But out of the two things I decided to do…

The first probably helped our relationship.

The second is probably what tore it apart.

Because once I started living my life…once I started going back to school…and breathing in the city, the lights and the Theatre, that is when it seemed like he got angry.

So angry that one day when I came home from school…

He was gone.

And we all fall down…

(courtesy of google images)

In hindsight I can only speculate as to what happened.

But I will honestly never know.

He left on a plane in January 1995 and I never saw him again.

When did the cracks start to form?

When did it all fall apart?

As I said I can only speculate.

This is what happened the way I see it.

I have no other eyes to view this with.

But if I had to pin point when the first cracks started to form I would say it was in early 1994 after I got out of the hospital.

My sailor had come to stay with me at Christmas time like he had so many other times.

When he picked me up at the airport I showed him a series of bruises that had literally just started appearing all over my body.

Out of nowhere I would get a new bruise. And it was dark and purple and large. Bruises were covering my legs and I swore to him over and over that no one touched me.

Over the next couple of hours bruises started appearing on my arms and my eye even went black.

His exact words were: “Looking at you, I want to arrest myself”.

The very next day I went to my old childhood doctor. A doctor I hadn’t seen since I was a teenager because I rarely get sick. I knew that there had to be a logical explanation for this. In my mind I thought I ate something bad and was having an allergic reaction.

But by the time I got to the doctor, both my eyes were black, my legs and arms were covered in bruises and I had a bloody nose that would not stop.

My doctor immediately called an ambulance and had me rushed to the hospital.

You do not pass go. You do not collect 200 dollars. You do not go home and get clothes. Someone can bring them to you. You go directly to the hospital.

I was admitted to the hospital just days before Christmas.

And I would not be released until after the New Year.

To say that the whole experience was surreal is an understatement. From the ride to the hospital, to being admitted, to being taken to (God I don’t even know where) but they were giving me transfusions and asking if I knew my blood type and people who could donate…it was all so surreal and scary and lonely.

And then the tests…my doctor (being so sweet) said to me “We are going to do a series of bone marrow tests”

And I stopped.

And my heart stopped.

And I knew.

I mean I really knew.

I looked at my doctor two days before Christmas in 1993 and I said:
“Oh my God. You think I have Leukemia.”

And at that moment.

At that moment in time…

I didn’t know where my sailor was, or my mother was or even where God was.

I looked at my completely bruised body and all of these things hooked up to me and I felt like I hadn’t lived and that I might not ever have the chance to live again.

And my doctor put his hand in mine and said: “It’s okay. You’re going to be fine. I’ve seen this before with my son. You are going to be okay”

Only to find out years later that his son died of Leukemia.

And the tests…

Let’s just say that they were painful.

Very painful.

To the point of passing out painful.

But they came back negative.

Absolutely, positively negative!

And my sailor.

He stayed with me during the day and then stayed at my parents during the night but…

But he had to leave.

And like always.

I knew it.

He knew it.

But we ignored it until that day came.

And in the middle of all those painful, heart wrenching, soul stealing tests…he left…

He did come back as quickly as he could. He put in for an emergency leave and was back by my side two weeks later but…

But I was on crazy amounts of medication including some pretty strong steroids.

My emotions were everywhere and all over the boards.

But the one emotion that was constant was anger.

And I was angry at him.

I’m not saying it was right or wrong or justified.

It was uncontrollable.

And I think part of it could have been because I knew…

I knew he had to leave again.

I knew that at a time when I was at my loneliest he was going to leave me.

Leave me all alone.

And even though after I got released from the hospital and things went back to normal…

Normal being that I lived my life separate from him waiting for his return.

Waiting to live my life with him.

If I had to put my finger on it, I would say that was the first crack.

The first chink which would ebb out creating more and more cracks, leading to that fateful day in 1995 when he got on a plane and never returned.

Fairy Tales can come true?

“Pleasure of love lasts but a moment, Pain of love lasts a lifetime.”
-- Bette Davis

I walked around for weeks in a daze thinking about him with a dull ache knowing that I would never see him again.

I mean really, think about it, a British sailor, New York City, one night stand...well a couple nights stand...but still what are the chances that he wasn't bullshitting me just to get laid.

And trust me if he was, it worked! He had me at British or at sailor not sure which but this was the very first time I had let myself indulge in such an elicit fantasy and if all it ever turned out to be was an elicit fantasy that I could relive with a smirky, little “I did something naughty” smile on my face then so be it.

I was going to continue to re-enjoy the moment I had already enjoyed.

I am not going to say that I didn’t secretly wish that he would contact me but I wasn’t banking on it.

So when I walked to the mailbox that June day I was not expecting a postcard from Halifax, Nova Scotia.

Or the phone call to make sure I received the post card.

His postcard swept me off my already elevated feet.

“I don’t know what it was but meeting you sparked something off up top that I haven’t see or experienced for some time.”

He wanted to know if he could come spend his leave with me in August.

Of course I said yes.

That postcard was the first of many love letters to come and from that moment on I think I truly was “Walking on Sunshine” when I floated towards that mailbox. To this day going to the mailbox always brings me thoughts of him.

I can't even begin to tell what I was feeling as I picked him up at the airport that first time because picking him up at the airport after what felt like an eternity of being apart became a way of life.

The time in between was like living in quicksand.

And the time we were together flew at record speeds.

He came to the United States.

I flew to England.

His ship docked in Florida and I flew there to meet him and on and on and on…

And every time it was like meeting a stranger that I have known for years.

That first kiss…the taste was foreign yet very familiar.

We spent those first few days reacquainting our lips, our touch, our bodies and then rest of the time melding us back into one.

Back into us.

We would go on vacation with my mother and stepfather, spend time with M3 and her family, go to one of our favorite places, Great Adventure, to get our “fix” of rollercoasters (we both had a love for them!) and of course spent hours upon hours by ourselves; talking, laughing and loving more times a day than should be humanly possible.

All the time trying to ignore the fact that he would be leaving again.

And he would.

Leave again.

Plunging us into this strange dimension of being in love and being so utterly alone.

And in between, more love letters…

“When you pick me up at J.F.K. that is the time that I look forward to, after a long stay away from you, seeing you, touching you + smelling you. I don’t even know myself, when I meet you, how much more I can love you. But its always more that the minute before and I keeps growing.”

It was truly a fairy tale.

Until…

Until it all fell apart.

Maybe it had no choice but to fall apart.

Because fairy tales aren’t really real are they?

Don’t you forget about me…

Hey, hey, hey ,hey

Won't you come see about me?

Memorial Day weekend 1991

I was finishing up my last year of college.

And even though I knew on the day I left for college that things were over between me and my high school sweetheart we still tried to make it work for sometime after that. It was messy.

But now, by now it was finally put to rest and I was “done with men”.

Yes, at the ripe old age of 22, due to my vast experience with the opposite sex, I was done with men.

Are they even men at this age?

Anyway, I had vowed off men but a group of my girlfriends were heading into Manhattan for Fleet Week.

I had declined to go.

But I did tell them to bring me back a sailor.

The next day there was talk of all the sailors, the fun, the Intrepid and how I should definitely go with them the following night.

Once again I declined.

My best (bestest, sweetest, dearest) friend in college M3 (there were 3 Ms in college; me, M2 and M3 and we called ourselves the M & M & M’s. I know silly) had met a sailor (I’m just going to call him the K-man) and she was trying her best to coerce me into going into Manhattan with her the next night.

“No”

“Just for fun.”

“No”

“It’s not like you are going to meet the man of your dreams there anyway!” “Come on please”

I love her so I said yes. And at this time in my life we did everything together.

So the next day I went.

I would love to write about how magically the city was with the lights and the streets full of service men but I went with a puss on my face and an attitude.

And this was Manhattan pre the glitz of Sex in the City and of course pre the devastation of 9-11.

This was the nitty gritty Manhattan. This was before the “Disneyfication” of Times Square.

Oh, yes, Manhattan was still magically but with a much darker edge back then.

But I was not looking at the magic of Manhattan’s city lights or the life that filled the streets.

I was looking for a way out.

And I made sure I took my own car so I wouldn’t get “stuck there”.

There is nothing worse than being stuck in Manhattan when all of your girlfriends are hooking up with sailors and you’re sitting there with a face on.

I made sure I could escape.

I figured I would go for an hour. An hour and a half tops and then I was out of there.

So, we got ready (and hey, I did try to look cute. I’m not a complete idiot.) and headed off into Manhattan. Me, M3 and two other college girlfriends.

M3 was meeting the K-man in front of the Intrepid at some certain time they set up.

We waited in front of the Intrepid. Me with my puss on my face and M3 anxiously looking all around trying to pick her sailor out of a sea of sailors.

Then M3 saw them. The K-man and he brought along a friend.

“There he is”

Two sailors walked towards us.

In the first second I thought: “Fucking great!! M3 set me up!”

But in the second moment, in the moment I laid eyes on one of the sailors all I could think was “Please God don’t let him be the K-man”.

“Please don’t let him be the one that is with M3”

“Pleeeaaaaseeee don’t let him be the K-man!!!”

And he wasn’t and the attraction was instant.

He was the most beautiful man I had ever laid eyes on.

It truly was love at first sight.

That urban myth I had heard about but didn’t think existed.

I am here to tell you that “Yes. Yes it can happen” but sadly I am starting think only once in a lifetime.

We gravitated towards each other.

We lost ourselves in each other as we strolled the city streets.

We laughed. We talked. We kissed.

I took him home. Yes, I know. Say what you will but at that time I didn’t care (and actually I still don’t)!

It was magical.

More magical than Manhattan could ever dream of being.

We spent the night together.

And the next night together.

And the night after that.

We were totally caught up in each other.

And the city, the magnificent city of Manhattan somehow still stayed in the background.

This time it was me that came alive.

Full of life and light.

Oh and I should mention that he was a sailor in the Royal Navy so he had that quirky British accent where everything he said just sounded so sweet.

We told each other that we would never forget one another.

We said it would only be for these few days.

On Monday he had to be back to his ship by 7:00 am and at 5:00 am in my quiet, dark bedroom he was whispering about going AWOL.

Or stowing me away on the ship.

We knew this couldn’t be and so I dropped him off in front of the Intrepid.

We said our goodbyes and said we would never forget.

And I honestly thought I would never see him again.

Until…

Until three weeks later when I received a postcard and a phone call.

How did I end up here? PART II

It has been 1 year since I have started blogging and almost 2 years since I started my journey to motherhood.

I would have never believed that I would still be childless after 2 years.

2 years ago I was beyond excited, beyond determined, beyond confident and full of hope.

4 IUIs, 1 miscarriage and 3 IVF cycles later…

I’m beaten down, tired, scared, fearful and somehow through it all still full of hope.

It was 1 year ago today that I decided to start blogging about my journey and ironically (this is something I never noticed before) I published my very 1st post ever on my mom’s birthday.

So Happy Birthday Mom and Happy Anniversary “A Single Journey”!

Now let’s reexamine my initial question that started it all:

How did I end up here?

In pondering how I ended up here, I related my journey back to my relationship beginnings.

Back to my high school sweetheart and wondered whether or not leaving him brought me to my present state.

I do sometimes look back and wonder. Wonder what my life would be like now if I had married my high school sweetheart.

I would have children that I am sure of but my guess is I would be divorced.

And I wonder…

Would I be resentful of my children for taking away my youth?

Would I be tired and frustrated?

Would I find my kids a choir instead of a blessing?

I would hope not but somehow when I picture that life, I have a sneaky suspicion I would have.

But, I wanted to leave. I wanted to break free. I wanted to go out and see the world first before settling down. I wanted to want to have children.

And even though my high school sweetheart is married and has 2 children of his own, I can easily conclude that leaving him is not what has brought me to my present state.

You see, I have had many relationships after my high school sweetheart. Some full of love and potential. So in really trying to determine how I ended up here maybe I need to dig a little deeper…

My single status is obviously what brought me to having to choose to pursue single motherhood.

And it is a direct result in me waiting so long to start this journey.

But what was I waiting for?

Was I waiting for “him”?

The one that got away

Could that be why I am still single? I’m still holding out hope after over 15 years that we will somehow be together again?

I made a conscious effort to NOT call “him” the love of my life after things fell apart because my life isn’t over yet. And I pray every day that I will meet “the one” I am meant to be with.

And I don’t know if you could really say that I am sitting around hoping that “he” returns.

I think it’s more like a fantasy.

I fantasize that it could happen.

But then again I also have a fantasy that I will meet George Clooney and he will give up all the bombshell bimbos and fall madly in love with me and that I will be the woman he finally marries.

So, because I have all these fantasies does that mean I won’t meet "the one"?

Or have I already met him?

Whether or not this had a direct impact on where I am today I do not know.

Maybe I need to explore the possibility.

Maybe I need to face or better yet, release the one that got away…

This is a love that still causes my heart to ache even today.

And I will never forget that Memorial Day weekend during Fleet Week in 1991.

Yes, folks I met me a sailor during Fleet Week with all the making of a true Hollywood love story that quite fitting turned into heartbreak. Because really isn’t that how all Hollywood love stories end?

Anyway Fleet Week 1991, that is where it all began…

Cue up the 90s music and get ready because I am going to take you on a walk down memory lane as I try to answer my very 1st question: How did I end up here?

In life we all have an unspeakable secret, an irreversible regret, an unreachable dream and an unforgettable love. ~Diego Marchi

A Lesson in…

Patience?

Second Verse Same as the First:

Yes, folks believe it or not it is still Groundhog Day for me!

I was given a large (and I mean LARGE) shot of PIO in hopes of inducing Leroy and getting rid of my cyst.

And it worked (sort of). Exactly 1 week later I got Leroy and I bet you can all figure out what happened next:

True to form and reliving the same day over and over...

I got my period. I started Lupron. I went for my baseline. And BOOM there’s cyst.

Well, it’s not a new cyst. It’s still the same cyst reeking havoc on my cycle.

And like a little kid I stomped and screamed:

“Why?? Why?? This isn’t fair!”

“I DON’T WANT TO WAIT ANYMORE!!”

Like the spoiled brat in Willy Wonka all I could think of was:

“And if I don't get the things I am after
I'm going to scream!...
And now
Don't care how
I want it now
Don't care how
I want it now”


And now, well now, I HAVE to learn patience once again.

Strength?

Just when I thought I was at my weakest. I was about to sit down and write a blog about how tough this is. How hard it is to wait! How difficult this journey has become! I saw this in my writings:




Somewhere out there's a dream that's not forgotten
But this world is never stopping for me
But I will try and I will keep on trying
I set my goals there's no denying
Never stop fighting
For What I believe
~ Amy MacDonald


And I knew that I had copied and pasted those lyrics at the beginning of my journey as a reminder to keep fighting.

To never lose my strength.

And now I HAVE to find my strength again.

Resilience?

And above all when you are fighting for your dream you must be resilient.

You will be knocked down.

You will get up.

Resilience.

You will have set backs.

You will move forward.

Resilience.

You will fail.

And you will succeed.

Resilience.

And now, I MUST be resilient.

I am working on being patient, finding my strength and being resilient. These are lesson that I hope are finally learned.

My Brother In-Law Vince…

I like to think of myself as a spiritual person but if I was to say that I was a religious person, I would be lying.

Yes, when I was younger I used to go to church with my Grandma Hope and yes, over the last two years I have started going back to church.

I am trying to be a religious person but I am not quite there yet.

You see every Sunday when I go to church I wonder if I am fit to sit in that pew.

I tend to have, I guess what I would deem, inappropriate thoughts in church.

Recently over Easter it seemed like every week we would do the Last Supper ceremony with the breaking of the bread and drinking of the wine (well, grape juice) and all I could think of was: “Again!! We are doing this again! Didn’t we do this last Sunday! Ughh…it adds like 20 minutes onto church” (and you can draw out that last statement with a childlike whine!)

And I might add that there have been other “ceremonies” added to the middle of the church service that received the same childlike whining response from me!! Of course only in my head.

That is somewhat inappropriate.

And then there was the time Pastor Don said “Shit” in the middle of the service.

He didn’t really mean to swear at all. He was trying to say two things at once and the word “Shit” came out of his mouth.

Now of course, I start chuckling and looked around to see no one else laughing. I mean, come on, the pastor just said “Shit” but it gets even better…after about 5 minutes Pastor Don says: “I feel I need to pray. Will you pray with me?”

And we all lower our heads and of course all I am thinking is “Pastor Don said Shit! Pastor Don said Shit!” (Inappropriate) and then he starts the prayer and he says; I will paraphrase a little bit but it went something like this:

“Dear Lord please allow the words you mean for me to say be the words that come out of my mouth”

Okay now I am really laughing…the pastor just prayed to God that he doesn’t swear again…and once again I look around and no one else is laughing. Okay I might have caught one or two people laughing. Either way I had to hide my face behind my bible.

Inappropriate. Funny but inappropriate.

During the service there is a moment when the pastor asks the congregation to share any good news. And people raise their hands and then tell of their good news. Well one Sunday a couple raised their hand to tell the good news that they are having a girl! And all I could think was “REALLY!! F&%king really. Does this shit really have to follow me everywhere!!”

That is selfish and inappropriate!

Now, I will not go into the image that came to my mind when the pastor had someone kneel in front of him as he put his hands on their head. Let’s just say from my angle COMPLETELY INAPPROPRIATE!!

And then there is My Brother In-Law Vince…

During the service there is also a moment where we say a prayer for those people listed in the bulletin and then the pastor asks if there is anyone else we would like to pray for. People raise their hands, the pastor would point to them and they would say who they would like us to pray for and we would all then say “Amen”.

Well, every Sunday there is a woman who sits up front and every Sunday she raises her hand and every Sunday she says a list of people. And every Sunday the last person on the list is always “And my Brother In-Law Vince”.

And all I can think is “Holy Crap! Every Sunday…And my Brother In-Law Vince”

“What the hell is wrong Vince? And why after 2 years is there still something wrong with Vince!!”

“Come on Vince!!”

And I even say it in my head before she says it…”And my Brother In-Law Vince”

That is definitely inappropriate!

And I guess I don’t or should I say didn’t really get it until now…

After I found out my cycle was cancelled…

After the tears, the feeling of complete defeat and the certainty that this all must be signs from God that I should give up.

That night I even yelled at God: “Do you want me to give up because I won’t!”

After all that as I was getting ready for bed or should I say getting ready to cry myself to sleep, I received a text message from a friend of mine:

“Hi Michaela. I was thinking about u and I was praying for u today so u can become a Mom and have your baby. Don’t worry. It will happen”

Just like that I received a different kind of sign. I received a prayer.

And I know that there have been many friends and family telling me that they are praying for me. And it is not that I don’t believe them or think their prayers are any less significant.

It’s just that this text came at 9:05pm when no one knew my cycle had been cancelled yet. When I was asking God if he was sending me negative signs and begging for a positive one.

“I was praying for u so u can become a Mom and have your baby”

Praying for me, so I can have my baby…

“Don’t worry. It will happen”

And there was my sign…

And then there were more tears…tears of hope.

And then suddenly I got it. In my heart I got it.

And that night before I went to bed, I said a prayer for her Brother In-Law Vince.

Groundhog Day

For those of you who remember the movie you know it’s a Romantic Comedy about a man who keeps reliving the same day over and over and over again until he finally gets it right…

I feel like I am stuck in my own Groundhog Day hell but instead of it ending with me finding the man of my dreams it ends with me forever stuck in a cycle where I don’t get pregnant.

This time last year, almost to the date I started my 1st IVF cycle after waiting months due to my miscarriage. I finally could cycle, got my period, started BCPs, started Lupron went in for my baseline and BOOM…I had a cyst.

Dr. Wow decided I should have the cyst aspirated and proceed with my cycle. I felt we should postpone the cycle and wait for the cyst to go away on its own. I aspirated the cyst and my cycle failed.

Flash forward and I wake up and I do it again. I haven’t cycled in a long time. I finally get my period. I start BCPs. I start Lupron. I get my baseline. And BOOM there’s cyst.

It’s like déjà vu all over again. I get this eerie feeling that every morning when I wake up…

I will get my period. I start BCPs. I start Lupron. I get my baseline. And BOOM there’s cyst.

And again when I wake up…

I will get my period. I start BCPs. I start Lupron. I get my baseline. And BOOM there’s cyst.

But this time will I proceed? Will the cycle fail?

It feels like the same thing over and over and the only thing that changes is my age!!

And doing the same thing over and over again isn’t that the definition of insanity.

Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. ~ Albert Einstein

Maybe I am insane. Maybe I am stuck repeating the same things over and over again. Maybe lightning will struck twice. What are the odds of that?? I can’t win the lotto where the odds are about the same as getting struck by lightning twice!

So I go for a follow up and yes, the cyst is still there but this time…this time…my cycle is cancelled.

I am devastated.

I almost feel like God is trying to tell me to give up.

But I won’t!

Because I won’t back down…you can stand me up at the gates of hell…and I won’t back down.

But now…now…

I have to wait for my period. Then I will start BCPs. I will start Lupron and I will get my baseline.

And I will pray that I can get out of this Groundhog Day hell and finally get it right!

What’s behind door Number One and Great Expectations!

This is the part of the journey where it gets a little tricky. Where things get a little complicated. Where everything I want to share with the world are the same things I wish to keep private.

I think it’s important to open up, reach out and share what I am feeling and how I am finding the strength to move forward.

I used to sit and wonder (okay maybe cry, scream and beg) why is this happening to me? What is the reason for all this pain? Why me? Why would God do this to me? What possible reason could ever be acceptable?

And through writing…exploring through words my anger, sadness, fears and hopes. I started to find a way to release the pain.

And then I started to share my journey. And something more amazing happened; I started to connect to others.

And I think I found the reason.

Connection…I think that is the reason.

To connect with others and hopefully, possible help someone who is facing the same things I am.

Could that be the reason I’ve had to go through what I am going through? I have been known to say that the reason usually sucks or that there really isn’t a good reason. But throughout this journey I have started thinking of the purpose. What is the purpose? What am I supposed to do?

So maybe my purpose, the reason I have been going through all of this is to reach out and connect with others on a different level.

A level of understanding.

But it gets tricky.

I am going to be a mom someday and someday my child will be able to read. I want what I share with the world to be exactly what I am ready to share with my child and not a moment before.

So for now all I am going to say is that:

Yes. Yes, I am in a cycle.

Last we knew I was on a list for donor embryos, on a list for donor eggs and preparing to do an IUI cycle with Dr. Period. Dr. Period by the way turned into Dr. Quack, well more like Dr. Bumbles. Just like the Wizard of Oz, he was nothing more than an average man behind a curtain.

Which bring me to my decision…I decided that I would take whatever came first…whatever was behind door Number One I would do without question…

Whether it turns out to be donor embryos, donor eggs or my long awaited cycle with Dr. Bumbles …that is what I will do!

And that is what I did. I took what was behind door Number One and I now am scared and nervous and so afraid of striking out again.

I am afraid to talk about…I fear jinxing it.

And most of all I am afraid to let my expectations get too high.

I am afraid of great expectations…

The greater the expectation…the greater fall.

Because really when a contestant does pick door Number One you know they are expecting to win something amazing…wouldn’t it just suck if it was only a toaster!

Lucy!! You have some ‘splaining to do!!

I will try to ‘splain myself without any confusion…but I am pretty sure that could be an impossible feat, since everyone interprets things differently but I want preface this post with the statement: I LOVE GETTING COMMENTS!!

I believe that all comments are a part of the conversation. And I wouldn‘t want anyone to feel that they couldn’t freely join in the conversation and comment on my blog.

Okay, I feel the need to say this again: I LOVE GETTING COMMENTS!!!

But there were a couple of comments on my last post that made me feel like I need to explain a couple of things.

I read those comments and thought to myself…that’s what they got out of my post? That is what they felt I meant? Is this how they are interpreting my blog?

And if that is how some people are “reading” what I wrote, I need to look back at what I wrote to make sure I am expressing myself they way I want to express myself.

Well I won’t back down. No I won’t back down. You can stand me up at the gates of hell but I won’t back down: (Thanks Tom Petty for those amazing words)…

Give up?

Change my mind?

My heart doesn’t know?

NEVER!

My heart is steadfast and strong in its determination and desire to be a mother. And it knows exactly what kind of mother I want to be.

I truly did not for one second want my expression of the fears and thoughts that creep into my mind as being interpreted as me wanting to give up or change my mind.

NEVER!!

I will be a mom.

Give me an “I” Give me an “N” Give me an “F”

Infertility – The diminished ability or the inability to conceive and have offspring.

I have been diagnosed with a Diminished Ovarian Reserve (DOR).

And trust me; I would love to take your diagnosis of “having a harder time than in my 20s”.

There have been many, many times that I have said to myself; “This can’t be true. I can’t be Infertile!”

But put my extremely high FSH, my low or out of whack E2 levels and my practically zero AFC count along with 2 years of trying to get pregnant with some very aggressive treatment…AND…what do you got…INFERTILITY!!

DOR can affect women of ALL ages.

In hindsight, due to the fact that I was with Sio for 5 years during my early and mid thirties and did not get pregnant, couple that with my absolute dismal test results at 41 and I would guess that I my numbers dropped in my 30s.

If I knew enough to have my Ovarian Reserve tested then…well…who knows…either way I am trying my best to find a way to be okay…

The good fight…

But I did fight the good fight!

Acupuncture, wheatgrass, royal jelly, Chinese herbs, supplements, IUIs, IVF…and I will keep fighting (cause I won’t back down) but unfortunately with me I am fighting more than age.

Shout it! Shout it! Shout it out loud!!

This to me is one of my most important messages that I WANT to get out into the world. If I reach one woman with my blog who decides to act sooner rather than later on her quest towards motherhood than maybe, just maybe I might be able to finally see “the reason”.

"For women over 40, the reproductive die has largely been cast. Genetics plays a heavy-handed role in the ability of a woman over 40 to become pregnant. If her eggs, which have been in her body since before her birth, remain viable in sufficient numbers, she should be able to become pregnant. If she does not have enough "ovarian reserve," she will not become pregnant without egg donation.

In a clinical report issued in January 2002, the American Society for Reproductive Medicine (ASRM) advised doctors to screen women over 35 for ovarian reserve. Typically, this is done by measuring serum basal levels of follicle-stimulating hormone (FSH) and estradiol, two of the so-called pregnancy hormones. Subtle changes in levels of these hormones are associated with a reduced ability to conceive—and, not surprisingly, also are associated with perimenopause, when a woman's hormone levels shift away from reproduction. 

In the past few years, it has become increasingly clear that reproductive biology harshly separates older women into two groups: women who can get pregnant without a lot of medical intervention, but whose ability to sustain a pregnancy is more compromised than their fertility; and women whose fertility has dipped below a critical line and who require interventions, such as assisted reproductive technology (ART). For the first group, there is good news: Huge strides have been made in troubleshooting miscarriages, maintaining pregnancies, handling labor complications, and caring for preterm infants—all important issues in late-timing pregnancy.

For the second group, the news is much more grim. According to figures from the Mayo Clinic, a woman's fertility is highest around age 20. Typically, fertility drops 20 percent after age 30, 50 percent after age 35, and 95 percent after age 40. After age 40, reproductive function diminishes drastically: Half of a woman's eggs are chromosomally abnormal at age 40; by 42, that figure is 90 percent. And should an older woman get pregnant, her chance of miscarriage increases to more than 50 percent by her late 40s. Even the most advanced fertility treatments can't reverse such reproductive decline. As recently as a decade ago, fertility specialists were much more optimistic about first pregnancies at midlife, given improved overall fitness and advances in reproductive medicine. Now these specialists—and a generation of women—have found instead that certain aspects of fertility are much more intractable than they thought."

Source: http://www.edoctoronline.com/family-children-health.asp?Get-Pregnant-After-35-and-40=0&c=2&articleid=874

DO NOT THINK…

“ like a LOT of women, who, because of circumstances beyond your control (e.g. not meeting the right man), is trying to have a baby after 40, which concededly, gets harder than if you were 20 (although it can absolutely still happen)”

Until you know your numbers…YOU DO NOT KNOW YOUR FERTILITY…

And unfortunately the majority of women over 40 will find out about their Infertility.

Until you know your Ovarian Reserve…don’t wait. Be prepared.

I wish someone told me this in my 30s.

Instead of blowing smoke up my ass saying things like: “Oh, you’ve got time!” and “Women have babies in their 40s all the time now”

Yeah…not unassisted they don’t!

And yes, there are a few that beat the odds (you know...your friend's cousin had her 1st baby at...) and get pregnant.

Anything is possible!!

But is it probable!! The numbers above are dismal for women over 40 (by 42 90% of the eggs you have left are abnormal!! DISMAL!!) and unfortunately Math does not lie. Yes, once again anything is possible but what is the probability?

I would rather shout from the roof tops to educate and inform women then blow smoke up their ass!

So ladies DON’T WAIT!!

You could fall into the minority and hit the jackpot. Yes, you can get pregnant after 40 if your Ovarian Reserve is good.

But the majority…

The majority will not.

Get your Ovarian Reserve tested and make informed decisions.

And I will now jump off my soapbox and pray that someone has heard me!