A better place...

When I walked into Saint Clair's Hospital at 6am on November 17th 2011, I was not in a good place.

As I sat there being registered for my Out Patient surgery, I was not in a good place.

Each question the staff member asked I answered without thought, without emotion, without truly being present. I was not there. I was somewhere else and it was not a good place.

And then he asked me "Religion?".

I think for the first time I looked up. I looked at him. I really didn't want to look at anyone. I thought if I looked at someone, if I caught their eye, then they would know. They would know that I lost my baby and I was there for a D&C.

When my sister drove me there and dropped me off, I know for the whole car ride I didn't look at her.

I walked the halls with my head down and I didn't look up as sat there answering this man's questions:

"Name?"

"Address?"

"Birth date?"

Until...until he said: "Religion?"

Then I looked up. I looked at him and I said: "What?"

He said: "Religion?"

"Oh"

Pause...

"Yeah"

Pause... as if I was really thinking about it. Or as if he asked me that question in a foreign language and I was still somehow trying to translate it.

Looking away. Looking down again. Then looking up.

I said as almost an afterthought: "None."

Even though I knew it was a lie. Even though I knew that just a week and a half ago I sat in church beaming, smiling from ear to ear and thanking God for the wonderful gift growing inside of me. Even though only 4 days ago I sat in church praying to God to be able to keep my baby. And even though I knew I would be back in church the following Sunday trying to come to terms with this.

At that moment, in that place, I didn't feel any of it. I felt strangely numb. I felt nothing so I said:

"None."

And I watched him type it in.

I walked down the hall to the elevator. Went to the 2nd floor, proceeded left towards the nurse's station for Out Patient surgery the whole time clinging to my piece of paper that declared "Religion: None".

I even stopped and took a picture of it on my phone. I don't know why. As a reminder? In case I forgot or in case I wanted proof that at that moment, in that place, in that bad place, I declared "None".

Because I had nothing left inside. My baby had stopped growing and I was walking down the hall to be admitted for a surgery that was going to remove what was left.

I was in a bad place and I wanted God to know that in this bad place I said: "None".

The rest of the day was as if I was in a dream.

I was in some faraway place when they put my IV in. Some far off place when they wheeled me to the "holding area" where I waited for Dr. O to come in and take me to the OR.

I was trying not to look at anyone. Trying not to cry and trying to pretend I wasn't in that place.

And then Dr. O came in and walked up to me.

That's when I looked at him. I looked at him with the tears starting to fill my eyes and I begged him to perform every test he could think of because I never wanted to be in that place again.

He took his thumb and wiped away that one tear that somehow got away and rolled down my cheek as he promised to do the tests.

Then everything went back into this dream like state as Dr. O wheeled me into the OR...as they moved me to the operating table and started "plugging me in"...as they placed my legs in the stirrups and strapped them down...as the anesthesiologist was getting ready to put me to sleep and as one overly sympathetic and somewhat annoying nurse kept rubbing my arm and trying to look directly into my eyes.

I kept trying to look away from her and all I kept thinking was "Okay, I get it. Your compassionate!"

"Damn I wish this anesthesia would kick in!"

And it did. And I was off to another place. A place of forgetting. Even if it was only for a little while.

The very next day I went back to work. I had to be in a place where I wasn't thinking about it. Where things were I guess you could say "normal". I need to be in a normal place.

But as the day progressed I could feel the pain of the surgery I had less than 24 hours ago. It was a constant reminder of the place I was really in.

I went through the holidays in a very emotional place but trying to show the world I was in a strong place.

And I tried to avoid any place where there was talk of babies or pregnancy.

I couldn't take it. It hurt too much.

But it didn't matter because the news of babies and pregnancies followed me everywhere like a ghost.

A ghost of my pregnancies past that never ended with a baby where everyone else's did.

And I wasn't even in a place to say "Congratulations" or support friends who were finally in the place I so longed to be.

I was angry and hurt and shocked. I was in disbelief and in constant emotional and spiritual pain.

I was not in a good place and I knew it.

But I didn't care.

I pushed forward in an attempt to move on.

I pushed forward in an attempt to ignore the pain.

I pushed forward because I didn't know what else to do.

And I just so desperately wanted to get back to a better place. Back to the place where I was beaming in church.

So I pushed to do my FET right away.

I had 3 frozen embryos from my IVF cycle.

I also have 5 frozen donor embryos which became available just days after my miscarriage. I was so afraid (and so certain) that my FET with my 3 frozen embryos wasn't going to work that I panicked and grabbed the 5 right away. I had to make sure I was in a place to cycle again when my FET would inevitably fail.

I put myself in a place of contempt for my FET.

I was so down that I had convinced myself there was no way my FET could work.

I am a numbers gal and sided on the law of averages and statistics. I figured there was no way I could "hit it out of the park" after just getting pregnant on my last cycle. I figured I was bound to strike out.

I kept telling myself that when the FET doesn't work I can always try again with the 5 frozen donor embryos.

I was just going through the motions. I wanted to get it over with.

I wasn't in a place of excitement and possibility as I had been just 3 months earlier.

But what I really wanted more than anything was for it work and put me back in the place where I was going to be mom.

But just like I predicted my FET did not work. I transferred 3 beautiful embryos and I am not pregnant.

And then I found myself in a place I never thought I would be in...a place of giving up. A place where I can't imagine cycling again and putting myself through it all again.

It could be because I'm not ready. It could be because I am still in a place of mourning.

I need to be in a better place in order to move forward. I know that. But I'm not sure how to get there.

And then out of a place where friendships and camaraderie are born from struggle something amazing happened...

Some absolutely, beyond incredible women contacted me offering to donate their remaining embryos to me.

Their offer has touched a very deep place in my heart and in my soul.

Knowing that there are people in this world that are so willing to open themselves up to help another already puts me in a better place.

It puts me in their world and I am honored.

And suddenly, I'm feeling my fight coming back. I slowly feel myself moving into a place a hope.

I feel myself finding a better place.

Mother fffer....

Around the time of my first miscarriage, a dear friend of my Chi Chi also had a miscarriage. We were both devastated and took solace in each other. We knew we could express all of the hurt to someone who understood. I mean completely understood.

Although it was her first miscarriage Chi Chi insisted on getting as much testing done as she could.

My miscarriage was automatically written off as a "bad" eggs due to Advanced Maternal Age. It never occurred to anyone, myself included, that it could be anything else but...

Meanwhile Chi Chi (who is 8 years younger than me) found out she had the MTHFR gene mutation.

MTHFR

Now I don't know what y'all (and yes I have to use a y'all here)...Now I don't know what y'all see when you look at MTHFR but I but you can guess what I see...

Mother Fucker.

And if it's a gene mutation that causes miscarriages then it really is a Mother Fucker!

So Chi Chi and I started referring to it as the Mother Fucker gene.

Chi Chi has the Mother Fucker gene.

Now I am sure that most of you will know where I am going with this but I have to give you some background first...

The clinic I went to for my last cycle is in NY about a 3 1/2 hour drive north from me. Actually a beautiful, scenic drive that I had the pleasure of seeing in all its autumn glory when I went for my ET in October.

But due to the distance of my new clinic, during this last cycle, I would go to Dr. Wow for my monitoring. And since I have such high affections for Dr. Wow, even though he did not get me pregnant (hmm does that sentence seem odd to you?), I was happy that he was doing my monitoring.

After my positive pregnancy test, I contacted Dr. Wow's office requesting a prenatal ultrasound. The office manager said that they could not perform my prenatal ultrasound because I wasn't technically their patient.

I thought it was weird and I was a little upset because I always envisioned that it would be Dr. Wow who would the doctor in my dream, the one I had right before my first miscarriage, that turned the ultrasound machine towards me so I could see my baby's heartbeat.

But alas (I've always wanted to use alas in sentence)...but alas it was not meant to be. I ended up going to my OB for that fateful ultrasound that did not yield a heartbeat and ultimately resulted in my 2nd miscarriage.

2 days later I started bleeding and they scheduled a D&C.

While my OB was wheeling me into the operating room to perform my D&C, I tearfully asked him to please run an RPL (Reoccurring Pregnancy Loss) panel on me and to test the fetal tissue. He respectfully obliged.

The results of my RPL panel....MTHFR...Mother Fucker...I have the Mother Fucker gene. Plus my Thyroid levels were high and my C-Reactive Protein levels were also high.

The meaning: clotting and immune issues which can cause repeated early pregnancy losses.

The results of the chromosome testing on the fetal tissue...a perfectly healthy baby girl...

The meaning: Mother Fucker!

An Inconvenient Truth:

No, I am not going to start a debate on Global Warming, Al Gore, Hypodermics on the shores, China's under martial law or Rock and Roller cola wars (for those of you that don't know that is from Billy Joel).

That's a flame that can be fanned at another time on another blog.

What I am going to do is express my thoughts on a recent blog post that I put up for discussion.

I opened up my last post with an invitation to discuss Megan's post on:

Millions of Miles: Raising Human Beings and Life Lessons from the Duggars

There are many issues brought up in this post. Issues that resonate with all that I have been going through and thinking.

Here is what Megan's thought provoking post brought up for me:

...when did we get to the point where we feel like we get to tell a mother that her child deserves to die and secretly rejoice a little bit when someone goes through a tragedy.

I am truly grateful that no one posted anything but heartfelt sympathy for Michelle Duggar and her miscarriage.

I am blessed to be surrounded by like minded people but that wasn't always the case.

The idea that it would even cross someone's mind to say that she "deserved this" is unthinkable but I am not sure I always thought this way.

I am pretty sure I can hear the me I was long ago saying things like: " She's an idiot for having 19 children" or " What did she expect? " etc...

And I can hear my friends of days gone past echoing the same sentiments.

I don't think I ever truly understood what a gift creating a life was.

The me of days gone by, that person I don't even remember being, looked at as "getting knocked up". Something you didn't want to do.

And if someone miscarried, I can vaguely remember phrases like: "It's for the best." "It's a blessing in disguise".

A blessing to miscarry?

I do remember the attitudes and thoughts on getting pregnant and miscarrying when I was growing up and those attitudes and thoughts fell more along the lines of "accident" and "thank God".

And if someone got "knocked up" at a young age there was one solution that pretty much everyone agreed was the "best" solution. If the "best" solution wasn't chosen, then the consensus was the unfortunate girl that got herself knocked up just ruined her life.

There was never really the sense of the miracle or the magic.

I am sure if Michelle Duggar was around in my lifetime past, the characters of that time, myself included would have echoed hateful sentiments out of what I can only conclude would be entitlement.

God forbid you ever have to wake up and hear the news. Then you really might know what it's like to have to lose ~ Everlast....

I know for a fact I didn't understand the pain of a miscarriage until I had one.

I remember a woman I worked with, she had gotten pregnant at an inconvenient time.

She said her and her boyfriend were planning on getting married but I wasn't sure how true that was and her career had kind of stalled. She was only working part time with me at the time.

Sometime in her 1st trimester she miscarried. I remember actually telling her that it was probably "for the best".

I told her now she could wait until she got married. There was no rush. It was a "blessing in disguise."

A few months later she was pregnant again.

I asked her why, why would she go and get herself pregnant again (that phrase alone shows how arrogant and entitled my thoughts were at the time) when she could wait (once again entitlement) until she was in a better position to have a child.

And in case anyone missed it, that whole sentence above is filled with arrogance and entitlement. But those were the attitudes and thoughts I was raised with on getting pregnant.

She told me that the pain from her miscarriage was just too unbearable and that all she wanted was to get pregnant again and have a baby.

I didn't comprehend.

I think I might have called her an idiot under my breathe.

I just couldn't understand.

I understand now.

That is a pain I now know all too well and it is unbearable.

...and hurt so deep that you wonder if you will ever feel normal again.

I often wonder if I will ever feel normal again.

My mother said to me on the phone after my second miscarriage: "I just want you to be happy again."

But I was happy. I was over the moon happy. Rejoicing in the fact that I was going to be a mom. I was going to be blessed with this miracle.

I had never been happier in my entire life.

Until it all fell apart.

And I try to think back to who I was 20 years ago, 10 years ago, 5 years ago, 1 year ago or even yesterday and I don't know that person. I am not that person anymore.

I remember about a year ago, sometime after my 1st miscarriage, I somehow pulled myself together, that's when I started blogging and I found the courage to cycle again. My BFF during one of our daily phone conversations, we were talking about all I had been through and how I had changed and she casually said to me: "I am proud that you are my friend."

That has always stuck with me. I want to be someone my friends are proud of and I am proud that she is my friend.

I have changed. Some changes are for the good. I would never think any women would "deserve" to lose their child or that a miscarriage was "for the best".

I now have a true understanding of the gift of life.

My child will be wanted, love and cherished.

I strive to be a better person.

But some changes are not for the good. I am broken, permanently damaged and forever mourning. I will never have that sheer joy of announcing a pregnancy and I will always feel the pain of loss.

I pray that I will be able to rejoice again in the knowledge that I am going to be a mom.

"I just want you to be a happy again"

Me too mom....me too!

I would think that no matter if it was your first baby or your 20th baby that loss is loss. Who are we to diminish someone's pain?

I sometimes feel that I did something to "deserve" my miscarriages.

That my cavalier attitudes toward pregnancy lead me to this place.

I have thoughts that it's payback for a time when I was so insensitive or a time when I might have utter the words like "deserve it".

Or a time when I would callously diminish someone's pain with worthless platitudes like:

"Well it could be worse, at least you weren't in your second trimester."

OR

"You could have had a disable child, which would be worse than a miscarriage."

OR

"At least you have other children"

OR

"It wasn't meant to be."

OR

"You could be homeless or starving or in a wheelchair..."

OR one of a million other "worst case" scenarios that people bring up meant to somehow make someone "count their blessings" instead of acknowledging the horrible thing that just happened to them.

We need to acknowledge, support and love. We need to show and feel compassion.

...but I also think that our society has shifted the way that we think about children. They are no longer viewed as blessings. They are seen as something we "do" for 18 years. We have lost out on the magic of what it means to care for someone.

And now here is where the Inconvenient Truth comes in because I do think people treat their kids as an inconvenience without even realizing it.

There is a reason I waited so long before starting my journey towards motherhood and that reason is because I wanted to be the kind of mother that took joy in her children. The kind of mother that saw them as a blessing not a burden.

There are so many people who say things like: "I was stuck with the kids."

"Stuck with the kids" like it's a death sentence. I can't go out and enjoy my life because I am "stuck with the kids".

Or they need to get their kids out of their hair.

They can't go out and have fun anymore.

Just before the summer started there was an article that got posted on Facebook:

"Parents Survival Guide for the Summer" with the introductory line of:

"Parents, are you secretly dreading a long, hot summer with the kids?"

A friend of mine responded to the article on Facebook with...

"This just pissed me off. Why have kids if you hate having them around?!?! I love when my kids are home for the summer...most of our best family bonding days are spent during the summer. Every year I cry the last day of summer vacation and begin the countdown to the next beginning of summer vacation. Love my kids and love spending time with them !!!!!"

I couldn't agree with her more. Imagine knowing that you are in your parent's hair, they are stuck with you and they can't have fun anymore...

Why did you have kids in the first place?

And why can't your children be your fun?

That's what I hope to do...

Have fun with my children.

Treasure every day.

Make every moment count.

My same Facebook friend eloquently posted another sentiment along the same lines:

"I think that some parents really need to lighten up a bit and remember that their kids will only be kids for such a short amount of time. If they could grasp this notion they'd have a whole different perspective on how they treat them. I am one of those people that never want my kids to grow up...I love every minute of them!!!!!"

They will be grown and gone before you know it.

I guess then you can start having fun.

...We are so tied to our technology and our careers and our pettiness that we forget that there are actual children wanting us to delight in them.

I was bartending one evening and a regular couple and their kids came in. I figured they would go into the dining room and have dinner.

No, the couple had to sit at the bar, so the plopped themselves down at the bar and put their children at a high top table behind them.

The mother then called me over and gave me a cake. It was her daughter's 10th birthday. She would tell me when to bring out the cake.

The whole night the parents sat at the bar and barely interacted with their children. The mother spent most of her time texting.

When everyone had finished eating the father, as almost an afterthought, said something to the mother about the cake.

She looked up from her phone and was like "Oh yeah...I guess you should bring the cake now."

Me and the other bartender went and got the cake, lit all the candles and walked out singing Happy Birthday.

The mother sitting at the bar with her back to her children continued to text.

The mother did not even get up from the bar and go to the table.

The daughter kept saying: "Mom! Mom! Come look! Come here!"

The mother didn't move.

I remember being appalled. I remember swearing that would never be me.

But what if I didn't wait to have children? What if this journey had been easy? If I had not miscarried? If I had easily "gotten myself pregnant"? Would I have in turn become a mother who is more interested in texting, drinking and getting her children out of her hair rather than one that cries when summer ends?

I posted to my friend on Facebook that she is the kind of mother that I dream of becoming. And she wrote back:

"And you will be because I know what kind of person you are! ♥"

No, it's the kind of person I've become...the kind of person I am.

But more importantly the kind of person I am not.

Then you really might know what it's like:

I thought I would share this with you.

This is an amazing post by an amazing woman and writer.

I am so glad I found her blog. She is honest and raw.

Thank you Megan!

This post has brought up a lot of emotions and truths.


Millions of Miles:
Raising Human Beings and Life Lessons from the Duggars

I think I am going to make this post interactive!

Let's discuss!

It's the most wonderful time of the year...

Unless of course you just had a miscarriage.

Then it doesn't matter what time of the year it is. Nothing matters.

Actually it darkens the whole holiday season. It is now shrouded.

And you, your life, your daily routines never mind the feasts and celebrations...every moment feels like you are walking through quicksand.

The days fly by at such an alarmingly slow pace but they will be here and gone before you know it.

Even in your daze, in your daily clouded haze, time keeps moving but you feel stuck in time.

Because you are in the same exact place you were a year ago while everyone else has moved on.

It feels like some kind of dream you are suppose to wake up from but you never do.

And then out of the haze comes that feeling. When everything starts to hurt and it's becoming hard to breathe.

When that moment comes, the one that is always just under the surface. That moment that wakes you from your daze, you know you must find a quite place by yourself. You must lay down because at any moment the tears will start to flow, uncontrollably. They consume your whole body and no one is supposed to see that.

They are only supposed to see your strength and how well you are handling everything.

And how thankful you are.

And hey: "You look good!".

But what they don't see is when you excuse yourself from the Thanksgiving dinner table, make your way to the bedroom just in time. Shut the door, fall onto the bed into a fetal position and stick a pillow in your mouth so no one can hear you crying.

Because everything hurts and your heart is as empty as your womb.

But no. No one is supposed to see that.

You should be celebrating. You should be thankful.

After all it is Thanksgiving. The day of thanks!

And no matter what, you should be thankful.

And I'm trying. I'm trying so hard to be thankful. Every night I thank the Lord for all the things I do have.

I am thankful for my family, my friends, my home, my job. I thankful for my furbabies who always find a way to make me smile; even if it's a smile through pain.

But here's the truth:

Being thankful doesn't take away the pain.

Being thankful doesn't make the darkness turn to light and being thankful doesn't fill the emptiness that consumes my being.

I don't know if I ever told you this before. Those of you that know me will know this...

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. It always has been. Kinda funny right!

Next up...

The fat man and the magic of Christmas! Great!! I swear if I had a Santa suit, a little dog and a sled I might just try to steal Christmas or at least cancel it!

Jinxed? Fate? Cursed? Bad Luck? Karma?

Jinxed?

I think the feeling that you could jinx a cycle is a direct result of PTIVF disorder.

“If I talk about my cycle I will jinx it!”

“If I get excited about good results I will jinx it!”

“If I blog or post about my cycle I will jinx it!”

There have been too many times in the past where everything looked like it was going to be so perfect and then you talked about it, got excited, told the world and the BOOM you “jinxed” it. And it would all go bad. Devastatingly bad.

So, believe me, after all my setbacks and then finally being able to cycle again I did everything I could think of not to jinx this last cycle.

I told very few people about my cycle. As a matter of fact one person had full disclosure and another was on a need to know basis.

I didn’t even tell my family. I just knew if I did that I would jinx it. If any of you are reading this, it was not done to hurt your feelings. It was done to protect mine.

Even my girls on Fertile Thoughts were pretty much kept out of the loop.

If I told people, if I chronicled its progress I just knew I would jinx it.

That’s why I didn’t blog about it.

I’ve spent the last 4 months blogging about past loves and how they might have led me to where I am now. And I almost wanted to continue on that path, blogging about the past so I wouldn’t have to face the future.

It was a nice distraction.

It made me feel like I wasn’t going to jinx this cycle.

I actually snuck away so I could go alone to my transfer. I didn’t want anyone “jinxing” it.

And finally, finally, I felt like I could have a successful cycle.

We transferred two perfect blasts and I have 3 frozen blasts.

My baby had to be in that batch somewhere. Right?

There was no way I could jinx this now…

But ahhh, even just thinking that could probably jinx it….

Fate? Cursed?

I really don’t know if I believe in fate.

I certainly have a more bitter outlook on it than others.

I am not one who actually believes everything happens for a reason.

I think that it is random events that happen.

Some amazingly good and some devastatingly bad.

And people use the “everything happens for a reason” to try to tie together some connection to help ease the pain of the devastating events.

Because if it was really meant to be, it could have happened and would have happened regardless. It doesn’t need the bad events preceding it.

I do think it is nice that people grab these ribbons and bows and tie together this pretty picture that makes all the bad seem necessary.

They make this pretty, little package.

But I think it’s harder for those of us that don’t have any of good that supposedly comes out of the bad.

It’s harder for those of us when it’s just one endless stream of bad luck and without that good at the end, how do you tie together the connections? Where are our ribbons and bows? How do you make that pretty, little package?

What could possibly be the reason?

You have bad luck?

You’re cursed?

Or maybe it’s your fate to be doomed?

Could there finally be something good that could make even a naysayer like myself believe…

Believe in Fate?

After my 1st failed IVF cycle over a year ago, I went to an Arabian Nights party at my friend V’s house.

At the party there was a fortune teller. This fortune teller told me that I would find out that I am pregnant on October 18th and it would be a boy.

Remember this was not this summer that just passed but the summer before.

I knew that what the fortune teller had told me couldn’t work out because I was cycling in August.

And let’s face it, when you are single the chances of a natural miracle are severely diminished.

But due to circumstances beyond my control my 2nd IVF cycle got pushed back and the day of my beta, the day I would find out if it worked or not, the day I would find out if I was pregnant fell exactly on October 18th.

I thought it was destiny. I thought it was fate. But on October 18th of last year instead of finding out I was pregnant; I found out that my 2nd IVF cycle had failed. I was not pregnant.

But I was so sure. How could this happen? Did I jinx it?

Flash forward to this year and this summer...

Could the fates be off a year?

I was supposed to cycle in June.

It got cancelled.

I was supposed to cycle in July.

It got cancelled.

I finally started my cycle in September and I was damned if I was going to jinx it this time.

I quietly went for my transfer on October 13th.

The looming date of October 18th was not unnoticed by me but really, it would only be 5 days after my transfer.

Surely if I tested that early I would jinx it.

But unable to stop myself from testing fate, I woke up at 5am and took a pregnancy test.

There was a faint line.

The next day that line was darker and then next day even darker.

I was supposed to go in for my beta on Monday. I requested my RE let me go in on Friday so I wouldn’t have to wait the weekend.

My beta was 86! 2 days early!

It had to be fate.

The fortune teller was right. I did find out I was pregnant on October 18th. Just one year later.

Could I start getting out the ribbons and the bows to make my pretty package?

To explain away all the bad because now finally, finally I was going to be a mom?

Wrapping it all up and finally finding out the reason?

Or did I just jinx it by testing early…

Cursed? Bad Luck? Karma?

My tests came back good and I was waiting for my 1st ultrasound.

I was still hesitant of telling people. I was going to wait until after my 1st ultrasound to then shout it from the roof tops.

I actually couldn’t wait!

But I was being careful. I was cautious. I didn’t want to jinx this pregnancy.

And in all honestly I didn’t really think that I could. My numbers were strong.

And then I did the one thing that was sure to jinx it.

Two days before my 1st ultrasound, I bought something for the nursery…

On the day of my ultrasound, less than 1 week ago, I was told that the baby isn’t growing and I would probably miscarry again.

I am shocked. I am sad. I am angry.

How could this be happening to me again?

Is this my fate?

Am I cursed?

Is this bad luck?

Or is this karma?

But I kept holding out hope.

You’ve heard the stories. Women who have been told they are going to miscarry only to go in for another ultrasound and there’s a perfect baby with a perfect heartbeat.

I had more bloodwork done. My numbers came back good again.

I woke up this morning feeling some cramps and I thought: “Maybe…maybe that’s my baby growing. Maybe that’s my uterus stretching like it should.”

“Maybe this is a good sign”

Maybe this…

And that’s when I felt it. Something wet running down the side of my leg.

Blood.

It is blood.

Today I’ve started my 2nd miscarriage.

I am no longer pregnant. I am no longer going to be a mom.

Did I jinx it?

Is it fate?

Am I cursed?

Is it bad luck?

Or is it karma?

Because right now I feel like everything I have done in my life. Good or bad. Every decision I have every made. Good or bad. Has brought me to a place where babies don’t grow inside of me.

And I don’t think there’s a bow big enough to tie this one together…

A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing…

This is a cautionary tale…

The Fast and the Furious!

While I was perfecting my mountain climbing skills, the Breadman was also doing some climbing himself.

He was trying to climb his way into my heart very fast and very furiously.

A little too fast.

A little too furious.

So much so that instead of falling head over heels, I started seeing flags. And not the kinda of flags that indicates the start of a race. No this was the kinda of flag that screamed hit the brakes. A red flag!

But seriously what was wrong with me.

It was truly “love at first sight” with my sailor.

And never once with my sailor did it ever feel wrong or “off”.

So, why was I having these feelings with the Breadman?

It could happen again right?

But before I even started my mountain climbing excursions with the Breadman, he was on the fast track.

He would show up at my apartment with thoughtful “gifts”.

Things like “I noticed you were out of juice so I brought some with me.”

He would make me breakfast (in his undies I might add which was totally hot!).

I would come home and there would be flowers in my foyer.

Or get to work and there would be flowers waiting there for me.

And I know you are all thinking “Ahhhh!” “That’s so sweet!” “So romantic!”

And it was…

All so sweet!

All so wonderful!

All so romantic!

And it felt all “too good to be true”.

And it was too fast. This was happening at lightning speed.

After about 2 weeks the Breadman was professing his love for me.

But here is the thing…

Where it all felt wrong…

Where it all felt too pretty, too neat, too packaged, too wrapped up and too fast…

Even though it was love at first sight for me and my sailor. It was months and months before we said “I love you!” to each other.

I remember the 1st time my sailor let me know he loved me.

He didn’t tell me.

He circled it on a card and then pointed to me.

So this much I do know…I know that my sailor loved me so much that it was hard for him to say it. He didn’t just throw the words “I love you!” around. They were only used when he truly meant it.

But the Breadman…

The Breadman was waxing love within 2 weeks.

I think I tried to convince myself that it was going to happen again with the Breadman.

I tried to convince myself it was sincere. I wanted so desperately to be in love. In love the way I was with my sailor.

I allowed myself to “fall” for the Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing.

I pushed my fears aside. I fell for the disguise and then I got swept away.

Swept away by every “I love you!”

Swept away by every flower, every breakfast and every mountain climbing excursion.

So swept away that I couldn’t even tell that he was pulling the wool over my eyes.

And when the mask did finally get pulled off, I was in shock by what I saw.

There is a part of me that wants to end the post here. Leave you with another cliff hanger in the Tale of the Breadman.

But here’s the thing. The Breadman does NOT deserve anymore billing.

It will end here.

And so the story goes…

Remember this is a cautionary tale.

Beware of the Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing...

There were other things about the Breadman that should have given me a glimpse behind the disguise but I looked the other way…

You know that beautiful, thick brown hair that flips so perfectly to one side that I mentioned…

Yeah well that took him over an hour to achieve. I would be sitting, dressed, ready to go out and he would be in the bathroom blow drying his hair.

Now I know that Metro-Sexuals have hit the scene and I am a big fan of the guy that does proper maintenance.

BIG FAN (Really guys make sure you’re “maintaining”. I say a good trim from head to toe is always in order!).

But, no guy should take longer to get ready than you do.

So take caution: It shows that underneath it all there might be a little too much vanity and a little too much self absorption.

And also, I found out that the Breadman wasn’t divorced like he said he was. He was in the process of getting divorced.

It is very important to make sure that they are free and clear and have been for some time.

So take caution: Those that are still tangled up, well, they will get you caught in the web too. Divorce is messy and if it’s not yours you really shouldn’t be a part of it.

And after all the “I love you’s”…

When the Breadman and I were planning on moving in together, ironically is was around Halloween when his mask came off, I found out that I was not the only woman he was making these plans with.

The Breadman was truly a Wolf. He had another girlfriend. Maybe more than one. I do not know.

It amazes me how he pulled this off since we spent so much time together.

And it seemed to all correlate with when his divorce finally became final.

Because as soon as his divorce became final things started to change.

So take caution – When someone is so quick to say “I love you” it might be a sign that they don’t hold the same meaning to those words that you do.

And lastly, trust your instincts. My initial instincts were to hit the brakes. But I ignored all the red flags and sped ahead blindly.

It really is all too cliché and predictable.

I am sure there are many of you who have come across this Wolf.

They do share similar traits.

So, I will leave you with this cautionary tale and the warning signs.

Take heed and beware!

The Truth About Trying

Redbook is partnering with RESOLVE to spread the word on The Truth About Trying.

We all know lately what trying has done to me.

Know that your are not alone!

Urban Myths & Mountain Climbing 101

*For those of you that don’t want to know what it’s like to get down and dirty with the Breadman, I suggest you skip this post. There is a part of me that can’t believe that I am writing this but I am a girl that likes to tell the full story…from the big moments down to the smallest details. You’ve been warned.*

This is for the ladies…

There are a lot of myths out there regarding the anatomy of a man.

And all across the world there are women and their girlfriends giving validity or squashing these myths because women talk. They talk about everything.

I think that’s why a lot guys didn’t like Sex in the City. They didn’t want to admit that women tell all. The long and the short of it, right into the thick of it…Women tell all!

And we have all heard these myths and we can debunk most of them.

“You know what it means if a guy has big feet right?” Wink Wink!– Yeah it means they have big socks and big shoes. The size of a man’s foot has nothing to do with the size of their “et…et…hmmm’s”.

Definitely a myth.

Now the size of their hands is another story and I have a whole theory on that which I will share with you later.

“Black men are hung.” - Black men are like any other group of men. Some got it and some don’t. It might have something to do with the size of their hands.

“If he’s tall and skinny he has been blessed” – Myth busters (my fellow female friends and I) have determined that this one is mostly true but there are exceptions to every rule.

“It’s not the size of the boat but the motion of the ocean.” – Okay on this one I definitely have a theory…or should I say a “tell it like it is” breakdown.

Here it goes…

When you are dealing with a “manhood” that is bordering on the average (slightly larger, slightly smaller) than it is most certainly the motion of the ocean. Technique plays a big, big role but…

But…if you are dealing with a “manhood” that’s let’s just say is very short on the man and maybe a little too much on the hood…well, he can have all the technique in the world…he can go down til Christmas and sooner or later you gonna want him to come up “boom” in the “boom boom room” and he’s got nothing to “boom” with.

And…if you are dealing with a “manhood” that over-floweth with MAN!! He doesn’t need to know how to use it…you do.

Which bring me to another myth out there that was really bothering me and that was the Urban Myth that says that bodybuilders (due to excessive steroid use) have a “tiny manhood”.

And the Breadman was a bodybuilder. He no longer competed so he wasn’t adding any “extra assistance” when I met him and hadn’t for years but when he was competing he used to get a lot of extra assistance.

And the myth was not in his (or my) favor.

I even had a girlfriend give confirmation to the myth.

My girlfriend as soon as I told her my guy was a bodybuilder gave me that face …you know that “ohh…yikes…poor you” face…So I said: “What! What’s with the face?” and she said:

“You know what they say about bodybuilders…” and then she holds up her pinky in demonstration.

Of course I said: “That’s just a myth.”

And then she launches into this story about how she was dying to hook up with this guy who was a bodybuilder and he had the most perfect body. She finally started dating him and well when the time came for her to move in on the downtown area…well…and then she shook her head and held up her pinky again…

This can’t not be. I mean the Breadman was magnificent. There couldn’t be anything “small” about the Breadman.

Which brings me to the foot myth and the hand theory. We already know that foot size is a myth and does not in any way indicate what’s “packing” but here is my theory on hand size…I figure God is not going to give a man this teeny, tiny, little thing and these giant hands to jerk it off with and vice versa…a guy is not going to have this great big “manhood” and these teeny, tiny, little hands to do the deed with…

So in theory (once again there are always exceptions to the rule) the look, size and feel of a man’s hands matches their other appendage. If a guy has long skinny hands and fingers he probably has a long skinny you know what. If his hands are small…yikes…and so on…and so on…

The Breadman was a myth of epic proportions. Everything was bulging on him. He had the biggest and meatiest hands I’d ever seen. He was a mountain. A mountain of muscle. My mountain. My mountain that I wanted so desperately to climb.

But…ahhh… then that probably meant there had to be something wrong…right…isn’t that another myth…that if they got it going on in some places others areas would be lacking.

I had to push this myth out of my mind…because there was nothing more disappointing than getting to that moment…that moment of the great reveal and…whomp, whomp, whomp…let’s just leave it at DIS-A-PPOINTING.

And the Breadman and I were at that point. At the point of the great reveal. There was no turning back, I was going to be a myth buster whether I wanted to or not.

So…

So, we are in his truck and things are getting very hot and heavy. The outer clothing caresses are now going to be permitted…

I gently brush my hand in the area…hmmm…no bulging.

I go in again…I’m having a hard time locating it…oh no!!

All I can picture in my head is my girlfriend holding up her pinky…IT CAN’T BE!!

And then the Breadman gently takes my hand in his giant, meaty hand and moves it to the left and…

Holy mother of…

Oh…my oh my…it was there and it was bulging…bulging all the way out the left side and up to his ribcage! His ribcage!!

From now on ladies if you want a secret signal to denote a man’s WELL “endowedness”, you can just tap your ribcage. We will make that the international symbol for Holy Crap!!

And all of the sudden I became a little leery of my mountain climbing expedition because right in the middle of the mountain was a giant tree that I was not so sure I was ready to climb.

I told you that the Breadman was a myth of epic proportions.

But there was that other myth…the myth that’s says that if they got it going on in some places others areas would be lacking…

For some reason at that moment and for some time to come after that, I really didn’t care. I had opted to let that myth fly…to hell with myths…I am no longer the myth buster!!

But what I was forgetting to consider was the age old adage…

“If it seems too good to be true…”

The Breadman Cometh…

As promised the Story of the Breadman…

It would start with a little flurry and a rush of excitement throughout the restaurant. Well, at least coming from the waitresses, hostesses and female bartenders because we all knew around what time the Breadman would get there.

I don’t think there was anyone in that restaurant that didn’t know when the Breadman was making a delivery. I’m pretty sure even the guys came out to get a glimpse of the Breadman.

Although they wouldn’t admit it. They would just give him that “knowing” head nod and say “What’s up man?”

But they were there to look too. Because, well let’s just say that the Breadman was a Wonder to see!!

This guy was beyond swoon worthy.

When he would walk in, he would have all of the girls blushing (and a few guys too).

Except for me, I would put on an air of being “unblushable”.

I wouldn’t rush to the kitchen to get a glimpse of his “hotness”.

I would wait until he would come out to the bar and ask me for a drink of some kind and then of course I would hand him his drink trying not to look up or catch his eye.

Being a little standoffish.

Because inside, I was swooning. I was blushing and giggling like a little school girl.

And trust me, anyone would swoon. It was impossible not to swoon.

And if I caught his eye, I knew I would blush.

So, as soon as he would walk away I would take a sip of water, put my hand on the bar like it was holding me up and make some kind of comment like:

“That is one mountain I would love to climb.”

And then I would blush!

But all of it out of the Breadman’s sight.

In front of him I was cool, calm and collected.

As soon as he walked away…weak in the knees.

He was hot!

I mean HOT!!

And he was a mountain.

A mountain I was dying to climb.

A giant mountain of hotness.

He looked like a Greek God.

He looked like the Greek God Atlas.

With all those bulging muscles holding up the world.

He had these large, brown puppy dog eyes and this beautiful thick dark hair that flipped perfectly over to one side.

And a Greek God really was exactly what the Breadman was…a myth.

He was a myth of epic proportions.

So, you took your moment, imagined, swooned, fantasized and then went on with your day.

Really, unless he was there making all the girls blush you really didn’t think about him again.

It wasn’t like I actually really thought that I could be with the Breadman.

He was a myth. An untouchable but oh so fun to fantasize about myth.

And anyway at this time I was still seeing Stockbroker boy. And I was all wrapped up in my city and in acting school.

Stockbroker boy if you remember was the 1st guy I dated after my sailor. And the boy that had me crying on my way home after the first time we were together.

It was with him that I think I learned the difference between sex and making love. If I had sex I wouldn't get hurt. And Stockbroker boy made it perfectly clear that we were “just dating” and we were not exclusive. That was something foreign to me at the time too. I had to learn it.

But don’t get me wrong, Stockbroker boy wasn’t mean, or “a player”. He was who he was and we had some “fun” times. Some actually really fun times. Times I might not have been able to open myself up to if it wasn’t for him being who he was.

And at this time, I still longed for my sailor so I guess we helped each other out.

But one thing was for certain, I was not entertaining any ideas of being with the Breadman. As far as I knew, he didn’t even know I existed until…

Until one very embarrassing day at the restaurant that in turn led to a date…

Now as I said we all knew when the Breadman made his deliveries. We all waited, watched and enjoyed.

So I was a little shocked when I walked into the kitchen one morning and he was standing there with the manager.

It was not delivery time.

I walked in the back to ask the manager a question and I’m pretty sure once I saw the Breadman my question came out like: “Hey, I was wntihe if hetgye hei seya?”

Ughhh!

And then the manager turns around…

IN FRONT OF THE WHOLE KITCHEN (I might add)…

And says: “Michaela have you met [Insert Breadman’s real name here]. I thought you two might get along.”

And right on cue the whole kitchen (meaning all the cooks!!) start with the “ohhhs” and the “ooooohs’ and the “ahhhhs” and the “whooooos”.

BLUSH does not even begin to describe it.

Mortified.

And I went red faced back to my bar.

I am pretty sure that I told my manager and the kitchen staff that I was never speaking to any of them again.

But after a couple of days I was over it.

And vowed to not be around when the wonder of the Breadman made his next delivery.

And I wasn’t. And I went on with life as usually.

The following weekend had the distinct honor of being Super Bowl Sunday.

Now believe it or not Super Bowl Sunday is not a busy bar day. Most people have Super Bowl parties.

This was Super Bowl XXX.

And for those who need to a little background.

It was 1996 and the Pittsburgh Steelers were playing the Dallas Cowboys in Super Bowl XXX.

And for anyone who doesn’t know my crazy, football girl side. I am a HUGE Pittsburgh Steelers fan.

Yes, a big enough fan to have some Pittsburgh Steelers home decoration.

A big enough fan to dress in the appropriate Pittsburgh Steeler attire and a big enough fan to yell at the TV when they are winning or losing.

Big fan and I have been since the days of Mean Joe Green and Terry Bradshaw.

And my Steelers were playing their arch rivals the Dallas Cowboys in the Super Bowl XXX.

And I was bartending that day.

It didn’t really bother me to be bartending that day b/c I knew it would be slow and I would get to watch the game.

And slow it was.

I had no one at the bar and then my manager peeks his head into the bar and says: “You have a phone call.”

“Really? Who?” –

No one calls me at work. Ever.

“Don’t know.”

“Hello…..”

And it was the Breadman!

I’m pretty sure I asked him several times to repeat who is was. I think I was actually confused at first.

But then he asked me if I would mind if he came in and watched the game with me.

Getting my bearings back I distinctly remember saying: “Are you a Cowboy fan?”

Now some of you might not understand the importance of that question but trust me a devoted Steeler Fan knows how important it is that any perspective date answers that question with a definite “NO!”…

And he did!

The Breadman said “No!”

He was not a Cowboy fan!

Whew!

So I said “Yes. Come watch the game with me!”

I hung up the phone and screamed!

The cooks were like “There she goes…”

I am a vocal football watcher!

“I guess Pittsburgh is winning!”

No Pittsburgh was not winning but it certainly felt like I was.

Sadly my beloved Pittsburgh Steelers did not win the Super Bowl that year. They lost due to turn overs.

Football is a funny game. One minute you could be winning, you have the momentum and the next…boom…you turn the game over…

It is what makes the game exciting. It is what makes people get up out of their chairs and scream at the TV.

And it is what also makes a loss that more devastating.

Because one minute you’re winning…

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!