Parenting in the Time of COVID

I’ve heard therapists and psychologists speak talk about the “window of tolerance” in anxiety disorders. The idea is that we all have this particular sized window through which the stresses of our life flow. When the window is wide open, it’s easy breezy. Minor issues have so much space to pass through that they remain just that – minor inconveniences. Yet, when those minor shards keep coming and are accompanied by larger ones, the window opening narrows, and narrows, and narrows further. The ever-decreasing flow of air makes breathing harder and harder, until all that’s left is gasping.

So, we sit there, gasping at the little air that reaches our lungs, hoping and praying that something or someone can help widen that window a bit. And it does happen. Small inconveniences float away and the window widens ever so slightly. Yet, in the Time of COVID, the pressure of those shards is greater than it’s ever been, and the minor ones that float away are quickly replaced with other, more jagged shards. This continues as we slowly begin to suffocate.

It’s drowning without water.

A couple weeks ago, my son’s daycare had a case of COVID. Since they’re all two years old in his class, and thus unvaccinated, the daycare closed down for ten days. Then, last week, my daughter got COVID – and she was home for five days, my son for ten. Now, today, we found out that there was another positive case of COVID at daycare and they’ll be closing for another ten days.

Out of the first thirty-five business days of the year, I’ll be without childcare for thirteen of them. And, if when the childcare center reopens, there’s another case of COVID, it’ll be another ten day shut-down.

My window is nearly closed.

My son had a runny nose yesterday. After his sister having COVID, and despite him constantly testing negative and being isolated from her this entire time (after school activities were a blessing since his isolation started sooner by happenstance), I am panicking. I gave him three tests between last night and today, and, while I was hoping today the faucet would stop, it hasn’t. Or, it has, but just a little bit.

My daughter won’t get COVID again for a while, if at all. She’s fully vaccinated for her age, and now has a prior infection. It’s 99% most likely the Omicron variant, which means some protection from reinfection for about ninety days at least.

But my son… Nope. Neither he, nor I, nor his dad got COVID. We did everything right. Got boosted, kept my daughter isolated for her entire quarantine at home (her choice too). Cleaned. Lysol-ed. Opened the windows and kept to ourselves.

I’m not disappointed that he wasn’t infected. On the contrary, it’s a very good thing because dealing with a sick kid is not something I want to manage, and I would like him to get vaccinated before he has to negotiate this horrible virus, mild or not. That’s a way away. Even if he can start his vaccine regimen in March, it’ll be two months after the second shot plus two weeks when he’s fully vaccinated. So, let’s say early June – after cold and flu season has subsided and probably after mask mandates have ended.

I work from home. I have a wonderful agency that contracts with me and wonderful people that are kind and compassionate. But the truth is, having missed so much work, I’m hopelessly behind.

And yes, dear reader, I recognize that writing this is cutting into time that I could be working, but let me explain.

You see, I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder and ADHD (well, ADD is more descriptive of my version). That means that my time is consumed by stress and worry and that the ability of my brain to do any one particular thing at any one particular moment is governed by both how anxious I am and how interested I am.

Right now, I’m interested in working. Right now, I’m writing to avoid the impending panic attack that I feel coming on and to get through the tears streaming down my face right now. I have no ability to do creative work when my brain has effectively closed off that portion of itself in favor of fight, flight, or, in my case, freeze.

My window is nearly closed.

I’m exhausted in ways that I haven’t been in a long time. Yes, last year was tough – especially when we were trying to sell the house and I was driving the kids around for hours in the car so people could come view it. But that stress was temporary. It was in the moment of the car ride and the time that came after. Once the kids were in bed, even if it was coming the next day too, I had some reprieve. And they both went to school or daycare, so again, I had some reprieve.

Right now, everyday is riddled with anxiety (and I know I’m not alone). Panic. Sheer and utter hopelessness and darkness so close that I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck quivering. The darkness that I have held off, fought off constantly, for the last good while… it’s at my door and it doesn’t need a key to get in.

I’m using all the tools that are available to me. But you know the one that I need the most?

Childcare.

Paid family leave.

Either will do, but childcare is more realistic, as elusive as it is.

We have a massive childcare crisis on our hands and have for a long time. The incredible amount of stress that finding, paying for, and managing childcare is overwhelming for parents of young children. And the two bits of assistance we got during the pandemic – the child tax credit payments and the refundable child care tax credits? Those are gone. G. O. N. E. Gone.

(Thank you GOP for making life much, much harder for working Americans under the guise of supporting Americans need to work.)

So, here I am. Typing to avoid falling down this deep, dark, and hard-to-escape-from well of stress and hopelessness. Trying to make sense of the challenges ahead and figure out plans that, well, are physically impossible to exist. Who wants to watch a kid who’s potentially been exposed to COVID? No one I know. Though, if you do, it’d be a super crazy lucrative business right now.

I’m tired. I’m so, so incredibly tired. And there’s not much flexibility on my husband’s front. He’s facing his own exhaustion and demons after discovering issues that I won’t discuss here (none of his own fault, thank you Navy).

But the truth is, the brunt of the panic and the loss and the worry and the exhaustion falls to me. Even when he helps to lighten the load, it’s still my load to carry, and it’s still my job and my mental health and my physical health that gets compromised for both our country’s inability to follow the evidence and provide numerous supports for parents and the needs of the Navy.

When the darkness overtakes me, I become numb. I function much better because I focus on survival needs and must-do’s. I can focus in because a switch has gone off on my emotional self. You’d think this a good thing, right? Yeah, not really.

Not at all.

If I hit that wall. If the darkness comes and settles in, then that’s it. It’s here for a while. It’s settled in and no amount of therapy or medication is going to get it to pack its bags quickly. New pits of pain open up and all of the years of healing that’s been done unravels. I don’t know why this happens to me. I don’t know why falling down this well means I go deeper every time it happens. But it does, and there’s no escaping that.

So, here I am again. Typing. To stop myself from falling into that hole and losing myself for a while. I have kids now, two of them, and a life that really is pretty content, even if it is painfully monotonous. Outside of this, I have the ability to understand, to completely comprehend that those fleeing moments of sadness are a chemical reaction to the challenges I have, and that doing some work in therapy or with additional meds can help me through. And, eventually, once the kids are older, more joy will fill those holes (as it really has with my daughter).

But today is today. And today is horrible.

Today is laden with stress and anxiety and overwhelm. Today I am defeated, though I haven’t yet lost the war.

I’m hanging in there, even if by a thread, and with my face right up to the edge of the window, fighting to breathe. Fighting for my life.

Please, God, or whatever out there has some hold on the universe and the course of events… Please. We’re so tired. Please, let this vaccine work. Let us get back to somewhat of a normal life again. I know it’ll never look the way it did before, but if daycare could be open more than 50% of the time, it would go a long way for many of us.

I can see hope amid the darkness, and that’s what I’m holding onto.

It’s been a year.

All right. It’s been about four years.

I recognize that I say this often as my blog posts tend to be few and far between, but I really do want to write more regularly. Writing, for me, has always been cathartic and helped me work through whatever emotion or frustration or hopeful hope I’ve been experiencing at the time.

Today is no different.

Today, I read an article on Axios that said the pandemic is finally under control. I scrolled further and came across an article in the Atlantic, “A One-in-a-Lifetime Chance to Start Over.”

As you can imagine, I got thinking.

This has been the most trying year-plus of my life. It wasn’t the darkest, or even, in some ways, the hardest, but it was, by far, the most exhausting, and the most changing……

Have you ever watched True Detective? Watch the first season and stop. I didn’t and regret it endlessly, except for one single scene.

In that scene, Vince Vaughn’s character is talking to the child of someone he killed (or had killed, I can’t remember). The boy is on a swing and understandably upset. Vaughn’s character says something to the effective of, “Sometimes, a thing happens, splits your life. There’s a before and after.”

Like Vaughn’s character, I have a bunch of those. Before and after we moved upstate as a child. Before and after Columbine. Before and After 9/11. Before and after my grandmother’s death. Before and after my mother’s divorce. Before and after I met my husband. Before and after my daughter was born. Moments that would come to define my life.

Before and after the global pandemic.

The difference is, this before and after has a middle too – a long one. Only now are we crawling out and picking up the pieces. This extended stress has been exhausting.

Thinking back, I remembered sending my kids an email when this all started. Here’s an excerpt of what I said:

Hello my loves,

I wanted to send you a message tonight to let you know how much I love you.

Things in the world are very scary right now. There’s a horrible virus that is making a lot of people very sick very quickly, and spreading in a way that we can’t tell who is ill. Some people may never get ill, despite getting the virus.

It’s scary because people we love like Nana are very susceptible to it. So am I, and so are you.

Things are unlike I’ve ever known them to be. Everything is shut down. The stores are closed. I’m working from home, but many people have lost their jobs. It’s so still outside that we have deer in the neighborhood – something very unusual indeed.

We are doing our best to keep you safe. I’m very scared myself, but never let you know that. Anne you keep calling it “the sickness” and you’re so sweet in how you want to make sure everyone gets well. I love that about you.

Today, we went on a rainbow hunt. Marty laughed and yelled the whole time. Anne, you brought your rainbow colored narwhal and we looked for rainbows in windows and on doors. We found so many! We even have our own though it’s a single line rainbow (we’ll have to make a brighter one tomorrow).

The two of you are the most important things in our world. Your father and I could not be happier. We are so lucky to be your parents, and to see you grow into the amazing people I know you’ll become.

Right now life is so frightening. It’s reminded me of what really matters. I close my eyes and wish for the day this is all behind us. I fear we’re just at the beginning.

I can’t wait until we’re back in the world again, when we can see Nana and go back to gymnastics. I love you both so much my silly beans. 

I cried the night I wrote this. My mom had found out that someone in the school where she worked had tested positive, and my mom was the one I was most concerned for. I lost my breath. I remember talking to Keith about how afraid I was and wondering what I should do, what any of us could do.

Less than a month later, my mom would be hospitalized with COVID pneumonia and I would be faced with one of my greatest fears: losing my mother.

I’m grateful for the excellent, dedicated, exhausted, and selfless medical care that she received. She survived – after 51 days, she came through. More than a year later though, she still feels the effects. I still get that pang in my chest when I think about it and can’t talk about COVID-19 and what it does to people without crying.

I know that we’re all so tired. So very tired. We’ve all experienced this global trauma to varying degrees. For some, it’s been a nuisance. It’s hindered their ability to travel or bar-hop or simply be conveniently unmasked. Yet, for others, like me, it’s a trauma that will live in my heart for the rest of my life.

I remember how much deer poop we found in the yard, and the day that I woke up to see them there. Watching the DOCUMENTARY only strengthened my confidence in climate change science. We saw what happens when we, as a species, simply stop destroying our home.

In more simpler terms, I learned very quickly what’s important to me.

Back to that Atlantic article. In it, you’re asked to draw a two-by-two matrix. The columns are your likes and dislikes. The rows are pre-pandemic and pandemic. The author, Arthur Brooks, asks you to wholeheartedly consider your answers.

Here’s mine:

	Likes	Dislikes
Pre-Pandemic	-Movies -Activities with the kids	-Commuting (i.e. the daily grind)
Pandemic	-Working from home -More time to recharge	-No travel -No seeing friends or family -No restaurants or movies

The pandemic taught me that I’m an introvert. I “recharge my batteries” with alone time. That’s hard to come by when you’ve got a husband and two little kids, and even harder when you’re committed to maintaining so many social and familial connections. The pandemic taught me that I’m happier with a smaller circle – and I’m honestly more capable of maintaining strong friendships that way. That’s not to say that I don’t like having more people around – it’s just that I enjoy a few close friends that I will share every single thing about my life with.

I also learned that the daily grind of a commute was incredibly draining for me. I don’t mean just the driving, but the complete chaos and disarray of always being on the go. Now, I walk Anne to school and Keith takes Marty to daycare. Then, we pick them up. Even on the days when I must manage both of them, it’s still a lot less hectic to manage home-daycare-school-home-school-daycare-home than it is to manage home-daycare-school-work-school-daycare-home. Plus, I can take fifteen minutes to prep dinner or pop the chicken into the marinade before leaving for pick-up rather than chaotically whipping up the fastest dinner humanly possible.

I’m more creative in the quiet. I’m more focused when I can turn off interruptions. My ADHD is much better managed. My stress level is dramatically, dramatically lower despite the workload. While my colleagues may not love me being out of the office, it’s been life-changing for me. Yet, I think all of that life-changing positivity is about to come to an unceremonious end.

Moving Forward

Welp, in true-to-me fashion, I’ve ignored this blog for another year until some kind member of my tribe posted a lovely message that reminded me I have something to say that someone – okay, maybe even three or four someones – might want to read.

Since my last ADHD post, I’ve started stimulant medication. Yeah, that horrible “it’s going to make your anxiety so much worse” pill:  Adderall. (I imagine some kind of dun-dun-dun music here.)

Well, my friends, the pattern continues. Another doctor telling me that my inclinations were wrong. Thankfully, I have a psychiatrist who agrees with me.

At my first appointment, the psychiatrist was quite reluctant to diagnose ADHD. We spent a good hour talking about PTSD and generational anxiety. We talked about how trauma inherently has an impact on our genes and can take decades to address, possibly never to be overcome.

As we spoke, I sat in fear and utter disappointment. I resigned to the thought that he’s not going to see me. That he’s going to say I need to exercise and go to therapy and everything will be hunky dory after that. The usual prescription for my challenges. The same prescription that hasn’t produced additional measurable effects for years.

To my amazement, I was wrong. He couldn’t say I for sure have an ADHD diagnosis after one meeting, but he could say if Wellbutrin worked, perhaps an increase in stimulants would. That sometimes we don’t know exactly what’s happening in a person’s brain and we have to be open to unconventional approaches. That we could give a stimulant a try and, if it didn’t work, move on from there.

I don’t think I said very much at this point. It has been so rare to be heard – be really heard by a medical professional that it was a extraordinary and unexpected.

I started the Adderall a couple days later.

Holy moly guacamole. Can you imagine a room full of hundreds – thousands of people all screaming your name and grabbing at your feet as you valiantly fail at climbing the ladder to “regular life.” Now, imagine them all shutting up. Imagine knowing quiet for the first time… ever.

That was what Adderall gave me. No longer was my brain racing on whatever issue it cared about that moment. I could quiet. I could focus. I could silence the noise… the noise I never knew wasn’t constant and permanent.

Little by little I reclaimed a life I never knew I lost. I washed the dishes without becoming overwhelmed by the peeling paint behind the sink or the broken soap dispenser.

But I lost good things too. I lost that overwhelming excitement and non-stop creative processing that came with every new idea. (Don’t worry – I got it back.) I lost the passionate advocate screaming her heart out to save the world. (Don’t worry – I figured out I’m more effective without that voice.)

I don’t wallow in my anxiety. I don’t find myself making endless list after list after list. I remember things.

I sleep. In all the glorious that is slumber, I find rest and relief for the first time. My brain has found a way to care less that sleep is boring and more that sleep is important and committed to it.

You know what else I did? I got a job – and it’s been six months and I haven’t yet once been engaged in the never-ending drama that is an American workplace.

It feels miraculous, but it’s not. It’s still work. I’m still in therapy with a therapy who focuses on practical solutions to everyday problems. I no longer have to make up a topic for weekly discussion. I talk about what went wrong; and what went right. And how I can better manage all around.

I see things now too. I understand my own limitations and know when I need to step back, ask for patience, and refocus. I no longer allow excuses to run my life and own up to my challenges.

I have a long way to go, but I’ve found peace. I feel a part of a community and when I struggle, I can connect with hundreds of other women, employees, wives, mothers, and friends who know exactly what I’m going through. We don’t have a shared history of trauma to blame. We have a shared experience.

When You Find Your People

It seems fitting that I’m finally writing a post so long after my last one.  I definitely need to invest more time in blogging since it’s both therapeutic and provides a means to remember the fun adventures we’ve experienced!

Today isn’t about a family adventure however.

Today’s post is twenty years plus in the making.

If you haven’t yet guessed, as a child I experienced more than my fair share of trauma and mental illness.  It’s impacted me long into life, but I’m grateful for the strength I’ve gained from it.  I’m the person I am today, the person my friends, family and husband love in spite of or because of it.

For over twenty years, I’ve been told that I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD) and depression.  Let’s say my primary care physicians have told me that since I was eight, which means it’s been 28 years of believing that’s what was wrong with me.

Twenty-eight years of not understanding why it’s hard for me to read a book unless it’s in one sitting or super interesting to me.  Twenty-eight years of getting in trouble for not being able to finish (or even start) menial tasks.  Twenty-eight years of being told I was lazy, unmotivated and irresponsible.  Twenty-eight years of believing that about myself.

Almost three decades of over-commitment and under-performance.  Almost three decades of being unable to play certain more complicated games or forgetting every thing under the sun.

As a child, I was diagnosed with oppositional defiance disorder.  Why they didn’t see then what they see now is anyone’s guess – though it’s probably because the early 80s were a time of rapid growth, confusion and appropriate concern for over-diagnosis as well as inappropriate disbelief in many mental health conditions.

What further masked the real problem was the fact that I was very successful in school.  I was a child of trauma, divorce, and more than I have time to write about today.  So, why would anyone think it was anything other than a stressful childhood – that I was anything less or more than a child experiencing constant, drastic change and emotional upheaval.

I also excelled a work, when I did.  And failed when I didn’t.  Think people with my disorder can’t be successful?  Perhaps we should ask the winner of the most Olympic medals in history.

And, to counteract the potential diagnosis (or so I thought), I was terrific during a crisis.  Steadfast, able, focused.  I might get stressed, but I could pull off a successful event, policy push, or political campaign press conference with excitement and ease.

So, here we are.  In 2017.  And I’ve decided that I can no longer live with a multitude of issues that have plagued my physical and mental health for, well, forever.  For one, I got a breast reduction (post on that to come), which ended decades of muscle relaxant prescriptions for my neck.  I also finally asked the doc for anti-acne cream after 25 years.  Acne, GONE.

As a solo parent for the last year and a half, and well, pretty much since my daughter was born, I’ve struggled.  Initially, it was postpartum depression and anxiety, which I’ve written about here.  But, as time’s gone on, the pain and exhaustion of PPD have subsided, so I asked my doc to come off the anti-depressant SSRI that I was on.  Instead of immediately agreeing, she sent me to meet with the in-house psychologist.  (By-the-way, every single primary care office should have a psychologist or psychiatrist on staff, period.)

During that meeting, we discussed my challenges:  I can’t handle interruption.  Yet, I always interrupt.  I can’t focus on more than one thing at a time.  I don’t like talking on the phone.  I often forget things – okay, I always forget things.  I cannot half-ass anything (or otherwise known as I notice every single little issue and can’t ignore them unless I ignore the whole).  I’m perpetually procrastinating.  And I suffer from perfect perfectionism.

We talked about my impulsive actions and their long-term consequences.  We talked about how hard it is for me to keep in contact with friends and family.  We also talked about relationship issues, especially as they relate to external consequences.

I explained how sounds irritate me, or how irritable I become by minor distractions (like the fact that the crowd in a video game are wearing t-shirts when the ground is covered in snow).  I explained how my checklists are over 500 items long, with things such as “take a shower” and “charge phone.”

We discussed how these issues impacted my life.  And how other issues that I had thought were unrelated, like falling asleep in boring classes or while driving long distances, and how much more tired I become when my daughter is home and requires my full, albeit boring, attention.

There were many questions I answered, but you get the gist.

Leaving the office, I didn’t think much of what she said.  I’m not a hyperactive kid running circles around the room, so how would this apply to me?  Plus I was busy that week so I didn’t think much of it.

Returning to the office with surveys in hand, I thought perhaps I fit the definition a bit more than expected, but was still unsure.  She wasn’t sure either.  My own personal responses were so far off from my mother’s that it didn’t make any sense.  I also answered questions differently that day than the week before.  Dramatically differently in fact, and they were questions about my childhood, so history hadn’t really changed.

We agreed that I would go off the SSRI and follow-up. Coming off Zoloft was easy, thankfully, but also irritating.  Why?  Oh, well, didn’t you know that half my issues with parenting were caused by the drug itself?  Apathy, irritability, overwhelming exhaustion.  Sure, there were plenty of other symptoms that did not go away (and never, ever have with any anti-depressant – except Wellbutrin…  Wellbutrin  gives me about a 10-15% improvement of my motivation issues).  But the fact that I felt lifted from a miserable, dark fog was frustrating.  How long did I suffer that way needlessly?

In the lifting of the fog, I started to research ADHD.  I read this one article that made more sense to me than anything I’ve ever read about depression and anxiety.  I read more and more and more.  I watched video after video.  I listened to podcasts.  I borrowed book after book from the Navy library (a great resource if you’re an active duty family).  I was obsessed.  I was hyperfocused.  I spent time that I didn’t have up until wee hours of the morning reading, watching, listening, and then engaging in support groups on Facebook, Smart Patients, and elsewhere.

Then, I cried.  No,  I cried pretty much everyday at pretty much every article.  Whether or not I had or have ADHD, I had found my people.  I had connected with others who understood in a way that none of my fellow depression or anxiety support group members did.  I listened to their stories.  I substituted my name for theirs since I could.  It felt like reading my own autobiography, authored by someone who knows me better than I know myself.

I went through all the emotions (and am still reeling as things progress).  I’m not alone.  In fact, seventy-five percent of adults with ADHD do not know that they have it.  It’s this weird experience when it all clicks:  extreme relief, overwhelming frustration, growing hope, and…  Suddenly, you can look in the mirror and see yourself for the first time.

I find myself wanting to email old friends, family, and colleagues to apologize for my behavior.  I also find myself starting to forgive my past, my actions, my struggles.  For almost three decades, I had been told that I had anxiety disorder and depression – disorders that are both biological and environmental.  It leaves some space for self-loathing and blame.  But now, understanding that ADHD is biological, though certainly influenced by the environment, takes the onus off my back.  Like the phrase I keep hearing, my brain works at Ferrari speed with bicycle brakes.

(You can understand my experience better by watching this video, or read stories from people like Linda Roggli and Neil Petersen and Jaclyn Paul.)

I also started examining GAD and depression.  Looking at the questionnaire for depression, I found myself generally “not at all” in several categories.  I have interest and pleasure in doing things.  I am generally not depressed or hopeless.  I do have trouble with sleep, but  it has to do more with the quality.  I will say that I’m tired.  All.  The.  Time.  I don’t particularly feel bad about myself, any more than would be expected for a solo parent.  I do have trouble concentrating of course.  Duh.  But the rest?  If you consider that the “everyday” symptoms are also perfectly ADHD, I’m in the minimal depression category.

When it comes to GAD, it’s a similar story.  Looking at the screen, I do feel on edge often, but not nervous.  I don’t have uncontrollable or excessive worry.  I do have trouble relaxing, and sometimes can be incredibly restless mentally.  I’m easily annoyed and irritable, but not afraid.  Yet again, minimal anxiety considering the symptoms of ADHD.

Even if I inflated either to say they’re not symptoms of ADHD and the diagnosis is wrong, well, I’m still on the short side of mild.  And, unfortunately, I don’t seem to fit into the various depression and anxiety support groups.

I know depression.  Lord knows that I know depression.  But the majority of my life hasn’t exhibited those experiences.  And, I know anxiety like it’s my bestest friend.  Uncontrollable thoughts.  Fast-racing brain.  Paralyzing inability to get started on menial projects.  Irritatingly difficult (and unfortunately destructive) need to address everything that comes my way immediately and with emotion.  Oh, wait, are we talking about anxiety or ADHD here?  Lord knows, you can have both.

I’m a couple months out from my first psychiatrist appointment, but I’ve already started implementing some of the suggested coping techniques for ADHD and – low and behold – they’re actually working.  Not perfectly, not everyday, but there’s some improvement in a way that no coping technique has ever, ever helped me.

I’ve also discovered this thing called “coaching.”  I guarantee the psychiatrist will say it’s just therapy without credentials, but no way Jose.  Why do I say that?  Because I’ve had six therapists over seventeen years.  And in no case have any of them given me practical, focused suggestions on addressing everyday challenges.  Sure, it comes up here and there, but the majority of our time is spent discussing the issue, why I feel the way I do, why I react the way I do, and how I can be better.  That’s a great thing.  Don’t get me wrong.  CBT is tremendously effective and something I advocate for anyone managing mental, emotional, relationship concerns.  But, a coach helping you figure out how to manage your to-do list and other issues that are focused more on biological obstacles is a concept that not only excites me, but gives me tremendous hope.

You see, even if by some stretch the psychiatrist disagrees with the assessment I’ve had and says it’s not ADHD.  Well, then, I’ll still be following the treatment protocols for ADHD because it’s what works, and it’s what makes complete and absolute clarity of every challenge I’ve faced in my life.  Maya Bolton summed it up perfectly here:

And I can’t say ADD isn’t a fad diagnosis. But to tell you the truth, in my case the treatment was so liberating that I don’t really care.

Oh, and if you like those little drawings, the link is here and it’s awesome.

The Deployment Curse

You know that moment – when the boat pulls away from the pier and you’re teetering between devastation and fury.  You try to focus on the good – those deployment goals that you’ve been making lists of for the last six months.  You go get yourself an ice cream from Dairy Queen, stand in the NEX parking lot crying into because you can’t find your car, and then down two bags of Pepperidge Farm milanos at your bestie’s.

What inevitably comes after your mental breakdown is what’s commonly known as the deployment curse.  No, it’s not a myth.  No, there’s nothing you can do to avoid it.  The best you can do is prepare for the aftermath:

1.  If you own a home, it will fall down.  The roof will leak, there will be ants, the furnace will blow up, your basement will flood.  None of this will happen while your husband is in port.  The second it’s blackout though, put your insurance company and contractors on standby.
2. If you have kids, you’ll end up in the hospital.  They’ll have 104 degree fevers and refuse to eat for days.  They’ll need ear tube surgery and antibiotic shots.  It’ll be impossible for you to go to work because you’ll need to go to the doctor twice a week for about six months.
3. You’ll get sick.  Especially if your kids are sick.  It will probably happen at the same time.  You’ll be tossing your cookies while making more for daycare.  And you won’t get to take a break or “take some time off” as your doctor prescribes while you laugh your way to the pharmacy for the good stuff.
4. Also, everything miserable will happen with your kids while your husband’s gone.  They’ll get teeth.  They’ll get a stomach bug.  They’ll start biting.  They’ll figure out how to open doors.
5. If you have pets, they’ll get sick too.  About the same time as your kid is teething or in the hospital.  And they’ll need expensive surgery and weeks of physical therapy.  Because you need something else to do with your nonexistent time.  Oh, and if they’re not having surgery, they’ll wake you up at 3am puking in the bed, on the carpet, on your shoes.  This does not happen when your husband is home.
6. People will die.  I don’t mean to sound morbid, but it seems everyone decides to kick the bucket during deployment.  I have to say it light-heartedly because I’m already ravaged by loss this deployment and I don’t want this post to become some debbie downer my-life-sucks kind of thing.
7. You’ll have to make major decisions.  Should you continue on to get your masters degree?  Should you buy that car?  Or the other one?  Should you spend the money on hydroseeding or just give up and have sand dunes for your backyard?
8. You’ll feel guilt.  All.  The.  Time.  Guilt that your husband is missing out on the fun that you’re having, or on the milestones that your kids are achieving, or the time you’re spending with family and friends.  You’ll feel guilt for spending so much at the Nordstrom’s makeup show.  You’ll feel guilty for taking a girls trip while your husband miserably pushes the boat through the sea.
9. You’ll live in a state of constant panic and uncertainty.  What was that sound?  Was that an email?  Oh my gosh I need to check my phone.  No, I NEEEEEEEED to check it.  Wait, what’s that?  They’re pulling into port tomorrow instead of Thursday?  Oh my gosh, I need to wash my hair and clean up the house so it looks halfway decent when we Skype.  Wait, what?  Now they’re not pulling in for six weeks?  WTH?  Now, I need to cry into my pillow for the next six days.  Oh, wait, I can’t.  The house is falling apart, the dog needs surgery, the kids are sick, you have a stomach bug, you spent too much money at Nordstrom Rack, and your youngest is starting to walk.
10. You’ll become a warrior.  You’ll find yourself welcoming home your hubby with a great, big smile and a long list of honey-dos.  You’ve achieved a few goals, totally dropped the ball on others, and the state of the household cleanliness, your daughter’s constant biting, and the dog’s midnight vomiting will cease.  You’ll be a family again.  You’ll be deployment strong.  You’ve got this – until the next one.

The First Year’s Can’t Lives Withouts

If you know me, you know that I’m always on the lookout for anything that makes my life easier, particularly as a mom.  With Anne’s infancy behind us, I think it’s time to give a few great, big shout-outs to the products that helped us through:

1.  Dock-a-Tot.  I’m sure that I’ll get flack for this, but the dock-a-tot is the only way baby girl would sleep anywhere other than on the boppy, physically attached to me.  It’s an incredible invention that makes the issue of a great, big crib full of empty space well, a non-issue.
2. Pully Palz.  Something that keeps your infant’s binkies within reach, even when  they barely have motor control to grab them?  Take my money.
3. Piyo Piyo Scissors.  Who in their right mind uses nail clippers on babies?  Oh wait, that’s us.  We did.  And we cut our poop baby one too many times, so I searched for another alternative.  You’d think scissors wouldn’t be the easiest option, yet they are.  They are far, far superior to those old annoying, dangerous nail clippers!
4. Formula canisters.  If you’re neurotic like me, or just plain exhausted, having these little do-dads of pre-measured formula is glorious at 3am on your 891st waking.
5. Rock-n-play.  Her first four, five (okay almost six) months, she slept in this.  It was impossible to get her to sleep laying down flat, and our doc said it was fine.  It was especially nice because she was close to me for breastfeeding or my anxious fear that she might suddenly stop breathing.  Go ahead and get yourself two of these.  Carrying it up and down the stairs multiple times a day just wasn’t worth the $50.
6. Sit-me-up Chair.  Yes, I know there are a lot of options for infant “chairs” that give them some sort of sitting experience without the potential for falling and cracking their tiny skulls.  However, nothing beat our Sit-me-up.  It’s lightweight, folds up nicely, is very secure, and even doubles for a play desk.
7. Laundry basket.  Nope, no link on this one.  Just a plain ole laundry basket, with loads of blankets.  Prop up your infant in there (once she’s reasonably sitting) and you’ve got a little self-contained playpen while you vacuum or cook or do laundry or watch horrible trash TV.
8. Fresh Food Feeders and Num Nums.  These freaking things are amazing.  The mesh allows you to stick a whole bunch of different foods in there for your little one to munch on endlessly, like apples or pears or even oranges if she’ll tolerate that.  The miniature spoons?  Oh my gosh, genius way to get started using utensils.
9. Baby Einstein Musical Take-along Toy.  When you have a child with an extremely short attention span and most toys make noise for all of three seconds, having something that plays a longer song, or at times, endlessly, can help you get some chores done without screaming.
10. Anything Zoochini.  Seriously.  Their stuff is super cute and for whatever reason, stands up better to the washer and dryer than most anything I’ve bought.
11. Stroller Fan.  Okay, these are horribly made, just to let you know in advance.  You’ll go through them like crazy, which seems annoying since you’re probably already cash-strapped.  But, they’re awesome.  They work.  And they’re made of foam, so when you knock one off the stroller and some random toddler comes to pick it up, he won’t be hurt.  At all.  Nor would your infant.  And baby stays cool despite the heat.
12. Boppy.  I’m adding this a year and a half later, because, a year and a half later, I still use it.  It’s my daughter’s favorite pillow to lay on the couch, or the floor, or at Grandma’s house, especially to watch a movie with mom.  Usually Moana.  Sometimes Frozen.  But always on the Boppy.  Just get the regular one.  It worked fine for breastfeeding.  You’ll use this damn thing for years.

My Darkest Days: An Introduction to my Postpartum Depression

A mother in my support group killed herself two weeks ago.

If you’ve started to judge her, call her selfish, or think poorly of her, you can stop reading right now. I’d rather your ignorance not tarnish her memory. I’d rather your arrogance not take away from the tragedy her family will now forever endure.

My entire life I’ve lived with depression. I’ve battled to get out of bed, to go to work, to live a productive and joyous life. Most days I’ve succeeded, and on those that I haven’t, I’ve always been able to pick myself up and drag and pull myself to the finish line.

Postpartum depression was different.

The stranger that postpartum depression makes you has no ability to crawl to the finish line and, in all honesty, no desire to. The stranger that you become wants nothing more than to lie there, and even die there, or walk off into the dark forest of life. Who you were is seemingly gone forever. Who you become is a shadow of a person who abhors existence.

I loved my child from the moment she was an image in my imagination. I loved her when she was conceived and as she grew in my belly. I loved her even when I thought I didn’t. Postpartum depression doesn’t steal our ability to love; it’s just an incredibly formidable monster standing in the way, hiding it. It feels impossible to overcome and so we retreat.

I’m sure you’ve heard those incredible stories of when a baby is born: How mom and dad are suddenly overcome with this way of happiness and love, they can barely contain it. Everything in the world is reborn anew for the little family of three and suddenly, your heart becomes full.

I think that happened to my husband when he watched our daughter take her first breath. Me? I just wanted to be warm. I was shivering on the operating table, wishing it would all be over so I could get a few more blankets and go to sleep. I didn’t know who this little being was that they placed on my chest. I didn’t know what to do with her. I was so cold and so tired.

I wonder at times if she could see the indifference in my eyes. If she could feel how cold they must have been. I hope and pray that she could understand that I was tired and that the woman she was looking up at wasn’t yet her mother.

The first ten days of her life were hell. I got a spinal headache in the hospital, and a tension headache when we got home. I went fifty-some hours without sleep. I was beyond any level of exhaustion that I had ever known. All she wanted to do was nurse, and rightfully so since she wasn’t getting any sustenance out of me yet. It was painful. So painful that every time she latched and every time she nursed, I would scream – yes scream – out in pain with my eyes pouring down tears. All in between vomiting from the pain of the headache and the inability to sleep.

Then came a call, my husband would be going out to sea the following day unexpectedly. Two Sailors were unable to stand duty for reasons I won’t list here, so he needed to pack up his things and go. I would be left alone, in pain, exhausted, without my husband.

I lost it. My husband found me on the floor in the bathroom bawling. I couldn’t do it anymore. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want this life. I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t get up. It was so bad that my husband cried. I could see the love in his eyes that he wanted to make the situation better, but that he didn’t know what to do. I hope and pray that he could not see the indifference in my eyes. The begging desperation for him to defy orders and stay home.

It was so awful that my husband called one of my best friends and asked her for help. She took time off work to stay with me during the day. He begged his mom for help and she got on a plane to arrive a couple days after he left. My friends who knew what was happening were there for me. I cried every time they left. I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat. I didn’t function.

I continued to crumble while my husband was gone. She was up all night, so I would sit with her attached to me for hours on end, watching Cosmos on the television. During the day, I would sit with her attached to me watching Say Yes to the Dress with my mother-in-law. I didn’t go out. I continued not to eat. I continued to think of ways to escape my life. I started to become enraged at the world, at the Navy, at my husband, at everyone and everything.

I had one brief moment with him when they gave him a couple hours to take our newborn photographs. If you look at the photos, you can see how tired I am, how absent I am. I did not want to be there. I did not know how to look lovingly at this little baby. I just wanted her to sleep and stop crying.

My husband returned days earlier than planned and it was a welcome reprieve. He had a few days off and we took care of things that we had to. I struggled everyday.

The night before my mother-in-law departed, Keith and I went out to dinner and a movie. The entire time all I could think was how much I despised who I had become, how much I missed who I was, and how my life was now this hollow core of what it used to be.

I begged my husband, sobbing and screaming, to not take us home. I begged him, pleaded with him to drive off into the sunset, away from this life that I didn’t want, that I couldn’t bear. He didn’t, of course. My one solace was that I had a twinge of missing her, but I still abhorred the idea of returning to this life.

I spent the nights awake thinking about how I could escape. Yes, I thought about suicide. I thought about hurting myself all the time. Every time I walked down the stairs, I imagined falling, throwing myself so I would break a leg or hurt my arm and they’d have to let Keith stay home. I wouldn’t go get the mail because I was afraid that I would just keep walking and never come back. My poor husband had to remind me that if I left her, I left him. Never before had I contemplated divorce. I spent hours – days making up plans to leave. I didn’t want this life. But more, I couldn’t survive this life. I knew, in my heart of hearts, that someday I would find myself doing whatever I needed to do to end the nothingness, to finally escape the pain.

I would hold my medicine in my hand and wonder if I could take the entire bottle and just go to sleep. Sometimes I fantasized about taking an entire bottle of Benadryl and sleeping – blaming my “”mommy brain” for doing it and finally feeling a tad bit better.

My husband made me promise to tell my doctor about all of these thoughts and I did. I held my daughter and explained how I felt. It was like she wasn’t mine. I believed in my soul that I was simply babysitting someone else’s child and I just wanted her parents to come home and take her back.

My doctor explained that she would be okay. That it was better to have a mother suffer and recover from postpartum than to not have a mother at all. That she would someday understand, and that as long as I “”faked it until I made it,” she would be just fine.

I knew. Yes, I knew this was temporary. But I knew deeper that it was forever. That I was gone. That the person I was had disappeared. I stopped looking in the mirror because I didn’t know who it was staring back at me. There was no point.

My husband held it all together. He organized his family coming out to take care of me. He asked my mother and my friends for help. And despite the loneliness and deep, deep pain of postpartum depression, I suddenly realized how surrounded by love we were. Never before had I loved my husband this deeply, or appreciated so much my in-laws. Never before had I really known true friendship until Emilee and Jackie dropped everything to be here for me. Until Eilleen volunteered to stay the night. Until Brittany took time off of work and constantly checked in on me. Until Kandace opened her heart to hear my pain. Until Jonelle took over duties back at the house so I could see my husband. Never before had I known such kindness. I wish I could thank everyone right now, but my brain is too overloaded and I’d inevitably forget someone.

I remained in pain and suicidal for a long time. My husband was deployed unexpectedly for four months. It was my worst nightmare. I cried, constantly. I cried every single day, for hours. Every night I would plan my escape. I packed a bag a few times (not even my husband knows this) and counted out the number of hours I would need to be unconscious before they couldn’t resuscitate me. I wanted desperately to go to the beach, but I wouldn’t let myself. I had dreams of walking off into the surf, swimming out to a point that I couldn’t swim any further and letting God do the rest.

You see, when you think about escape from postpartum depression it’s not really about an ending. It’s about a surrender. Every minute is an exhausting battle inside your soul. You can’t see what you’re fighting for, or at least don’t believe that it really exists. You just want to wave the white flag and surrender into the pain. Take me, hell, take me down to where it’s warm and let me burn. That would be a better fate than the life I had stupidly chosen.

My daughter was incredibly difficult. I setup camp down in the living room and basically lived on the couch. She slept nearby in the rock n play. Thankfully, she would sleep one four-hour stretch a night for a while. But my anxiety was overwhelming. I had to do things a certain way. I had to have everything set and done the night before for the day following. I had to immediately take care to get things done and do it nine hundred miles an hour. I would never have a break. I had to grin and bear it through the worst days of my life.

I couldn’t face the world. In retrospect, I know that I should have gone to the hospital. There were days that I got way too close to one kind of ending or another. Sometimes I would wait to hear my husband’s Jeep coming up the street and consider escaping out the back door. That way she would be okay, but I would be free. The only reason I didn’t run was because I couldn’t bear the thought of my husband hating me. I thought suicide was a better fate. Then he could move on. Or perhaps swerving the car just the right way so it looked like an accident. He would hurt, but he would heal. Yes, I should have gone into the hospital.

I went on medication and looked to therapy. My doctor, my therapist, every professional that I was seeing insisted that I not be alone with my daughter for any length of time. I needed constant supervision and support. My doctor went as far as to locate the phone numbers for the Navy. She wanted to explain that if something happened to me, it would be on their heads since they couldn’t do anything to provide me with the support that I needed. She didn’t understand that it wasn’t their fault, this is how it is. We knew it would be this way. And the only people who could do anything were actually powerless, stuck in a schedule not of their own making, trying to keep the morale floating well enough to last the night.

I couldn’t go into the hospital. I couldn’t end my husband’s career. I couldn’t face the world knowing what I was feeling or thinking. I couldn’t bear the judgment. So I hid. And I tried to make it through. My love for my husband was the only thing that kept me going most nights. And the ability to get a break thanks to the incredible friends and family who came to support me.

Mothers like me aren’t the devil. I watch the news and see these tragedies that mothers commit and I weep for them. I can only shake my head at the ignorance of those who post what monsters these women are. Granted, some are, but others? Others are just facing the worst demon you can imagine. The pain is so deep, the nothingness so overwhelming. The strength that it takes to survive every minute is exhausting. And no one has enough of it, which is why having a support network matters.

We dug deep into our finances to afford babysitters and pay for help. It did make a difference and at least I got a little sleep as I began to have a small supply of pumped breastmilk in the freezer. Unfortunately, pumping put even a greater burden on me. I liked it better than breastfeeding, but it wasn’t realistic to keep up with and every day a bag of breastmilk was used, I would feel terrible anxiety that I needed to pump more or I couldn’t get a break.

Sometimes I would go to the bathroom just to escape. I would cry and cry and cry and wish my way out of it. Then I would return to this world that I didn’t want to live in. Every day that I went out on my own, I would consider driving to the airport instead of the house. I had to fight myself to come home.

My husband one night broke down and told me how awfully he felt. He said that he felt like he had so much pressure to be such an amazing parent – to love her so much because I didn’t love her at all. I had hardly any reaction to this statement. I remember thinking, “”You should probably cry. He’s expecting you to cry or say something to comfort him.” I tried, but however I responded, I simply did not care. I wanted to say, “”Yes, you need to love her twice as much because I never will.” I believed that with every inch of my body.

We had a colicky baby, or so we thought. She cried. ALL. THE. TIME. NONSTOP. The crying was exhausting. She needed to be entertained constantly. That meant that even as I was going to the bathroom, I had to be singing and dancing and making her smile – or else I had to endure blood-curdling screams. If this were parenthood, why would anyone have another baby?

As it turns out, the nightmare that my little one was ended up being a result of my anti-depressant medication “”activating” her little body and brain. She wouldn’t sleep for more than 7 hours total in a day, and no more than 5-15 minutes at a time. It was horrible. It was exhausting. I cried, constantly.

When I stopped breastfeeding, everything started to get better. I was less stressed and I was able to get some sleep. I enjoyed bottle-feeding so much more than breastfeeding and found myself finally starting to bond with her. It would be months before I would become a real loving mother, but I was at least taking small steps.

The medication, the support group, and the therapist – all of it helped me heal. My friends and family made it possible, and my husband. My god, my husband should have a star in his name. He saved my life. They all did. And I mean that quite literally.

Now, six months later, I finally look forward to the day with my little girl. I can’t wait for her to keep growing and becoming the person she will be. I love how much more interactive she is and how happy she seems. I finally fell in love with her.

After I found out that my fellow PPD mom had lost her battle, I finally decided that it was time to tell my story, even if just in part. I remember posts that she had about how her husband didn’t want her on social media because her mental health issues were between them, and not to be hung on the clothesline with the happy, smiling photos you manage to take despite being dead inside.

I remember discussions we had as a group about the importance of being honest. The importance of being open with our doctors, our spouses, our families, our friends – and most importantly, ourselves. That means not hiding behind the guise that this is a personal matter. It may be an extremely personal struggle, but if my story can help one mom make it through the moment, then I’ve done what I’ve set out to do. I’ve ended the stigma in one person’s mind.

I am still struggling with PPD and especially anxiety. Everyday is a little bit better. I have to work at it, but I’m getting there. I was lucky enough to read Brooke Shield’s book and find myself inside the pages. That helped enormously and I credit her too with saving my life and giving my daughter a healthy mom to grow up with.

The title of Brooke Shield’s book is, “”Down Came the Rain.” Honestly, I don’t know where that title came from and I can’t remember the reference to it in the book. But, when I sing my little one to sleep at night, I sing “”The Itsy Bitsy Spider” because it is entirely representative of my story. I climbed that spout to become a mother, but got brought down by the rain, and am finally find myself hit by a few rays of sunshine…

          The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout.

          Down came the rain and washed the spider out.

          Out came the sun and dried up all the rain and

          The itsy bitsy spider went up the spout again.

To all the families and friends of those struggling with postpartum depression, please be patient. Please be empathetic and kind.

And, to all the mommas who find themselves in this post, have hope. Hold onto that hope with all the strength you can muster. It will get better. You will come home. You will find yourself again. And you will be happy.

It has been some time…

I am a unicorn. And so is she.

Hello there friend.

It’s been some time since I’ve written – almost a year in fact.  And that’s not because I haven’t had a million and one Hawaiian adventures to share, but because sharing meant that what’s happening now is real – and this whole dreamy (yet somewhat miserable) story is hard to believe in.

Since my last post, which was about as honest as I could have been about our full fertility journey, so much has happened.  I went to Singapore and left my gall bladder there.  I got to see the Big Island, Kauai and Maui.  I got to hike across a lava lake, take a plane over the Grand Canyon of the Pacific, and experience the remarkable Cloud Forest.  I’ve been to Guam, where the snorkeling really is the best in the world, and moved into a new house much closer to town.

But the biggest news of all is something that I’m horrified to type:  In July of 2014, I got pregnant.

Pinterest Couple

You would think I’d be jumping for joy.  You would think I’d be yelling from the rooftops because we’d spent so many years of our relationship trying to make this happen.  You’d think I’d be happy…  But you’d be wrong.

Don’t read this cruelly, because I don’t mean to say that I wasn’t happy to be pregnant.  On the contrary, there was a piece of my heart healed by the news.  But after spending years going through infertility treatments, chemical pregnancies and miscarriages, it was (and still is) really hard to imagine.

It’s kind of like spending your life training to climb Mount Everest, and now, you’re finally there, you’re finally getting to take on your dream and it’s terrifying.

You see, people who suffer from infertility and undergo years of treatment can end up with PTSD.  Yeah, yeah, you can dismiss it outright, but I can personally tell you it’s absolutely true and the scientific evidence backs me up on that one.  There’s an article on Medscape that says it well…

“Subsequent to the trauma, victims experience feelings of intense fear, helplessness, or horror…  The inability to conceive can catapult some patients into a state of shock, disbelief, and helplessness.  Infertile couples must grieve 2 losses simultaneously:  the loss of their ability to procreate as well as the loss of the hope for children…  They [patients] may re-experience the trauma as nightmares, flashbacks, and intrusive thoughts about distressing procedures or pregnancy loss…  Giving birth to [a baby] seemed, at first, like heaven to her, but this quickly gave way to feelings of severe emotional distress…  She could not plan for the future or think beyond conception.  Her life was on hold, indefinitely…  She continually blamed herself for the ways in which she imagined she had caused the infertility…  On her visits to the gynecologist, she became tremulous, sweaty, short of breath, and highly irritable.”

When I took my first pregnancy test, I got two lines.  So I took two more the same night.  Then I took one or two every day for weeks.  I saw my family physician, who drew blood and tested my urine.  Positive!  Off to the OB.  But, I wasn’t very excited.  What was my beta?  Could I take another test the following day?  I needed to know if it was doubling or not.  But, they’re not an infertility clinic.  They don’t do that.  Instead, I had to wait a couple weeks to get in to see the OB, and I had about five panic attacks in the days subsequent to being told that I had to wait.  It was so bad that I actually considered taking a Xanax.

Every day.

In the meantime, I cried almost every day.  I dreaded going to the bathroom, and I went more often waiting for that tell-tale sign that I’m not pregnant.  Every single day I knew – I just knew – it wasn’t going to stick.  Every single day I waited, analyzing every single pain, every single symptom – double-guessing my own instincts and behavior.  Do you know what it’s like to constantly think, “Am I overly tired because it’s sticking?  Or because I slept two hours?”  “Am I really feeling nauseous, or am I making myself nauseous from the anxiety?”  Pregnancy after infertility is hard sucks.

The night before Keith arrived home from deployment, I was spotting and it wasn’t light.  I knew – I just knew – it was over.  I put on a brave face at our event, and at homecoming the next day as I sadly told my husband I was so sorry…  That my body yet again failed us.  But, together we decided to go see the OB anyway.

That Thursday, we sat in the office.  I was probably the most miserable-looking person there.  The nurse took my vitals and congratulated me, to which I replied, “Please don’t congratulate me.  It only makes it harder when you have to say you’re sorry.”  I was that rude, miserable woman.

The doctor came in the room and asked to do an ultrasound,  I didn’t look at the screen.  I didn’t want to see that big, empty void again.  I didn’t want to know that I’d wasted another couple of hours at a doctor’s office pleading for a miracle that would never come.  Yet, there she was.  This tiny little bean on the screen.  Keith squeezed my hand.  The doctor said everything looks good, but let’s hear her heartbeat.  That moment was the most frightening moment of my life.  I was so happy inside to hear that thump thump thumping, but at the same moment, my brain took over and said, “Don’t enjoy this too much.  It will only make you feel worse when you have to come back to an empty screen.”  I barely reacted.  Keith cried and held my hand.  I think he had a little bit of PTSD too.

Every week, we journeyed into the doctor’s office.  Every week, I was convinced that some spotting or some pain meant that the baby was gone.  Every week, we saw her wiggle wiggle wiggle on the screen and I just couldn’t open my heart to the possibility.  Talk about pessimism – except this was quiet acceptance that we would never make it to the finish line.  I couldn’t enjoy these moments.  I wouldn’t let myself, no matter how hard my heart tried.  I kept up with the bathroom anxiety.  I went probably once an hour, or every other, waiting – expecting – actually seeing that it had failed, even when it hadn’t.

Eventually, we didn’t have to go every week and she grew and grew and grew.  But pregnancy has been awful for me.  I was vomiting so often that I actually lost weight.  Poor Keith spent the night awake taking care of me while I cried and vomited and took baths to calm myself down.  I did nothing but sleep.  All.  The.  Time.  I slept day and night, because there was no other alternative to the nausea.  And my self-doubt only increased with every twinge and doctor’s appointment.

I was so sick that I could barely function.  We had a dinner event to attend and thirty minutes beforehand, I was bawling into my husband’s chest that I couldn’t even stand up straight.  But I couldn’t complain – not after we’d tried for so long.  I couldn’t complain.  I couldn’t say this is awful.  I couldn’t tell anyone how I was feeling, that there were moments when I wondered if I was still being punished…  If, for some reason, the universe had to make sure I really wanted a baby.

The nausea got better, but has never gone away 100%.  The discomforts continued to pile up.  Complete exhaustion for one, and restless leg, insomnia, heartburn – you name it, I have it.

What I also have is the inability to enjoy this pregnancy.  I still cannot imagine what it will be like to have a real little infant in my arms.  I’m still detached from the images on the screen and have trouble relating that what I’m seeing is what’s happening inside my own body.  Even her movements make me nervous.  If I haven’t felt her for a while, I’m convinced that something is wrong – to the point where I refuse to take Benadryl to sleep because it reduces how much she moves and causes me extreme anxiety.

The pregnancy has progressed as it should, with a few hiccups.  I’m still high-risk and there’s a potential for an early induction due to personal circumstances that I won’t discuss here (despite how open I am, there are some things that can’t go on the internet).  Every visit to the doctor’s office is stressful still.  The other day, I couldn’t find a parking space.  When I finally did, and I was five minutes late, I couldn’t stop crying.  I could not stop crying.  I was a lunatic and my blood pressure showed it.  I couldn’t answer questions, got angry when asked things that I thought were dumb, and became convinced that something was wrong.  Alas, all is okay and after spending the remainder of the day napping and in bed, I was able to function once again in the morning.

Keith and I have finished the nursery, which has been a welcome distraction to the other concerns.  Somehow, it’s easier for me to plan for a new room than it is to think about the person who will be sleeping in it.  It’s easier for me to find a safe carseat or pick out the perfect shade of pink than it is to imagine her wrapped in that perfectly pink blanket.  It’s easier for me to be concerned about who’s going to mow the lawn and how am I going to get my hair dyed than it is to be concerned about caring for her.

It’s also taken me a long time to feel okay with sharing her photos or videos.  I blame myself for the infertility and I blame myself for how hard the pregnancy has been.  I blame myself for being a bad friend to the other infertiles by sharing anything joyous.  My heart breaks to think about the people who are still going through this journey and I feel isolated and alone in surviving it.

Yep.

I know that our little girl is a miracle.  I know that we beat the odds.  Don’t be an idiot and tell me it’s because we stopped trying.  That only throws me into a rage.  So, if we hadn’t been trying, would our babies have survived?  Would we not have had to endure the pain of a miscarriage just before Christmas if only we hadn’t been trying?  Or my other favorite – it’s because I lost weight.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I lost weight.  But that’s not why I got pregnant because I couldn’t get pregnant when I weighed the exact same amount in the past.  Surprise, surprise – I’ve been this weight before and we still were enduring chemical pregnancies and an inability to conceive.

I’m angry a little bit.  Angry at what we had to go through.  Angry that it took so long to work.  Angry that I’m 34 and pregnant and not 30 and pregnant.  Angry that it’s happened now, when Keith will be gone so much.  And I’m afraid.  Keith and I spent so much time just trying to make a new life that we never stopped to think about the impact that new life would have on us.  I’ve been so fixated on infertility that I never thought about what parenting looks like.

Infertility is a disease and it’s in some ways a lifelong one, even if you can overcome it.  It strips you of the ability to feel all that joy and excitement that every other pregnant woman seems to experience.  The glow that you have might be there physically, but it’s not inside.  You love your baby.  You probably even love your baby more than those who haven’t fought so hard for life’s little miracle.  But the fear is so overwhelming and paralyzing – the fate so already ingrained and accepted – that it is simply impossible to have a “normal” pregnancy.

Right now, we’re still awaiting some decisions about whether we’ll be inducing or holding out (we’re hoping for holding out, as is the doctor, but it’s not really in our power to make that decision).  And I’m still working hard to manage my prenatal depression (there’s another topic no one wants to talk about – even including me at this moment).  We’re in the home stretch, passed all the important dates for ensuring her survival, and can see the finish line coming up fast.  It’s still such a dream to me, like I’m going to wake up without this big belly in the morning and go back to what my life was meant to be.  I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop and, day-by-day, becoming a little more hopeful that there isn’t one.

Thanks for your patience and understanding.  To my infertile friends, I love you and I will never forget the pain of that process.  What it felt like to finally give up…  But I will also never know what it’s like to never succeed, and I won’t claim to.  There’s no magic formula that I can give you.  I don’t believe in those dumb things people say about relaxing and taking a break and getting okay in your own head.  That’s not why we’re pregnant.  We’re pregnant because of some fluke, and despite the negativity in my post today, I will be forever grateful for that fluke – for although I am struggling to see it, I know – I know with all my soul that this is about to be the greatest journey of my life.

Our baby is a rainbow baby because she’s conceived after a loss.  And she’s a unicorn baby because she’s the rare miracle after failed infertility treatments.  So, our baby is already being born with unicorns and rainbows, and if that’s not positive enough for you, I don’t know what is.

Our Infertility Story

Resolve.org

A few weeks ago it was National Infertility Awareness Week, and I thought it appropriate to be the week to finally post about our final journey with infertility.  But I never really got to it.  I kept rewriting this, and trying to figure out how to make it not sound angry or woe-is-me.  We want your empathy, not your sympathy, and I’m not sure I’ve achieved that.

But, it’s almost Mother’s Day – a day I have been dreading like no other, and I need you to know why.  I need you to know why, at least this Mother’s Day, I can’t celebrate.  I – we need you to not discount us as parents, because doing so would violate and hollow the miracle that is an angel baby.

Let me tell you what it actually feels like to go through this for three years and to end it all in the worst heartbreak I’ve ever felt.

This is a long post.  I realize that you might just want me to “get to the point,” but without the story, you can’t understand the heartbreak.

Infertility is a disease.  It’s a horrible, painful, heart-breaking disease.  It doesn’t start out that way.  You try for a few months and nothing, so you go to the doctor.  The doctor does a whole bunch of testing, and most of it’s all right (just bloodwork), but some of it hurts like hell.

Some of what hurts like hell is also embarrassing.  Take getting a hysterosalpingogram, or HSG for short.  They put you on a table with an x-ray machine above your pelvis, then inject dye into your uterus to check your tubes and the shape of your uterus.  It’s somewhat painful, and somewhat uncomfortable, but mostly embarrassing as twelve medical students stare at your private parts and you have to sit there, listening to the doctor explain how the fluid’s going through your tubes, forcing more in to get it “all the way up there” and then, as seems to be the case with every single test we’ve ever taken, there’s no answer.  Everything looks fine.

So, we moved on to actually trying treatments.  Months passed as we waited to get in to see the doctor, and when we did, we had to wait until my cycle’s in the perfect timing to start.  We began with Clomid, the devil drug.  Clomid is so much fun that you spend your days and nights going between sweating profusely and needing to live in your freezer to being so cold that you need an electric blanket in the summertime.  Keith hated the constant hot flashes too, as I made the room freezing cold, and then proceed to cover him and uncover him with the blanket all night long.  Oh, and I was friggin’ crazy too.  I went to the doctor every other day, and ultimately every day, as they watched my follicles grow.

Sometimes I had a lot of follicles, too many to do the IUI.  So, we waited, and started all over next month.  But, when we had few enough and they developed okay, we moved forward with the IUI, aka the turkey-baster method.  Keith, who’d already undergone his own embarrassing tests, did his duty and then they inserted a long, painful needle into my uterus in the hopes that the eggs and the sperm have some fun.

Resolve.org

Then, it didn’t work.  We did it again and again.  And it didn’t work.  So, we moved on to using gonadotropins, i.e. needles.  We had to pay thousands of dollars for this medication, and then inject it every night after visiting the doctor nearly every single day to have my body bled dry.  The medicine stung, and I had to mix it and inject it at the exact same time everyday to be safe.  Oh – and then my body was moving too fast, so I had to inject other painful medicine to prevent me from ovulating before injecting more medication to make me ovulate.

Then, it didn’t work.  We did it again and again and again and again.  And it didn’t work.  But I have loads of stories about injecting myself in public restrooms, on the bleachers at luaus, among other places, and carrying around refrigerated bags to keep my meds cool.   Don’t forget the side effects!  I gained weight, went crazy, and wasn’t able to control my emotions, so Keith prepared for the hell of crying and screaming one moment, being blissfully happy the next, and being hated the next…  On and on it goes, and I was hot, all the friggin’ time.  So hot that I needed the a/c in winter.

Then, I got cysts.  Yeah, you’ve never had cysts before?  Prepare to get cysts.  And if you have cysts, hope that you don’t have TRICARE Prime because those doctors at the clinic have no idea that fertility medications cause cysts, or what to do when you show up with a gigantic one.

So, now that we’ve spent thousands of dollars, our doctor thought its time to either stop, or move on to in vitro fertilization, or IVF for short.  Let me tell you how FUN this is!  First, you dig out your bank account and hand over the entirety of it to your doctor.  Yeah, that’s like $14,000 up-front.  Then, you got through all of the same fun needles that you did for your IUI, except at ten times the rate of medication.  Take those horrible side effects and triple them – no, wait, it’s like ten times worse.  And you’ll go to the doctor’s office even more because they’ll be all afraid of cysts.

Once my eggs have gotten large enough, and there are enough of them, I had surgery!  Oh, it’s so much fun.  We went into the office, waited, then I got completely sedated in the most uncomfortable position ever, and the doctor harvested my eggs with a gigantic needle.  It only takes about a half hour, but I was woosey for a while, and cramped like crazy.  Ibuprofen won’t touch the devil in your uterus!  (And Keith got called back to work to take a stupid test – the SINGLE DAY he asked off for his wife’s surgery.  Ugh.)

Then, we waited.  They try to make embryos with your eggs and your hubby’s sperm.  We paid up the ying-yang for ICSI because, well, we were going all the way.  A few days later, they told us that we had six embryos that looked good.  We froze four and scheduled the embryo transfer for two.  I had the embryo transfer alone – apparently one of the very few to show up alone for that procedure.

Then, we waited.  But – during the waiting period – I got gigantic needles stuck in my butt at exactly the same time every single night.  Keith’s out to sea?  Call a neighbor or a friend.  Have a nurse friend show everyone how to do it.  Thank goodness for good friends.

Forget about sitting for the waiting period.  The shots hurt, and I got these balls of pain in my behind that made sitting and sleeping difficult.  I did everything right, but it just happens that way.  I had bruises and eventually lost the embarrassment of everyone staring at my butt, and got over the fact that I had to be home at 6:00pm every single day without fail.

Then, it didn’t work.  I actually got my period before I even went in to see if it worked.  And no one seemed to care at the infertility office that it didn’t work, except the amazingly kind woman who takes my blood.  So, we’d spent $14,000 in addition to the thousands previously, all hormoned-up and in pain, with nothing to show.  I cried.  Probably every day for a while.  And I was alone.  Keith was out to sea when he got the news.  It sucked.  It sucked so bad.  Then, we gathered up the courage to try again.

Luckily, this time we don’t have to get the eggs.  They’re already done.  So, we forked over another $4,000 or so and then started other oral hormones that drove me nuts – hot flashes, emotional breakdowns, sleepless nights.  It was miserable.  And then, I had another embryo transfer with two little snowflakes and was hopeful again.  The shots start back up and they’re just as painful as before.

Miraculously, I got pregnant.  Of course, I was technically pregnant when they did the transfer, but this time there’s HCG in my blood.  It wasn’t much – just 12, but I hoped.  And when it’s 87 shortly after, I hoped even more.  When it keeps going up, I hoped and hoped and hoped and hoped throughout the days and weeks, and Keith and I eventually went and bought some baby shoes to put on the Christmas Tree.  No one even noticed at the holiday party.  The shots turned into the most painful experiences of my life and poor Keith could barely give them to me as I screamed as soon as the needle went in.

Sayinggoodbye.org

Then, I started bleeding in the middle of the night.  I woke up Keith, we cried, and we went to the ultrasound, and there he or she was – just fine – hanging out.  The little peanut.  And we hoped again.

Two days before Christmas, the baby was gone.  And I cried.  I cried so much sometimes, and then others couldn’t cry or function or move.  Do you know how we were told?  “Yep, looks like a miscarriage…  Do you have any questions?”

Christmas was pretty awful.  We kept our secret.  We went on with our lives like nothing had happened.  We cried, more than I’d like to admit.  It was Christmas and we didn’t want to ruin it for anyone.  Then it was New Year’s and we didn’t want to ruin that.  Then Keith was gone and I didn’t want to tell anyone without him, and then reality set in.

Our baby died.  Our sweet, sweet Christmastime hope.  I carried that baby every second of his or her life, and we will love that baby for the rest of ours.  We loved that baby with all the love possible from two people.  We grieved a tremendous loss.  And no one knew.  We were alone in our grief, alone in our remembrance, and it was too much to bear.  What’s worse is this was not the first baby I mourned.

I read an article about a woman who had a miscarriage and had trouble talking about it:

“Years later, I still think about that miserable afternoon at work and how much easier it would have been if I’d just exhaled the truth.  If I could have let people say, ‘I’m so sorry.’  If I hadn’t had to pretend that it was a normal day even as I was in the grips of soul-swallowing grief…  Because the only thing worse than losing something that meant the world to you is pretending that you lost nothing.”

http://www.labelledame.com/

And then I told a few friends.  And it was the best decision I could have made.  We never should have kept it a secret.  We needed to grieve – and we still grieve.  We needed to break the silence.

Were we parents?  The infertile community says yes.

“Am I still a mother, as I have no child with me?’  My reply is this, “If you have held a child in your womb, you are a mother, and I can think of no one who deserves that accolade more than those who have had to give their child back.

If you’ve never experienced a miscarriage, if you’ve never known the heartbreak of losing a dream so close to your heart, then you can never, ever understand what it feels like.  And, even though I’m sharing this post with you, and trying to give you some sense of it, please don’t assume you can relate.

The truth is that was a turning point for us and my biggest fear was hearing someone say, “At least you can get pregnant.”  Do you tell someone whose father died, “At least your mother isn’t dead?”

It hurt for a long time, and it still hurts, but there was this wash of relief that we both felt.  Three of the four years of our relationship were spent trying to get pregnant.  Do you know what it’s like to give up your body, your mind, your life to fertility treatments?  To put your entire life on hold, to spend every waking moment engulfed in this journey?

What was worse was the misinformation.  The “it will happen for you” people, who we know said what they said in love, but don’t understand that making that statement only helps us feel like failures, because it didn’t happen for us.  “What’s meant to be will be,” is another good one, and “Everything happens for a reason.”  Really?  Do I even need to address these?

The hardest were those that thought the process was easy, and couldn’t understand why we were hurting.  “Just do IVF.”  Okay, so just write us a check.  Just fly to Hawaii to help me deal with the side effects.  Or, better yet – blame it on my mental health.  Tell me how much harder it must be because I experience anxiety and depression.  Yes, we dealt with that kind of cruelty and ignorance.

We never thought it would be harder to deal with some of our friends and family than with infertility itself, and if you’re reading this, please check yourself.

After the miscarriage, we let go.

Letting go felt freeing.  We didn’t let go of that baby that we had, that we loved.  That baby will forever be in our hearts, but we let go of the pain and the exhaustion and the dream about being a family, and accepted that we can have a wondrous life with a family of two.

Since then, recovery has begun.  I’m back on the medicine that I had to give up, my weight’s way down, and I’m no longer experiencing all of the horrendous symptoms of being pumped full of hormones.  The grief is still fresh, however, and it’s going to take a long time to get back to being the couple that we want to be.  Recovery simply takes time.  Grief isn’t a wound that heals quickly.

Resolve.org

Today, life has changed.  It’s an entirely new world, one in which Keith and I start over, leaving these painful three-plus years behind us.

My heart has changed.  Don’t get me wrong – I have always wanted to be a mother, but now, I have found so much peace in the acceptance that I am the mom of some very special angel babies, and that’s enough for a lifetime.

I no longer find myself wishing away on Pinterest nursery boards, and instead think about our future together.  I have come to the finish line, and even if you were to place a check at my feet, I would not take it.  I no longer wish for miracles.  Although I am still walking this road, I no longer dream of children.  In fact, my heart has experienced such freedom from this prison of infertility that I sometimes fall asleep in the comfort that – gasp, can my mind go there? – I no longer want children.

It is still a long road ahead.

Thank you for making it to the end of this post.  I don’t expect that many will, but I hope that they do.  I hope that our story, no matter the outcome, helps others understand what it is to go through infertility.  I hope that this effort helps bring the “awareness” to infertility that this week calls for.  And, I hope that for those who have gone through this, I hope that you know you have a friend, someone who’s been there and who gets it without saying a word.  That, my friends and family, is really the most important thing that every infertile needs – your quiet love.

Remember our little one in your thoughts when you can, we’ll never forget our baby in heaven.

Please visit Resolve’s website for more information on National Infertility Awareness Week and other great information about supporting couples experiencing fertility challenges.

An Attitude of Gratitude

“The ship of my life may or may not be sailing on calm and amiable seas.  The challenging days of my existence may or may not be bright and promising.  Stormy or sunny days, glorious or lonely night, I maintain an attitude of gratitude.  If I insist on being pessimistic, there is always tomorrow.”

Maya Angelou

I finally know what happiness is.

In the most frustrating, unkind, and tear-stained moments of my life, I find myself grateful for it all.  I find myself actually believing in optimism for the very first time.  My life is more than good.  And all the incredible blessings that come with each day far outweigh the sorrows.

Our tenant has decided to stop paying rent, and it means a long, expensive battle in court.  I’m not looking forward to it, and I’m certainly not looking forward to paying the attorney fees when we’re already drowning in personal expenses from a home renovation, over-the-top vacation, and move half-way across the world.  Don’t get me wrong, we’re doing all right, but we could use some time without getting hit by a massive unexpected bill.

It also means that my time is taken away by hours of endless phone calls, emails, and frustrating nightmares about our home being destroyed, or me needing to spend weeks back in Toga, painting and fixing and paying people to do the fixing that I can’t.  I don’t want to manage this huge undertaking of evicting a tenant, but what can you do?  We’re not slumlords, and we’re not professional landlords, so the rental income literally covers our expenses to keep our home for whenever we want to return.

But, despite losing our time and money to this, and despite this year’s other setbacks in terms of health, fertility, and the increasing distance between us and our loved ones, there is no real, true, deep hurt.  It’s like I’m finally healed after so many years of brutal battle.  Not everything’s made right, but I am.  I am whole, and that’s a bulletproof vest.

It is strange to feel so blessed.  Strange to feel joy without the anxiety that the next hour will bring disaster.  I feel okay.  I feel like we’ll make it work, no matter how difficult that making it work will be.

I’d like to give my husband all the credit for my feeling this way, but I can’t.  Don’t get me wrong, he deserves a large chunk of it – maybe even the majority of it – but I’ve worked really hard to get to this place.  I’ve worked on myself, who I am, and who I want to be, and finally, in these small moments, I realize that I am that woman that I’m proud of.  I am that dream of me, with a few miles left to go.