I have been alluding to some medical issues recently, not quite ready to elaborate. Mostly because it seemed like my little bits of stuff was typical-ish. Nothing special or extreme. Nothing to warrant much of a concern. When I found out that I was granted state medical coverage when W was I was pleased, but not because I thought anything was really wrong. I just thought it would be nice to not have to use a coupon to get a pap smear. Good to have a physical performed by someone that wasn’t mostly concerned with either getting me pregnant, staying pregnant or giving birth.

I have been to the doctor twice now, have had multiple visits to the blood lab, and oddly enough I have yet to have that pap smear.

These appointments have been like hunting and gathering. A simple question of, “do you have any questions or concerns about your health?” evolves into a fireside chat. At the first visit we discussed my weight, more specifically my total inability to lose it. You know how a lot of women lose weight after birth? And you know how some women lose weight when breastfeeding? Um, neither of those happened for me. No matter how much or little I ate, how much or how little I walked around the block, my weight clung to me.

But I figured this was sort of average. I have read lots of articles in women’s magazines about not being able to drop “baby weight”, how our bodies can completely and totally change shape. So my weight issues felt like a superficial complaint.

I also talked about how I felt like my anti-depressant medication wasn’t working, how I just felt so sluggish and tired all of the time, how my joints seemed sore all of the time. Again- things that just seemed typical to someone 2 degrees away from being homeless, and 11 months post birth, after 5 years of infertility, and nearly 6 months mourning the loss of a loved one.

But then we looked at my blood work. And we factored in the freaky reality that I have grown a full inch in height since giving birth to W. And more tests were ordered. More detailed questions asked.

The wonderful thing is that while I am fat, I do not have fat blood. No warning bells for heart disease or diabetes or cholesterol issues. But something was wonky. I bet some of you already guessed it. Thyroid problems.

It took the second blood tests to confirm the issue and from that I was given a very specific diagnosis of Hashimoto’s thyroiditis. (Hashimoto? Isn’t he an Iron Chef??) Also found out that I have rheumatoid arthritis- which just makes me feel OLD. It all adds up to one not so fun party of autoimmune disorders going on in my body.

Now I know what you are thinking- EVERY fat girl thinks they have a thyroid problem. Turns out this one actually does. I’m just thrilled that it seems like some of the problems I was dealing with are most likely not a resurfacing of the intracranial hypertension hell I went through a few years ago.

Some of the problems that I have could dissipate easily with one pill a day (that I will probably have to take for the rest of my life). It sucks to have a myriad of seemingly unconnected symptoms, but to then have them all woven together to point to something fixable is fantastic. (oh & wouldn’t you know fertility is one of the things affected…)

I go back to my doctor later this week and we will begin the treatment conversation. I can not wait to feel better.

Don’t get me wrong, I am still a massive lover of the snow, but oh my lawd has this pocket of sunshine been wonderful. Glorious even. Usually such bright light illuminates all of the gunk in my life, all of the unkempt chaos itching away at me. But today I allowed the sun to be warmth, comfort, easy.

The turn in mood began yesterday afternoon when an e-mail arrived letting us know that we had won a local lottery. No, not a monetary, balloons and megaphones kind of lottery, but a once in a lifetime Willy Wonka kind of lottery: we got tickets to the White House Egg Roll. Suddenly there was something huge and exciting to look forward to. Something to plan for.

It also helped de-stress something that I had been stressing about: W’s first birthday. I have been cringing about it. Not necessarily over the beautiful passage of time, but because when you are literally living out of your suitcase, etc planning a party, or even thinking about planning a party is just something of a novelty and not an actuality.

(& I absolutely know that first birthdays are not really for the kids, but for the parents, but I can’t deny that I didn’t have a wee bit of pining and sadness over not being able to DO anything to mark the day in any sort of grand way…)

But now. Now! Birthday party at the White House. Yay!

Today I went over to LJ’s house to sit at her beautifully shod feet and soak up all of the learning that she has been getting in her digital photography classes. I am totally self taught with my own camera and don’t know much about being in control of a shot. We spent just about the entire day following W & V around the house and the yard photographing them in various settings and getting beyond geeked out about light.

Yes. Light. Total aha moment about that as I was driving back. I have been in search of, in a quest for, light. I am sitting in the dark and scary shadows of my life right now just craving the light. So having a moment where I could control, and dare I say harness, the light was empowering beyond words. I don’t know how to put this power into my actual life.

Which is why I am thinking my increase in medication might be working. Because I want to be in the light, I want to be optimistic and hopeful. I need to be. I must be.

Here is a photo of the alphabet boys in LJ’s yard. An elderly lady walked by and asked if they were twins. Which of course is just all kinds of funny.

(by the way my limericks are up for a vote over at Weebles Webblog…you know, if you want to vote for me or something. No pressure. cough*cough)

You are welcome for not going into allllll the details of my anxiety right now but my anxiety cup runneth over. Like total double d’s of anxiety in a victoria secret zebra print demi cup.  Maybe I will vent/purge/share when I am not so emotional, but I just felt the need to put it out there- I’m not in such a great place.

A group of friends call this time “going into the blanket tent”. When the world is falling down around you sometimes the most comforting place is under a make-shift fort made out of old blankets. But it can get dark in there, and lonely. And I do have an awful habit of boxing away and retreating when things get really hard. So instead of crawling into the fort on my own I am leaving a flap of blanket flipped up so that some light or friendly faces can shine in.

Last night, in the dark thirty hours of the evening, I was awake reading articles from the New York Times on my phone. I came across this one and it made me pause. I think 3am isn’t the best and most profound hour for reading comprehension so throughout the day I found myself processing.

Two refills ago my pepto colored pills  suddenly changed to pale barney purple. And since then every effing morning I look at the pill in my hand and think, “It’s Fred.”

I honestly don’t know if I would really notice if my antidepressants were placebos. I think part of what makes the pills effective (for me) is knowing that it is a proactive step towards my own mental health. Would they be more effective if I was having a side dish of therapy? Hells yes.

I think I fall into a category of depressed called, “I can get myself out of bed but some days I don’t see the point.” But some days I fall into the, “I can’t process what you* are saying to me because all I hear is how much you hate me and what a stupid, ugly, awful, lame loser I am.” (& by “you” I could very well mean the gal ringing up my groceries) I can become utterly irrational within my depression. And the shitty part is that I am aware of it.

But I continue to take my purple pills and whisper to myself how much worse I might be without them. I took myself off of them a few months back to see if it was an economical thing to do like canceling cable. And within a week I felt off. I felt freaked out.

And I wished that I had a professional person to talk to. (um. Instead I blogged. woo!)

It’s always going to revert back to health insurance with me. I’ll take a gander that some people that are prescribed antidepressants might be better candidates for talk therapy. I certainly know (raising my hand) that I would have a better mental health if I could have the pill/therapy combo.

But what worries me about this study that the article mentions, is that for every person running to their doctor looking for a shortcut to removing Chekov from their bedside table there are loads of people staying in and fretting about the damn stigma that exists about antidepressants.

And now there is the study that is all, “sugar pills!! neener! neener!”

I am opting to believe that my pills are working because I want them to work. Just like the people that drive around with Hawaiian leis roped around their rear-view mirror think that they are on a beautiful sandy beach. (right? Is that why every third car has one??)

So how about a little Monday morning poll to brighten up your day:

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hopeful, hopeful, hopeful.

Mother had a good phone call with the recruiter for the Omaha job. We are now waiting and hoping for the next higher ups to call her. And you know, they don’t always call.

And sure, when I thought about where our future might be I honestly did not think about Omaha. No offense to Nebraska. But me? In a flyover state? Maybe. After talking to some locals and checking out lots of stuff on line I think it could be nice. Keep us in your jobby thoughts please. Seriously.

So a few days ago the last bit of savings left the bank account. The talking heads on your morning shows will suggest that you have 6 months of savings set aside for if/when disaster such as unemployment happens. That we made things last 8+ months is pretty awesome. The fact that the shadow of unemployment has been haunting us for 8+ months sucks huge, giant, epic donkey nuts.

And when the savings are gone and rent is due in a week you end up making sacrifices. Or, more to the point, Mother just sold her car. Now if you know my Mother you know that what is now her previous car was the perfect, iconic, car for her. She was a hot babe in this car. The car also had magical powers and was able to always put her in a wonderful mood.

I think it bought us another two or three months of bills/rent. I hope it did. At least it gives us time to get a bunch of stuff on ebay/Craig’s list. It won’t get either one of us health insurance and we think Mother’s cobra is or is about to be canceled. We’ll find out in the morning when we call to schedule a mammogram.

This isn’t a pity post. This is just our reality. We are putting our heads down and trying to plow through the best we can. As my Mother often says, “we are looking forward to looking back on this.” (but really? no fucking way will I remember this era of the saga fondly)

Honestly I feel pretty numb and sad. I am just gutted that such a sacrifice needed to be made. But at least this should keep the eviction nightmares quiet for a few weeks. And who needs a convertible in Nebraska, right?

I’ve been a bit in denial about BG Talula.  I look at the calendar and realize that with W turning 11 weeks it now makes it 10 weeks that she has been missing. Ten.

A few days ago I returned the safe trap back to the neighbor that had lent it to me. This is the neighbor that is basically the go-to person for all things animal in our community. If there is a hurt or killed cat or dog she is the one that is called. As I returned the trap I felt so empty and like such a failure. But this is beyond just opening the back door and calling, “kitty”, every night. Ten weeks is a lot of missing.

The neighbor said that she really felt like BG T had been adopted by someone that found her (she bases this feeling on the fact that no one has called her otherwise). It is a nice thought to think that she is ok and that maybe she is being loved and taken care of. But realistically it doesn’t feel possible.

I have accepted that I will never see her again. It breaks my heart in a million slivers. She was the best friend in the worst of times and the best friend in the best. She saw me through crazy days in Hollywood, moving to the south,  learning how to take care of GM, and was the only source of comfort during all the years of trying for a baby. That she barely met W makes me incredibly sad, and then it makes me feel guilty. Maybe W is the reason why she left in the first place.

I will miss her always. And I will always hold onto this pocket sized bit of hope that she will come back.

BG T in the beginning- she would come to work with me

In a sea of Grovers

I will never stop missing you.

So this sort of hovering sadness and anxiety is still hovering, dangling and wallowing above me. Pushing sadness out is now pretty much all I try to do and even that has left me exhausted. I feel like such an asshole for even being depressed right now. I mean here I am mere weeks away from realizing the number one life goal that I set for myself and yet I am not bouncing for joy. Don’t get me wrong I am so fucking thrilled that the Snork is going to be a part of my life. But what slays me is just how unsteady life is right now.

Things with GM are so so. The actual care facility is amazing and her health is leaps and bounds above where we could have gotten it had she continued to stay at home. But every visit, as her physical health improves, we deal with the now front and center chaos of her Alzheimer’s. That means that every conversation is filled with GM’s own depression and awareness that she is not home with us, every visit involves at least 30 minutes of her begging and pleading with us to take her home, every time we have a moment of love and contact it flinches away and ebbs onto an hour long diatribe of paranoia, anxiety, fear, doom.

Visiting GM is hard. As I am sure many of you that have loved ones in nursing homes can attest, it can be brutal. Just trying to be upbeat and happy and joyful in the midst of whatever is going on with her is a lot.

Then of course there is the huge cliff of the unknown that Mother and I are hurling towards. I can’t even write about the job sitch without going utterly numb in the fingers. And here is the totally selfish confession: I am pissed off. Annoyed even. Aren’t I lovely?

But truth be told I always thought that once I got to this place, you know the utopia of infertility, that I would have some time to just wallow in the bliss of it all. That I would have a break to adjust and learn and ease in. I put my life on hold for over six hears to take care of GM. I abandoned personal plans and goals, sacrificed friendships, basically worked endlessly without any financial gain. That I can’t just fucking relax right now makes me FURIOUS at the Universe.

And then of course I feel like a tool for being mad. Like I should just suck it up and get over myself.

But I have been trying to put on a brave face and think outside of the box and look to the future and it isn’t working. I’m in this headspace where I worry nonstop about what kind of Mother I will be if I can’t even rally in this moment. How will I take care of Snork when I don’t feel safe or secure? What is it about me that brings all of this chaos?

This is why I am just so not in a rush for Snork to be born. When my OB told me this past thursday that my cervix was very, very soft and that Snork could realistically come any day now I looked at my OB’s sweet face and did not feel the glee. That is not to say that I did not have a moment of excitement, but it is hard to get to the happy place when all of the external stuff outside of my gut is like the 2nd act of a Chekhov play.

And see now I am certain that I am coming off as some horrible and ungrateful wench. But I am trying to purge all of this angst and sadly for ya’ll this blog is my safe place. I want so so so badly to push through all of this. To get back to my Pollyanna roots and be able to skate on silver linings. I also wish that I could fix everything myself. And right now I just can’t. And that sucks huge, massive ass.

I feel a bit down in the doldrums and am pushing through it. Promise.

Something happened this weekend that brought me swiftly back to a specific time in my life. It was just a little story on the news, but instantly I was back in my old life circa 1997-2002. Last night I had vivid dreams about picking up dry cleaning and firing actresses. I woke up with deep, deep anxiety. Seriously I was all in a sweat and my heart was racing.

I have had stupid dreams about my old life out west often, but usually the sick feeling will sort stay with me for several hours. This morning I am proud to say that I woke up, acknowledged the anxiety and then just told myself the truth: that is not my life anymore. It will never be my life again. I have moved on.

One of the sick and fucked up things about infertility is that you can never really escape your past. Each active cycle has residual emotions from a previous cycle. And then I imagine that even once you get pregnant there is still the dirt and grime clinging to you, that ick and fear of waiting for the shit storm that that you are all too familiar with to happen. I wonder if having an actual child after infertility is like the biggest mind blow. Are you suddenly free or do you feel like at any moment it could all be over?

When I was briefly pregnant in late December, early January I was miserable. Honestly. Not physically. But mentally I was completely in a constant state of dread. I knew that if something horrible happened that it would be unlike any horrible I had ever known. A specific emotion that I had witnessed in friends and loved ones, but never really walked through.

And I could beat myself up about it. I am really damn good at self blame. Maybe in my darkest, quiet moments there is still a little part of me that thinks that my doubts made me unpregnant. But I don’t really think I did something. I think shit happens. And it sucks ass when it does.

This weekend I was talking to Sarah about some mirroring personal attitude changes that we both have been working on. She told me about a book that had helped her with her internal shift. I am going to nudge her to blog about it because she is so beautifully eloquent on the subject. But during one of our rapid fire e-mails I told her that I had finally really turned a corner on my depression. I mean sure the medication helps, maybe it even saved me, but I think it also got me to a place where I could evaluate. Elevate.

Things I have let go:

my old job out west

my inability to win lost friendships back

body hating (ok, totally a work in progress, but when I say I have a fat ass I do it with MUCH more love)

and…big shocker (at least to me): infertility

The personal statement that is rocking my world right now: I can’t change the things that can’t be changed.

I shared this with Mother late last night and she reminded me of the Serenity Prayer and something else clicked. Hating on myself, being suffocated by depression, wallowing in the misery of infertility- those were addictions for me. I was (am) addicted to the sadness. It is comforting and familiar and easy to hid in. It doesn’t push me or challenge me, it keeps me anchored down.

So I am going to be working on letting it all go. I can’t change so much, but I can change how I deal with it.

What are you letting go? How can we help each other?