Forks on the river

 When one looks at the river on the map, you cannot help but observe that the rivers often have turns and forks. Rivers naturally do not go straight, and that is what we experience on our lives as well. 

The COVID-19 pandemic offered a new fork on the river I found myself on.  Nevertheless, there was a discovery that my introversion benefit greatly during the COVID-19 pandemic.  Staying home?  No biggie. Not having to socialize with people?  No problem! 

However, I found a hardship with not having family to rely on, with family living in other states.  The majority of friends live in other states as well.  So introversion had a buffed sense of social isolation, however not totally.  I found myself thinking of many ways to, let say, ease the severity of depression.  Often I found myself driving, with invasive thoughts, or I would be preparing a meal, with a thought, on how sharp the knife was.  

The only anchor was my Lola, the sweet pekingese dog.  Cuddling with her, taking her out for walks, and welcoming conversations outside with people who wanted to say hi to Lola.   

Lola had been there through my infertility journey, and again I found her steadfast during the pandemic. 

When the vet told me Lola had kidney disease in late 2022, with an estimate of up to a year to live, I started thinking how can I live without her?  How can I handle this new fork in my life?   

Loving Lola, tweaking her diet, and increasing dog socialization, Lola became  the center of my life. 

Unexpectedly, I was informed that a puppy had been born- I had asked for a puppy in 2019, but after several attempts, failed pregnancies and stillborn puppies, I forgot about being on the waiting list.  

An email showed up, with a photo of a puppy, eyes still closed, and so "here is your puppy!" from the breeder.   I started to feel guilty and angry, wondering how I could basically love this puppy when I am grieving for Lola, sitting next to me?  How could I deal with this budding fork?  The kayak is starting to wobble. 

I trusted my gut that told me to accept the puppy, and so I welcomed Remy into our  home in early 2023. Lola was already starting to lose weight, but with Remy's arrival, she somehow had gained weight.  They started to play, which was astonishing at that point, when Lola had been sleeping a lot back then, but now starting to act like a puppy herself.   

The vet said that kidney disease had stopped advancing, and stayed steady at stage 2. I started to feel hopeful that Lola could live longer.  The river became calm.  

Do you know that hope can be the most cruel invention ever?  

By April 2024, Lola had started showing symptoms of organ failure, I recognized it was time to let her go.  I brought Remy with us as I took Lola to the vet who had known her all her life, and so could respect the transition.  At that time, I looked back at the river of memories, and realized Lola had a full loving life, the best one could ever ask for.  And she was ready to let go, and I could not deny her.  

Lola was content to sleep on my lap, as she let go, and Remy rested his head on Lola's back as she passed away.   I realized Lola HAD stayed longer to make sure that Remy knows how to take care of me, as I take care of them.  Lola left her heart with me, and I will always miss her.  Remy will be there with me.  

Remy and I are exploring this new fork in our lives. Together.

Updates for 2014-2015

I said I'd be doing the bucket list last time I posted here- and forgot about it all.

Is that bad? Nope.  That told me that my life kept me busy.

I have increased in volunteering, participating in social justice and reproductive justice activism lately!    However to talk about my social justice activism would make it all about me, not the communities that the spotlight need to be on.  Please read blogs by women of color; participate in groups run by trans people; and listen with no intention to interrupt or go 'but' to stories of disabled people.  

************

I saw the play "Our Town"  in January 2014.     All I can say is.. it blew me away.     If the play comes to your town, go see it!     Yes, it may feel boring- stick to it and you'll realize how accurate it is to your life.

Actors Theater's 'Our Town'

*************

In the past two years, I had been pressured to give/donate some labyrinth paintings I created to organizations or individuals.    I had not felt comfortable with that; yes I even resented that encouragement, pressure.   That included being asked to give workshops on labyrinth mediation/walking for free.    What gives?   Do one really think that art or education should be free all the time?  

When I paint, that includes the cost of materials, frame, canvas, length of time- could cost between $75-200.  Yet when I put $90-350 on the paintings, I am told that I am greedy.  !!!

When I come to do a labyrinth workshop, that includes mileage, cost of gas, hotel stay, sometimes rental of the room, length of time, and time away from my job.   Yet when I check whether they will pay me for the workshop, (usually 200-450), I'm told that they cannot afford that.  Yet it's okay for me to pay to fill up my gas, drive 150 miles, and pay for overnight stay at the hotel. Okay......

So I had dug my heels in and said no more, I'm not gonna donate/give paintings away, nor do my workshops for free anymore.   Did that stop people?  Nope-   others realized the value- I had sold six paintings in the last six months!  To me,that's a big step.  Workshops-  I had been asked to do a workshop later this year, and they made an offer to pay for the hotel stay and my airfare, so to me, that's a fair trade.


In 2014, I had gone to the Michigan Womyn's Musical Festival, in which I had fallen in love with.  For the first time ever in my life, I felt safe. I could walk down the road at 3am, not looking over my shoulder, which I did so- walking under the moonlight!  Camped among fellow spirits.  Only one minus about that was that there were no workshops about infertility/childless choice/not by choice.  I recall telling members who have been attending the festival for many years as they could recall, that there IS a labyrinth built on the land, and to be told "no there isn't, unless you mean the labyrinth by ribbon over there."  I was persistent- following my gut, and I found the stone labyrinth!  It had been built a long time ago, so many old members let it slide from their memories.

I came back in 2015, saddened that it would be the last year for the festival.  Heartened that I got to give a workshop on the labyrinth walking- in end, the attendees got to see the stone labyrinth- lets hope that whatever happens to the land, the stone labyrinth will be always be there.  This time, my best friend Roni came and experienced the magic of the festival.  I also volunteered most of the time at the orientation/welcome area, the Deaf haven and the kitchen.  I realized from 2014, volunteering was where I was most happy, and so I did that again last year.


I walked in the 2014 Zombie Walk in Louisville- it was a blast of fun!    Saw so many zombies, yet so little time to see them all!
















I took a break from writing the book, since I found myself stuck with the 'writer's block' (obviously here too in the blog!).

For 2014 and 2015 Goodreads, of 150 and 200 books, achieved, although realizing that with that pressure in the last year, I found myself disinterested in reading. So for now, I'm not going to read just for the sake of 'Goodreads' goals, but for my own pleasure.

In 2015, I had done some travels-  to NJ, OH, IN, CO and KS.

I had also lost my grandmother, June back in July.  Throughout growing up, she had been there a steadfast anchor for me.  When relatives hesitated in learning sign language, she dived in and became skillful so we can communicate to each other- she made sure that I was part of the family, instead of staying in the shadows.  She encouraged me greatly to start reading when I was a toddler; she fanned the flames of reading within me, non-stopping in handing me books to consume.  In the last years, she had been a shadow of who she was, due to dementia, no longer remembering anyone, not even me the last time I saw her. So when I got the news she died, I explored the mixture of grief and relief at the same time- feeling relief that her suffering had ended, yet grieving that she is gone.    At the funeral, I wrote her eulogy, echoing her values in reading and writing.  I still miss her.

And my VW Jetta Sweetheart, bought in 2003, had bit the dust only two months ago.  I got a new Kia Soul-   more room for camping trips!

Looking back, the bucket list have looked harder than it was, and so I decided for the next five years, I will stick to the five goals.

Pay off Debt
Travel out of country
Save
Buy/Build a tiny house.
Re-assess my life and see where I want to go from here.

And for the childless not by choice part in my life?    I realized that I AM a mother in other ways.  To my furkids, I am their mom. I am an aunt spoiling my 3 years old nephew, who now finds himself a Star Wars fan like me, and the twins(boy and girl!) just born to my brother and sister-in-law two months ago.  Being a mentor to several young women is enriching.  So in general, I have made peace with the childless aspect.   Of course, the book about me is unfinished, there is a lot more to write- the plot may change.  And you know what? I look forward to surprises popping up on the next few pages.

Still Alive.

I had forgotten the password for this blogspot, and I wasn't in any hurry to restore that.

Have been very busy lately, with classes, volunteering, local activities and moderating three Facebook groups, on top of providing workshops here and there.

So yes, I'm still alive.

Will catch up with the bucket list for 2014, and some updates soon.

And yes, I survived the third anniversary two weeks ago-  on that day, it was finally snowing after months of no snow.  Instead of feeling the drowning grief of the first anniversary or emotional numbness of the second anniversary, I felt passive resignation.

Well, that's a step toward healing.

(artist unknown, if you know who, please let me know so I can credit) 

Love me

Have been full up to my ears, Ha!  

So hadn't time to check in with my blog for a long while, which is both good and not so good.  

One reason I have to come to a consideration, (which might be a sensitive spot for some readers), is that whenever I write about my infertility, my sorrow, my frustrations, I find myself in a cycle of depression, clockwise.  

And I don't like that.  

I have been out of state several times, including YES, the MICHIGAN'S WOMYN MUSIC FESTIVAL!!!  That experience walking on the Land under the moonlight, seeing womyn drum and dance, and of laughter and tears among us, I cannot really describe it.   How can you describe the color red to someone blind?  This is similar to whenever I try to describe the event. 

I have been increasing busy in activism, including reproductive justice, domestic violence, awareness of Deaf community/American Sign Language, and my beloved passion, labyrinths.  

Does it mean I have forgotten or pushed aside my infertility? 

No. I still find myself feeling sad, but the frequency and length of experiencing sorrow had stretched to the point that it feels like a soft headsmack, when occurring now and then. Not so like the baseball bat slam that I'd frequently experienced in my heart in the first year, or the cold water bath in my face in the second year.   AND I enjoyed holding a baby earlier this summer, which was a HUGE step for me, to the point that I'd keep looking for opportunities to hold her when possible during that week of camping.  

After two years, I feel it is safe to say that yes it is still hard that I am not anywhere near to my goal of having a child, either by adoption or foster care.  Being deaf is its own obstacle, imagine that.   So that's the battle ongoing in my life.  

When I have time, I'll write more. 

So on this note, I will leave this for you-    love y'all, love me.  

Good point.

for folks who can't read tiny words

"Why do people do that?   Deny that they've ever done anything wrong in a relationship. Why can't people just take responsibility for their shit and move on?" 

Enuff said.

Life goes on.

This month had thrown a lot of cold water in my face repeatedly.

 A new medical condition.  Finance struggles.  A dying friend. 

The medical condition- I'm currently working on it.  I'll live.

Finance struggles- I'm currently working on it.  I'll survive.  

The dying friend?  Not so.  

I knew she was suffering in great pain, yet I was telling myself she'll recover.  She will be okay- just give it a bit more time.  

I was at work when I got the call to come to the hospital.  It took me three hours, and I was not familiar with the area of hospitals (why do some hospitals have to cluster together in one area?!). So I decided to park somewhere in an underground garage parking, thinking I'll find out where the right building is once I get to the first floor and ask.   I got on the elevator, and pressed the button for the first floor.  

The doors opened to a scene that I'd rather go without.

Labor & Delivery- registration.   

Pregnant women waiting to check in.

Definitely cold-water shock!    

I quickly left the floor as I could, but I was already reeling in shock.  I was outside, focusing on not railing at the world publicly.   I managed to find the right building (three buildings away).   Walking down the hallway, I found myself overwhelmed with rerunning the visual of the labor ward/floor over and over in my mind, while trying to remind myself "you're here for your friend. You're here for your friend."  

I couldn't think of my friend.  I got to the room, and opened the door- to see her lying in bed, looking really bad.  

It's like something *switched* in my mind, now fully attending to her, forgetting my own emotions.  

Standing next to her bed, seeing her unresponsive, struggling for the next breath, I knew then she was not going to recover.  

Talking with family relatives there, sharing stories and soft chuckles, hugs and tears, I knew then we are there for her, and for ourselves, to remind us death is nearby, a friend, and that life goes on. 

After hours, I leaned to kiss her cheek, not knowing if I would see her again before she passes away.  I returned to the first building, realizing I'll have to go to the lobby where the elevator would take me to the underground parking- the Labor & Delivery.    

I came in the lobby, standing still.   And I realized something.  

Life is everywhere, even being the other side of the coin, Death.   

I took a shaken breath, and went to the elevator, which opened before I could hit the button- to show a very pregnant woman and her husband. The woman smiled at me before passing me.  I went in the elevator, and went down, to my car all in silence.   Got behind the wheel and started driving the way home.  

Stayed up overnight to create a labyrinth painting, in which I named "The Fade."  Looking at it, I was reminded of something I had forgotten-  of the Hopi seeing the labyrinth as new life and reincarnation.  The Labyrinth being the womb itself, in which one comes in and out as new life, reborn.   So the seeing the pregnant women echoing something I yearn for, yet the dying friend reflecting something I had forgotten, in which she will still live in my memories, ever meeting me on my circular path  with remembrance.  

Quiescence

I'm back, and I am still around.

Second anniversary on this blog since Feb 2, 2012.

Second waypost since the surgery.

Second year since everything crashed around me.


Yes, in past, I have written posts in reminding myself that it's okay to walk my own path, taking time in grief, and not to rush myself.

Yet, here I find myself nowadays, disappointed that I hadn't gotten over my grief.  So there is this voice in my mind, saying...

 Hypocrite. 

I am still working on ignoring that nasty voice.  

I'll need to start reading y'all blogs again, and start reading that book 'Way of Forgiveness" by D. Patrick Miller- I have been pushing off reading that.    I need to reinforce reminding myself that it's OKAY to have setbacks, it's OKAY to stop and take deep breaths, it's OKAY to be on my own pace, and to stop pushing myself.  

I'm human, and that's what I keep forgetting that.  We all can't be superwomen everyday.  

P.S. will do Bucket list for checking off 2013, in a future post (something to look forward to.)  

Hiatus

After recognizing several signs from previous years, including heightened anxiety, withdrawal from socializing, cussing for no reason, and glaring knives at pregnant women nowadays, and feeling depressed even from reading fellow IF/CNBC bloggers' posts, and with the anniversary of the hysterectomy coming up, I am taking an hiatus from this blog, to stay in my 'cocoon' for the next 8 weeks.

(unknown artist, if you know who, let me know)

When I feel more myself, I'll be back.

Time out.

Nowadays, I find myself saying no.

Eat out?
No.

Hang out?
No.

Take a walk?
No.

Chat on phone or computer?
No.

Read blogs?
No.


Even thinking about going to the grocery to acquire food, that's too much for me.

Sitting here, thinking how I got like this- and I can only come to the conclusion, Christmas is coming up, and I don't want to see the kids.  What I'm missing out.  What I will not experience. More closer it comes to February anniversary, my mood is darkening.

The degree of sadness is different today compared to last year- last year, I was under a black cloud, numb, raging at the world, with a heap of self-hatred and guilt. Tissue box in each room.

 Now?

I'm melancholy.

With urges to bang my head on the wall, if I see a pregnant woman or a baby.  Not giving in, thro.  But... damn the urges!

(source)

You have to admit...this is an improvement compared to last year, in a sense.

It's funny- I got a note from an ex friend wanting to talk with me.  I did consider talking with her, but with the emotions I'm going through, especially now with the holidays nowadays.....?

Bad idea.     I'll have to hold off 'til the 'dark season' passes.  That'd be after February.

Tree

Before the surgery, I had always loved the tree- Christmas tree, Yuletide log, Holiday tree as long as I could remember from my childhood.   Looking up at the tree, I had thought the lights as fairies holding candles, stars sparking out of the night, a beacon for Santa Claus to come and drop off presents.    A family tradition to get a tree, decorate it, and bask in the tree lights, with the darkness around us.

Looking back, I realized the tree also was an example of family, everyone getting together front of the tree, to open presents, to enjoy each other, and be reminded of what family is supposed to be.


Supposed to be.

Sixteen years ago, I got a very BIG tree-  7'5 tree, so thick that you'd need two persons on each side, to help decorate the tree (woe be the person in back/corner, having to move by inch, hoping he wouldn't knock the tree down!).   Sixteen years ago, I thought I would have a family; a husband to love, and children to see the magic in their eyes.

(source)

I faithfully put up the tree every year, thinking "next year, I'll find someone and have a child."


I had relationships, however, I couldn't picture myself living with each of those guys permanently, and I was unfortunately right.    The last relationship had burned me badly, and I found that singlehood was much better for me.    I then looked into getting pregnant, and that didn't work out; two miscarriages were the result before I noticed the bump that led to the surgery.

The surgery wiped out my hope of having a family.  Children.


Last year, I found myself reluctantly putting up the tree. I found out that I had an hate-love relationship with the tree.

There would be the days I would look at the tree, with tears in my eyes.  

Some days, I'd glance at the tree, thinking there's still hope.

Other days, I wanted so badly to toss the tree out the window, chop it up and toss it into a bonfire.

After the holiday, I decided the tree had to go.  I donated the tree and ornaments to a shelter for domestic violence survivors, so the survivors and children can enjoy the tree in a safe place.

For the last six weeks, I found myself swinging between a desire for a tree and not wanting a tree.   A friend, who spent the road trip with me, encouraged me to get a tree. We didn't get one- and I found that I'm glad about that.  I love her, but I didn't like the pressure, not when I didn't feel ready.

I still searched for trees while surfing Internet, finding myself annoyed when catching myself doing that.

After talking with my therapist a few days ago, about the tree, I realized something.

The 7'5 tree-  it was for my family to be. My dream children.    Hope for family and children.   

Hence the tree never had belonged to ME. It had belonged to my family that was supposed to happen. 

After the catharsis, I then knew what to do.

I looked at trees, taking my time.    Tonight, I went to Target to get some package boxes so I'd mail stuff to family in Kansas, when I thought to myself "why not look at the trees here?"

I saw that the trees were on sale for 50% off. I went, "well, there's this tree I like, don't know if there'd be any left."

I went around the corner to find that the tree model that I liked, was still there, but no packages beneath the low raiser that the floor model was placed on.  I was thinking fatalistically, "that's that..." when a staff member stopped by and asked if he could help me. I shrugged and pointed at where the tree was, "no more packages. All out."

"We can pack this floor model tree for you, 75% off for you."

Serious? 
Serious?  
Is he serious?!  

I knew then that the tree was meant for ME.    Jules, the woman I am, on my own journey, exploring the world.

I took the tree home.    I put it up, decorating it with new ornaments, with some ornaments I kept from my trips to New Orleans and Britain.

This is MY tree.

Stay mum or not.

I wrote this post six months ago- overlooked it it'til now.  Sorry about the delay.  

There was someone I have felt close to. She too dealt with infertility- the bottom line is that she said she had made peace with her infertility, not being able to be a mother; now she's in her early 60's. I have known her for more than fifteen years. I had looked up to her for many things, seeing her as a mentor for the religious path I have been on for over 20 years. Now on my childless path, I had looked up to her through the months going in and out of the hospitals, and when it struck me that I wouldn't be able to be a biological mother. I I still vividly remember when I was crying on phone, she said, "Go ahead and cry, cry it all out of your heart. Listen to me, don't obsess about it too long. Don't waste all your time on this. I got over it soon enough, and so will you." 

When I found myself still down 3 months after the hysterectomy, I started to think something was wrong. After 8 months, I was thinking "am I obsessing over it? Am I not letting it go?", drowning in self-guilt and self-doubt. It took reading blogs like Life Without Baby, The Road Less Travelled, Real Life & Thereafter, Serenity in Chaos, and books like "Silent Sorority" by Pamela Tsigdinos, "I'm Taking My Eggs and Going Home: How One Woman Dared to say No to Motherhood" by Lisa Manterfield, and "Unsung Lullabies: Understanding and Coping with Infertility" by Janet Jaff, Martha Diamond and David Diamond. There are more blogs and books that I could read, but to me, those blogs/books I listed are more significant- helping me realize that:

"Grief is not a straight path, it's a continual cycle, very much like a labyrinth with its countless turns and stripes short and long. Uphill, downhill, it's all that."

"Not everyone experiences infertility alike. No one walk the same path. Each person goes it her way, with individual coping, access to support, and courage on their own time."


That was the catharsis for me; I had to let go of my expectations and society's expectations on how I:

"should complete my grief,"
"should move on,"'
"should shut up, be quiet."

I have been an advocate for women power, Deaf community, HIV/AIDS education, awareness of child abuse, domestic violence, more, for long as I could remember. So, returning to advocacy, as a tool to help myself heal, while noticing how infertility, childlessness and childfree life are still overlooked and/or judged in society's eyes, I was thinking, Why not? This is something I can do. Empowering people and empowering me. I walk the walk, and I can say "have been there, done that- and I got this stinkin' T-shirt."

So in time, I would share a post or meme about infertility here and there on Facebook, occasionally...testing the waters.

Mostly, I'd get a few likes, two or three comments affirming or at least, asking how this happened to me and/or how they could help someone infertile in their family or among friends.  

I felt emboldened, to share some more posts, although I drew a line at 'oversharing' because even I don't want to focus on infertility alllll the time in my life. I keep a balance as possible, mostly advocating and supporting causes, (including fighting against domestic violence and oppressing women). I like to share positive memes, introvert memes and geek memes- What can I say? 

Anyway, there would be some dry weeks without a post about infertility, then 2-3 posts a week. I did notice when I would experience depression (trigger of pregnancy announcement, or a glimpse of a baby), I'd start looking at infertility and/or grief posts/articles to validate and comfort me, normalizing what I'm going through. From there I'd find a good article to share in goal of making the word infertility public; to share that infertility exists for someone in your life- if it's your sister, your cousin, your best friend, or your teacher. Or at least you know that you're not alone in this.

A day before Infertility awareness week, I was already 'down' due to a friend who had recently have her baby. I congratulated her about her son's birth and sent her a baby gift earlier that week. That's the best I could do, while hiding her (which I tend to do with friends/relatives- when they announce being pregnant, or going through pregnancy, I hide them. I say nothing. It's for my self preservation.) Anyway, looking forward to advocating awareness about infertility, I had already shared a article about how to be supportive to infertile friends earlier that week. That day, I noticed I had a private message from the dear friend. I was quite aghast of the horrid tone in the message, chewing me out for being open about my grief,, posting "8-10 posts about infertility DAILY", "taking up all her new feed with all negative posts", "it being a friggin' year of this." And right after that, she de-friended me.  

I was quite flabbergasted. I even had a friend check my page to see if I truly post infertile stuff "8-10 daily" as I said in one recent post; turned out that accusation wasn't true. I had to talk with a good friend who is also an IFer. More we talked about my response to the email, it drew upon me.

It wasn't about me. It was about the friend's own pain of her infertility.  

I tried to put myself in her shoes- back then there'd be not much support in 1980's. No support groups on Internet, or at least forums to talk it out. It would have been lonesome for her and other women back then. It might be presuming of me to say this, but it might be easier to sweep it under the rug, to pretend that it didn't hurt anymore. I could be wrong, although.

Me, I chose not to pretend that it was 'all fine'. After struggling thinking I should put a deadline on my grief, and learning I didn't have to. The journey is mine, not anyone else's.

I chose to face my grief, and I chose to be public about my childlessness/infertility- in goal of removing the sting of taboo, normalizing and shrinking sense of stigma from the word 'Infertility. More I speak up in advocating, more women (and men) have contacted me privately, thanking me for putting the spotlight on this issue. They are not ready to open their hurt to the world, yet they appreciate that they are not alone anymore.

So that led me to realize that the friend possibly experienced re-opening wounds of her infertility; maybe that she hadn't proceeded through her own grief. Hence, it's pretty easier for her to lash out at me outward, instead of looking inward of her own pain.

That furthermore led me to realize three things-

I had hid certain people who go through pregnancy, for self preservation.. Why couldn't she have hid me for her own preservation?

I moved some people to close friends or favorites, where I could see their posts while NOT seeing others' posts. Why couldn't she selected close friends in new feeds where she'd see their posts, not mine?

She could have de-friended me; well she did. After sending me that horrible email, that was. However, she could have done this all along before now then- why waiting a year and some to do so, doing it as a dramatic exit?

I don't know the reasoning behind this. I just wish she could have talked with me about her reactions, her perceptive about me sharing posts about the topic she is not comfortable with. The email's message was absolutely unnecessary. I feel sympathy for her, and what she had gone through; I also understand how she chose to face this devastating trauma. However, I am not definitely happy how she projected herself upon me, putting a deadline of grief/healing on me, and when I didn't, she chose to think that something was wrong with me. She forgot, I'm NOT who she is.

How I address my grief, how I choose to draw strength from advocacy and helping people, refusing to 'sweep under the rug', that is certainly not wrong for me.

That's the difference between her and me.

http://cdn.ebaumsworld.com/thumbs/video/1990574/82280914.jpg

Wolfgang

Wolfgang has been with me for almost 3 months 'til today.  

In that months, I saw Wolfgang bloom from a scared, skinny dog with a flea infestation, multiple bacterial infections, and worms, to a healthy and happy dog, very frisky and loving.   He had played daily with Lola; they were buddies, "BFFs"

Before I took him in, I checked with the condo association and the landlord if it was okay to take him in, due to him being a foster dog (not a permanent dog), I got the go-ahead.  

Last Friday, during work, I got an emergency call from the landlord telling me that the condo association is threatening to press me to get rid of *TWO* (including Wolfgang and one of my furbabies H and L), due to "violation of two-dog policy." I was stunned and pointed out to him and he and the condo association agreed that I'd take care of the foster dog until he finds a home. I added that the flyer is already out with several rescues, of him being ready for adoption, and that I have a family interested in adopting him.  He said that the neighbors were complaining (I can figure out who since there's two neighbors in condo that don't like me), and that if there's more complaints, the association can evict me if I refuse to comply with the issue.  To get rid of Wolfgang *AND* either Lola or Hairy.   I asked him if he can encourage them to postpone that 'til third week of September when the family comes by (they live in Ontario and will be driving down that time to get Wolfgang).  He said he can't since the condo association sent him an official letter already, giving him a notice of warning, of a week of deadline and he had already used two days arguing my case with them.   At that time, I knew I had no options left, but to send out messages of urgency to the family and other rescues.  The family did not reply in the three days, when one rescue said that they can take him in right away.  

With a heavy heart, I drove him to West Virginia today- a road trip taking 7 hours round way.  The rescuer reassured me that Wolfgang is in good hands.  

What sticks in my mind at this time, a few hours after returning to town-  

They threatened MY babies.  Lola and Hairy. 

I don't like the condo association anymore, I don't trust them anymore.  They did not talk with me. No neighbors had talked to me.  No one bothered to find out Wolfgang's story, or that he had a potential forever family. But no... they had to have him out all because he was a "third dog." (never mind that I got permission- which I should have asked in paper, instead of vocal- but that's after the spilled milk.)  They threatened my Hairy and Lola who hadn't done anything wrong, who have been with me all the years while living here. I don't feel comfortable here anymore.   

Nevertheless....  Ain't happy.  

Walking the walk

As long as I could remember, I had been an advocate/activist.  Even as a very little girl, I was an ambassador for an organization that encouraged lip-reading and speaking, not sign language (staying away from the Deaf community, making one 'hearing').  Mind you, it was my mom who volunteered me for that position, and of course my face was on newsletters at local hospitals and audiologists' offices back then in the 1970's.   How funny it is that I'm immersed in the Deaf community nowadays.  And that wasn't the first time in advocacy....  Nope, that would be when I was a very very little baby.

Mom had pushed me in a stroller when she marched with other women fighting for equality.

(from Washington DC ARCHIVES)

Mom talked with many (teachers, representatives, senators, board of education, everyone) to encourage passing of Education of All Handicapped Children Act (which was passed in 1975), which was then renamed the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA).  Just one of ten thousands speaking for support of this act, which increased education for children with disabilities. 

Marches for Reproductive rights.  HIV/AIDS education/prevention, Take the Night Back, GLBT rights, all in 1980's and 1990's. Been there, done here while growing up.   When not pulled in the Radio flyer red wagon, I rode a bike.  When not on a bike, I walked in my sneakers.  I was a walker, a cheerleader, and fundraiser for many causes. I sat at booths to explain about equality, HIV education, and access to communication for the Deaf.  

When I was a freshman at Gallaudet University in 1989, I even got an opportunity to talk with my Representative  and two senators at the U.S. Capitol, explaining the importance of passing the Americans with Disabilities Act before it was passed in 1990.  

In the last two decades, I had been advocating for vulnerable adults' right to be listened to, and to be respected,  and not to be babied.  Being a mother hen, I was fiercely championing for individuals with intellectual disabilities to increase independence in housing and employment, much as they are able to.   Trembling in my shoes, I stood up to abusers, while shielding women.  I held hands with victims of rape as they were being treated behind the hospital curtains during the sexual assault examination.  Was a legal aid advocate; victim advocate; and medical advocate in numerous fields.   While doing extensive studies in graduate school, I encouraged free-thinking, exploring beyond limitations and civil right to marriage (marched with fellow graduate friends in protesting Prop 8 in 2008.) 

It was over a year and half years ago that I stopped activism. 

That was when I had struggled with my own reproductive issues which included surgery and struggles with my own identity.  

Through the decades of being confident and assertive, now I found myself extremely vulnerable.  After years of knowing who I was, I wasn't sure anymore who I was.  If I was not to be a mother, what was my gift to the future?  If I am not to have children, why should I care to make that the world is livable, with civil rights to everyone?   Cannot I leave a mark on the world?  

All the fierce passion, all joy of empowerment,  all my desire to better the world, and I never had a chance to be a mother after all.  I felt cheated. 

I was angry.  I stayed in the darkness of rooms, refusing the sunshine, rejecting the world's cajoling of sharing news crying for help in many areas, especially women rights and reproductive rights nowadays.

Right.... Reproductive Rights, I never got to practice that myself.  

Can't help but see the irony there.  

Last month, I was surfing on Facebook when I saw someone posted a meme "I Stand with Wendy Davis!" That name wasn't familiar to me, so I checked  Facebook, Twitter and Google and discovered her goal of filibustering against the new abortion regulation bill in Texas. 

Wendy Davis, June 25, 2013

The neglected ember, within my spirit, sparked with interest in seeing what Wendy was doing.   More she stood in her sneakers, more she spoke, the more the world watched her.  I found out many women sent her their experiences to her to read aloud, more I was reminded of something I had forgotten during my grief.

It's not about me.   It's not about you.   It's about ALL of us.  One for all, all for one.  Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno.    To better the world, we better ourselves.    To advocate for people, we advocate ourselves.   In my way, I have been advocating for infertility awareness in the Deaf community for a while. That was a small step for me.  

So with reflecting what Wendy Davis is doing, with noticing how thousands of women showed up at Texas to protest, with showing up in North Carolina, and with recalling Occupy Wall (Restore the Fourth) protests (still alive!), I felt like the world had just slapped me, as of going "du'oh!"  

I realized, I do have children in a sense-  my nephew (and future nieces/nephews), my cousins' children, my friends' children.   If not of my womb, then for them, for the women, for the vulnerable adults and elderly, and for the children who need the world more than we do, especially in this political environment.  

After reading a blog written by volunteers who advocate safety and empowerment at a local organization here, the volunteers are the witnesses and warriors to a constant war on the sidewalk almost daily.  I was reminded of the one thing I had been interested into doing, but hadn't taken the opportunity to do: To walk the walk, to participate in the battle. Not to stand in sidelines.   I contacted the writers recently and inquired about volunteering.

Well, I'll be wearing an orange vest locking arms with fellow volunteers in the wee hours of Saturday morning, to keep clients safe, protecting their right to choose for themselves, without politics or religion butting their noses in.   

I might be infertile but I'll always protect reproductive choice, all choices.  The advocate roars again! 

  

(from the movie Ace Ventura)

My house.

You came in the house.   You looked around, noticing the placement of furniture.  The decorations.   The curtains.  The lights.  The texture of the walls, and the floor.  you went, "Hmm."

You immediately imagined how you'd change this chair from the window to a corner- "it would look better that way."

You gave in and moved a little statue from a side table to the mantle.   Emboldened, you relocated a plant from the corner of mantle to a corner where the window is.

You got yourself hooked- you moved the stuff to another room, to paint the walls in a color you like, "that's who I am."  You replaced the carpet, for something that is more to your taste.

You then found yourself moving around the furniture-  the sofa, now upholestered in a fabric you prefer, is now in the center, not against a wall anymore, "to make it two rooms."  The armchair that was resting in one corner is now at one side of the sofa.   You replaced the shades of the lamps for something you like, "the shades looked so old, time to bring in new!"

You went through the books, tossing out books that made you go "eww" "nasty", and then re-organized the books you determined worthy to keep, alphabetically.

You replaced the art on the wall, that defines you.


Can you see the problem here?

You just changed MY house, into something that YOU like, to define YOU, never mind that it's MY house.
The house, who is an echo of who I am, my personality- and you attempted to change all that to match YOU, to make you feel comfortable, to match your expectations.


That's the problem- 
You tell me how to get better; you're just moving MY sofa to one other side of the room. 
You proclaim to me on what to do with my health; you're re-organizing MY books. 
You give unasked advice about how I "should" handle my grief; you're upholestering MY favorite armchair.
You, uninvited, try to fix the issue that I live with; you're putting artwork on MY walls, pretty much a band-aid.
You get frustrated or angry about how I deal with my own mental/emotional health, on my own time; you're replacing MY carpet for a rug you prefer.
And you declare your displeasure about my journey; you're painting MY walls in your favorite color.

You're trying to change me into someone you think I should be, when it's NOT who I am.   At first I was going to say "I'm sorry for disappointing you, not meeting your expectations," when I realized no... it's YOU who should apologize for trying to change me into someone I am not. 

Would anyone wonder why I'd toss you out the door if you tried to change my house?


******* This post is for us who go through the infertility journey, dealing with good-intended yet hurtful advice, and judgmental comments.  Can also apply for individuals living with chronic illness, grief, trauma, mental illness, domestic violence, recovery, etc.*******

Red Mug

I had a favorite mug,  red scarlet from the Fiestaware that I had gathered just in November and December '11 while going in and out of medical tests to see what was going in my uterus.   There is all the colors when one opens the counter; Emerald green, scarlet red, tangerine, peacock, cobalt, lemongrass, shamrock, plum, chocolate, turquoise, and and sunflower.  I intended to get only four plate sets.  After staring at the plates sitting on the counter, I felt I wanted more color in my life.  With the hospital tests and news whirling above my head, I wanted to keep the darkness away, by having more colors. So that's how I ended up with 11 sets, in all colors except for white and black. I joked to myself "I don't have an uterus anymore, but I have fiestaware in all colors!"  Bad joke, I know.

For a year and so, I have used mugs in variety of colors, but I found myself using the scarlet red mug frequently.  It grew to be my security mug. When I felt down, the red mug was there.  Dark clouds?  Red mug. Tissues and tears?  Red mug.  Comfort in solitude?  Red mug.   I did not really think about that until one day.

That day the red mug disappeared.

I didn't notice because I was using other mugs in other colors for a while.  In the mail, I got a baby shower invite last fall, so I opened the counter and stared at the empty spot where the red mug was supposed to be.   I pulled up mugs to see if the red one was hiding behind others.  No luck.

Anxiety budding.

I got an orange mug to pour my tea in.    I sat in the darkness of the living room.  I stood up to go back to the kitchen. To check if the red mug somehow magically appeared.   It didn't.  I racked my memory to see if I had left it at work or in the car.  I checked the car, no luck.  At office, no dice.

That went for a few months- there'd be bad days, I'd open the counter to get my red mug and note its absence, to recall that it had disappeared somehow.  Using other mugs just didn't feel the same, despite the same taste of tea or coffee.

On one really bad day, I moved all fiestaware  (all plates, small plates, bowls and mugs, and servers) to the dining room, in an extreme move in my goal of finding that damned red mug.  I dug through the pots and pans.  I used reasoning of doing an audit of all my food for preparing for a zombie apocalypse, in an excuse to find that Red mug.  

No luck.

It was an unpleasant feeling- I lost something.  Like I lost my uterus.  Some friends.  My dreams of having children.  I failed to find this mug, and I failed in my tries to be a mother.  The emotions. I fled outside with my dogs in a pretense that it was time for their afternoon walk, never mind it was late morning.

That was last February, the first anniversary of the hysterectomy.

Now, it is May.  Yesterday, my neighbor came in to watch the dogs and let the A/C repairman in since the air conditioner wasn't working (we were roasting last weekend!). Cool air welcomed me when I came home from work. I was so glad; I went to bed much earlier last night. I hadn't slept well due to the heat, and the "leave-me alone" mood.

This morning I opened the cup counter....

Red mug.

Staring at the cup among the colored mugs, the red seemingly fierce in its pulse of color.  That's when I realized the neighbor had probably taken the mug when she was here for coffee last fall.

My feelings are quite chaotic and confusing about the return of the red mug.


All over a little red mug- go figure.  

Pins and pining for something out of reach.

Two hours.


How much time was consumed while I was re-pinning and liking pins about infertility and childlessness on Pinterest?

Two hours!!


Staring at the pins on my infertility/childlessness board, questions popped up

Validation of my experience? 

Finding my happy space? 

Acknowledging that it did truly happen to me?

Seeking community to affirm that I'm not alone?


If so, why 369 pins?   Isn't that a 'tad' overmuch? 

I like to collect things, but thankfully, they are manageable. Definitely not a hoarder.

http://www.twirlit.com/2013/01/11/bizarre-craigslist-ad-allegedly-seeks-hoarder-roommate/

I have a strict list of rules that I follow, to reduce risk of saving everything.  One rule: if certain things don't fit on the shelves, or box, or  closet, I have to give one or two things up as a trade.

That's not so on Pinterest.   I find myself consumed, finding more and more.  Why?  I have other boards, such as horses, ice cream, cadbury eggs and Star Wars, yet I keep returning to infertility boards to see what pins had been posted, either for me to pin on my board or to click on 'like'.


That Infertility/Childlessness board used to have 502 pins, but to make me feel less obsessed, I broke it down into three infertility/childlessness boards: general, blogs and humor/sarcasm.

It has been a year and two months since the surgery, and it seems now these days I'm burying myself in  reading books on grief and living with childlessness, writing in my journal, painting, and staring outwards, feeling empty, and fanatically collecting pins for the infertility board on Pinterest, and all that.

What am I doing?

This little dark voice whispered, "If you had a child, you'd not be spending all this time online."  

Pesky voice.  However, there's the sense that is true.

Now that I found out that I couldn't  have children, I felt I had to give up a lot things that either I enjoyed or prepare myself to have children, such as going to zoos, (children), street fairs (children), art/craft classes and sewing/crocheting baby blankets, a lot that I did not realize until after the doctor told me I couldn't have children. And then children and babies were everywhere, and so I constantly bumped into 'em.  At malls.  At plays.  and big events like Derby festivals or music festivals.

So, I started to hide.  I stopped doing things I enjoyed especially when it would put me within distance of children.

I hid behind my laptop.  Books.  DVDS.  My porch garden.  Painting.  Hiking.  Pinterest was one of many reasons why it's easier to hide behind.  Same with reading blogs and ebooks.  Ditto for photography and writing in my blog.

It's easier for me to pin up things that I understand, to pin for something that is out of my reach, to verify that I have the reason to do so, to keep the pain to myself, yet telling the world in my way, I hurt.

It's easier to hide behind the curtain.

Now that I said it, I look outward at the outside, seeing the flowering trees, the darkening clouds and a couple walking their dog, and I find the world....  intimidating.

Saving things or dreams?

Currently, I'm reading a book, "Throw Out Fifty Things" by Gail Blanke.   At face, it looked like something for me to declutter my life, especially with me feeling I have so many things I don't need anymore. 

The book addresses emotional decluttering, putting an emotional attachment to each item in the place.  One wouldn't realize it until you have it in the hand, ready to put it in the box to donate to Goodwill; I remember when I got this, in Inner Harbor, Baltimore, with friends... remembering the memories.  

*snap*  You're hooked.  You could not let the item go, after all.  It goes back on the shelf to collect dust...again.  

For me, it's items I had saved so much from when I was a child, when I had dreams of having children, and what I would teach my children, as the poster up here shows, of Calvin and Hobbes.  Calvin had saved his doll, Hobbes to give to his daughter. For me, I had preseved my childhood book "Little Princess" by Frances Hodgson Burnett, pages worn and faded.  Two Breyer horses, awaiting little hands to play with or pretend being real horses; the horses with chips from when I played with them somewhat tough.  My dad's book "Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer" printed in 1939, when he was a little boy.  A stuffed Teddy bear that my grandpa had given to me before he died.  

There are so many things tied to memories...

And dreams.  

Dreams of having children, and to pass to children, what I had enjoyed and loved.  

So reading the book, only on the second chapter (despite that I had started last November, would you believe that?), "Throw Out Fifty Things" is harder to read than to read "Peace and War" emotionally.   My mind is able to read, detached from emotions, yet I can hear the inner mother within me, saying 

No!

(in a firm tone, no less.)  

I skipped many areas of the book and focused on the three rooms I can easily determine what to get rid of....

The bathroom, the living room, and the kitchen.     

Into the donation box; unopened piles of soap, many packages of pads/pantiliners (thanks to Costco almost two years ago- hadn't a need after the SURGERY), many self-care things I had gotten from family for many Christmas or birthday- (who needs that many bath bubble bottles??!-17 really?!),  brand new jars for preserving, extra pots and pans, so many cookbooks, shampoo and etc.  Many empty frames collecting dust in the hutch's drawer (this was the hardest thing for me to do.)  A lot of decorations from the living room- including many ornaments- One or two is enough, instead of 20 items to shout out my love for things British. 

Into the recycle box; magazines, aluminum cans (I had saved a lot of Cafe Du Monde chicory coffee cans, in thinking that I'll make a nifty wall decoration with them like I saw on HGTV), and so many papers I had saved from high school and college (I thought I would have used them for work or parenting advice for myself.)   Many magazines will go to collage art box at where I work- kids can use them for art therapy.  

Despite that I had gotten rid of so many books last year and the year before, I still managed to get rid of more books (63!) with reminding myself that it is very much likely that I'd not read them again. I love the books, but would I find myself reading them again? I'll need to remind myself to use my Nook more often. There's very few authors that I'd not mind reading again, like Laurel K. Hamilton, Sherrilyn Kenyon, J.R. Ward and Kresley Cole. Those novels I'm keeping.  

Soon I'll be dropping the stuff at the shelter for survivors of domestic violence- they would appreciate the self-care items, especially the romances and fiction books!  

For the children stuff, the childhood stuff, dreams...?

Not going to touch with a ten-foot pole.  

I'm listening to the inner mom, for now.  

I'll get there to the point I'd be ready to re-evaluate the childhood stuff, and that means looking again at my dreams.  Some day.  

Just not now.  

"A picture is worth a thousand words"

The image says it all,  since I don't feel like saying anything today, especially TODAY. 

(I don't know the author/artist name; I'd like to give credit- so if you know, please let me know)

Mirage

Tracing the tight belly of my pregnancy, while sitting outside, I was enjoying the spring sunshine peeking through the leaves of the tree above me.  Feeling movement, perhaps a foot or fist, I smiled and pressed gently against the movement. There was a thump in response.  I smiled bigger.  I felt so content and happy.

I was sweating, breathing hard, seeing several people above me and across from me-  nurses, Roni and my mom.  Roni signing to me "how do you feel now?" I snapped back, "When you try to get a basketball out, ask that again!"  The doctor urging me to push; I strained against the pain, yet flowing with the pain. The pain became my friend, and then it dissolved in a rush of movement, new skin, new life.  Watching the nurse picking the baby up, I almost called out wanting to hold the baby.  I watched anxiously as the nurse cleaned the baby; paying no attention to the doctor checking me afterwards.   I felt relief as the nurse put the warm baby on my stomach.    Kissing the wet head, noticing the dark mop of hair, I smiled and said "she's here, isn't she?"  Roni nodded, smiling, with tears in her eyes.  Mom even had a softened look on her face.

Walking across the room to the crib, I noticed the moon outside the window.  The moon was quite full, as if she was pregnant, full of new life.  I smiled at the whimsy thought.  I peered down at the sleeping baby.  Softly, pulling the blanket up to her chest, I touched my finger as in kissing it and then laying the finger to her silky forehead.  I shushed softly as the baby stirred slightly, as she returned to her sleep.

Carrying the girl in my arms, I walked up to the tree where I had used to sit under, while pregnant in the past.  I sat down, my legs cradling her, among the exposed roots of the oak tree.  As she looked up at the spots of sunlight through the fall leaves, grey eyes distracted by falling leaves among us, I smiled, cherishing the moment.  I was bending down to kiss her nose.....


RRriiiinnnng!  Riiinnng!  



Abruptly sitting up in bed, I found myself in pajamas, the light going off and off, in waking me up.

Oddly, I could recall the hard pregnant belly, the movements.     The pain of labor.  The baby's soft skin.  The sounds she made, vibrating through my chest as I held her.  It all felt real.   But no child at all. 

What annoys me- waking up to the nightmare of reality, or was the dream itself a nightmare?

I resent the reality right now.  

Smack dab in the middle

A reader wrote me a private message:
"You going to write about the fourth part- I noticed you wrote part 1 to 3- but where is the 4th?"

When I read that query, my heart started to pound hard.  I found myself starting to have an anxiety attack-

I had written the Bump (Part 1); Without Answers (Part 2) and Not sure (Part 3) last spring.   Originally I had written this post in October.  I kept coming back to the post to stare at my writing, re-opening my wounds over and over like a monk flagellating himself.  Interesting,I find myself switching forth and back between two moods while reading; some days I cry reading this post and other times I find myself distant. It's in January now since October, and it still hurts reading the post, remembering. Nevertheless, there are sensitive triggers here, for folks who are still recovering/struggling with accepting childlessness, I'd not recommend you to read furthermore.



Between late December 2011 to February 2012, that timeline was the most painful time for me, mentally, spiritually and emotionally, and even now it being January 2013 (as reviewing this post, I still consider that time as worst of all I had ever experienced.)

I found it easier to bury my head in the sand- in other words, denying that I was going to be childless; refusing to accept that I'd not hold a baby of my own in my arms; hoping against all hope that the doctor was mistaken. I was praying day and night that it was all a nightmare; that I'd not have the surgery upcoming to remove my uterus, and the execution day will not happen.

When I was told that I'll be an aunt, only two days after finding out I cannot have children, I was able to 'put it aside', thinking "it was all a nightmare, I'm going to wake up soon."

I patted some baby clothes at the store thinking, "I'll get some of them later, when the doctor tells me I was the wrong patient."

I laughed and made jokes, living in the illusion that the doctor would say "oops, my bad, that's the wrong ultrasound pictures- let me get your right chart. My apologies again."

"I'll be fine-   They'll be able to fix my uterus after they find out that there is nothing wrong with it", I told myself.

                                               

Ironic, it wasn't the doctor.  It wasn't the surgery.  It wasn't the size of the fibroid.  It wasn't the waking up at the hospital room afterward.

It was someone who was closest to me, who shoved me into the river of agonizing fire, to see the reality.

 Among all that, I had the close friend, who was my confidant in everything. I'll call her M.  We had a lot in common.   We could laugh at the same things; we loved science fiction and horror movies.  We could be jumping in and out of topics through the conversation all day without blinking.   I was very supportive to her, especially with her private issues.  I was flippy happy when M got married.   I understood her when she said she didn't feel ready to have children; she wanted to work on her issues first.    

During my medical journey trying to find out what was wrong with me, including testing the water of whether I would be able to have children or not, M was supportive of me all the way.  I tried to be strong but she reminded me that I didn't have to be strong sometimes.  When I needed to talk with someone, she was there.   Don't get me wrong, there were other friends.  It just was harder to get in touch with them, and she was there always for me. Admittedly, I considered her- Safest friend

Unsafe friends- who already have children, or are pregnant.  

Safe friend- who has no children, never had raised children, or having no plans to get pregnant any time soon.   

I started to identify friends into two groups -unsafe and safe.  Even in levels of unsafe and safe friends, there were sub-types....  mommies with adult children are safer compared to mommies with toddlers-unsafe.  Crazy, I know, but that's how I tried to hang on. 

This was what I was clinging to, during the insanity going through examinations, tests and doctor appointments.  In and out.  Lab works.  Sonogram images of dark marks.    I didn't want to accept the stark truth. 

All this changed with an email from M.   

                                  

I got a short message from M in January.   She told me she wanted to tell me something-   I read the brief message, thinking, "oh great! She is getting a job!" I knew she was looking for employment, and so I was thinking she was excited to tell me that she got a job.  

Later on the same day, I got a long email from her.  Among the thick long paragraphs, I saw a sentence which was smack dab in the middle of it all. I zeroed in on that, and among all that, it was the only sentence I saw...  one dab white among the blackness of the dark.  

"I'm pregnant."  

I cannot tell you what I felt at that moment.    I just can't.   All I know was that the world crashed upon me.  

I had a minute of sanity to email her that I was not ready to talk about this.  That was the only thing I could recall before I lost it.  Truly LOST it.   

I screamed. 
 Cried. 
 Tore things up.
  Ripped paintings apart.
Chaotic thoughts-
      "I am not going to be pregnant ever, of my own baby." 
   "I'd never come home from hospital with a baby in my arms."
"I'll never get to kiss my baby's belly while seeing her smile at me."
 Considered ending it all.   

Ending it all.  
    No more agony.  
       No more betrayals. 
          No more pain.  

A sane part of me fanatically reached out during my crying fit of rage. Thankfully, a friend S was in town.  She was immediately there with me.  I wept as she held me. She convinced a neighbor to go to the store to get more tissue boxes without asking why.  She threw out a bottle when I told her I wanted to drown in drunkenness.  Another friend, T talked with me in a firm yet loving tone, to remind me I have friends who love me, and that she'd be pissed if I gave up.  She was steadfast in her love as I screamed at her, "WHY me?" In her Old South attitude, she loved me with her nonsense attitude.  I cried, with tears coming down my cheeks as I looked upon L, a close friend, and to hear from her that "She knew you are hurting. Not to tell you she was planning to get pregnant.  That's the lowest blow." and reminding me that I'm not alone, that L had been there for me for so many years, and she is not going anywhere, from my side. 

Thankfully, the office didn't question when I decided not to go in for a few days.  I was looking down at the void and I knew there was a millimeter between me and the void, very tempting.  

I got the email six days before I was to see the doctor.     It was a weekend and a few days of sorrow, rage, weeping and staring at walls, writing letters to N, trying to explain my feelings, failing and tearing them up,  before I found myself at the doctor's office, -dead to the world.   Hope was dead. 

"When do you think you would be ready for your surgery?" 

"Can you do it on February 13th?" 

The doctor knew something was wrong.  She strongly encouraged me to see a therapist right away. That was the best decision ever I had made since the finding the bump.    

Nevertheless...   January 12th was the starting of the end of my world as I knew it.  The new world- all gray, shades of black and grey.  Thunderous clouds, empty rooms with abandoned dusty baby furniture.  Empty frames on the walls, old wallpaper peeling.  Trees empty of leaves, dying. Repeating cycle of riding on the empty subway, that doesn't stop at exits.  With the two new pregnancy announcements, both very close to me without no clues, no hints, no red flags-- during the most painful moment when I wasn't ready- that's the world where I found myself in. That is what I had experienced in the reality since January 12, 2012.


February 14, 2012-  Waking up at the hospital after surgery, I felt empty.  Not because of the uterus that had been taken away, but of empty dreams.  Pandora's box is even empty of hope for me. I was very distant, dissocated from any emotions for a long and long time but for fits of weeping and rage. 

And turned out that I didn't have cancer.  Sick joke, if you asked me. 

My therapist said "You know, you're going through this and your sister in law is pregnant. A surprise to you. Then your closest friend planned to get pregnant, but didn't give you an head-up to prepare yourself and now she is pregnant out of the blue, double hits.   You're going through all this and alone, no less- this is your baptism by fire. Worst time ever to find out that you cannot have children."  

She nailed it. 

I'm a proud aunt of a new nephew last August; hopefully one day I would get to see him in person when I'm ready emotionally.  

M had her baby in the same month.  

So, that's your answer for the 4th part.  It doesn't mean the end, but of surviving the worst that had been thrown at me.  It's a year now, and I'd like to think that I'm stronger after that, but I'm not there yet.