Has anyone else noticed how many infertility bloggers (including many of you, my dear readers) are working on losing weight? I think about half of the infertility bloggers in my reader are in the middle of some form of weight-loss program. I find it very interesting. Is this a good representative sample of all American women in their 20s and 30s? Or are we infertiles simply more prone to picking up other projects since we have been thwarted in our attempts at the one project we really want?
While I am not allowed to take any steps towards losing weight right now, I have been there before and so can sympathize with those of you going through it. When I finished my first year of college, I weighed in at 140 (I'm 5'4"). Definitely not overweight by objective standards. But with my small frame, I was packing quite a bit more flab than I liked, and had been slowly gaining all through high school. So, knowing very little about how to lose weight properly, I went on a crazy diet and exercise program for about 4 months. After several years of feeling very frustrated and self-conscious about my weight, I found that once I really, truly put my mind to it, it came off almost too easily. I guess I was blessed in that sense.
But then my period stopped coming...
Now I'm almost--a tiny bit--jealous of those of you who are losing weight. There's something so satisfying about watching those pounds fall off, and having a goal to work for, and feeling physically fit. But I also know how hard and frustrating it can be, and I'm cheering you all on!
Just do me a favor. Don't go overboard, like I did, okay? Our bodies really do like a bit of fat. And so do our husbands.
Showing posts with label my story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label my story. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
My Excuse for Slacking
Yesterday was a very busy day for me, so I apologize to all you fellow ICLWers--and all of you whose blogs I normally read--that I slacked off a bit on the reading on commenting. I'm playing catch-up today, so it may be another slacker day in Ceejay's virtual world. And a quick post. Which might be refreshing, considering how long-winded I can be sometimes.
What was I doing that kept me so busy, you ask?
What was I doing that kept me so busy, you ask?
Can you tell that the hood's choking me a bit? My gown didn't have the button it was supposed to have on the front to attach the hood to. Those things are heavy!
If you didn't surmise this, I finally graduated yesterday. I say finally because I feel like I've been done for a long time. I turned in my thesis in December, but I took my last class a year ago. Of course, I still haven't received my diploma. But I guess that's what you get with a state school going through major budget cuts.
A couple of rows ahead of me during the ceremony was a woman who had brought her 4-year-old son into the ceremony with her. She had somehow procured him a miniature purple robe and cap! He was adorable. I had to stop and be grateful that I did not have a child yet while working through grad school. And mad props to any single mom (this woman was young enough that I made the perhaps incorrect assumption that she was single and had gotten knocked up as a teenager) who gets a degree of any kind with young kids.
The speakers were...graduation speakers. They spoke many words that sounded inspiring, I'm not sure what they actually said that had any substance. You earned this? You deserve this? Go live your dreams? Please. And sorry for the cynicism. I heard Oprah speak at a graduation once and was only slightly impressed by her, so I'm not the one to ask for opinions on these kinds of things.
But I am happy to have jumped the final hurdle in my education. I think I'm done with school for a little while. I'm sure I'll be back again someday for something. I'm a bit of an education addict. But for now, I'm enjoying the fact that I'm sitting here and blogging on a Sunday afternoon rather than writing pages and pages about John Donne.
Oh, and the best part of this graduation? The gift I received from my very generous in-laws: a Kindle. In general, I do not own very many gadgets. I still have an old-school cell phone and am typing on a ten-year-old laptop. But what gadget could be better suited to an English MA graduate than a Kindle?
Friday, May 21, 2010
Is It Really ICLW Again?
My months are really starting to run together these days. I can hardly believe it's already time for the May ICLW! This is such an annoying cliche, but I seriously feel like April's just ended.
If you're stopping by my blog for the first time, welcome. This is the third time I've participated in ICLW, and I've loved it every time--and have always been happy at how it seems to garner me a few new followers (hint, hint).
Probably what you're most interested is my infertility history, so I won't keep you in suspense any longer. My handsome husband and I only started trying to conceive last July--on our third anniversary, to be specific. Which was a highly unfortunate choice, as it's going to make our fourth anniversary be the day that we officially get labeled "infertile."
At the time, I actually had an inkling I would have a little trouble because of my past history of absent periods (which you can read about here). So I ushered myself--perhaps too quickly but still appropriately--into the world of infertility craziness within a couple of months of going off the (so-ubiquitous-but-now-exceedingly-hated-by-me) Pill.
I quickly learned that I had something called Hypothalamic Amenorrhea. My body stopped cycling because it wanted me to have a little more padding before getting pregnant. I'm very, very fortunate in that this is a condition which seems to be fully reversible in most women, though it takes some time and determination--and weight gain. I quickly gained 10 pounds and, last fall, I was thrilled to be rewarded with my first natural period in over six years! I thought, at the time, that a pregnancy would be just around the corner. But I guess ovulation does not equal pregnancy. Who knew?
Since then, I had two 50-ish-day-long natural cycles and one 40-day-long clomid cycle. I'm currently on day 59 of my third natural cycle. The One Where Absolutely Nothing Happens.
Because I work for a church, I'm on a cheap-o insurance policy that doesn't even cover an appointment with an infertility specialist. So no REs for me at this point. Instead, I'm faithfully going to an acupuncturist, Katy the Needle Lady, and drinking herbal teas she prescribes. And hoping her promise to get my body back in balance isn't empty.
Oh, and I also just gave up on the One Where Absolutely Nothing Happens. I started a 7-day regimen of Provera on Wednesday night to induce a bleed and then go back to clomid. I'm happy to have an acupuncturist who's willing to work with Western drugs, as much as I hate them.
So that's the True History of My Attempts to Conceive until this point. It's a journey I have dreaded for many years, to be honest. But now that I'm on it, I firmly, wholeheartedly believe that it's happening for a reason--a good reason. One that I will, in fact, look back on thankfully, as unattainable as that gratitude sometimes seems to me now, sitting here stuck in the miry heartache. And I also firmly believe that the best is yet to come. [Cue corny Frank Sinatra song here.]
If you're stopping by my blog for the first time, welcome. This is the third time I've participated in ICLW, and I've loved it every time--and have always been happy at how it seems to garner me a few new followers (hint, hint).
Probably what you're most interested is my infertility history, so I won't keep you in suspense any longer. My handsome husband and I only started trying to conceive last July--on our third anniversary, to be specific. Which was a highly unfortunate choice, as it's going to make our fourth anniversary be the day that we officially get labeled "infertile."
At the time, I actually had an inkling I would have a little trouble because of my past history of absent periods (which you can read about here). So I ushered myself--perhaps too quickly but still appropriately--into the world of infertility craziness within a couple of months of going off the (so-ubiquitous-but-now-exceedingly-hated-by-me) Pill.
I quickly learned that I had something called Hypothalamic Amenorrhea. My body stopped cycling because it wanted me to have a little more padding before getting pregnant. I'm very, very fortunate in that this is a condition which seems to be fully reversible in most women, though it takes some time and determination--and weight gain. I quickly gained 10 pounds and, last fall, I was thrilled to be rewarded with my first natural period in over six years! I thought, at the time, that a pregnancy would be just around the corner. But I guess ovulation does not equal pregnancy. Who knew?
Since then, I had two 50-ish-day-long natural cycles and one 40-day-long clomid cycle. I'm currently on day 59 of my third natural cycle. The One Where Absolutely Nothing Happens.
Because I work for a church, I'm on a cheap-o insurance policy that doesn't even cover an appointment with an infertility specialist. So no REs for me at this point. Instead, I'm faithfully going to an acupuncturist, Katy the Needle Lady, and drinking herbal teas she prescribes. And hoping her promise to get my body back in balance isn't empty.
Oh, and I also just gave up on the One Where Absolutely Nothing Happens. I started a 7-day regimen of Provera on Wednesday night to induce a bleed and then go back to clomid. I'm happy to have an acupuncturist who's willing to work with Western drugs, as much as I hate them.
So that's the True History of My Attempts to Conceive until this point. It's a journey I have dreaded for many years, to be honest. But now that I'm on it, I firmly, wholeheartedly believe that it's happening for a reason--a good reason. One that I will, in fact, look back on thankfully, as unattainable as that gratitude sometimes seems to me now, sitting here stuck in the miry heartache. And I also firmly believe that the best is yet to come. [Cue corny Frank Sinatra song here.]
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Dear Sleep, Thanks for the Memories
I have to start out with an honest admission--I really have no idea what to blog about today. I've just set a goal for myself to try to blog at least twice a week, and I know this weekend's going to be a tad insane, so post today I will. With nothing much going on in my lady-parts, I'm really having to be creative here.
Since I would love to have my default attitude in life be one of thankfulness and peace, I thought it might be a good idea to transfer that to my blog. Set my default post-mood on the gratitude setting. I'm not going to set a pattern of Thankful Thursdays or anything like that, but I will post today about something for which I am thankful.
Sleep. I've been hesitant to write about this because I'm afraid of jinxing things or something, but here goes.
Sleep and I have had a conflicted and angst-ridden relationship for quite a while now. I think sleep is considered Yin and therefore more feminine in Chinese medicine, so I'll call Sleep a she. Maybe I took her too much for granted for the first 19 years of my life. Not that I was never sleep-deprived in high school--I was, in fact, perpetually sleep-deprived--but I never had much trouble falling asleep once I got in bed. Lie down, relax a few minutes, and there she was, ready to escort me through a night of strange-but-rarely-scary dreams, straight through to the morning. If I woke up in the night, it was only to be thankful that I still had a few more hours to enjoy her before I had to get up at the excruciating hour of 5:45am.
Then, at some point when I was around 19 or 20, I started having the occasional night where I had a little trouble falling asleep. Looking back now, I wonder if it was somehow related to the dieting and crazy exercising I did that first summer home from college, when I lost 30 pounds and punished my body into hypothalamic amenorrhea. Throwing my body out of balance like that could easily have other results, as well, at least in theory. But it could also have been that I just had more to worry about.
In any case, any of you who have experienced the occasional sleepless night probably know how it spirals and accumulates. Insomnia is so psychological--it's almost impossible to tell if there's something physical going on or if you're just so nervous about not being able to find Sleep that you keep yourself awake. I was still on mostly friendly terms with Sleep. She came to me without too many issues most nights. But I dreaded those nights when she would hide from me for a while. In my mind, there were few things in life that were scarier or more nerve-wracking. Tylenol PM became my friend. I longed to be one of those people, like my brother, who simply didn't worry about it. Who wasn't phased by the idea of insomnia. Who took Sleep for granted, and therefore never had problems finding her.
A few years ago, I think God decided it was time I face my frenemy Sleep head-on. I had just started grad school and was a bit overwhelmed with how much I had to do, and then I stopped being able to find Sleep easily at all. And I was absolutely panicked about it. Even the mention of the word "insomnia" had always caused me to break out in a cold sweat, and here I was, basically an insomniac. My doctor was quick to prescribe me first Am.bien, which was great but too expensive, and then Traz.adone, a cheap anti-depressant with the side-effect of drowsiness. I took the Traz.adone for two nights in a row, and the second morning, as I was standing in front of our bathroom sink getting ready to head to school, I blacked out, fell out of the bathroom and into the hallway, and hit the door of the hallway closet. My husband says that was the scariest moment of his life. I guess my eyes were twitching a bit for the few seconds I was laying there. I came out of it quickly and it wasn't a big deal, but I decided Traz.adone might not be a good long-term solution.
I won't bore you with all the details of what happened for the next few months. I was depressed. I was terrified. I didn't sleep a single night without some kind of chemical help.
I eventually came out of it. I found some herbal supplements that helped. I found some generic Am.bien online for much cheaper. I began to really believe that I was not in control of my ability to find Sleep, so I couldn't change anything by worrying. And I realized that I really could survive insomnia. It wasn't actually the end of the world, as I had previously thought.
I've been back on speaking terms with Sleep the past few years. I still have days or weeks at a time where she's more elusive, and I have to make use of that Am.bien. Then I have other weeks where all it takes is a little valerian or melatonin.
That is, until starting acupuncture. Let me first just say that the verdict's still out on the acupuncture for me. I'm doing it to have normal cycles and get pregnant, and thus far, neither of those seems anywhere in sight. And my acupuncturist assures me that my other occasional minor...disturbances (eczema, digestive issues, nasal congestion) will also subside. All of those are still alive and kickin', though I have been very...um...regular since starting. But the insomnia? Pretty much gone. Seriously. I've surprised myself with how easily I've been falling asleep for the last 40-odd days since starting the acupuncture. I keep waiting for another bump in the road in my relationship with Sleep, but 40 days is a bit of a record. And not only have I been falling asleep more easily, but I also haven't been waking up as often. Just my nightly old lady bathroom trip. But I used to wake up and feel restless 2-3 times most nights.
The only nights I've had trouble have been either when I'm waking up super early the next morning, which always makes me feel more nervous and pressured about falling asleep, or when I've had irritating...ahem...gas issues.
Like I said, I've been nervous about telling anyone about my new-found peace with Sleep, because I'm afraid I'll lose it by talking about it. But I'm on the record now. I'm very, very, very thankful. Sleep, thanks for being my friend again. Katy, thanks for the amazing acupuncture and herbs. And God, thanks for taking me on this long journey through insomnia. It has been really painful at times, but I really have learned so much about you and about myself through it. And I would definitely still be stuck in my anxiety about Sleep had I never experienced the terror of its loss in the way that I did.
Since I would love to have my default attitude in life be one of thankfulness and peace, I thought it might be a good idea to transfer that to my blog. Set my default post-mood on the gratitude setting. I'm not going to set a pattern of Thankful Thursdays or anything like that, but I will post today about something for which I am thankful.
Sleep. I've been hesitant to write about this because I'm afraid of jinxing things or something, but here goes.
Sleep and I have had a conflicted and angst-ridden relationship for quite a while now. I think sleep is considered Yin and therefore more feminine in Chinese medicine, so I'll call Sleep a she. Maybe I took her too much for granted for the first 19 years of my life. Not that I was never sleep-deprived in high school--I was, in fact, perpetually sleep-deprived--but I never had much trouble falling asleep once I got in bed. Lie down, relax a few minutes, and there she was, ready to escort me through a night of strange-but-rarely-scary dreams, straight through to the morning. If I woke up in the night, it was only to be thankful that I still had a few more hours to enjoy her before I had to get up at the excruciating hour of 5:45am.
Then, at some point when I was around 19 or 20, I started having the occasional night where I had a little trouble falling asleep. Looking back now, I wonder if it was somehow related to the dieting and crazy exercising I did that first summer home from college, when I lost 30 pounds and punished my body into hypothalamic amenorrhea. Throwing my body out of balance like that could easily have other results, as well, at least in theory. But it could also have been that I just had more to worry about.
In any case, any of you who have experienced the occasional sleepless night probably know how it spirals and accumulates. Insomnia is so psychological--it's almost impossible to tell if there's something physical going on or if you're just so nervous about not being able to find Sleep that you keep yourself awake. I was still on mostly friendly terms with Sleep. She came to me without too many issues most nights. But I dreaded those nights when she would hide from me for a while. In my mind, there were few things in life that were scarier or more nerve-wracking. Tylenol PM became my friend. I longed to be one of those people, like my brother, who simply didn't worry about it. Who wasn't phased by the idea of insomnia. Who took Sleep for granted, and therefore never had problems finding her.
A few years ago, I think God decided it was time I face my frenemy Sleep head-on. I had just started grad school and was a bit overwhelmed with how much I had to do, and then I stopped being able to find Sleep easily at all. And I was absolutely panicked about it. Even the mention of the word "insomnia" had always caused me to break out in a cold sweat, and here I was, basically an insomniac. My doctor was quick to prescribe me first Am.bien, which was great but too expensive, and then Traz.adone, a cheap anti-depressant with the side-effect of drowsiness. I took the Traz.adone for two nights in a row, and the second morning, as I was standing in front of our bathroom sink getting ready to head to school, I blacked out, fell out of the bathroom and into the hallway, and hit the door of the hallway closet. My husband says that was the scariest moment of his life. I guess my eyes were twitching a bit for the few seconds I was laying there. I came out of it quickly and it wasn't a big deal, but I decided Traz.adone might not be a good long-term solution.
I won't bore you with all the details of what happened for the next few months. I was depressed. I was terrified. I didn't sleep a single night without some kind of chemical help.
I eventually came out of it. I found some herbal supplements that helped. I found some generic Am.bien online for much cheaper. I began to really believe that I was not in control of my ability to find Sleep, so I couldn't change anything by worrying. And I realized that I really could survive insomnia. It wasn't actually the end of the world, as I had previously thought.
I've been back on speaking terms with Sleep the past few years. I still have days or weeks at a time where she's more elusive, and I have to make use of that Am.bien. Then I have other weeks where all it takes is a little valerian or melatonin.
That is, until starting acupuncture. Let me first just say that the verdict's still out on the acupuncture for me. I'm doing it to have normal cycles and get pregnant, and thus far, neither of those seems anywhere in sight. And my acupuncturist assures me that my other occasional minor...disturbances (eczema, digestive issues, nasal congestion) will also subside. All of those are still alive and kickin', though I have been very...um...regular since starting. But the insomnia? Pretty much gone. Seriously. I've surprised myself with how easily I've been falling asleep for the last 40-odd days since starting the acupuncture. I keep waiting for another bump in the road in my relationship with Sleep, but 40 days is a bit of a record. And not only have I been falling asleep more easily, but I also haven't been waking up as often. Just my nightly old lady bathroom trip. But I used to wake up and feel restless 2-3 times most nights.
The only nights I've had trouble have been either when I'm waking up super early the next morning, which always makes me feel more nervous and pressured about falling asleep, or when I've had irritating...ahem...gas issues.
Like I said, I've been nervous about telling anyone about my new-found peace with Sleep, because I'm afraid I'll lose it by talking about it. But I'm on the record now. I'm very, very, very thankful. Sleep, thanks for being my friend again. Katy, thanks for the amazing acupuncture and herbs. And God, thanks for taking me on this long journey through insomnia. It has been really painful at times, but I really have learned so much about you and about myself through it. And I would definitely still be stuck in my anxiety about Sleep had I never experienced the terror of its loss in the way that I did.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Unending Graduations
I was sitting way up high in the bleachers at my brother's college graduation on Saturday, next to my husband and behind a girl who had penciled on eyebrows and a tattoo of two creepy eyeballs on the back of her neck (which were staring at me through the entire ceremony). A band of students performed a song near the beginning of the ceremony, and I found myself tearing up because...well, I don't know. The singer's voice was beautiful. The graduates looked so happy. How much I love my little brother, and how much nicer he is to me now than he used to be. My parents weren't there (they live in Africa and just didn't have the money to pay for the trip) and how sad I knew my mom was to miss her son's graduation.
All the babies and pregnant women all over the place in the gymnasium probably didn't help much, either.
I think graduations always take me back to my high school graduation and all the emotions that were swept up in that. Looking around at my classmates and knowing this would be the last time we would ever be all together in the same building. That I wouldn't see most of them ever again. Feeling that something really big and monumental was over in my life. Anticipating living away from home for the first time. Feeling so proud of my class (proud of what? I don't know. Just for being my class, I guess). Being so happy to be finished with high school, and ready to leave home and fend for myself.
It's the same feeling I had when I was eleven years old and boarding a ship with my family to start our journey from Tagbilaran, Bohol to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Seeing the tears on my parents' faces as they hugged so many people that they had sacrificed so much to love and help.
I had a few twinges of this feeling at my wedding, though I was mostly preoccupied with giddy excitement and joy. But some part of me was aware that from then on, my relationship with my family would be solely in the form of brief visits and phone calls. No more living in their house as their child.
The same feeling I had last summer as I said goodbye to my parents a few weeks before they headed off to the next big thing in their lives (Africa).
It feels reductive to simply call these moments bittersweet goodbyes. Yes, they have been the big transitions in my life. But I think what has filled them with such richness and depth is that they have all taken place in the context of great love. The beauty of that love is what frees me to be able to feel nostalgic for my past without any sense of profound loss or sadness. Knowing that what's coming next is good and right--that it's supposed to be what's coming next. And confident that what was beautiful about the past isn't over--it continues and will continue through eternity. What was painful and hard, however, is over and will not return.
But that doesn't stop me from getting teary-eyed at graduations. I've got another one coming up in a couple of weeks--my own. Pete has convinced me to walk in my graduation, even though I completed my MA last December and feel very little connection to the university from which I received it. But he insists that I need closure of some sort, and that I'll regret not doing it if I don't. Which is probably true. If I cry at that one, though, it will probably be from boredom as they call every single one of the 4,000ish graduates in attendance. I'll definitely be bringing a book (hidden under my gown, of course) to help me make it through that one....
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Welcome ICLWers!
I'm excited to participate in my second ICLW! I had a lot of fun in March, so I'm ready to roll with my comments again.
Unfortunately, I don't have much time today to put up any kind of clever intro post for myself. Right now, I'm on day 29 of my cycle and waiting for ovulation, feeling a bit frustrated with my body at how slowly it moves. But I do think ovulation is coming soon. My biggest clue? I had two zits suddenly show up a couple of days ago. I know most women break out near their period, but for each of my cycles since I went off birth control (which has only been a measly 5 cycles in 9 months), I have a zit or two show up within the week before ovulation. I'm clinging to these zits as a sign of hope.
Anyway, if you want to learn more about me, check out my timeline, my first post, or my last ICLW intro. Hopefully I'll get a chance to post something more exciting soon. But for now, back to my work email I go.
Unfortunately, I don't have much time today to put up any kind of clever intro post for myself. Right now, I'm on day 29 of my cycle and waiting for ovulation, feeling a bit frustrated with my body at how slowly it moves. But I do think ovulation is coming soon. My biggest clue? I had two zits suddenly show up a couple of days ago. I know most women break out near their period, but for each of my cycles since I went off birth control (which has only been a measly 5 cycles in 9 months), I have a zit or two show up within the week before ovulation. I'm clinging to these zits as a sign of hope.
Anyway, if you want to learn more about me, check out my timeline, my first post, or my last ICLW intro. Hopefully I'll get a chance to post something more exciting soon. But for now, back to my work email I go.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
My Life as Story
Chris Brogan has started a conversation on his blog prompted by a new book put out by Donald Miller entitled A Million Miles in a Thousand Years: What I Learned While Editing My Life (whew, that was a lot of links in one sentence!). I have yet to read this latest of Miller's books, but it has been on my list since shortly after it came out. I do, however, know the premise of the book based on an interview with Miller that I happened to read a few weeks ago. This book is essentially about what it was like for him to write one of his earlier books, Blue Like Jazz (which I have read and enjoyed). About the strange tensions that arise when one is trying to put one's life into story form. And what happened in his life after that book sold over a million copies.
I feel compelled to participate in Brogan's conversation about what story means to me because the concept of story is one that I've thought about a great deal, and one that has played a crucial role in my life in several ways. It's also a concept that I've realized plays a large role in the way I think about the difficulties I encounter in life. Difficulty number one (at this time) being my thus-far inability to get pregnant.
I could edit my thoughts on this subject into a nice, coherent post with an introduction and satisfying conclusion. I'm pretty good at that after six years of writing literary analysis essays that require such things. But I've decided instead to use the fact that my subject matter is story as an excuse not to write this in a nice, linear, story form. Because the truth is that when I'm asked what the importance of story is in my life, my mind goes in several directions. And I want to explore those without having to tie them up with a nice storybook bow.
Not because I don't believe such a thing as a perfect story exists. I do, in fact, believe that we're all living in a Story far grander and more perfect and linear than we can imagine: the grand and beautiful story of each of our lives and also of the whole history of the universe. But that's just it: we can't imagine what the story is like, how it's going to end, and even how it's developing right now. It's too big. We get glimpses of different pieces and elements of it--in our lives, in literature, in art. But not the whole. So, for now, I'm trying to be content in that cloud of unknowing while appreciating the glimpses of the Story that I see all around me.
So a few ways that story is important in my life, and then, because this is an infertility blog, how it affects the way I experience infertility.
Story as Fiction
I was raised on story. And I don't mean TV shows, but actual stories. Fiction, primarily. As a family, we didn't own a TV that actually received any channels until we moved from the Philippines to Philadelphia when I was 11. Instead, we read. I know that sounds terribly cliche and cutesy, but it's true. I almost always had some book I was reading through with my dad. For many years, I would lay in his bed and read to him as he fell asleep for his afternoon siesta. Something that took quite a bit of patience on his part, I'm sure, since I was still learning to read at that point. Once we moved back to the States, our tradition became that he would read to me each evening as I washed the dishes (we didn't own a dishwasher). I was so in love with reading that my parents actually had to limit how much time I spent laying on the couch with a book--to force me to do something--anything--else.
I don't want to go into the philosophical meaning of the story, and how reading a good story (or any story, really) affects our lives as humans. Fiction is profoundly meaningful, uplifting, and beautiful, and a good story helps us to discover what it means to be human. I'll leave the rest to CS Lewis, a fellow English major who has probably written more articulately than almost anyone about the implications of story. But I truly believe that being raised on a steady diet of beautiful stories is, in the deepest sense, a huge part of what made me who I am today. And nothing else can really compare to the feeling I get after finishing a really great work of fiction. Great literature feeds my soul more than any other form of art.
Story as Life
Though I have yet to read Miller's book, I think I can relate to at least some of the issues he explores in it--the tensions that arise in editing one's own life. In the Christian world, we have this tradition of getting people to give their "testimonies." Giving one's testimony involves standing up in front of a group of people and essentially telling your life story--particularly focusing on the Christian elements of it (ie, how you became a Christian, how God has worked in your life, etc).
The opportunity to "share my testimony" is a (ahem) privilege I've been given multiple times. And it seems like it gets more complicated each time I do it. Because I feel the need to somehow find a theme--some common thread that has run through my life thus far. Something I used to struggle with and how God has helped me to change. But any theme or thread I choose ends up feeling reductive. That's not all there is to the story.
I also always feel like I'm missing something--like there's something to my story that I can't yet see, even after a major episode or chapter comes to completion. For example, a few years ago I went through a few months of major insomnia that then led to major depression. I can definitely understand what happened and why it happened better now than I did while I was in the midst of it. I can even list a few good things that came out of it, like the fact that I don't stress about insomnia now nearly as much as I did before because I've seen that I can survive and come out the other side. But really, I don't understand why the insomnia led to depression. Why I suddenly felt like there was no hope in the world, like my apartment was a prison, and my bedroom a torture chamber. Why I suddenly had major doubts about God. And I can't really list that many good things that came out of such an awful experience. It was too miserable. I know good came of it, but I'm unable to fully articulate what that good was. But if I were sharing my testimony, I would need to at least find a lens through which to tell that story that left my audience with a sense of hope and meaning. And all the while, I would know that the lens was faulty and imcomplete.
Infertility as Story
As I'm going through the struggles and ups and downs of trying to conceive, I often think about how I will tell this story as part of my testimony in the future, when I'm through it. Every time I ovulate, I spend two weeks thinking about how perfect the story would be if this were the one. How I had just finally reached a place of peace or surrender about the whole thing, and that's when God finally intervened. Or how the timing of this due date would clearly be the best timing, and we will thank God for making us wait.
I want to jump ahead to the next chapter in my story. To skip through this one, because it's hard, and I'm not enjoying it. And while I'm sure I have more I could learn from it, I think I've learned a lot. I'm ready to start the learning that will come through pregnancy, childbirth, and being a parent.
Or I think about how my story would read as a novel. Some major editing would have to take place, I can tell you that. Because so far, I'm missing most of what makes a good novel. I've got the nuance and complexity and character development, but, let's be honest, a good novel does need a few themes, even if they're hard to perceive on the surface. And trying to make a biography read like a novel usually ends up sounding forced and reductive.
This is why I stick to reading fiction.
I feel compelled to participate in Brogan's conversation about what story means to me because the concept of story is one that I've thought about a great deal, and one that has played a crucial role in my life in several ways. It's also a concept that I've realized plays a large role in the way I think about the difficulties I encounter in life. Difficulty number one (at this time) being my thus-far inability to get pregnant.
I could edit my thoughts on this subject into a nice, coherent post with an introduction and satisfying conclusion. I'm pretty good at that after six years of writing literary analysis essays that require such things. But I've decided instead to use the fact that my subject matter is story as an excuse not to write this in a nice, linear, story form. Because the truth is that when I'm asked what the importance of story is in my life, my mind goes in several directions. And I want to explore those without having to tie them up with a nice storybook bow.
Not because I don't believe such a thing as a perfect story exists. I do, in fact, believe that we're all living in a Story far grander and more perfect and linear than we can imagine: the grand and beautiful story of each of our lives and also of the whole history of the universe. But that's just it: we can't imagine what the story is like, how it's going to end, and even how it's developing right now. It's too big. We get glimpses of different pieces and elements of it--in our lives, in literature, in art. But not the whole. So, for now, I'm trying to be content in that cloud of unknowing while appreciating the glimpses of the Story that I see all around me.
So a few ways that story is important in my life, and then, because this is an infertility blog, how it affects the way I experience infertility.
Story as Fiction
I was raised on story. And I don't mean TV shows, but actual stories. Fiction, primarily. As a family, we didn't own a TV that actually received any channels until we moved from the Philippines to Philadelphia when I was 11. Instead, we read. I know that sounds terribly cliche and cutesy, but it's true. I almost always had some book I was reading through with my dad. For many years, I would lay in his bed and read to him as he fell asleep for his afternoon siesta. Something that took quite a bit of patience on his part, I'm sure, since I was still learning to read at that point. Once we moved back to the States, our tradition became that he would read to me each evening as I washed the dishes (we didn't own a dishwasher). I was so in love with reading that my parents actually had to limit how much time I spent laying on the couch with a book--to force me to do something--anything--else.
I don't want to go into the philosophical meaning of the story, and how reading a good story (or any story, really) affects our lives as humans. Fiction is profoundly meaningful, uplifting, and beautiful, and a good story helps us to discover what it means to be human. I'll leave the rest to CS Lewis, a fellow English major who has probably written more articulately than almost anyone about the implications of story. But I truly believe that being raised on a steady diet of beautiful stories is, in the deepest sense, a huge part of what made me who I am today. And nothing else can really compare to the feeling I get after finishing a really great work of fiction. Great literature feeds my soul more than any other form of art.
Story as Life
Though I have yet to read Miller's book, I think I can relate to at least some of the issues he explores in it--the tensions that arise in editing one's own life. In the Christian world, we have this tradition of getting people to give their "testimonies." Giving one's testimony involves standing up in front of a group of people and essentially telling your life story--particularly focusing on the Christian elements of it (ie, how you became a Christian, how God has worked in your life, etc).
The opportunity to "share my testimony" is a (ahem) privilege I've been given multiple times. And it seems like it gets more complicated each time I do it. Because I feel the need to somehow find a theme--some common thread that has run through my life thus far. Something I used to struggle with and how God has helped me to change. But any theme or thread I choose ends up feeling reductive. That's not all there is to the story.
I also always feel like I'm missing something--like there's something to my story that I can't yet see, even after a major episode or chapter comes to completion. For example, a few years ago I went through a few months of major insomnia that then led to major depression. I can definitely understand what happened and why it happened better now than I did while I was in the midst of it. I can even list a few good things that came out of it, like the fact that I don't stress about insomnia now nearly as much as I did before because I've seen that I can survive and come out the other side. But really, I don't understand why the insomnia led to depression. Why I suddenly felt like there was no hope in the world, like my apartment was a prison, and my bedroom a torture chamber. Why I suddenly had major doubts about God. And I can't really list that many good things that came out of such an awful experience. It was too miserable. I know good came of it, but I'm unable to fully articulate what that good was. But if I were sharing my testimony, I would need to at least find a lens through which to tell that story that left my audience with a sense of hope and meaning. And all the while, I would know that the lens was faulty and imcomplete.
Infertility as Story
As I'm going through the struggles and ups and downs of trying to conceive, I often think about how I will tell this story as part of my testimony in the future, when I'm through it. Every time I ovulate, I spend two weeks thinking about how perfect the story would be if this were the one. How I had just finally reached a place of peace or surrender about the whole thing, and that's when God finally intervened. Or how the timing of this due date would clearly be the best timing, and we will thank God for making us wait.
I want to jump ahead to the next chapter in my story. To skip through this one, because it's hard, and I'm not enjoying it. And while I'm sure I have more I could learn from it, I think I've learned a lot. I'm ready to start the learning that will come through pregnancy, childbirth, and being a parent.
Or I think about how my story would read as a novel. Some major editing would have to take place, I can tell you that. Because so far, I'm missing most of what makes a good novel. I've got the nuance and complexity and character development, but, let's be honest, a good novel does need a few themes, even if they're hard to perceive on the surface. And trying to make a biography read like a novel usually ends up sounding forced and reductive.
This is why I stick to reading fiction.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Nutritional Revelation of the Day: White Rice Is Okay
Ever since I was 19 years old and lost 30 pounds through dieting and exercise (and, incidentally, first launched my poor body into no-GNRH land), I've been really interested in nutrition. I spent countless hours that summer making use of my parents' newly acquired high-speed internet and researching how to lose weight. I'm not sure if I was even using Google yet. Nutrition science is one of only two scientific fields that I believe I could actually endure studying (the other being food science--Alton Brown style).
My understanding of healthy eating has significantly evolved since that time, fortunately for me and for everyone who eats the food I cook. At 19, when I weighed in at 140 pounds (I'm 5'4") and decided some of that needed to go, my only point of reference for "healthy eating" was the low-fat craze of the 90s. The sudden will to lose weight coincided with a sudden desire I felt to learn how to cook, and my mom just happened to own Moosewood Restaurant's Low-Fat Cookbook. And so this was the first cookbook I ever really cooked out of, as my mother was more than willing to let me experiment on the family (especially since I quickly proved that I had a knack for cooking). For most of that summer between my freshman and sophomore years of college, I consumed almost zero fat. Seriously. I had no problem with sugar--I would still drink the occasional soda and fat-free dessert--but fats of all kinds were banned from my lips. If you want to lose fat, then stop eating it, right? (On a side note, I am very thankful that the Atkins diet hadn't really gained steam yet. I don't know if I would have survived that one, and my family would not have been nearly such good sports if they were served hamburgers with lettuce instead of buns.)
By the end of the summer, when I hadn't had a period in four months, I realized my eating might be a little out of balance. I had also lost more weight than I had even planned--I was down to 110 and still losing. In an effort to add a little more balance to my life, and as a result of a little more internet research, I decided to focus on calories instead of fats. My mother insisted that women need to eat some fat, so I figured that focusing on calories would allow me to eat a little of every food group and still keep it all under control. (If you haven't gotten this already, you should know that control is a key word for me.) Fat just happens to contain a lot of calories. So I started counting calories. The first day I counted, I got to the end of the day and realized I had only eaten about 800 calories all day. Can you say sub-clinical eating disorder? No wonder my body had stopped ovulating.
Thankfully, I did ease up on myself a little over the next six years. I maintained my weight (106 pounds), but allowed myself to consume the occasional piece of pizza or cookie. Basically, my diet focused on veggies, whole grains, and healthy meats and dairy. Fats were a necessary evil and a waste of my daily allotment of calories, but I consumed a few. A little 1% milk here, a tablespoon of olive oil in my salad dressing there. I thought I was balanced enough, and since my OB had gifted me with unlimited prescriptions for the pill to force my body into having periods, I had no clue how my hormones were doing. I decided to believe they had figured themselves out after I had settled into my new lifestyle.
Fast-forward to last summer, when I went off the pill and realized I still had lots of work to do. Through much angst and soul-searching (and, of course, googling), I finally admitted that my body was still starved for fat. So I loathsomely reintroduced full-fat dairy, cream, butter, cheese, 80% ground beef, etc to my lips. After I got over my long-held fear of fat, it was actually quite liberating. And I was surprised to discover that after gaining 10 pounds at the beginning and getting my cycles back (reluctant as they are), I've maintained my weight fairly easily without feeling like I'm restricting myself.
So now I have all my eating rules all reconfigured properly, right? Veggies of all kinds? Good. Whole grains? Good. Healthy fats? Good. Meats? Good (a rule for which my husband is eternally grateful). Any kind of white, refined carbs? Bad. So no white breads or pastas or white rice. These have become my biggest no-no now. Heck, I even grind my own wheat and make my own bread (sometimes) in order to get as much nutrition as I can out of my sandwiches.
But this latter point, about the white rice, has always bugged me. I religiously substitute brown rice for white when cooking at home, and I usually ask if brown rice is available at Asian restaurants when we go out. But I've been to China twice, and never have I seen a grain of brown rice there. The Chinese live on and swear by their white rice. And the Chinese way of eating overall seems brimming with wisdom and health. They have 4,000 years of uninterrupted history behind them, so I guess they've figured out how to eat well. So why are they stuck on white rice, when we in the West have figured out that brown rice is clearly better?
I found my answer today as I was sitting in my acupuncturist's office, waiting for my bring-on-the-ovulation session, and picked up a book called The Asian Diet. I read through the first chapter quickly and got to the second: "Grains." The second paragraph began with this: "Of the grains, white rice is the best." I nearly fainted into the couch at that point. White rice better than brown? How can this be? Is one of my food rules being threatened yet again?
The author went on to explain that we in the West have mistakenly lumped white rice in with white breads, white sugar, and white pasta as food "devoid of value." It's true that whole foods and whole grains are definitely more nutritionally valuable than their refined counterparts, but white rice should apparently still be considered a whole food. Brown rice kernels come in their outer germ layer, which we think is better because it contains more nutrition and fiber. But this author argues that our bodies can get just as much, if not more, nutrition out of white rice than brown. Because the germ layer is so high in fiber, it actually sweeps the food through our bodies for us to be able to effectively digest all the nutrition in the rice kernel. At least that's my understanding of his explanation. Might I remind you that I was an English major, not a nutrition science major. Please don't judge the poor author's science based on my explanation.
The argument only makes sense in light of what he has put forth in the first chapter--that the Asian diet works because it gets our bodies to digest food properly. The average Chinese apparently consumes 25-40% more calories a day than the average American (which seems hard to believe), but they obviously weigh less on average. They simply eat a more appropriately balanced diet, which helps their bodies to digest food more efficiently and maintain a healthy weight and overall well-being.
I'm not totally sure if I buy all those claims. I need to check the book out for myself and read the rest of it. In any case, his claims about white rice answer a lot of questions for me. Maybe next time I make jambalaya, I won't go to all the extra work of converting the recipe to work with brown rice instead of white. And I'm thrilled with the idea that I could eat risotto without feeling guilty and angry that brown arborio rice doesn't exist.
My husband was as thrilled to hear about the white-rice-is-okay revelation as he was to hear the more-fat-is-good revelation. He loves his white rice, and even though I've gotten really good at making brown rice that is just as sticky and fluffy, he insists it just isn't the same. Now he's hoping I find an article or book somewhere that argues that white flour is actually just as good as whole wheat flour.
My understanding of healthy eating has significantly evolved since that time, fortunately for me and for everyone who eats the food I cook. At 19, when I weighed in at 140 pounds (I'm 5'4") and decided some of that needed to go, my only point of reference for "healthy eating" was the low-fat craze of the 90s. The sudden will to lose weight coincided with a sudden desire I felt to learn how to cook, and my mom just happened to own Moosewood Restaurant's Low-Fat Cookbook. And so this was the first cookbook I ever really cooked out of, as my mother was more than willing to let me experiment on the family (especially since I quickly proved that I had a knack for cooking). For most of that summer between my freshman and sophomore years of college, I consumed almost zero fat. Seriously. I had no problem with sugar--I would still drink the occasional soda and fat-free dessert--but fats of all kinds were banned from my lips. If you want to lose fat, then stop eating it, right? (On a side note, I am very thankful that the Atkins diet hadn't really gained steam yet. I don't know if I would have survived that one, and my family would not have been nearly such good sports if they were served hamburgers with lettuce instead of buns.)
By the end of the summer, when I hadn't had a period in four months, I realized my eating might be a little out of balance. I had also lost more weight than I had even planned--I was down to 110 and still losing. In an effort to add a little more balance to my life, and as a result of a little more internet research, I decided to focus on calories instead of fats. My mother insisted that women need to eat some fat, so I figured that focusing on calories would allow me to eat a little of every food group and still keep it all under control. (If you haven't gotten this already, you should know that control is a key word for me.) Fat just happens to contain a lot of calories. So I started counting calories. The first day I counted, I got to the end of the day and realized I had only eaten about 800 calories all day. Can you say sub-clinical eating disorder? No wonder my body had stopped ovulating.
Thankfully, I did ease up on myself a little over the next six years. I maintained my weight (106 pounds), but allowed myself to consume the occasional piece of pizza or cookie. Basically, my diet focused on veggies, whole grains, and healthy meats and dairy. Fats were a necessary evil and a waste of my daily allotment of calories, but I consumed a few. A little 1% milk here, a tablespoon of olive oil in my salad dressing there. I thought I was balanced enough, and since my OB had gifted me with unlimited prescriptions for the pill to force my body into having periods, I had no clue how my hormones were doing. I decided to believe they had figured themselves out after I had settled into my new lifestyle.
Fast-forward to last summer, when I went off the pill and realized I still had lots of work to do. Through much angst and soul-searching (and, of course, googling), I finally admitted that my body was still starved for fat. So I loathsomely reintroduced full-fat dairy, cream, butter, cheese, 80% ground beef, etc to my lips. After I got over my long-held fear of fat, it was actually quite liberating. And I was surprised to discover that after gaining 10 pounds at the beginning and getting my cycles back (reluctant as they are), I've maintained my weight fairly easily without feeling like I'm restricting myself.
So now I have all my eating rules all reconfigured properly, right? Veggies of all kinds? Good. Whole grains? Good. Healthy fats? Good. Meats? Good (a rule for which my husband is eternally grateful). Any kind of white, refined carbs? Bad. So no white breads or pastas or white rice. These have become my biggest no-no now. Heck, I even grind my own wheat and make my own bread (sometimes) in order to get as much nutrition as I can out of my sandwiches.
But this latter point, about the white rice, has always bugged me. I religiously substitute brown rice for white when cooking at home, and I usually ask if brown rice is available at Asian restaurants when we go out. But I've been to China twice, and never have I seen a grain of brown rice there. The Chinese live on and swear by their white rice. And the Chinese way of eating overall seems brimming with wisdom and health. They have 4,000 years of uninterrupted history behind them, so I guess they've figured out how to eat well. So why are they stuck on white rice, when we in the West have figured out that brown rice is clearly better?
I found my answer today as I was sitting in my acupuncturist's office, waiting for my bring-on-the-ovulation session, and picked up a book called The Asian Diet. I read through the first chapter quickly and got to the second: "Grains." The second paragraph began with this: "Of the grains, white rice is the best." I nearly fainted into the couch at that point. White rice better than brown? How can this be? Is one of my food rules being threatened yet again?
The author went on to explain that we in the West have mistakenly lumped white rice in with white breads, white sugar, and white pasta as food "devoid of value." It's true that whole foods and whole grains are definitely more nutritionally valuable than their refined counterparts, but white rice should apparently still be considered a whole food. Brown rice kernels come in their outer germ layer, which we think is better because it contains more nutrition and fiber. But this author argues that our bodies can get just as much, if not more, nutrition out of white rice than brown. Because the germ layer is so high in fiber, it actually sweeps the food through our bodies for us to be able to effectively digest all the nutrition in the rice kernel. At least that's my understanding of his explanation. Might I remind you that I was an English major, not a nutrition science major. Please don't judge the poor author's science based on my explanation.
The argument only makes sense in light of what he has put forth in the first chapter--that the Asian diet works because it gets our bodies to digest food properly. The average Chinese apparently consumes 25-40% more calories a day than the average American (which seems hard to believe), but they obviously weigh less on average. They simply eat a more appropriately balanced diet, which helps their bodies to digest food more efficiently and maintain a healthy weight and overall well-being.
I'm not totally sure if I buy all those claims. I need to check the book out for myself and read the rest of it. In any case, his claims about white rice answer a lot of questions for me. Maybe next time I make jambalaya, I won't go to all the extra work of converting the recipe to work with brown rice instead of white. And I'm thrilled with the idea that I could eat risotto without feeling guilty and angry that brown arborio rice doesn't exist.
My husband was as thrilled to hear about the white-rice-is-okay revelation as he was to hear the more-fat-is-good revelation. He loves his white rice, and even though I've gotten really good at making brown rice that is just as sticky and fluffy, he insists it just isn't the same. Now he's hoping I find an article or book somewhere that argues that white flour is actually just as good as whole wheat flour.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
My Non-TTC Intro
First of all, welcome to my blog if you're stopping by from ICLW! I'm excited to participate for the first time, and I promise to stop by your blog if you comment here. My brief intro is that hubby and I are trying for #1, and though we've only been trying since July '09, I have known since shortly after that (and if I were honest, for a long time) that I had issues--namely hypothalamic amenorrhea. I did manage to get my cycles back by gaining some weight, but now they're very long and I have really low progesterone, so clearly everything is not as it should be. We're not going the RE route right now (no insurance coverage, so the cost is too high), but I'm about to start acupuncture and herbs and see where that goes.
Since I haven't talked much here about the rest of my life, I thought I'd give a few fun non-TTC facts about myself here.
Since I haven't talked much here about the rest of my life, I thought I'd give a few fun non-TTC facts about myself here.
- I lived in the Philippines until I was 11 years old. I am not even 1% Filipina, but my parents moved there to do non-profit missionary work. It was definitely my home, though, and the transition back to the US (right in time to start the fun phase of life called junior high) was rough, to say the least.
- I love, love, love to cook. I'm really into baking, especially baking bread. I just had one of my homemade bagels for breakfast this morning (with homemade jelly on top). I also love to eat, and I especially love trying new, exotic foods. My favorite dish when I was a kid was baby squid cooked in its own ink. Which is why it's a bit ironic that I have hypothalamic amenorrhea for being too thin. As much as I love to eat, I guess I'm also a little too self-disciplined about it.
- I also absolutely adore reading good books. I just finished up my MA thesis (in English literature, of course) last December, so I'm loving the extra time I have to read books for fun. Favorite authors include John Donne (the subject of my thesis), John Steinbeck, Chaim Potok, Jane Austen (can't resist--she was an absolute genius at writing novels), and hundreds more I can't think of right now.
- My entire wedding, which was fairly large (200ish guests) and every bit as elaborate as I wanted, only cost $5000. Made possible by many talented and generous friends.
- Hubs and I plan to move overseas within the next few years (once he finishes his Ph.D.). Most likely to China. Partially because I've always wanted my own kids to have the international upbringing I had. And partially because we just aren't cut out to live in one place for the rest of our lives.
I find it sad that after writing five non-IF things about myself, my first inclination was to put something in about the TTC. I guess that's how it goes. But I will give a brief update on that front. Today is either 12 or 14 dpo, so I decided to pretend it was 14 dpo and test this morning. Result: one very dark line. Just one. I was hoping that would help me to move on and accept that AF will be coming soon, because I know she is, but of course there's still this annoying part of me that is insisting FF was wrong and today was only 12 dpo, and I still have a chance. I'm trying to shut that voice up, but my boobs keep throbbing in pain and keeping the voice alive. Grrr. But I'm really actually doing okay emotionally, thank God. Just annoyed with my boobs.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Fly, Arrow, Fly
Back when I was first learning about hypothalamic amenorrhea, I came across several places that described the typical HA sufferer as white, female (well, duh), intelligent, well-educated, and controlling. Well, I don't exactly remember if they used the word "controlling," but it was something to that effect. In any case, I was implicated completely. I'm as white as they come, have a graduate degree, and always did well in school (as in, straight A's all the way through until one class in grad school, which still kills me. But I'm over it, I promise). And, yes, I'm naturally someone who wants to be in control. Of almost everything. In fact, when P and I did our premarital counselling, our counselor (a professional) gave me a little booklet about OCD. Hint, hint.
I'm willing to admit that I like to be in control. This is, after all, why I was so good at controlling my diet and exercising regularly, thus getting myself into this HA mess. As with most personality traits, it's both a strength and a weakness. I'm awesome and being discipline, organized, efficient. I get things done way faster than expected. I never (repeat, never) had to pull an all-nighter to finish an assignment or study for a test--because I had always planned ahead enough to get it done in advance. I plan all the meals we're going to eat each week ahead of time so I can use our money wisely and save time by only making one grocery trip a week.
But I have dreams (nightmares, really) about being late, being unable to get something done, about chaos. These are the things that literally keep me up at night, as pathetic as that sounds. And I dread planning meals each week because of my perfectionist tendencies. I have a strongly held belief that there is a perfect plan out there for our meals--one that would be perfectly efficient, healthy, varied, balanced. Etc. So I labor trying to find that perfect plan. Just in case you're wondering, it doesn't exist. Perfection doesn't exist in our broken world. That sounds hopeless, but it's really quite freeing when I can believe it.
God gave me the perfect (okay, I just said perfection doesn't exist, so I guess I'm using it figuratively here) husband to help me learn to let go a bit. Thankfully, he's almost as much of a planner as I am. I believe I would actually go out of my mind if I were married to someone who liked to fly by the seat of his pants (someone like my little brother, for example). P gets anxious if we don't have the next five years planned out; I get anxious if we don't have the next week planned out. So I help to let go of the next five years and he helps me to let go of next Tuesday. It works quite beautifully, actually. Thanks for orchestrating that, God.
This infertility thing is, needless to say, a huge, painful, stretching experience for both of us. I can't sleep at night worrying about my temperature the next morning. P gets frustrated that we are losing the possibility of having a baby in 2010. And we both just have to let it go, and help each other let it go.
That doesn't negate the fact that I still feel better now that we have put a bit of a plan in place. I was feeling really lost for a while because I didn't know what came next. Or how soon it could come. Without being able to see an RE, it seemed like we would just be floundering on our own for months and years on end. But we have a plan. And it was actually P's idea, so I don't have feel guilty about being too impatient and pushing things forward too fast. He wants a kid just as much as I do.
The plan? Assuming AF shows when she's due early next week, P will go in for his SA on Tuesday. I guess the results of that could change things entirely, but it's likely that he will be at least borderline normal. Then I will start acupuncture next Friday. I already booked my appointment. I'll go ahead and pay for the six-month plan and start going weekly, taking the herbs, eating warm foods, whatever. If P does have sperm issues, I might even be able to convince him to go in a few times.
After (and maybe even during) that six months, we'll start researching the process of adoption. We've always wanted to adopt, so this is not totally out of the blue. The idea of providing a home for parentless children, of creating a diverse family, is beautiful to us. We just always thought we'd adopt after having a couple biological kids. But why not now? It's expensive, it seems insurmountably complicated, but I guess we feel more at peace with the idea of dropping a lot of money and time into adopting rather than infertility treatments. We would probably look into international adoption first, since we plan to live overseas in the future anyway, but we'd really be open to anything.
That's our plan. It's faulty. It may be selfishly motivated at some points. It's unlikely that things will proceed as expected. But it's relieving to have a direction to move towards--a target to shoot for, I guess. If some wind comes along and blows our arrow in another direction...well, okay. We're learning that things work better when we release the arrow rather than trying to hold on to it as it flies.
I'm willing to admit that I like to be in control. This is, after all, why I was so good at controlling my diet and exercising regularly, thus getting myself into this HA mess. As with most personality traits, it's both a strength and a weakness. I'm awesome and being discipline, organized, efficient. I get things done way faster than expected. I never (repeat, never) had to pull an all-nighter to finish an assignment or study for a test--because I had always planned ahead enough to get it done in advance. I plan all the meals we're going to eat each week ahead of time so I can use our money wisely and save time by only making one grocery trip a week.
But I have dreams (nightmares, really) about being late, being unable to get something done, about chaos. These are the things that literally keep me up at night, as pathetic as that sounds. And I dread planning meals each week because of my perfectionist tendencies. I have a strongly held belief that there is a perfect plan out there for our meals--one that would be perfectly efficient, healthy, varied, balanced. Etc. So I labor trying to find that perfect plan. Just in case you're wondering, it doesn't exist. Perfection doesn't exist in our broken world. That sounds hopeless, but it's really quite freeing when I can believe it.
God gave me the perfect (okay, I just said perfection doesn't exist, so I guess I'm using it figuratively here) husband to help me learn to let go a bit. Thankfully, he's almost as much of a planner as I am. I believe I would actually go out of my mind if I were married to someone who liked to fly by the seat of his pants (someone like my little brother, for example). P gets anxious if we don't have the next five years planned out; I get anxious if we don't have the next week planned out. So I help to let go of the next five years and he helps me to let go of next Tuesday. It works quite beautifully, actually. Thanks for orchestrating that, God.
This infertility thing is, needless to say, a huge, painful, stretching experience for both of us. I can't sleep at night worrying about my temperature the next morning. P gets frustrated that we are losing the possibility of having a baby in 2010. And we both just have to let it go, and help each other let it go.
That doesn't negate the fact that I still feel better now that we have put a bit of a plan in place. I was feeling really lost for a while because I didn't know what came next. Or how soon it could come. Without being able to see an RE, it seemed like we would just be floundering on our own for months and years on end. But we have a plan. And it was actually P's idea, so I don't have feel guilty about being too impatient and pushing things forward too fast. He wants a kid just as much as I do.
The plan? Assuming AF shows when she's due early next week, P will go in for his SA on Tuesday. I guess the results of that could change things entirely, but it's likely that he will be at least borderline normal. Then I will start acupuncture next Friday. I already booked my appointment. I'll go ahead and pay for the six-month plan and start going weekly, taking the herbs, eating warm foods, whatever. If P does have sperm issues, I might even be able to convince him to go in a few times.
After (and maybe even during) that six months, we'll start researching the process of adoption. We've always wanted to adopt, so this is not totally out of the blue. The idea of providing a home for parentless children, of creating a diverse family, is beautiful to us. We just always thought we'd adopt after having a couple biological kids. But why not now? It's expensive, it seems insurmountably complicated, but I guess we feel more at peace with the idea of dropping a lot of money and time into adopting rather than infertility treatments. We would probably look into international adoption first, since we plan to live overseas in the future anyway, but we'd really be open to anything.
That's our plan. It's faulty. It may be selfishly motivated at some points. It's unlikely that things will proceed as expected. But it's relieving to have a direction to move towards--a target to shoot for, I guess. If some wind comes along and blows our arrow in another direction...well, okay. We're learning that things work better when we release the arrow rather than trying to hold on to it as it flies.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Introduction: My History with Hypothalamic Amenorrhea
I've decided to start blogging my way through my journey towards motherhood. Partially so that I can reference this in the future, and partially for others out there who might stumble across my blog and find it a comfort. Or those who might know nothing of infertility but would benefit from a glimpse into its twisted depths (which would be most people).
I'm currently 26 and have been very happily married for three and a half years. My husband is a graduate student, working on his Ph.D. in mechanical engineering. I have spent the past few years working full-time, getting my MA in English Lit, and then working full-time again. Ironically enough, I work with kids. I just turned in my thesis last December, and my husband and I had decided that our ideal timeline was for me to be pregnant and due sometime this spring, which we figured would put us in a semi-decent financial position and give me a secure job to potentially return to after maternity leave, should I choose to do so. So, I officially went off the pill last June, and we started TTC on July 8, our third anniversary.
Let me back up a bit. Back in high school, I used to weigh around 130 pounds at a height of 5'4". Not really overweight, but I have a small frame so it was actually a bit overweight for me. I got up to 140 the year after high school and decided things needed to change. So, starting that April, I embarked on an all-out weight-loss campaign. This was back during the low-fat craze (pre-low-carb craze), and so my method was to cut out almost all fat from my diet and exercise every single day. Looking back now, I can say I was bordering on a sub-clinical eating disorder--I was so restrictive and obsessive about it. Over about 4 months, I lost about 35 pounds, getting down to 106. And though I gradually loosened up on the eating and exercised over the next 5 years, I stayed around the same weight.
But. My period stopped coming. The last one I had was in April of that year, before starting the weight-loss crusade. After 6 months, my mother convinced me that I should see my OB about it, and I did. She basically said I had nothing to worry about, really, and just put me on the pill. I was 19. I tried going off the next summer because I didn't think I really needed to be on it, but still no period. At that point I started to get anxious about potential fertility problems, even though I had no idea why. My OB assured me there was nothing to be concerned about and just told me to get back on the pill.
Fine. By then, I was seriously dating the man who would become my husband. So I just stayed on the pill through the first 3 years of marriage. Always in the back of my mind was a fear about whether we would be able to have kids, but I kind of pushed it off and just hoped that since I was more moderate with my eating (or so I thought), I wouldn't have any problems. I include this because it gives a little more background on the anxiety of my fertility journey. Basically, ever since I was 19, I haven't been able to see friends get pregnant and have babies without an impinging feeling of fear. About a year and a half ago, we found out that my younger sister-in-law, who had been married less than a year, had gotten pregnant accidentally. I admit with great shame that my initial reaction was extreme anger. Why couldn't she figure out the birth control thing? Why did she have to upstage us? We should have had the first grandkids, if she and her husband could only figure out the planning-ahead thing (which, pregnancy aside, they really do suck at). I couldn't believe that was my reaction and I worked through it with God and my husband, but there it was.
So, back to last year. Took my last pill June 23. Lived in ignorant bliss for exactly one month, hoping good ol' Aunt Flo would show up right on time and I would have nothing to worry about (or else be pregnant). On July 23, nothing. Tried to hold back the anxiety, but didn't make it very long. I eventually started emailing my OB, and she ordered a bunch of bloodwork. Everything was actually fairly normal, so we tried progesterone for a week, which she guaranteed me would cause a period. Nothing. Well, lots of cramps. But no blood. More bloodwork and an appointment which included an ultrasound. She finally diagnosed me with hypothalamic amenorrhea, which means my brain wasn't sending the signals to my body to ovulate. She referred me to an infertility specialist. I found out the appointment with the specialist would cost $516 out of pocket and went right back to my OB. No way could we afford that much just for an appointment, and clearly any treatments would cost much more.
Meanwhile, lots of freaking out and crying.
Also meanwhile, I stumbled across the Hypothalamic Amenorrhea discussion board at FertileThoughts. Finally, some answers. There are actually a lot of other girls out there with HA! And most of them have been able to get pregnant! Their answer? Gain weight.
Ouch. At that point, I could hardly stand the idea of gaining weight. I was quite attached to my size 0 body. But, slowly but surely, I began to accept that I just needed to do it. So, I started gorging myself and gained 7 pounds in one weekend! I made it up to 115 and kind of camped out there for a while, hoping I wouldn't need to gain more. My OB had taken pity on me and done some of her own research on HA, even contacting her RE (reproductive endocrinologist) friend to ask for advice. She suggested that we start with clomid. So DH (dear hubby) and I talked it over and decided to start a cycle of clomid right around the beginning of November. I picked up the prescription at the pharmacist and waited--and prayed that something would happen naturally.
Though I had been pretty religious about checking my CM, CP, and temping every day (these are infertility code words for cervical mucus, cervical position, and taking basal body temperature), I had basically given up that anything would happen and stopped reading into them. Then, about a week before I was planning to start the clomid, I noticed that my boobs were really sore for a couple of days. Then, all of a sudden, my BBT shot up from the upper 96's to the lower 98's. I had ovulated! I couldn't believe it! I got my progesterone tested just to be sure, and the ovulation was confirmed. My period showed up 10 days later. I was ecstatic! I couldn't believe my body had done its thing on its own after six years!
DH and I were more prepared with the BMSing (baby-making sex) the next cycle. I ovulated on day 33 and endured a gut-wrenching 2-week-wait, reading into every symptom and doing everything I could to think about other things. I had gotten progesterone suppositories from my OB to lengthen my LP (luteal phase--time between ovulation and period, which should be around 14 days but had only been 9 for me the first time). I had just about the worst pms I've ever had, but I was holding out hope that the awful cramps were a sign of a little fertilized embryo getting cozy. In the meantime, we spent Christmas break with my in-laws, hearing about little else than my adorable niece. Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration. But that's how it felt. I guess I expected a little more sensitivity on their part since they knew what was going on. But really, I don't think anyone who hasn't gone through infertility has much of a clue how it feels, so I can't expect them to simply not mention their cute granddaughter ever around me. That would be even weirder, I suppose.
After 18 excruciating days (and three or four negative pregnancy tests), my period finally showed. Even though I knew we only had a 25% chance, I think I had been so worried about ovulating for so long that I felt like once I finally ovulated, the problem would be solved. So many of our friends seem to be able to get pregnant on the first try, so when we didn't, I was crushed yet again. Yet again, intense negative emotions for no rational reason.
And here we are now. I'm on day 18 of my third natural cycle. The emotions of all this are just killer, and there's no way around them. I trust that God is sovereign and that he loves me, but I fear how much suffering he's going to take me through. DH had been reminding me to take this one day at a time, and to focus on all the many things I have to be thankful for--that I was diagnosed so early, that I found the HA message board, that I only had to gain 10 pounds, that I'm cycling. But it's hard not to focus on the fact that with a cycle as slow as mine has been, I only get half as many chances as anyone else. So this could be a long journey, folks.
I'm currently 26 and have been very happily married for three and a half years. My husband is a graduate student, working on his Ph.D. in mechanical engineering. I have spent the past few years working full-time, getting my MA in English Lit, and then working full-time again. Ironically enough, I work with kids. I just turned in my thesis last December, and my husband and I had decided that our ideal timeline was for me to be pregnant and due sometime this spring, which we figured would put us in a semi-decent financial position and give me a secure job to potentially return to after maternity leave, should I choose to do so. So, I officially went off the pill last June, and we started TTC on July 8, our third anniversary.
Let me back up a bit. Back in high school, I used to weigh around 130 pounds at a height of 5'4". Not really overweight, but I have a small frame so it was actually a bit overweight for me. I got up to 140 the year after high school and decided things needed to change. So, starting that April, I embarked on an all-out weight-loss campaign. This was back during the low-fat craze (pre-low-carb craze), and so my method was to cut out almost all fat from my diet and exercise every single day. Looking back now, I can say I was bordering on a sub-clinical eating disorder--I was so restrictive and obsessive about it. Over about 4 months, I lost about 35 pounds, getting down to 106. And though I gradually loosened up on the eating and exercised over the next 5 years, I stayed around the same weight.
But. My period stopped coming. The last one I had was in April of that year, before starting the weight-loss crusade. After 6 months, my mother convinced me that I should see my OB about it, and I did. She basically said I had nothing to worry about, really, and just put me on the pill. I was 19. I tried going off the next summer because I didn't think I really needed to be on it, but still no period. At that point I started to get anxious about potential fertility problems, even though I had no idea why. My OB assured me there was nothing to be concerned about and just told me to get back on the pill.
Fine. By then, I was seriously dating the man who would become my husband. So I just stayed on the pill through the first 3 years of marriage. Always in the back of my mind was a fear about whether we would be able to have kids, but I kind of pushed it off and just hoped that since I was more moderate with my eating (or so I thought), I wouldn't have any problems. I include this because it gives a little more background on the anxiety of my fertility journey. Basically, ever since I was 19, I haven't been able to see friends get pregnant and have babies without an impinging feeling of fear. About a year and a half ago, we found out that my younger sister-in-law, who had been married less than a year, had gotten pregnant accidentally. I admit with great shame that my initial reaction was extreme anger. Why couldn't she figure out the birth control thing? Why did she have to upstage us? We should have had the first grandkids, if she and her husband could only figure out the planning-ahead thing (which, pregnancy aside, they really do suck at). I couldn't believe that was my reaction and I worked through it with God and my husband, but there it was.
So, back to last year. Took my last pill June 23. Lived in ignorant bliss for exactly one month, hoping good ol' Aunt Flo would show up right on time and I would have nothing to worry about (or else be pregnant). On July 23, nothing. Tried to hold back the anxiety, but didn't make it very long. I eventually started emailing my OB, and she ordered a bunch of bloodwork. Everything was actually fairly normal, so we tried progesterone for a week, which she guaranteed me would cause a period. Nothing. Well, lots of cramps. But no blood. More bloodwork and an appointment which included an ultrasound. She finally diagnosed me with hypothalamic amenorrhea, which means my brain wasn't sending the signals to my body to ovulate. She referred me to an infertility specialist. I found out the appointment with the specialist would cost $516 out of pocket and went right back to my OB. No way could we afford that much just for an appointment, and clearly any treatments would cost much more.
Meanwhile, lots of freaking out and crying.
Also meanwhile, I stumbled across the Hypothalamic Amenorrhea discussion board at FertileThoughts. Finally, some answers. There are actually a lot of other girls out there with HA! And most of them have been able to get pregnant! Their answer? Gain weight.
Ouch. At that point, I could hardly stand the idea of gaining weight. I was quite attached to my size 0 body. But, slowly but surely, I began to accept that I just needed to do it. So, I started gorging myself and gained 7 pounds in one weekend! I made it up to 115 and kind of camped out there for a while, hoping I wouldn't need to gain more. My OB had taken pity on me and done some of her own research on HA, even contacting her RE (reproductive endocrinologist) friend to ask for advice. She suggested that we start with clomid. So DH (dear hubby) and I talked it over and decided to start a cycle of clomid right around the beginning of November. I picked up the prescription at the pharmacist and waited--and prayed that something would happen naturally.
Though I had been pretty religious about checking my CM, CP, and temping every day (these are infertility code words for cervical mucus, cervical position, and taking basal body temperature), I had basically given up that anything would happen and stopped reading into them. Then, about a week before I was planning to start the clomid, I noticed that my boobs were really sore for a couple of days. Then, all of a sudden, my BBT shot up from the upper 96's to the lower 98's. I had ovulated! I couldn't believe it! I got my progesterone tested just to be sure, and the ovulation was confirmed. My period showed up 10 days later. I was ecstatic! I couldn't believe my body had done its thing on its own after six years!
DH and I were more prepared with the BMSing (baby-making sex) the next cycle. I ovulated on day 33 and endured a gut-wrenching 2-week-wait, reading into every symptom and doing everything I could to think about other things. I had gotten progesterone suppositories from my OB to lengthen my LP (luteal phase--time between ovulation and period, which should be around 14 days but had only been 9 for me the first time). I had just about the worst pms I've ever had, but I was holding out hope that the awful cramps were a sign of a little fertilized embryo getting cozy. In the meantime, we spent Christmas break with my in-laws, hearing about little else than my adorable niece. Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration. But that's how it felt. I guess I expected a little more sensitivity on their part since they knew what was going on. But really, I don't think anyone who hasn't gone through infertility has much of a clue how it feels, so I can't expect them to simply not mention their cute granddaughter ever around me. That would be even weirder, I suppose.
After 18 excruciating days (and three or four negative pregnancy tests), my period finally showed. Even though I knew we only had a 25% chance, I think I had been so worried about ovulating for so long that I felt like once I finally ovulated, the problem would be solved. So many of our friends seem to be able to get pregnant on the first try, so when we didn't, I was crushed yet again. Yet again, intense negative emotions for no rational reason.
And here we are now. I'm on day 18 of my third natural cycle. The emotions of all this are just killer, and there's no way around them. I trust that God is sovereign and that he loves me, but I fear how much suffering he's going to take me through. DH had been reminding me to take this one day at a time, and to focus on all the many things I have to be thankful for--that I was diagnosed so early, that I found the HA message board, that I only had to gain 10 pounds, that I'm cycling. But it's hard not to focus on the fact that with a cycle as slow as mine has been, I only get half as many chances as anyone else. So this could be a long journey, folks.
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