The Dirty Secret My Family Doesn’t Want Me To Talk About

While I am on a roll of sharing my life struggles, I figure I might as well tackle this one. A blogger friend of mine is coming clean about her abusive past which has made me really consider my own.


I talk about not having any family. Mostly that is true. Both of my parents are deceased. My mother passed away 13 years ago this month of cancer at the age of 46. I miss her terribly. Though we fussed and argued all the time, she was by far my best friend and strongest ally on this earth.

My dad. A can of worms I probably shouldn’t open but I am going to anyway.

Where do I start?

My father died of a self-inflicted gun shot wound to the head almost nine years ago. I wish that I could say that I miss him as much as I do my mom, but I just can’t.

Here is why:

Three months prior to using his pistol to end his own misery, he used it to inflict misery on me instead. My father held me at gunpoint. He was so drunk he could barely keep his eyes open. But he could hold a gun pointed at my skull.

While people want to believe that the deceased aren’t really horrible people, I cannot pretend that my father wasn’t a hideous man just because he chose to run away from his problems.

During the time he held me frozen in fear (as if I didn’t fear him already), my father sexually assaulted me. Again.

My father began abusing me when I was 12 years old and just developing. On Easter Sunday, while my half brother watched cartoons and his second wife worked in a hospital cafeteria.

I kept this to myself for years. I feared my father, just as he wanted me to. Actually he wanted most people to fear him. He had a history of physically abusing the women in his life, and his children were fair game, too.

Throughout the years, I avoided being alone with him at great length. There were times that could not be avoided without telling my mom what he had done to me.

At first I didn’t tell because I knew my mom would kill him. Seriously kill him. There is no way she would have been accepting of him just going to jail. My mom was hot tempered and vicious when it came to her kids. So I knew that she would end up in prison if I told.

By the time I was 16 and ready to make it stop, it seemed like too much time had passed to tell the truth. I feared no one would believe me in spite of my father’s reputation. I was 16, I had been raised in absolute fear, and both of my parents were crazy. I should have told then, but I wasn’t strong enough.

Flash forward 16 years and many failed relationships. Looking back I now see just how badly the abuse messed me up. I never once made a rational relationship choice. Not once.

That day that my father held a gun on me will forever be the day that haunts me. I had managed to not be alone with him for the better part of two decades. But, like now, I was in some deep financial troubles. So I drove to his trailer alone to ask for help with my rent. I opened the door for him to hurt me by being desperate.

My father’s behavior became even more erratic over the next several months. I left my home state and entered a domestic violence shelter 7 hours away. I have ended my 11 year marriage just weeks after this incident. I took my kids and fled to what was supposed to be a better life.

I got the call 17 days after entering the shelter. Only one person on the planet knew how to find me, and it took my family several days to find her to relay the message. I had to return home to take care of things. That what my uncle told me. My life beer got straightened out because I had to deal with the nightmare that I was facing.

In my grief I confided in someone who knew my dad when she asked why our relationship was so strained. This is where I should have thought carefully before opening my mouth. I suspect that she was on the phone with my father’s family before I even left her driveway.

His family has shunned me. No one will even speak to me. I have long since stopped trying to talk to any of them, but they could get in touch if they really wanted to. They don’t. Honestly, I don’t really care that much anymore. I know the truth and dying doesn’t erase the evil things that he did.

As I struggle to keep my family together and safe I am reminded of why it is so hard for me to ask for help. The one person I should have been able to trust when the chips were down seized a moment of weakness and scarred me for life.

I have spent the majority of my life terrified, weak, and ashamed. He did this to me. I was 12. I didn’t ask to be abused. So why do I still have to suffer the effects so many years later?

I have no one to call on right now because of his actions and the way I have handled the abuse. I cannot trust anyone. I’m always waiting for them to destroy me. And for the most part, I have been right about that. Every time I trust someone new, they end proving that my trust was misplaced.

So, here I sit waiting for my entire world to crumble. I don’t have anyone to rely on or even talk to. The worst thing he did to me was to alienate me from all healthy relationships. He abused me and yet I am living with consequences.

I have no regrets for telling what happened to me. HE DID THIS TO ME. I refuse to feel guilty for something he did. I did not ask to be abused.

So….there you go. I have told the world what no one wants to acknowledge.


I Could Use A Prayer

I haven’t written in a good while. My life has gotten so unmanageable that I haven’t really had the opportunity to put my thoughts into words. I came here to reach out to the universe for some much needed support.

Since leaving my job, things have spiraled out of control. As I sit here on a public street using WIFI, I am so overwhelmed with depression, anxiety, and worst of all; fear.

I ask anyone who prays to send one up for my family. Please. I am so desperate.

To to give some perspective:

We are late with our rent and the landlord is about to start eviction proceedings because I cannot reasonably figure out how to get caught up. Our Internet is shut off. That is only bad because my teenaged daughter goes to high school online and now she is going to be even further behind. Our electric is going to be turned off on Monday. And to top everything else off…the state has required that I surrender my license plate for 30 days because I could not afford to pay my car insurance. I guess it makes sense to render a family unemployed and homeless because of car insurance.

I do not have an answer. My depression and anxiety are through the roof. We have pawned everything of value we have. We have depleted everything, including the change jar. ¬†We are going to be homeless. I have failed my children as a parent. I cannot even keep a roof over their heads. I’m pathetic.

So, please send up a prayer for us as we struggle to stay alive.

A Moment of Gratitude

Life sucks sometimes.

The last year has sucked. Pretty much everything has sucked.

The truth is that life has been filled with heartache, just like everyone else experiences. I have been through some really bad stuff in my time. Stuff that I never want to share here. All that stuff makes up who I am as a person. Like me or not, I am composed of all of my life experiences; good, bad, and ugly.

But, the last year has been really tough.

In one week, the anniversary of our miscarriage will be staring me in the face when I look at the calendar. Not that it really matters on that particular day. It has been on my mind heavily since the month changed over. As soon as I started saying August it was there, stuck in the back of mind eating away at my soul. The pain of our loss is haunting me more now that time has passed than it did when it happened. The grief is catching up to me and it is hitting me hard.

As I have written in earlier posts, our family is struggling financially in a pretty major way. Not the kind of way that stops when I give up Starbucks or curb my shopping habits. Our financial problems are way deeper than that. We are drowning and the stress of it has been killing us. Like I said, life sucks sometimes.

It is hard to write these words on the screen. I fear people judging me, I fear being humiliated, I fear being hurt. But, sometimes you just have to write what you know is the truth. Here goes.

I am battling severe depression.

This depression is taking over my body and mind in a way that it never has before. I have always had depression. Sometimes it worse than other times, but it has always been a part of who I am. It is an inherited condition. My father committed suicide during a particularly bad episode of alcoholism and depression. My uncle also committed suicide many years ago. Our family is (was) riddled with this hideous disease. The one thing that keeps me going is the fact that my children would hurt in ways that only a child who has experienced this can understand. I have been there, and I cannot ever allow my children to feel that pain.

This bout of depression has been changing who I am. I have quit my job, with people I used to believe were friends because I simply cannot take anymore. I am moody, and angry, and sad, and anxious, and scared, and frustrated. All at the same time. I do not sleep. I barely smile and when I do it most usually fake. I spend every moment trying to restrain the tears that trying to break free. I keep trying to stay strong, even though I know how weak I feel emotionally.

My hope has been depleted. I feel helpless and broken most of the time. Life has been kicking my butt and I don’t know how to fix that. Most of the time I look around and everything looks hopeless. I can’t have a baby. I can’t pay my bills. I can’t be happy. All those things have converged to turn me into a total mess. I feel like a misanthropic version of my old self. I have become so angry and so bitter for all that life has thrown at me while I watch others piss away the blessings they have. I don’t know how I got to this point.

The point of this whole story was to explain why I am grateful today.

I ran this Indiegogo campaign a few weeks back. Honestly, I never anticipated anyone reaching out. I am not good at asking for help. It embarrasses me that I have been reduced to ask people who don’t know or care about my problems for help. I should be able to take care of myself. At least that is what I feel. So, I started this campaign, expecting nothing and having reservations about doing it in the first place. Kind of a double edged sword. I need help. I don’t want to need help. But, I really need help sort of situation.


From this Indiegogo, I had someone reach out privately. This person offered more than money. They offered knowledge and a stepping point to get our lives back together and moving in a positive direction. That person will never know how much that simple act of kindness means to someone who is battling depression. The notion that a practical stranger cares enough to help another human being is something that I needed to experience. I needed to have my faith in people restored. I needed to know that I am not alone in this world. I needed to know someone cared.

Follow that up with a monetary donation that surprised me this morning when I opened my email. That was a moment that really made me step back from myself for a moment. After all the anger and resentment that I have built up during this episode, someone made me rethink my feelings. To that person, I will be grateful. The dark spot in my life has gotten a little less dark because of you. Thank you for showing me that the world isn’t such an awful place and that the people around me are more caring than I believed possible. Thank you for restoring my hope.

Hoping You Can Help In A Small Way


I know it has been a while since I have written anything. My last blog entry was intended to be my last. Having changed my focus away from trying to conceive, I did not feel as though I had anything to contribute to the world about the subject any longer. This entry isn’t about infertility or anything related. This about me asking for a favor from all of the kind people who have been here for me through a really tough year.

As many of you know from my earlier blog entries, my family is really struggling financially right now. As much as I did not feel comfortable making a contribution (Indiegogo) page, I finally had to swallow my pride and genuinely reach out for help.

My Indiegogo is asking for money, of course. But, I am also looking for long term solutions. I welcome any suggestions you may have (via private message or email) to solve the issues that we have been facing for a very long time. The stress we have been under is truly too much for us at this point. I am willing to hear what anyone has to say if it could lead to an end to this cycle of fear and anxiety. Throw out an idea…it might work. Right now, I am just out of ideas of my own.

Sure….I would be eternally grateful if any of you are able to kick in little bit. I won’t deny that. But, I understand that this community is already stretched thin with ongoing medical expenses. Putting pressure on the people who have held my hand in crushing times is not something I want to do.

I am hoping that those of you who want to help without straining your budgets give just a little. For the majority of you who can’t possibly spare financial donations….please share the links, this page, or just mention this to someone who might spread the word.

I feel like apologizing for asking for help from you kind folks. This is very hard for me. Crowd funding makes me feel like a charity case. I know lots of people have done them, but I am not terribly comfortable having to ask for help. My pride has always been a weak point of mine. At some point, pride has to be set aside. I put if off as long as I could, but we have finally reached our breaking point.

It’s not real fancy and I don’t really know how to make it good. So, forgive my lack of technological prowess. It was the best I could do.

Thanks in advance to those who donate money, but a special thank you to those who help spread the word, too. Knowing someone will help us get back to functioning like normal human beings is helpful in a huge way.

Here are the ways that someone can get in touch with me or donate:

Twitter (DM’s are best because they are private.)

My Personal Email (This is also my Paypal address. Not sure how that works really, but apparently that’s how the donations go from the cyber world to my account. This is also where I would love to hear from all of the smart folks out there who might have something they want to say directly to me.) (I think this Shortlink is functional. I’m not very good with this kind of stuff, so if it stops working please let me know.)

Share in the ways that you are best able. Heaven knows I am just not very strong in social media stuff. I’m sure that many of you are more knowledgeable than I. I barely figured out Paypal, so I am going to rely on those who can navigate social media.

Thanks everybody. If this works, my husband, kids, and I will be so grateful.

The End Of A Journey


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The desire to have a baby is one of tremendous force and great frustration. Once someone decides that they want a child, life becomes centered on that one idea. Have a baby.

That idea has taken my husband and I on an emotional, loving journey I could never have imagined. After 20 years together, I thought we had settled into our lives and would more or less ride the wave of maturity. Our decision to try for one more child quickly turned those thoughts upside down.

I could recount all of the painful moments, all of the disappointment, all of the fear. I’m not going to do that here because every single person (male or female) that has lived with infertility has their own list of heartbreaking moments. Comparing heartaches among us serves no purpose because there are simply too many to even consider. We all hurt in our own ways.

Our journey has not been all bad though. There are things that we have learned about ourselves as individuals and as a couple. Our genuine love for one another has been tested time and time again. If anything, we are now acutely aware of how much we are willing to sacrifice for each other. Over a year of constant compromise and excruciating emotional turmoil will do that to a marriage. It makes you examine the value of your relationship on every level. We learned that we really do want the other to be happy, at almost any cost.

As much as I don’t want to think about our pregnancy loss, I must admit that it was the turning point in this journey. The pain we shared reminded us both that we still genuinely care about each other. That when one of us is hurt we both feel the bruises. Those few days surrounding the miscarriage will never leave our memories and will always be a reminder of our shared dedication as well as our shared heartache.

We continued our journey fueled by that loss. Our resolve to keep trying only became stronger in knowing that I could still conceive, if not carry a child to term. We knew the odds were astronomical, but we kept going anyway. Having been almost successful was all that we needed to keep ourselves in the game.

The problem is that the game has to end. You have ask yourself if you are making the right decision at some point. Believing in miracles is a noble trait, but when does it become utterly pathetic to continue chasing rainbows and kissing bullfrogs? I think the answer to that is… when you realize that you have given every effort and there is simply nothing left to continue with.

I wish I could say that deciding to stop trying to conceive was black and white, easy and without second thought. Walking away from something that we have both been so passionate about has been extremely difficult.

There will still be pregnant women everywhere and beautiful babies born to undeserving women and men every day. The children’s boutiques will still be in the malls. Television shows will still glorify the natural ability to conceive. There will be baby showers and baby’s first steps. All those things are going to continue to happen all around us, and it will sting every time. Expecting to avoid all things baby related is unrealistic and self-centered. The world doesn’t stop simply because my ovaries and uterus did.

While our journey through infertility has been emotionally draining, it has also been enlightening. My husband and I have discovered who we are as a couple and what we are capable of handling. Those discoveries will guide us as we say goodbye to trying to conceive and move forward with achieving other goals.

I think we are both ready to experience more success and less consistent failure. The future does not include a new baby for us, but we know that there are other opportunities that we have put aside that we must consider. Letting go of an impossible dream will allow us to focus on things that we need to work on.

For those of you who have given up on trying to conceive (or are close to it): Do what your heart and mind tell you to. Living with infertility is a very difficult thing to do. Accepting infertility when you want nothing more than to have a child is one of the most painful life experiences you can have. Only you can decide if the time is right to move on or not. Take a break from it if you need to. Walk away if you need to. Or keep chasing your rainbow if you’re not ready to give up. You will know when you are completely ready to stop trying to conceive. Until then, do what you must to see it become a reality. Whatever you choose, be okay with it because you know it is what is best for you. Second guessing every decision can make you crazy. There are no guarantees in this, so everything is a gamble. Make the decisions regarding your fertility and make peace with them because hindsight is always 20/20 and there is no way to foretell the future outcome. Most of all…allow yourself to breathe, even if only for a moment. This is some truly hard stuff you are experiencing. Take care of yourself; heart, body, and mind.

Our efforts may not have ended in the results we had wanted, but we gave it all that we had within our abilities. I could sit and wish for things to have been different all day long. In the end, this is what we were given to work with. We did our best. We didn’t get our baby and we are deeply saddened by that. But, we are healing and we are hopeful for the things that lie ahead.

So ends this journey.


And Then The Crash


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Things in this cycle of trying to conceive have been beyond strange. This cycle being an exact replica of the cycle that we last conceived is enough to be downright eerie. I would look at my fertility tracking app each day and become even more disturbed by the deja vu. Things only go downhill from here.

In the middle of this cycle, one of our best friends became extremely ill and needed to be hospitalized. His wife has cerebral palsy and is in a wheelchair. They also have the most awesome two year old ever, Stinkerbell. (As read about in a recent post.) Needless to say, his illness required some assistance to manage his responsibilities.

His wife is my bestie. We are a close group and we take care of each other in times of need. This time we were needed to stay with her and help with most everything. Everything from helping her out of the bed, to the shower, all of the driving, and pretty much every single detail of caring for a toddler. All of this piled on top of the stress of having our buddy in a very scary medical situation. And having funky pregnancy tests and symptoms.

I don’t want to sound like we minded helping out, because we didn’t. That’s what friends do. But, all of these things combined made for an incredibly difficult six days. Our routines were completely thrown off, we were all stressed, and we just wanted to be able to go back home (sleep in our own bed) and resume life as usual.

And then the crash happened.

I’m not talking about a literal crash. I am referring to an emotional crash. The kind that leaves you reeling and writhing in gut wrenching heartache. The kind where it seems as if you have entered a vacuum and the life is being pulled forcefully out you.

While having dinner with the gorgeous Stinkerbell, I started to feel icky. This was day 22 of my trying to conceive cycle. That is normally around six days before I expect to see my dreams of pregnancy flush down the toilet. Literally. After dinner, I had three very sharp pains in my left ovary. Painful enough to physically react by holding my side and bending over. Somewhere in my mind I was hopeful that maybe this was implantation pains as I was only eight days past ovulation.

We go back to our friends’ house and get Stinkerbell ready for bed. I head towards the restroom to take a pregnancy test (because I am obsessive) before settling in for the night. I drop the urine into the testing well and wait. And then I feel the feeling that my baby dreams are over for this cycle. Crap! I am bleeding. Still grasping at straws, I begin to convince myself that it might be (hopefully) implantation bleeding. I find that I am bleeding almost orange. Bright orange. What the hell?

I have never, ever, in my whole life ever started my period at 9:00 in the evening. For the most part, I am not even awake when this event occurs. I just normally wake to find that menstruation has begun. Imagine my confusion at having this happen on day 22 of a normal 28 day cycle, at 9:00 pm, and it is watery orange! (Start to worry excessively that something is seriously wrong with me.)

The next morning….almost nothing. Like…nothing nothing. So much nothing that I cannot wear a tampon. (Yay! Could still be implantation.)

Until a few hours later. The orange came back. (Ok, probably not implantation.) I spent the next several hours Googling every single thing I could think of to explain this craziness. (Maybe a cyst?) I had a lot to do to get my bestie and my Stinkerbell ready for the day. Time to focus on the things that need to get done.

Until a few hours later.

When my flow changed from orange to dark red/brown. (Sorry if it is TMI.) This time was unusually heavy. Painfully heavy. It was only then that I started to be convinced that there was no sticky baby.

I frigging hate my body.

More of The Two Week Wait


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Life usually goes crazy when you least need it to.

This two week wait has been insane. To start the madness we had a family/close friend crisis take center stage. Everything went downhill from there. Here is how everything starting getting wonky:

I started taking pregnancy tests seven days after ovulation. I know that is too early to expect a positive, but I needed to fuel my obsession to pee on a stick. After the pregnancy loss last year, I would rather know as early as possible if we do conceive again. I did not expect to see two pink lines that early, but I took the tests anyway to calm my anxious mind.

Of course there was no second line in the three minutes after taking the test. No big deal. It was too early to get a positive. Except that there was a super faint line on the test a few hours later. Ok. That was probably just an evaporation line.

Day eight, same story. Negative in the morning and a ghost line of pale pink a few hours later. Two evaporation lines? Sure, maybe. I have been told time and time again to not read the tests after the time limit on the box. Apparently, I am a glutton for punishment and I suffer from Oppositional Defiance Disorder because I insisted upon looking at those pregnancy tests several dozen times over the next several hours. (Days.)

I held my urine for hours and drank very little fluids because I was going to test again in the evening. (Did I mention the glutton part?) If you read enough online, you can always find a story that convinces you that maybe this will be your lucky month. There is always someone who has defied the odds and scientific beliefs.

Lo and behold, a second barely there pink line appeared several hours later on that test, too. It was getting almost ridiculous at that point. Never before have I had that many evaporation lines in a row. Believe me, I have inspected every test I have ever taken dozens of times just in case I see a positive magically appear. I have had maybe one evaporation line ever before this bizarre cycle.

Day nine of my cycle… again with the pink shadow appearing. This time it did not take as long as the others, but it was definitely there. Maybe it was there. I can no longer trust myself to read a pregnancy test as I fear I will always see something that isn’t really there.

Another test after work, of course. I wait to take the test until I feel like my bladder might actually explode from the pressure. Stark white. Until an hour later. This time I decided to call in back up. Hubby is called upon to inspect the stick.

Hubby never sees pink shadows. Poor man, his eyesight has gotten so bad over the last few years he has taken to reading large print books. I didn’t expect him to see the imaginary second pink line as much as I needed to hear that I was officially losing my mind.

I see something in there.

What? You see it, too? Seriously?

“Maybe I just want to see it, but I think I see it.”

This exchange only fueled the fire. By this point I have run out of tests. Bless him, my hubby suggested that we go buy more. At 9:30 in the evening, we traipsed down the rural road to buy tests before the store closed at 10:00. Since he had never supported me indulging in frantic test taking, I took this as a good sign. He felt positive about the possibility that we had actually gotten pregnant again.

One more the next morning for good measure. This time we have a different brand and feel like there is no way that two brands will produce identical results. Like all the others, blank at first with a faint line appearing later. This time I called on my best friend to either tell me I was completely nuts or that there was in fact a light line visible in the right light.

She saw it, too.

At this point I have taken 6 pregnancy tests and all six have had what I have to assume is evaporation lines. Well, I should assume they were evaporation lines. Like every other woman obsessed with trying to conceive, I tried telling myself that, but deep down I held onto hope.

The rest of the week to follow soon. It only gets crazier from here.

The Two Week Torture


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Today marks what looks like six days past ovulation. Having charted my basal body temperatures and using OPK’s (ovulation predictor kits), I am fairly confident of my ovulation date. I am not even halfway through the two week wait and I am already starting to give up hope that this month will end in pregnancy.

The types of symptoms I have been having are nothing remarkable. I have been cramping since ovulation, but I doubt that is because I am pregnant. More likely it is because I am having some hormonal imbalance. That is what I am telling myself anyway.

The problem with trying not to get my hopes up is that this month’s BBT chart looks exactly like the chart from the month we conceived, and ultimately miscarried. So much so that it is freaky.

Not only did I ovulate on the same day of the month as before, but the date fell on the same day of the week; Sunday. That to me just seems like an incredibly strange coincidence.

Then you have to look at the actual temperatures. Day for day they are spooky similar. Every day in this cycle is within 5/100th of a degree from the other cycle. That wouldn’t be so odd if I were consistent in my results from month to month. Usually my temps are all over the place. No other chart even closely resembles this month, except the month we conceived. And it is EXACTLY the same as this month.

See? It is hard not to get my hopes up with data like that.

I Love Her, But…



My best friend has a two year old daughter that I love to pieces. I call her Stinkerbell. Her parents hate that name. But, I don’t care. It is my term of affection and the unique nickname that belongs only to me for only her. Because I am the cool “aunt” who loves her little Stinkerbell.

I have been there since before Stinkerbell was even conceived. When other people discouraged them from having a baby, I was a cheerleader. See, Stinkerbell’s mom has cerebral palsy and is in a wheelchair. While there were people telling them to wait (Mom was 32 at the time), I was there telling them to do what they wanted to. I wanted a Stinkerbell to love almost as much as they did.

Having such a close friendship, that is more like family, has given me the opportunity to spend so much more time with her than most other people. I felt her kick in her mother’s womb, I changed her diapers, and I have kissed her boo-boo’s. She is my niece in every way except that we share no genetic ties. Not that it matters to any of us.

Stinkerbell is the reason why we revisited having another baby at our advanced ages. I have known for quite some time that my heart ached to have another child. Approaching my husband about trying to have a baby 15 years after his vasectomy seemed cruel and pointless. Somehow, seeing this wonderful child almost every day made me cross that bridge of uncertainty.

This last year has been so damned hard. Month after month of failure has worn me down to point of exhaustion. An early miscarriage, lack of medical assistance, emotional fatigue, and a general feeling of hopelessness has whittled me down to a stub. My husband is on the brink of a complete forfeit as well. We are just so tired and nothing seems to be positive anymore. We are old, we are uninsured, and we are fighting astronomical odds just for a minute possibility that we might be able to experience that joy for ourselves once more. We are so close to throwing in the towel and admitting defeat.

And then there is Stinkerbell. The most adorable two year old who loves my family just as much as she loves her own. She gives sloppy, wet, absolutely wonderful kisses. She grabs my hand tightly when she knows we are going for a walk. Her Uncle MooMoo (we have no idea why she calls him that) plays alligator puppet with her better than anyone. She is a joy, an absolute joy. A gift in our lives that we are so grateful to have.

But sometimes…

I look at her and my heart breaks. My heart breaks for my husband who looks at her and then lovingly looks at me, his eyes masking sadness. I watch him (at 47) climbing the slicky slide and riding down just to make her happy. I watch him easily change her stinky butt. I watch her light up when she sees me at my desk through the window when they get to our office every morning. I watch her grow and learn and love.

And all I can think is, “Why can’t I have a miracle, too?”


Not As Planned


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It was another early morning in the land of infertility. Meeting our sperm donor for the last “donation” of this cycle. When I took my BBT (basal body temperature) this morning, it looked as though I may have ovulated. Of course, I don’t trust my body and decide that one more insemination is in order just to be sure.

I groggily drive to our agreed upon location, wishing to still be in bed sleeping as it is my day off. The sun isn’t even actually out yet. That doesn’t matter though. We want a baby and if we have to get up with the chickens, we will. I can sleep when I get back home. Right now I have to get my cranky butt down the road to meet “George” for the final sperm sample of the month.

One thing most people in the real world know about me is that I am very punctual. Actually, I am perpetually early. The idea of being late (with the exception of being late for my menstrual cycle) is beyond frustrating. Many things in this world are beyond my control, but my ability to be on time is something I can usually control. Maybe that is why someone else’s tardiness makes me crazy.

I waited 10 minutes before I started to panic. “George” had not shown up yet. My gut started to hurt. Maybe he changed his mind. The anxiety started to take over. All I could think was, “Please don’t do this to us.”

I started with a nice text asking if he was on his way. Maybe he ran into some unlikely traffic at the crack of dawn. Maybe. The five minutes I waited for a response seemed like enough time for him to have made it to our location if it was merely traffic. I must have looked at my phone screen a hundred times in those five minutes. Nothing.

The next step was to call him. You have to understand how uncomfortable I am with calling “George” to fully comprehend the level of anxiety I am experiencing at this point. I cannot explain why, all I can say is that communicating through text and email is less direct and therefore less weird. Calling him was a sign of desperation and fear that I did not want to have to do. I needed an answer though so I could know whether to stay and wait or go home and cry. Of course it went to voicemail.

I got in my vehicle and started towards home, deflated and frustrated. I drove a full 25 minutes ranting, sobbing, and cursing infertility and the universe. I was stuck somewhere between being mad as a wet hen and absolutely crushed with disappointment. “What if this was the time that we would have actually gotten pregnant?”

I had let the hubby sleep in this morning and went for the pick up alone. I entered our room to find him in peaceful slumber. So of course I woke him up to tell him just how mad I was with “George” and the whole process of artificial inseminations. He listened attentively and consoled me I as started to unravel at the seams.

Then I got a text message.

Apparently “George” had to work very late the night before and had overslept. He was very sorry. He was willing to meet later in the day if we wanted. Whatever he could do to help.

At this point I was just emotionally drained. The obstacles for meeting later were just too hard to maneuver. Regretfully, I had to decline. This cycle has ended with only two inseminations. Let’s hope my timing is good and my body signals are accurate.

Let the two week wait insanity begin.