Happy Pills

Every night before I climb into bed I take a little pill. A magic little pill it is. I call these little pills my happy pills. They don’t so much make me happy, but they really do help me feel not quite so sad.

Seriously though, I’ve spent a lot of time reading the stories of so many other women who are living this life crisis and am a little shocked that no one else talks about this. Is it that no one else has a bottle of happy pills, or is it that no one else talks about it – even here where the most intimate details of our lives are shared.

The diagnosis of infertility is the worst news I have ever been given. It shook me to my core. It changed me forever. It was a trauma unlike any other that I have ever experienced. Everything about my life as I understood it, my purpose for being, my dreams my future, everything changed in that instant.

And yet I carried on, as best as I could, with my work, and my volunteer commitments, and my friends. Except, it was exhausting. I was exhausted trying to hold it together everyday. I walked around, going through the motions, yet the only thing I could think about was the overwhelming grief and the unspoken fears. Every time I got in the car, alone with the radio, I fell apart. I cried more tears in those first months than I have my entire life. But I managed somehow.

Waiting,

Appointments,

Waiting,

Tests,

Waiting,

Appointments,

Waiting,

Results,

Waiting,

Procedures,

Waiting,

Appointments.

Waiting.

It turns out I am stronger than I ever gave myself credit for being. I really am.

But it was so hard. And I was so tired. And the journey ahead felt like it was so far.

You know, we were seeing doctors, lots of them. But they were focused on the medical part of our infertility. The weren’t concerned with us, with how well we were handling the choices they kept giving us. And even if they had been, we were managing, we put on a good show, we were holding it together.

I suppose I could have gone on like that. Managing. Getting by. Going through the Motions. It sucked, but I was surviving.  We were surviving.

But then we got back the results of our second biopsy, the FNA map. I was hoping for good news that there was sperm and we could proceed with IVF. But I was also prepared for bad news that there was no sperm and we could proceed with DS IUI. We received the bad news, there was no sperm. But we also got a third option -6 months of hormone therapy to try and create sperm. I wasn’t prepared for the third option and it knocked me down hard. Six more months of waiting!?! Still no definitive plan!?! Thousands of additional dollars!?! I wasn’t prepared for this.

The idea of using donor sperm is so hard to accept. I started out thinking that it wasn’t even an option that I would ever consider. I even told my mom at one point early on that if we couldn’t use My Lovers’ sperm we were finished trying. Smart me, I reserved the right to change my mind about any decision at any time. At this point in our journey, I knew that we had to exhaust our options for full biological children before we could accept donor sperm.  I knew that I, we, still had some emotional work to do before actually moving forward with DS IUI, but it felt like an acceptable option for building our family, if we knew that My Lover’s sperm really wasn’t an option.

I wasn’t prepared for this third option and I just fell apart. I wasn’t strong enough to keep going through the motions. I just completely lost it. And I couldn’t pull myself back together. It was a combination of the sadness over the FNA results, the uncertainty of our next steps, and partly that I had just run out of energy.

My Lover and I had been seeing a couple’s counselor since we got the initial diagnosis, and she finally suggested that I ask my Dr. for a prescription for an SSRI anti depressant. Finally. Finally someone saw that I was suffering. Someone saw that the pain was overwhelming. Someone noticed that I could only tread water on my own for so long. Someone threw me a floatie.

The happy pills are my floatie. I’ve still got to tread water out here in this vast ocean. But I’ve got a little help. I’ve got a little more energy. I’ve got a little more perspective and the ability to feel beyond the pain.

It’s been at least a couple weeks since I cried. (I take that back, actually, because Dory’s comment about the Father’s Day cards had me going yesterday, but before that it had been at least two weeks.) Let me tell you I am so grateful for this break from the tears. I’ve spent time with friends, smiling and laughing, and ohhh is that nice.  I feel like me again, a changed me for sure, but me.

So, I suppose that this really long post is really to ask if I really am the only one with a bottle of happy pills, and if so why?

If the reason is that no one has noticed and offered a floatie, I hope that you’ll consider taking the one I am offering right now and make an appointment to talk to your Dr. I personally wish that I hadn’t waited so long.

My dad

Sitting in a coffee shop right now. It is a beautiful day. Unusually beautiful and warm. The music is so upbeat and the cafe is bustling. My mocha is delicious with whip cream and chocolate on top. I like days like today. 

I saw my therapist this morning. I really like her and am really glad I found her. I feel like she is so kind and gentle and understanding. and she doesn’t waste my time either. I have so much to get out, and she has been great at helping me frame my thoughts and fears in such a way that I can get my head around them. As opposed to the free-floating wordless emotions that are so overwhelming. I wish that I’d found her a year ago, and am glad that I kept looking and didn’t settle for someone who wasn’t a good match for what I need right now.

We talked about my dad today. A great man. Who i love dearly. But who has chosen his addiction over me and our family. I never would have brought him up, but she did, and I am glad. My issues with him have come up in strange ways as we consider donor sperm, and the role of a father. 

I’d never really thought that the things I project onto “My Lover” (yep, I’ve been thinking about what name I can use for my husband on this blog, and My Lover is perfect) might have their roots in my relationship with my dad, but it sure explains a lot to think about it like that. 

My dad is a great man, really. He was a great dad. Loved me and my sisters and my mom with his whole heart. I’ve never doubted that, not for one second. 

But he is an alcoholic. He has always been. I didn’t see it growing up, but I suppose that I knew there was something. 

I suppose that my mom did a lot to hold out family together and keep my dad held together over the years. Interesting family dynamics when I stop to think about it. My mom was our primary caregiver, the one who was in charge of everything. My dad however was the provider and definitely the man of the house. His was the final word, respected by my mom, and us girls. 

Things changed when he had his heart attack, and heart surgery. My mom decided that he could no longer smoke inside the house. And we were all more vocal about his continued drinking, since the doctor had been very clear that this incident was a warning and the repairs would only last a decade or so if he didn’t change his ways. For us it was black and white - he had to stop drinking and smoking. For him it was black and white - he wasn’t making any changes. A few years later he and my mom separated, then divorced, and he cashed out his retirement and moved across the county. Without my mom to hold him together he has made a lot of bad choices. Maybe I’ll write about that more one of these days. 

I gave up trying to call him about a year ago. He rarely answered his phone and never checked his messages. My attempts to contact him became an exercise in futility. So I quit trying. Months passed. He called me on christmas eve. It was great to hear from him, but hard to talk. He promised to call again more often

He didn’t come to my sister’s wedding in February. I don’t know if I can ever forgive him for that. Really. It is so hard to reconcile that this great man who was a great father can just walk away from us like this. Sometimes I think that it would have been easier had he just died. 

And them he called me a few weeks ago. We talked for a little bit. I told him that things have been really hard for us, with My Lover still being out of work, and that we are having a hard time starting our family. It sounded like he knew, so my mom or sisters must have filled him in. 

I still don’t feel like I want to try to call him. My Lover thinks that I should keep trying, that since he called me last it is my turn to call him. 

I love my dad, and I know that he loves me. I really do. But I can’t compete with his addiction. I can’t. and I don’t want to try. maybe because I know what he will choose. maybe because i don’t think I should have to. 

But as I contemplate what makes a dad a dad. andd my fears (which will remain a word-less blob of emotion). and my feelings of wanting to protect My Lover from the pain of this journey. I wonder how my feelings about my dad overlay on top of all this. 

Today is my grandpa's birthday. He passed few years ago. I miss him all the time,and can't help but think that things would be different if he were still with us. 

Wow - that got a little heavy. But Ohhh does it feel good to write! and this day is so gorgeous, so I’m heading home to get my puppy and head down to the beach.