My Last Best Year: A Strange Thankfulness

I have a strange thankfulness recently as I connect with other women that experience infertility.

Before I lodge that gratefulness though, let me remind us that not all infertility is alike.  Bearing life is a fragile, miraculous, delicate process; the "reasons" can be countless, and many are mysterious.  And even if some of us are alike in technical terms, each of us has our own story with this.  In such a place of vulnerability, honoring each person is key.

There are strings that lace us together though, and one is commonly this: feeling like our bodies have betrayed us.  For many women, this is the first experience of their body not doing what it is supposed to do.  Yes, what it was designed to do.

And here is where a strange thankfulness arises in me, quiet and sure.   The battle of body betrayal was fought in my 20s.  Deep within me, even as I walk steps each day, I am acutely aware that this body's function is a fragile, precious gift.  I can steward it, I can honor it, but I cannot control it.

And so, even with our own brand of infertility, I have at least this: a knowledge that this life, literally - this body's life, is not my own.  And neither would be one that I am to mother.  Freedom.

My Last Best Year: Deeply Personal Very Public Information

Today I turn 34.  Ever since my health went haywire at 25, I have welcomed each birthday as a gift; thankful for more time to be with people and live more fully.  More time to give, love, and heal.  I have truly celebrated aging.

That is, until sometime in the last year or so.

Although I have not made a public announcement of our desire to have children, some things are apparent: we are in our mid-30s, happily married for 5+ years, financially stable, in good health, we welcome children in our home and lives…so…”Do you have kids?”  Family building is such a deeply personal affair, yet so very public.  The answer, plain-as-day, is no.  So maybe this isn’t an announcement after all. 

We have a deeply personal story here.  Complete with joy, pain, sex, surgery, giving, receiving, herbal teas, financial worries, love growing, sobbing, chromosomal testing, medical specialists, anger, you-name-it analysis, prayer, hope, travel, drama, applications, helplessness, empowerment, fixing, waiting, castor oil, dreaming, needles, resting, discipline, licentiousness, counseling, tinctures, test kits, and God, God, God.

Any western woman knows the line the medical community draws in the sand: 35.  Frankly, I think its BS for a jazillion reasons. Nonetheless, this damn statistical line is hovering in my peripheral vision…and this is me giving it the finger.  (See that?  That’s my middle finger).  And, mysteriously, less loudly, I want to give it a warm embrace all at the same time.

Happy 34^th Birthday to me!

Here’s to being unashamedly, (but appropriately?), open in my 34^th year. 

My Last Best Year. 

Beach Body Talk

Elly and I sat at the shallow end of the ocean where the waves break for the last time.  She had dug a hole when the tide was higher that had filled with water we sat in.

“Would you like to come to my spa?  Ellyanna’s Spa of Rest and Relaxation?"

 “Why of course, of COURSE.”

 “We will start with a sand and mud treatment..."

She spread soppy, goopy sand all over my bare legs.

“You have thighs like Nonnie’s,” contemplates aloud my sweet, soft bodied, 7-year old niece. 

Yes.  I do have thighs like Nonnie’s; squishy, shapely, noticeable.

“I do.  I do have thighs like, Nonnie’s!  Isn’t that great?” 

Isn’t that great? ... It is.  It is great. 

(I have thighs like my mother’s.  And my grandmother’s.  And my great-grandmothers.  Isn’t that great?  My thighs have a story and a legacy and speak to the strength of genes, God-intention, connection and the comfort of the knowledge of where they come from).  

She leans in, belly on the sand, probing my eyes, taking my emotional temperature.

Slow seconds pass with her so near me.

She smiles, unlocking the search.

"Yep.  It is.  Would you like this sand and mud treatment on your arms?  You will have to sit up..."   

And we are back.  Thighs and souls in tact.

Blog Birth

I started this blog October 2010: at my kitchen island, with a (second?) glass of wine, whilst my husband sautéed mushrooms in a cream sauce to go with our filet mignon, on a Saturday night; bluesy music playing.

After a soul-crushing-ultrasound Wednesday, a black-hole Thursday, a hallowing-surgery on Friday. 

…questions, projections, recollections…swirling.  When life is a blur, we eat steak.

When hell threatens my core again, apparently I start a blog…and eat an expensive steak.

I had thought about blogging for years, but there was something about this loss, at this point in my story, with this movement of grief that made me say, Oh hell no.  Hell no.  This time, this fear, this loss, will not shut me down, or shut me up.  I’m writing. 

Thanks be to God.

And so I started this blog, yet held this blog birth close.  Close and protected.  Until now.  Because part of my writer’s block is blogger’s confusion: not so much what to write, but when.  So, now I weave in to this a fabric of motherhood.  Even though today we have no children in our home.

There is a very real space in life that needs more and more hopeful, loving words.  That holy, inward space; womb-like.  Lets put out there and celebrate it, no matter how the story unfolds.

You Will Never Look Like Her

Actually, "Then Meredith Said..." would be appropriate for the title of this blog (and maybe a few more).

I was 15, she was 17 (or something like that), and there I sat, staring down the pages of a Seventeen magazine.  I wanted to be Krissy Taylor.  Or rather, look like her.  In bounces my sister, who uncharacteristically plops herself down right next to me.

You will never look like her, she said.
What?
You will never LOOK LIKE her.

And off she went.

I have told this story many times to many people over the years, because it is an important scene in my story of being at peace in my own skin.  And almost always, the reaction of these ladies in my life is something like, "Oh.  I'm sorry. Yuck.  That's mean...," with sympathy in their eyes.

Its interesting, because, even then and there, in my teenage brain/body/soul, although feeling somewhat caught, somehow I felt a little more free.

What She WAS NOT Saying:  You will never feel good about your body.  You will never be beautiful.

What She WAS Saying:  You will always have your body.  You will always be your brand of beauty.

And somehow, whether she intended it or not, I was freed up.  Gone with comparison, on with collecting.  Gone with competing, on with connecting.

I Still Baby My Right Side

I have been writing this blog mostly about my life change that happened seven years ago.  Mostly because, after years of surviving the ripple effect of this bomb (these bombs? and other associated land mines?) that dropped into my life, I find myself in a new place of acceptance.

And it was this week, that a spunky, loud spin instructor helped me along.  (She sold herself as a centered, peaceful, yoga-spin-combo spinner; I need to talk to her about her packaging.  Calm waters blue should not wrap a firecracker).

The music was thumping, but with a sitar in the mix, "Interesting..." I thought.  But I was down.  After all, my usual spin lady climaxes our workout with the Chili Peppers.

And we were off: legs spinning, heart pumping, breathing heavy.

"Lizzy!," she shouts, "Do you favor your right side?"
"What?"
"Do you favor your right side?  Do you have an injury on your right side?"

I mean, how do I answer this?  How?  Enter Lizzy A and Lizzy B.  Lizzy A speaks out loud.  Lizzy B uses lots of profanity, but keeps that to herself.

Lizzy A, "No, why? ... I mean, years ago, but..."
"Well, you are favoring your right side.  You are so young!  You are going to injure yourself.  Use your right side evenly."
Lizzy B, already as angry as a swatted hornet, "Um...okay.  Give me a f***ing second while I tell my body to please forget that it was HALF F***ING numb and took years to recover to where I am now.  And GOING to injure myself...going to..."  This is the mild version...
Lizzy A was honest, "I don't know how to fix that."
"Stick your right elbow out."   Lizzy A and Lizzy B, "Okay.  Thanks."
Mind you, the music is pounding and there is a workout class as our audience.

20 minutes later: "Lizzy!  Your right side!"
Lizzy A, "I'm trying!!!"  (My friend in the class laughed sympathetically - bless her).
Lizzy B, "And F*** you."  Lizzy A said this through her body language.

Some unearthed anger, much?  Yes.  And it says a lot of F-yous.  (Say an amen if grace sounds even sweeter). Thankfully, I have a filter that has functioned pretty well through these years of having a hidden handicap.  I know it is not HER fault.  It is my story still finding its voice.  And truthfully, this anger is mostly helpful, as it shows the places I have not yet healed.  If the F-bomb pops up, I know I've got something to move through.

And bless my spin instructor.  God bless her.  She really helped me; she saw me.  She saw even what I could not see: I still baby my right side.

Afterwards we talked for quite a while.  I shared bits of my story and she did hers too.  She has survived lymphoma: "It totally changed the way I did sit-ups."  Well, there you go.

My right side is sore this week and I am exhausted after my work outs.  Elbow out and this baby is growing up.