It is insanely weird to me to think that just a week ago my largest stressor was preparing for my IEP meetings (4 of which are done, 5 of which are postponed until...?), and now I am taking inventory on food supplies and carefully list-keeping expiration dates on meats to see what needs to be frozen, and also peeling baby potatoes that went a bit green that ordinarily I'd have chucked, but now I'm like, WHAT IF THERE ARE NO MORE POTATOES? SAVE THE POTATOES!
My depression-era Grandma would have been proud if she'd lived to see this new reality.
I am officially home; there is no school for students for the foreseeable future. I uploaded all my extension materials to my Google Classroom and printed all the packets (which my TA compiled to mail out, since I did not feel comfortable going in for the few hours today to print/copy/whatever, but I did print everything to my classroom printer so she didn't have to go to the copy room, which may have been a bit like the Cornucopia in the Hunger Games, I imagine).
See, I have asthma that triggers hard whenever I have any respiratory infection, and we now have local transmission in our community, and so I AM NEVER LEAVING THE HOUSE TO GO IN PUBLIC AGAIN. A walk, yes. Anywhere there are peoples? NO. Not gonna lie, so happy that we live in a less-populated area and I have this privilege of going outside and not worrying about social distancing. Also, Bryce is now working from home, so we don't have to worry about his exposure from this point forward, either. We are officially hermits, now that our county is officially in an outbreak.
We started with one case on Wednesday, which was travel related. Then Friday night we had a confirmed second case that was unrelated to travel and a local public school employee. She became symptomatic around 3/4 AND... now we have 11 cases. That we know about. Because it's a time machine, and what we have now is what happened 1-2 weeks ago. It's probably going to do the whole exponential thing it's doing everywhere, but the fact that it was a school employee freaks everyone out because our schools and sports and music communities are so interconnected, and we have teachers in our district who are parents in that district, and it's just a web of contagion.
Everything is closing -- schools, libraries, gyms, restaurants/bars (except for takeout), rec centers...it seems like the list just keeps going. Now we can't be anywhere with more than 10 people. A few days ago it was 50. (Of course now it matters not as I won't be anywhere with more than 2 + a cat.)
But I am not freaking out. No no no. Breathe deep. Think of some positives.
POSITIVES:
- Our school district rallied and did a food drive that will provide boxes and totes of food to our families who may not otherwise have those stores of nonperishable foods, and received $5000 in donations to buy food supplies for families, and the Food Service department packed 1000 bag lunches/breakfasts for delivery. Before Friday I had the chance to bring two full bags of groceries to the drop off, so I feel like I got to be a part of that effort too. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy (and relieved that hopefully none of our kids go hungry during this time).
- I have an insane amount of books to keep me company during this time. Like, for some reason, I did a whole crazy book hoarding thing for two months between the indie stores in Vermont and our local indie store in Palmyra, NY, and I could probably be fine THROUGH THE SUMMER.
- My Pilates studio closed temporarily, but they are doing virtual classes and so I can continue working my flexibility and balance and strength and support their local business. Between that, the walking, and limited food choices moving forward, maybe I will get in the best shape of my life!
- I have a zillion puzzles, some I haven't even done yet ever, and so that will take up some time. I'm obsessive and have a hard time stopping once I start, but now all I have is time, so have at it!
- This is a time for creativity-- writing, cardmaking, all kinds of stuff. I have a paint-by-number canvas thing that Bryce bought me during the hysterectomy stay-home-time, and I never did it, so now's the time, cheerful pink zinnia painting! (That goodness it's by number, because I suck at drawing/painting from scratch). Also, plenty of time for blogging!
- I feel like even though the news is all End of Times feeling, there's also stories of people coming together. Mr. Rogers' helpers are everywhere. It helps me feel less scared.
I hope you and yours are safe, and I hope you have what you need to hole up and ride out this crazy situation. It's so weird to say "pandemic" and not be making some weird stupid joke or talking about a YA novel. SO much thanks and love to the medical professionals who have to go out there and do their work on the ground level of this thing, risking their own health to take care of others. I appreciate you.
Want to read more #Microblog Mondays? Go here and enjoy!
Monday, March 16, 2020
Saturday, March 7, 2020
Alternate Worlds
I read a few posts recently about looking back, and imagining what would have happened if things turned out differently with regards to family building. One was someone looking back at the moment when they were pregnant with their first child and suffering a subchorionic hematoma, wondering if this would actually be that moment where a child was a result (it was). One was someone looking at decisions made by younger family members, who had a baby first and then started looking for a house and that's proving difficult, and wondering if that order had reversed if things would have been different.
It is SO HARD not to do that. Not to look back and wonder how things might have been different if other decisions, other events, other timelines had occurred.
For me, maybe I would have had a baby if I'd tried in my first marriage, when I was younger, but I would far rather have the life I lead now than have had a baby in that situation. So that one doesn't make me sad.
There's no way Bryce and I could have started trying earlier, and we did do testing and get referrals before we were even married (I signed for my first Ovidrel shot delivery in my wedding dress), so that isn't a regret.
Had my first pregnancy that ended as an ectopic survived, I would have an 8 year old, but ectopics can't be saved, no matter what some idiotic, ignorant senators might say.
That second pregnancy though, that one is a doozy. I mourn that one hard.
I had just had a friend with a subchorionic hematoma, and so when I first started bleeding, I was assured that it was probably okay, that this happened sometimes. I was relieved somewhat by the first ultrasound within an hour of the bleed, which showed a sac. All of the hopeful thoughts I'd had about FINALLY having made it to pregnancy, of giving myself permission to dream about what that would look like and how our future would unfold, I could still hang on to them, albeit with a shadow of dread creeping in around the edges.
Now it seems cruel that I was on bed rest for a couple days until blood test results came back and a fancier ultrasound was performed. I think deep down I knew that I wasn't going to be one of the lucky ones. I think I knew when I first felt cramping in the parking lot of my grandmother's assisted living apartment building, and hoped against hope that it was something normal. I knew when I saw the blood. I just hoped and hoped and hoped and hoped that it was the scary but somewhat routine event that had plagued my friends, a bleed that didn't impact the baby, that wouldn't set my dreams on fire. EVERYONE had a story about something that went wrong but still ended well, even when I had the ectopic but didn't know that yet -- there were stories about low numbers and crappy rises that ended in perfectly healthy children, see? It can happen!
It didn't make me feel better. Because it didn't happen for me, not the first nor the second time I experienced pregnancy loss. It made me feel even more like a freak, like a failure, like something was terribly wrong with me. That luck was just not on my side. That all my magical thinking and desperate bargaining was wasted because something, somewhere, did not want me to have a baby.
That second pregnancy had the unfortunate parallel window into an alternate world, when a fertility yoga friend also became pregnant the day before me, and then her pregnancy continued while mine was cut short with an HCG drop in the thousands and a fancy ultrasound that revealed a sac, but also detritus and a smaller-than-normal development that indicated that there was nothing that would have made a difference -- I was bound to miscarry no matter what. I watched her belly grow while mine grew ever squishier due to hormone fallout and grief eating. I saw her post about the birth of her baby girl in April, right at the same time my baby would have been born in other timelines, other worlds. And then eventually I hid her on social media because watching her little girl grow was just too painful, it was way too easy to imagine what life would have looked like had my baby survived.
I think that's why it was so hard when the family with two boys moved in to our old house, and the house got the family we tried to make happen, but only after we'd left. Seeing toys in the yard and hearing neighbors talk about the life in the house because of those two young people gives me another window into what could have been.
Adoption was interesting, because it was so taxing but I didn't always give myself the ability to imagine what life would be like if we were chosen. For being such an emotionally difficult process, it was strangely impersonal as, at least for us, we didn't ever see an expectant mother or get updates on a pregnancy, we were never matched, and almost all of our opportunities were last-minute, so there was no specific-baby anticipation of arrival. But occasionally there was imagining of the baby that could be, and as time went on, it felt so demoralizing to not be picked, to have everything in our nursery ready for this baby we wanted so badly, and come close but not nearly close enough every single time. That opportunity near the end where it was possible we'd have to drive to Buffalo the next day if we were the lucky couple chosen was the hardest, because it was such an imminent thing. It's hard to harden yourself against that and not imagine what a tomorrow where you're a parent would look like. That was probably the most devastating "Sorry, you were not chosen this time" moment. We could see into that alternate world and imagine what excitement and nervousness we would feel in the car ride to the hospital. But it stayed just a crushing thought experiment.
Now though, living in our new house, free of anything other than a small box of mementos from that time and a stack of books that I keep behind a bookshelf, it's way harder to imagine what life would be like with any of the children that could-have-been but weren't.
We wouldn't live here if we'd been successful. We might not live in our old house anymore, but we definitely wouldn't be in this palace of books and windows and unlimited gardening possibilities. I really try not to think about alternate worlds too much now, because it is over. That is the gift of resolution -- there is no way to change this outcome, we are in a different place, and so there's not a lot of sense in mulling over this other life that didn't happen.
Some things trigger those moments -- pregnancy announcements, seeing a child that looks like what we envisioned ours to be, spending time with friends' children and feeling like it's a shame we didn't get the chance because I so love kids and enjoy being silly and goofy and snuggly. But then I go home, and I can be grateful for my office, for my space and my time, and the ability to recharge after giving so much of myself to my students because there are no small people who need me.
I loved Mali's post on forgiving yourself, because so often these moments of looking back and thinking about what life would have looked like is a sort of self-punishing exercise. There are so many good reminders in this post about what and who you can forgive to continue moving forward in your resolution (because it is NOT a static thing). I struggle with the body piece, because I absolutely blamed my body and was oddly vindictive and pleased when I had to have my hysterectomy. It felt like a sort of vengeance. But now that that's gone, I can forgive the rest of me. All the other forgives I can do -- we made the best decisions with the knowledge I had at the time, and we decided to stop probably well after we could have, but it was when it was clear there was no way we could keep going. It cost too much, in ways that had nothing (okay, maybe a little) to do with money.
I will try to visit these alternate worlds without blaming myself for the fact that they did not come to pass. I won't linger there, because it's too easy to get stuck in brain space that isn't real, and spend too much time visiting what could have been where I can put that energy into what is yet to be. It's all part of that healing, of accepting and honoring what happened before, of working through the trauma and grief of it, and figuring out how to make the best way forward.
It is SO HARD not to do that. Not to look back and wonder how things might have been different if other decisions, other events, other timelines had occurred.
For me, maybe I would have had a baby if I'd tried in my first marriage, when I was younger, but I would far rather have the life I lead now than have had a baby in that situation. So that one doesn't make me sad.
There's no way Bryce and I could have started trying earlier, and we did do testing and get referrals before we were even married (I signed for my first Ovidrel shot delivery in my wedding dress), so that isn't a regret.
Had my first pregnancy that ended as an ectopic survived, I would have an 8 year old, but ectopics can't be saved, no matter what some idiotic, ignorant senators might say.
That second pregnancy though, that one is a doozy. I mourn that one hard.
I had just had a friend with a subchorionic hematoma, and so when I first started bleeding, I was assured that it was probably okay, that this happened sometimes. I was relieved somewhat by the first ultrasound within an hour of the bleed, which showed a sac. All of the hopeful thoughts I'd had about FINALLY having made it to pregnancy, of giving myself permission to dream about what that would look like and how our future would unfold, I could still hang on to them, albeit with a shadow of dread creeping in around the edges.
Now it seems cruel that I was on bed rest for a couple days until blood test results came back and a fancier ultrasound was performed. I think deep down I knew that I wasn't going to be one of the lucky ones. I think I knew when I first felt cramping in the parking lot of my grandmother's assisted living apartment building, and hoped against hope that it was something normal. I knew when I saw the blood. I just hoped and hoped and hoped and hoped that it was the scary but somewhat routine event that had plagued my friends, a bleed that didn't impact the baby, that wouldn't set my dreams on fire. EVERYONE had a story about something that went wrong but still ended well, even when I had the ectopic but didn't know that yet -- there were stories about low numbers and crappy rises that ended in perfectly healthy children, see? It can happen!
It didn't make me feel better. Because it didn't happen for me, not the first nor the second time I experienced pregnancy loss. It made me feel even more like a freak, like a failure, like something was terribly wrong with me. That luck was just not on my side. That all my magical thinking and desperate bargaining was wasted because something, somewhere, did not want me to have a baby.
That second pregnancy had the unfortunate parallel window into an alternate world, when a fertility yoga friend also became pregnant the day before me, and then her pregnancy continued while mine was cut short with an HCG drop in the thousands and a fancy ultrasound that revealed a sac, but also detritus and a smaller-than-normal development that indicated that there was nothing that would have made a difference -- I was bound to miscarry no matter what. I watched her belly grow while mine grew ever squishier due to hormone fallout and grief eating. I saw her post about the birth of her baby girl in April, right at the same time my baby would have been born in other timelines, other worlds. And then eventually I hid her on social media because watching her little girl grow was just too painful, it was way too easy to imagine what life would have looked like had my baby survived.
I think that's why it was so hard when the family with two boys moved in to our old house, and the house got the family we tried to make happen, but only after we'd left. Seeing toys in the yard and hearing neighbors talk about the life in the house because of those two young people gives me another window into what could have been.
Adoption was interesting, because it was so taxing but I didn't always give myself the ability to imagine what life would be like if we were chosen. For being such an emotionally difficult process, it was strangely impersonal as, at least for us, we didn't ever see an expectant mother or get updates on a pregnancy, we were never matched, and almost all of our opportunities were last-minute, so there was no specific-baby anticipation of arrival. But occasionally there was imagining of the baby that could be, and as time went on, it felt so demoralizing to not be picked, to have everything in our nursery ready for this baby we wanted so badly, and come close but not nearly close enough every single time. That opportunity near the end where it was possible we'd have to drive to Buffalo the next day if we were the lucky couple chosen was the hardest, because it was such an imminent thing. It's hard to harden yourself against that and not imagine what a tomorrow where you're a parent would look like. That was probably the most devastating "Sorry, you were not chosen this time" moment. We could see into that alternate world and imagine what excitement and nervousness we would feel in the car ride to the hospital. But it stayed just a crushing thought experiment.
Now though, living in our new house, free of anything other than a small box of mementos from that time and a stack of books that I keep behind a bookshelf, it's way harder to imagine what life would be like with any of the children that could-have-been but weren't.
We wouldn't live here if we'd been successful. We might not live in our old house anymore, but we definitely wouldn't be in this palace of books and windows and unlimited gardening possibilities. I really try not to think about alternate worlds too much now, because it is over. That is the gift of resolution -- there is no way to change this outcome, we are in a different place, and so there's not a lot of sense in mulling over this other life that didn't happen.
Some things trigger those moments -- pregnancy announcements, seeing a child that looks like what we envisioned ours to be, spending time with friends' children and feeling like it's a shame we didn't get the chance because I so love kids and enjoy being silly and goofy and snuggly. But then I go home, and I can be grateful for my office, for my space and my time, and the ability to recharge after giving so much of myself to my students because there are no small people who need me.
I loved Mali's post on forgiving yourself, because so often these moments of looking back and thinking about what life would have looked like is a sort of self-punishing exercise. There are so many good reminders in this post about what and who you can forgive to continue moving forward in your resolution (because it is NOT a static thing). I struggle with the body piece, because I absolutely blamed my body and was oddly vindictive and pleased when I had to have my hysterectomy. It felt like a sort of vengeance. But now that that's gone, I can forgive the rest of me. All the other forgives I can do -- we made the best decisions with the knowledge I had at the time, and we decided to stop probably well after we could have, but it was when it was clear there was no way we could keep going. It cost too much, in ways that had nothing (okay, maybe a little) to do with money.
I will try to visit these alternate worlds without blaming myself for the fact that they did not come to pass. I won't linger there, because it's too easy to get stuck in brain space that isn't real, and spend too much time visiting what could have been where I can put that energy into what is yet to be. It's all part of that healing, of accepting and honoring what happened before, of working through the trauma and grief of it, and figuring out how to make the best way forward.
Monday, March 2, 2020
Shopping for the Apocalypse
Ah, coro.navi.rus. It's here, and whether or not we're actually living at the beginning of the Georgian Bird Flu epidemic in Station Eleven by Emily St John Mandel (which I kind of want to reread but also feel it might freak me out), it's necessary to grocery shop. It just looks a little different when you're stocking a two-week pantry after various people who are pretty reasoned don't laugh when you tell them about "survival shopping."
I had a big cart, which I usually don't enjoy (we have these two-tier short carts that are great and not unwieldy at all), but I needed to get a boatload of gluten free mac and cheese (the kind that doesn't need milk or butter), and canned gf soups, and tuna, and peanut butter, and at least 30 rolls of toilet paper. I have an irrational fear of running out of toilet paper in an emergency, that started when a coworker's sister was stuck in the freak 7-foot snowfall in Buffalo a few years ago and toilet paper was like GOLD. I try to always have extra on hand, but I wanted a super stash.
Just in case.
All these things are stuff we'd use anyway; it just feels weird to every day wonder where the next case will crop up and how quickly it will spread and cause some level of chaos. It's the chaos that scares me more than the virus, even though I have asthma and respiratory illnesses are the devil for me (but otherwise I'm youngish and healthyish).
When I first read Station Eleven, it brought up moments of "ohhhhh, I will totally not survive an event like this." Mostly because people ran out of medication, and if I run out of asthma medication I am no longer controlled, and there's a scene where nothing good happens to someone who's been out of their antidepressants, and although I might run out blood pressure medicine I'd probably not be feasting during a dystopian future, so maybe that would sort itself out.
It's weird feeling a bit like every day seems a little more like living in one of the novels I enjoy so much. Will the economy collapse? Will there be marauders? Do I need to come up with an edgy post-apocalyptic name and shave half my head so I'm not a target?
I would like to point out that I am not actually panicking, just exploring all possible options in my weird brain. And hoping that the next time I go to the grocery store I don't feel embarrassed by my cart and like I have to mutter about my 5 kids to cover up for the kinda-sorta-minor-prepping that I'm engaging in (which I'm sure didn't occur to anyone else, even though I was totally checking out other carts to see if I wasn't the only one following the zillions of "what to buy for a pandemic" lists out there).
Interesting times.
Want to read more #Microblog Mondays? Go here and enjoy!
Monday, February 17, 2020
#Microblog Mondays: Pinterest Purge
I have a lot of Pinterest boards, many of which I could probably get rid of but like any good hoarder I shudder at the thought of deleting a whole set of things I've saved. I'm getting better at not physically packratting, but digitally I am a collector of tabs and outdated Pinterest boards and do a terrible job of bookmarking like a normal person.
One board that I didn't delete is a Garage Renovation board that's actually shared with a contractor, from when we were deciding whether we wanted to put a bandaid on the old house or buy a new house (we SO made the right decision), but maybe we'll use some of these ideas for other projects some day...you never know. It hurts no one to keep it.
I have been toying for months and probably years at this point with deleting two boards that sneak attack me but I just wasn't ready to purge: One Day Our Dream Will Come and When Your Nursery Is Really Tiny (And Doesn't Have A Closet).
Obviously the dream wasn't a swanky new house with our very own pingpong table. It had nursery ideas, articles on inducing lactation, articles on creating profile books and communicating with birth families and cool early childhood crafts and activities...all for a situation and a child who never came to pass. I think having this in my boards was making me have more baby-related ads and posts, which I do not need, and I think my memory for what I wanted for our dream and all the cute forest friends related nursery ideas is burned into my brain. So I deleted it, because why torture myself? Except to sweep through it one more time and remind myself of all the complexities of our dream before I bid it farewell in a weirdly symbolic and strangely easy press of a button.
The other one was easier to let go of, because it was newer and I'd spent less time poring over its contents feeling hopeful. Easier is relative, though. It still felt weird.
Now my Pinterest is mostly reflective of a life rooted in current realities, not my life in a previous iteration. It still has a board full of exercises I've never done (somehow I feel like I get activity credit just for pinning them, which is of course not at all reality), a board specific to 1950s hair for a photo shoot we did years ago, and then million useful gardening and travel and cooking boards that I reference a lot. Most recently, I've created a secret board to plan a possible trip to Scotland (there are way too many resources dedicated to puffin visiting, but that, Harry Potter, and Nessie are my priorities).
It's a strange feeling to have done something that is basically a milestone in moving forward and letting go of a dream that's been gone for years and to not feel sad repercussions from it beyond a wistful moment or two. But it's also freeing.
Want to read more #Microblog Mondays? Go here and enjoy!
One board that I didn't delete is a Garage Renovation board that's actually shared with a contractor, from when we were deciding whether we wanted to put a bandaid on the old house or buy a new house (we SO made the right decision), but maybe we'll use some of these ideas for other projects some day...you never know. It hurts no one to keep it.
I have been toying for months and probably years at this point with deleting two boards that sneak attack me but I just wasn't ready to purge: One Day Our Dream Will Come and When Your Nursery Is Really Tiny (And Doesn't Have A Closet).
Obviously the dream wasn't a swanky new house with our very own pingpong table. It had nursery ideas, articles on inducing lactation, articles on creating profile books and communicating with birth families and cool early childhood crafts and activities...all for a situation and a child who never came to pass. I think having this in my boards was making me have more baby-related ads and posts, which I do not need, and I think my memory for what I wanted for our dream and all the cute forest friends related nursery ideas is burned into my brain. So I deleted it, because why torture myself? Except to sweep through it one more time and remind myself of all the complexities of our dream before I bid it farewell in a weirdly symbolic and strangely easy press of a button.
The other one was easier to let go of, because it was newer and I'd spent less time poring over its contents feeling hopeful. Easier is relative, though. It still felt weird.
Now my Pinterest is mostly reflective of a life rooted in current realities, not my life in a previous iteration. It still has a board full of exercises I've never done (somehow I feel like I get activity credit just for pinning them, which is of course not at all reality), a board specific to 1950s hair for a photo shoot we did years ago, and then million useful gardening and travel and cooking boards that I reference a lot. Most recently, I've created a secret board to plan a possible trip to Scotland (there are way too many resources dedicated to puffin visiting, but that, Harry Potter, and Nessie are my priorities).
It's a strange feeling to have done something that is basically a milestone in moving forward and letting go of a dream that's been gone for years and to not feel sad repercussions from it beyond a wistful moment or two. But it's also freeing.
Want to read more #Microblog Mondays? Go here and enjoy!
Wednesday, February 12, 2020
No Shame In A Life Vest
I have anxiety and depression. I have to say both, because both have raised their ugly heads lately, and as much as I've tried to whack-a-mole them down myself, it's difficult for me to accept help for my anxiety and depression. I hide it (or at least try to). And, I have this insidious, super-unhelpful association of medication (for me) with weakness, with failure, with the inability to handle things on my own, that REALLY works against me.
I remember back when I was a few IVF cycles into our hideous journey, having lunch at Panera with a friend who was also in the trenches and newly pregnant, and she asked me, "Do you think you should talk to your doctor about an antidepressant? Something to help during this time?" and I was horrified. NO. Absolutely not. I would go to therapy, I would do massage and meditation, but I did NOT want to go on any medications.
The thing was, I'd been on medication before as an adult, and it was towards the end of my first marriage. I had gone to see a counselor through my company's EAP because I felt hopeless and sad and anxious, but in my weird mind I chalked that up to medicating my shitty marriage away (who WOULDN'T feel that way when being told that they are crazy for suspecting an affair while also having things thrown at their head, being told they were a fat bitch all the time, and having someone routinely tell you they wanted to snap your neck while having hands on you?). I found out about the affair(s), I realized it was my "out" (to my eternal shame I needed that kind of out to leave, not being treated as a human worthy of respect and care wasn't enough), I set myself up in the over-the-garage apartment at the house my parents had just bought to retire to, and BAM! I didn't need the medication anymore. (Obviously this is a simplification, it took months to get to the apartment, I made terrible decisions and second-guessed myself frequently, and I have a bag of encouraging cards in my attic from people who clearly didn't think I was going to go through with the divorce to prove it.)
Eventually though, I learned to enjoy being by myself, beholden to only myself, even though I was turning 30 and about to have no job due to student teaching and living in my parents' house and on the inside, terrified of where my life was headed (had to be better than where I'd been) but very very grateful to all the support I had to get me through that time.
So I stopped taking the medication, and I felt good. I met Bryce. I started my teaching career. That had bumps and bruises along the way too, but I went from feeling like I was going to be adrift in uncertainty with the wreckage of what I thought my life was going to be all around me to firmly moored in a new life, that was so very different from before.
And then infertility hit. And as it kept hitting, I had that weird sense again of being in an abusive relationship, but with my body and my mind this time, and my coping mechanisms of trying to tightly control everything around me felt like they were wrapping tighter and tighter around my throat.
But I didn't want to take medication -- because I felt like I could do it, because I didn't want it in my system while trying to get pregnant, because I didn't want to claim it on my adoption paperwork. I think that's something worth looking at. I had to have a letter, yearly, from my therapist saying that I was stable and fit to parent, in order to be homestudy approved. I knew people who were also on medication and they had a harder time with clearance. Which is fucked up. So I was NOT going to add another thing to work against us in the adoption process (you know, other than being over 40, in a cousin desert, and nonreligious). So it took a breakdown to both end our adoption journey and make it so that I had NO CHOICE but to go on medication.
But now? I SHOULD BE HAPPY (is what my brain in need of help says). I'm not in a crisis. I'm not in a crap marriage moments from imploding, I'm not pumped full of hormonal nonsense, I'm not building my career from scratch, I'm not in any process that feels emotionally battering, I'm not actively dealing with a weird autoimmune eye disorder, I'm not in a house haunted with the ghost of the life we dreamed. I have a beautiful house, a beautiful marriage, a beautiful (if difficult) career, and other than recovering from the flu, I am pretty healthy.
What the hell have I got to be anxious or depressed about?
Well, apparently it's not necessarily situational. It's a part of me. And I suck at asking for help, or accepting help, and so in the summer when I was feeling pretty good about things I decided with my doctor that I could lower my dose of my medication.
You can see where this is going.
School started, and Bryce noticed that my anxiety levels were rising (of course I did too but chose to ignore it), and I shoved it down. I could DO this. I could deep breathe and do my pilates and things would calm down. I COULD DO IT MYSELF. I didn't need to go back up on the medication.
Except,.. I kind of do.
I've been feeling worse and worse and although admitting that I'm struggling is definitely a first step, the second step came the weekend before this past one, when I came home from a massage and just unloaded. See, my massage therapist had asked, "How are you doing today?" and I answered honestly. "Awesome," I said sarcastically. And then teared up. And then leaked my disappointment with myself all over the face cradle and gave myself a wicked stuffy nose in the process.
I wasn't awesome. I felt like shit. I feel overwhelmed, and like sooner or later everyone is going to see through me and see how hollow I am, and how undeserving I am to feel this way because I have a great life, and sure there's been trauma and sure a lot of things haven't worked out, but I have a wonderful husband and a beautiful home and security and a good job that I love, so WHAT'S THERE TO BE SO SAD ABOUT? And that's the hard thing to explain -- I'm not sad, as in something specific is making me sad. I'm just in a bit of a hole. I've been feeling...hollow.
BUT, I came home and put my big girl pants on and, through a LOT of tears, unloaded all this on Bryce, who very nicely did not say "I told you so" when I admitted that I'm not okay. I said that I needed to raise my dose. That clearly I need more assistance chemically.
And I did. Just that 25mg increase made a huge difference. In just a week and change I already felt a sense of relief, even though now it's overshadowed a bit with the flu and my asthma giving my ribs a workout. I don't feel quite so hollow anymore.
I talked to the nurse practitioner about it when I went in for my flu swab. I said I was struggling, and it sucks to have anxiety and depression, because you feel like shit but your anxiety then just berates you for not being able to handle it and what have you got to feel so bad about anyway and shouldn't you be doing this and this and this and this and THIS instead? She told me to stop "Musterbating," which made me laugh hysterically (and then almost die of my asthma). She said I needed to stop looking at the meds as a crutch or a badge of shame and more like I'm in an ocean and it's my life vest. No sane person would reject a life vest. She also reminded me that being out of the direct trauma of our loss of parenthood was REALLY NOT THAT FAR IN THE PAST, that two years and change is really not that long ago. She was like, it's possible that your body is STILL recovering from all your hormonal manipulation. That 8+ years of trying to have a child and not succeeding isn't going to just POOF not be a trauma you're dealing with in a couple of years. It takes time.
Basically, she was like, YOU ARE BEING WAY TOO HARD ON YOURSELF. But in a very nice, very supportive way. So I made a plan to check in on the meds situation in two weeks.
It took A LOT for me to verbalize that I am not okay. I am a master of pretending I'm fine when I'm not. Bryce is a master of seeing through that, but he also knows that I bite when I'm vulnerable, like a fox in a trap, and he's figured out how to be supportive without being judgy or pushing me too soon. But I saw the relief in his face when I admitted that I wasn't doing too well, because it said I KNOW. Telling my doctor took a lot, too. Telling my therapist that I was feeling the anxiety rising to uncomfortable heights a couple weeks ago was also hard.
But raising the dose? The relief that I felt came faster than I thought. It is a reminder that it's not a failing, it's a chemical wonkiness in my body and like any other imbalance (say, my breathing), there is NO SHAME in addressing it with medication. It's not a sign that my life is going down the toilet. It's doesn't mean I'm miserable with my life, or ungrateful for all the things I have that are wonderful.
It was a good reminder that maybe it's not so great to keep congratulating myself on how strong I am and how awesome I'm doing post-resolution, because it makes me feel like I am putting pressure on myself to just be so grateful and celebratory about this new life we've built for ourselves out of the ashes of shattered dreams, and in enjoying the good stuff I'm shoving under a rug all the pain and losses that lie a few layers beneath where they used to, but still closer to the surface than I thought they should be at this point. It's very, very difficult for me to admit that I'm not okay.
Anyway, the upshot is, I'm struggling, but I'm working at it and accepting that medication is a life vest and not badge of weakness. Trauma is real. It takes time, and I have to be patient and kind with myself as I ride the waves. It was a big fat asteroid in 2017 that crashed into my ocean. It's okay that the waves keep coming and I need a vest to stay afloat.
I remember back when I was a few IVF cycles into our hideous journey, having lunch at Panera with a friend who was also in the trenches and newly pregnant, and she asked me, "Do you think you should talk to your doctor about an antidepressant? Something to help during this time?" and I was horrified. NO. Absolutely not. I would go to therapy, I would do massage and meditation, but I did NOT want to go on any medications.
The thing was, I'd been on medication before as an adult, and it was towards the end of my first marriage. I had gone to see a counselor through my company's EAP because I felt hopeless and sad and anxious, but in my weird mind I chalked that up to medicating my shitty marriage away (who WOULDN'T feel that way when being told that they are crazy for suspecting an affair while also having things thrown at their head, being told they were a fat bitch all the time, and having someone routinely tell you they wanted to snap your neck while having hands on you?). I found out about the affair(s), I realized it was my "out" (to my eternal shame I needed that kind of out to leave, not being treated as a human worthy of respect and care wasn't enough), I set myself up in the over-the-garage apartment at the house my parents had just bought to retire to, and BAM! I didn't need the medication anymore. (Obviously this is a simplification, it took months to get to the apartment, I made terrible decisions and second-guessed myself frequently, and I have a bag of encouraging cards in my attic from people who clearly didn't think I was going to go through with the divorce to prove it.)
Eventually though, I learned to enjoy being by myself, beholden to only myself, even though I was turning 30 and about to have no job due to student teaching and living in my parents' house and on the inside, terrified of where my life was headed (had to be better than where I'd been) but very very grateful to all the support I had to get me through that time.
So I stopped taking the medication, and I felt good. I met Bryce. I started my teaching career. That had bumps and bruises along the way too, but I went from feeling like I was going to be adrift in uncertainty with the wreckage of what I thought my life was going to be all around me to firmly moored in a new life, that was so very different from before.
And then infertility hit. And as it kept hitting, I had that weird sense again of being in an abusive relationship, but with my body and my mind this time, and my coping mechanisms of trying to tightly control everything around me felt like they were wrapping tighter and tighter around my throat.
But I didn't want to take medication -- because I felt like I could do it, because I didn't want it in my system while trying to get pregnant, because I didn't want to claim it on my adoption paperwork. I think that's something worth looking at. I had to have a letter, yearly, from my therapist saying that I was stable and fit to parent, in order to be homestudy approved. I knew people who were also on medication and they had a harder time with clearance. Which is fucked up. So I was NOT going to add another thing to work against us in the adoption process (you know, other than being over 40, in a cousin desert, and nonreligious). So it took a breakdown to both end our adoption journey and make it so that I had NO CHOICE but to go on medication.
But now? I SHOULD BE HAPPY (is what my brain in need of help says). I'm not in a crisis. I'm not in a crap marriage moments from imploding, I'm not pumped full of hormonal nonsense, I'm not building my career from scratch, I'm not in any process that feels emotionally battering, I'm not actively dealing with a weird autoimmune eye disorder, I'm not in a house haunted with the ghost of the life we dreamed. I have a beautiful house, a beautiful marriage, a beautiful (if difficult) career, and other than recovering from the flu, I am pretty healthy.
What the hell have I got to be anxious or depressed about?
Well, apparently it's not necessarily situational. It's a part of me. And I suck at asking for help, or accepting help, and so in the summer when I was feeling pretty good about things I decided with my doctor that I could lower my dose of my medication.
You can see where this is going.
School started, and Bryce noticed that my anxiety levels were rising (of course I did too but chose to ignore it), and I shoved it down. I could DO this. I could deep breathe and do my pilates and things would calm down. I COULD DO IT MYSELF. I didn't need to go back up on the medication.
Except,.. I kind of do.
I've been feeling worse and worse and although admitting that I'm struggling is definitely a first step, the second step came the weekend before this past one, when I came home from a massage and just unloaded. See, my massage therapist had asked, "How are you doing today?" and I answered honestly. "Awesome," I said sarcastically. And then teared up. And then leaked my disappointment with myself all over the face cradle and gave myself a wicked stuffy nose in the process.
I wasn't awesome. I felt like shit. I feel overwhelmed, and like sooner or later everyone is going to see through me and see how hollow I am, and how undeserving I am to feel this way because I have a great life, and sure there's been trauma and sure a lot of things haven't worked out, but I have a wonderful husband and a beautiful home and security and a good job that I love, so WHAT'S THERE TO BE SO SAD ABOUT? And that's the hard thing to explain -- I'm not sad, as in something specific is making me sad. I'm just in a bit of a hole. I've been feeling...hollow.
BUT, I came home and put my big girl pants on and, through a LOT of tears, unloaded all this on Bryce, who very nicely did not say "I told you so" when I admitted that I'm not okay. I said that I needed to raise my dose. That clearly I need more assistance chemically.
And I did. Just that 25mg increase made a huge difference. In just a week and change I already felt a sense of relief, even though now it's overshadowed a bit with the flu and my asthma giving my ribs a workout. I don't feel quite so hollow anymore.
I talked to the nurse practitioner about it when I went in for my flu swab. I said I was struggling, and it sucks to have anxiety and depression, because you feel like shit but your anxiety then just berates you for not being able to handle it and what have you got to feel so bad about anyway and shouldn't you be doing this and this and this and this and THIS instead? She told me to stop "Musterbating," which made me laugh hysterically (and then almost die of my asthma). She said I needed to stop looking at the meds as a crutch or a badge of shame and more like I'm in an ocean and it's my life vest. No sane person would reject a life vest. She also reminded me that being out of the direct trauma of our loss of parenthood was REALLY NOT THAT FAR IN THE PAST, that two years and change is really not that long ago. She was like, it's possible that your body is STILL recovering from all your hormonal manipulation. That 8+ years of trying to have a child and not succeeding isn't going to just POOF not be a trauma you're dealing with in a couple of years. It takes time.
Basically, she was like, YOU ARE BEING WAY TOO HARD ON YOURSELF. But in a very nice, very supportive way. So I made a plan to check in on the meds situation in two weeks.
It took A LOT for me to verbalize that I am not okay. I am a master of pretending I'm fine when I'm not. Bryce is a master of seeing through that, but he also knows that I bite when I'm vulnerable, like a fox in a trap, and he's figured out how to be supportive without being judgy or pushing me too soon. But I saw the relief in his face when I admitted that I wasn't doing too well, because it said I KNOW. Telling my doctor took a lot, too. Telling my therapist that I was feeling the anxiety rising to uncomfortable heights a couple weeks ago was also hard.
But raising the dose? The relief that I felt came faster than I thought. It is a reminder that it's not a failing, it's a chemical wonkiness in my body and like any other imbalance (say, my breathing), there is NO SHAME in addressing it with medication. It's not a sign that my life is going down the toilet. It's doesn't mean I'm miserable with my life, or ungrateful for all the things I have that are wonderful.
It was a good reminder that maybe it's not so great to keep congratulating myself on how strong I am and how awesome I'm doing post-resolution, because it makes me feel like I am putting pressure on myself to just be so grateful and celebratory about this new life we've built for ourselves out of the ashes of shattered dreams, and in enjoying the good stuff I'm shoving under a rug all the pain and losses that lie a few layers beneath where they used to, but still closer to the surface than I thought they should be at this point. It's very, very difficult for me to admit that I'm not okay.
Anyway, the upshot is, I'm struggling, but I'm working at it and accepting that medication is a life vest and not badge of weakness. Trauma is real. It takes time, and I have to be patient and kind with myself as I ride the waves. It was a big fat asteroid in 2017 that crashed into my ocean. It's okay that the waves keep coming and I need a vest to stay afloat.
Monday, February 10, 2020
#Microblog Mondays: BitterSnips
1) I officially have Influenza A, despite having a flu shot, and I am out of work for another two days. Which would be considered a windfall, if it wasn't my IEP meeting season and I didn't have to meet with parents and kids to meet my deadlines... going to try to enjoy bingewatching Schitt's Creek and Mrs. Maisel anyway, now that I am coherent enough to watch TV and read.
2) I saw an article from the New York Times via Facebook (hey, I'm sick, I increased my timer a bit), titled "What They Paid to Make a Baby (or 2)" and was pleasantly surprised that it started with this: "Not everyone who uses assisted reproductive technology winds up with a baby." But it profiles five NYC people who did end up with a baby (or 2) and what it cost, including things like transportation, therapy, meds, supplements, acupuncture...you name it. I was shocked to find that between ART and adoption, we outspent the most expensive one over 8.5 years, and did not wind up with a baby. Which led to a philosophical meandering on privilege, and a painful thought experiment of whether we'd have gone so deep for so long if we couldn't find funding for it, and whether that would have been better or worse.
3) I just have to repeat how much I hate ultrasound pregnancy announcements, even when I love that people are having babies. And I resent that I feel that I must hit the "love" button and say congratulations on every single post related to this impending joy even though I find the ultrasound photos irritating, or else be perceived as the bitter childless person who hates babies and pregnant people. Okay fine, I'm a bitter childless person but I still don't get why everyone has to see the inside of your ladycave in order to congratulate you. (I feel better already.)
4) Lastly, Bryce shared that he was talking to someone at work about traveling to conferences, and she said, "I'll be honest, I'm just really nervous about the coronavirus. I think maybe it's because now I have children..." and Bryce cut in and said, "I call bullshit. I don't have kids, and I still want to live!" Even though that statement is more often used to say that people like us have less to live for, I almost passed out in the kitchen from laughing so hard with my compromised lungs because it was such a perfect response.
Want to read more #MicroblogMondays? Go here and enjoy!
2) I saw an article from the New York Times via Facebook (hey, I'm sick, I increased my timer a bit), titled "What They Paid to Make a Baby (or 2)" and was pleasantly surprised that it started with this: "Not everyone who uses assisted reproductive technology winds up with a baby." But it profiles five NYC people who did end up with a baby (or 2) and what it cost, including things like transportation, therapy, meds, supplements, acupuncture...you name it. I was shocked to find that between ART and adoption, we outspent the most expensive one over 8.5 years, and did not wind up with a baby. Which led to a philosophical meandering on privilege, and a painful thought experiment of whether we'd have gone so deep for so long if we couldn't find funding for it, and whether that would have been better or worse.
3) I just have to repeat how much I hate ultrasound pregnancy announcements, even when I love that people are having babies. And I resent that I feel that I must hit the "love" button and say congratulations on every single post related to this impending joy even though I find the ultrasound photos irritating, or else be perceived as the bitter childless person who hates babies and pregnant people. Okay fine, I'm a bitter childless person but I still don't get why everyone has to see the inside of your ladycave in order to congratulate you. (I feel better already.)
4) Lastly, Bryce shared that he was talking to someone at work about traveling to conferences, and she said, "I'll be honest, I'm just really nervous about the coronavirus. I think maybe it's because now I have children..." and Bryce cut in and said, "I call bullshit. I don't have kids, and I still want to live!" Even though that statement is more often used to say that people like us have less to live for, I almost passed out in the kitchen from laughing so hard with my compromised lungs because it was such a perfect response.
Want to read more #MicroblogMondays? Go here and enjoy!
Monday, February 3, 2020
Taking Advantage When I Can
There's a new change in special education certification requirements in New York, impacting special education teachers who teach special classes (like 12:1:1, 15:1, "self-contained" classes) in grades 7-12. It's causing a fair amount of stress and panic in my building, which appears to be most impacted by the change.
Before 2004, you got certified as K-12 Special Education, and it covered every possible assignment. After 2004, you got certified 7-12 (or 5-9 extension), with a content specialty. Then they started offering the 7-12 Generalist, which was supposed to make you qualified for any assignment, but you also had the option of a content specialty.
But now, you need to be certified in EVERY SUBJECT YOU TEACH, which means our teachers who teach the majority (or all) of the 12:1:1 program in 7th and 8th grades would have to be certified in math, English, social studies, AND science. Oh, unless you've taught 3 years or more in a special class, which none of us at my building have (the 12:1:1 program changed hands two years ago). And, since you usually want your most experienced teachers who "get" the specialized population of special classes, most of our teachers in these programs have the K-12 certification, with no content area specialty.
Uh-oh.
I teach just the one section of social studies, which I LOVE LOVE LOVE (surprisingly, as it was my most loathed class in high school), but I am not certified in Social Studies. I have the 7-12 Students with Disabilities: ELA certification, for which I had to take the English Content Specialty Test and have all the same requirements as a gen ed English teacher, PLUS all the special ed requirements. But social studies? Nope.
For any of us to get certified in the other subjects, or to be considered "qualified" by the state after June 30, 2020, we have to do more than pay the $100 and have the district submit paperwork on our behalf (the 3+ years people can do that); we have to apply for a Limited Subject Area Extension that qualifies us for five years to teach the course, WHILE WE PURSUE THE FULL CERTIFICATION IN THAT AREA. Which means 18 college credit hours and passing a content specialty test. Which is a lot.
This may seem like a good idea from a "let's get lots of qualified people out there," and I get what they're thinking, but does it make sense to have someone who is teaching a highly modified 8th grade physical science course in a special class to have to pass the PHYSICS content specialty test that high school physics teachers must take? It feels like for middle school it's a bit much. And it's being rolled out super fast.
BUT, I don't want to lose the ability to teach the social studies. I love it, I love the kids, I love modifying but also preserving critical thinking skills and higher level concepts, and I would be so sad to lose this assignment because of the change.
Which means, I'm willing to pursue the certification.
The long and winding road to the title of this post is that the other teachers are around the same age (a bit younger) than me, but they have multiple small children. Their lives are hectic. I, on the other hand, do not. I have an increasingly hectic life, but I could fit this in and get the additional cert without a tremendous amount of sacrifice. I realize this is SUPER privileged of me, especially as another teacher who has no children but is younger and single would find it highly sacrificial to pursue this due to financial constraints.
BUT, I feel like I have to grasp every advantage that I have as a result of not having children. Which makes teaching sound very Hunger-Games, and I'm not in to-the-death competition with my coworkers, but the complexities of the seniority list and being as marketable as possible so that I am less vulnerable to budget cuts ARE impacted by the kids/no kids dichotomy. For instance, I used to have a lot of people right around me on the seniority list, who would pass me as a clump rather quickly if I went out, say, on a maternity leave. I turned out not to ever have that opportunity, and so I have leapfrogged many of the people around me (including people above me) simply because I did not take any parental leave...and they did.
Which may seem unfair, and it points to the inequities of taking parental leave (I sure didn't pass any men on that list) and the caretaking role women so often take on, but I didn't ask to NOT take maternity leave. Life feels unfair to me a lot of the time, so it's nice when there's a benefit to being childless not by choice.
Anyway, in a far less than micro post, I guess I'll be boning up on my social studies skills and taking more classes and a big hairy test. I'm not really nervous about the test as I feel pretty confident that I could do well in it with my creepy memory and my ability to be a good test-taker, which is also an advantage.
I've got to take them where I can, right?
Want to read some #Microblog Mondays? Go here and enjoy!
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