Month: May 2022

Y’all, 

I am tired. I’m talking mentally, physically, and emotionally drained. I don’t even know where or how to begin this blog post. In fact, I’m currently typing this long-winded and unnecessary introduction in hopes that something creative comes to me. 

Nope. Nothing. 

Well, shit. I thought eloquent Stephanie might make an appearance tonight, but it looks like you’re stuck with exhausted Stephanie. She’s a lot more real, but at least she’s funny. 

I’m assuming that most of you probably already know that I work in public education as an Instructional Coach. In my district, this is the last week of school for students and teachers. I still work some next week, but for all intents and purposes, we have hit the home stretch. This is my eighteenth year in education, so I can say without hesitation that “End of the Year Teacher Tired” is a thing. The memes don’t lie:

I can also attest to the fact that I have never experienced complete and total fatigue like I am living through right now. When I say that I am holding on by a thread, I am not referring to a braided paracord friendship bracelet. It’s more like the strings that stretch across a ripped knee in jeans. The ones that you idly mess with until they come apart in your fingers. Honestly, even that may be giving the thread a bit too much credit. 

Today alone I have had a mini panic attack over the following things: hypothetical spilled sperm, my doctor’s choice of adjectives, and grey hair. 

Eleven months ago, this whole ordeal began with a big health scare. Eight months ago, we officially started fertility treatments. As of today, we are in the middle of the seventh medicated cycle. We also had our second IUI this morning. I know eight months may not seem like a substantial length of time, but as I sit here right now, it feels like an eternity. (Keep in mind that in reality, we are twelve years and eight months in, but I am just talking about our current trip down this road in this blog.) And thanks to these eight months, with a handful of workdays left in the 21-22 school year, I am feeling very Jack Nicholson-y. 

I should probably preface (or clarify) that, though experienced, we are by no means experts. And while we may be frequent fliers at the fertility clinic, we’re still just figuring it out as we go. I’m pretty confident in my ability to chart, graph, color code, and plan, but this cycle has put me in a bit of a tailspin. Leading up to this month, ovulation has occurred almost identically in every previous cycle. The timing on this one has been completely different. The tests have been reading less consistent and everything is occurring much later. One could argue that since all the other cycles have failed, maybe this is a good thing. Nevertheless, I’m still (maybe irrationally) nervous that something is not right. In fact, I have spent the previous three or four days sick with nerves thinking that the medicine has run its course and stopped working for me, as the previous types did. I am still holding my breath in hopes that ovulation has occurred today and the IUI was perfectly timed. Temperature charting in the coming days will be the only way to confirm this. 

Keep all of this in mind as you read the rest of my story. It might help you be a little less judgy over my crazy moments. 

Since we had an IUI this morning, Justin and I had different appointment times. He had to be at the hospital an hour earlier than me to “take care of business.” Last time, he called when he was finished to let me know everything went well and that he was waiting on me in the lobby. We didn’t talk about it, but I just expected the same phone call this morning. As I got closer and closer to the hospital my phone never rang. *Cue the overthinking.* My string of thoughts began with “what if he’s having performance issues” and ended with me being convinced he spilled the sperm. I was, however, NOT going to call because on the off chance it was the former issue I didn’t want to “interrupt matters” with a phone call. Turns out, he was finished in less than 20 minutes and just sitting in the hospital lobby waiting on me. Clearly unnecessary panic. 

The second overthinking-induced panic came from the word “fine.” In my defense, it was used twice. (Twice!)  Justin’s sperm count was “fine”. (Last time it was “good”.) Also, my cervical mucus was downgraded from “great” to “fine”.  Everyone knows that if you ask a woman what’s wrong and she answers with fine, she is not, by any stretch of the imagination, fine. Fine was not a word I wanted to hear being used to describe our reproductive conditions. So naturally, I did the expected “I’m-fine- woman-thing” and smiled and made small talk about Tom Cruise with my doctor. (Yes, my doctor was talking about Tom Cruise and Mimi Rogers as he was pulling the catheter from my uterus. I do actually appreciate that he uses small talk to ease the tension. And for background purposes, it all started when Justin checked the vial and asked if they had any sperm from better-looking men because we want a cute baby. The doc assured him that I would still choose his sperm over Tom Cruise’s. True. But mostly because Tom is bat shit crazy and I refuse to be part of an HBO special about Scientology and custody arrangements from sperm donors. Also, I doubt Tom Cruise goes to the sperm bank for a few extra bucks.) The second the doc walked out of the room, and as I’m laying with my feet propped up, I sharply looked at Justin and said, “why did he say “fine”?” 

The third mini panic attack came from looking in the mirror as I was getting dressed after the procedure and seeing far too many grey hairs glistening at my roots. I had the same thought as I always do when I look at myself in the mirror at the clinic: “I am too old for this shit.” Some days, time feels like my ultimate nemesis. 

Time and my own body: Two things that make me feel like I just can’t win. 

I told you exhausted Stephanie is real. But, I do hope my crazy gave you a few chuckles. Upon rereading my words, it’s quite possible the thread I’ve been holding onto for dear life, just broke. 

I’m sure Tom Cruise would agree. 

As would Jack Nicholson. 

(five. seventeen. twenty-two)

Mother’s Day. 

Two words that shake me to the core. I don’t know that I can, in one post, adequately and eloquently get the words out of my head and heart and onto my computer screen. But here goes my best attempt…

My first major panic attack happened on a Mother’s Day. I didn’t know that’s what was happening at the time. Instead, I chalked it up to hormones, and blamed myself for being overly emotional, because this day had not really previously bothered me–at least not to this extent. I think this was around the time of our second trip down the road of infertility treatment, but to be honest, over time, the details have become fuzzy and, perhaps out of self-preservation and an attempt to keep moving forward in this journey, I have blocked so much from my memory. 

Over the last decade or so, Mother’s Day has been a series of triggers for me. And, if I’m being totally transparent, it’s a day that I am also filled with extreme guilt. I want to celebrate others. I really do. But indulge me for a minute. Borrow my shoes for a short walk…

Mother’s Day at churches:  We’ve probably all attended the Sunday sermon where roses or carnations are passed out to all the mothers. Practically every woman proudly walks forward, smiling and taking her flower. You, on the other hand, sit still and smile, trying to find something to count to distract the tears from falling– ceiling tiles, beams, freckles on your arms. You try to make yourself small and pray that no one is looking at you. Sometimes, though, they pass out flowers to all the women who enter, and you panic, wondering if you should explain that your lady parts don’t work, and then wonder if that’s a weird thing to say to the 60-year-old deacon with a bucket of carnations. (Answer: Yes!) But, they’re also handing them to little girls too, telling them “someday you’ll be a mom.” Ten-year-old Stephanie smiled while taking the flower and thought that was true. Hell, Nineteen-year-old Stephanie thought that was true too. In fact, allow me to interrupt this post with an excerpt from 19-year-old Stephanie’s journal that she wrote while teaching English in Africa. 

Oh, sweet girl, you are so naive. Those words don’t even feel like my own, and as I read them I have this strong desire to protect her from the heartache that she’s going to face in the coming years. In a couple years, she will learn that having children “may be difficult”, but no one, maybe even including herself, will take that warning seriously. Little does she know that her optimism was just given a shelf life. Also, let’s not tell her that even though she is currently pursuing a degree in Communication and Business, she will, upon graduation, reflect upon this very experience and decide to teach English, so she needn’t stress about that six-figure salary and “career woman” mentality. I still can’t read those lines without cracking up. For the record, 40-year-old Stephanie is damn proud of the career I have built. 

Family/Friend Gatherings: Cue the guilt. You want to be happy…especially for your own family. You try to pick out perfect gifts and gather to celebrate all who have entered the exclusive club that is Motherhood. These feel a lot like baby showers. You smile and pretend. Your situation is ignored because, frankly, it makes others uncomfortable to talk about or acknowledge it. Sometimes there are jokes and often there are unintentional hurtful comments. Sometimes they say things like, “Well, you’re kind of like a mom to all the kids you teach.” You smile and nod, knowing they mean well, so you refrain from screaming that it’s not the same at all, and this day is the single worst day of the year. All you want is for someone to say, “I’m sorry this day sucks so badly for you. It’s really not fair.”  That doesn’t happen, though.

Restaurants (or any public place, for that matter): Everyone tells you “Happy Mother’s Day” because you’re a grown woman. You have gray hairs peeking out at your roots and wrinkles around your eyes. You are clearly well over the expected childbearing age, therefore you must have children. Those are the rules of being a woman. So, again you are instantly panicked with whether you should just smile and say thank you (like a normal person), or do you issue another explanation of your lady parts. (That’s never the answer, Stephanie! No one needs a detailed report on your lady parts!) We obviously don’t eat out on Mother’s Day. 

Okay, you can take off my shoes and give them back now. I’ll need them to get through the rest of my journey…whatever it holds. 

I am actually writing this post on April 30th, about a week before I will post it on the blog. I can’t anticipate what my headspace will be like in seven days, because I already start shallow breathing just thinking about it. I do, however, have much to say. 

This Mother’s Day, for the first time in my entire life, I will be taking care of me. While this has always felt too selfish of a thing to do, this year it feels necessary for survival. And I am going to try my best to not feel guilty for protecting my heart. That doesn’t mean that I don’t love all of you who are mothers. I do. Wholeheartedly. My own mother deserves an entire month devoted to celebrating how gracefully she handles motherhood. 

My hopes are that each and every one of you are doted upon by your children and families.  Cherish your Motherhood Membership card. Take the carnation with pride. You deserve it. Being a mom is hard work. But, if it’s a hard day for you (for whatever reason) and you need to bow out for a day to protect your heart, that’s okay too. 

(five. six. twenty-two)