Symbolism Sucks

Today was the anniversary of my dad’s death, according to the Hebrew calendar. So last night I lit my first yahrtzeit candle. I watched my dad light one for his father every year. For some reason, it was one of those things I never imagined I’d have to do. I knew I’d one day learn to drive, one day get married, and one day have children (one day soon, hopefully!). But not this.

The special memorial candle Jews light for their deceased loved ones (parents, siblings, spouse, and children) lasts for 24 hours. I was surprised to learn that you don’t say a prayer when you light it (and Jews love us some prayers), so K and I shared memories instead. It has looked like four in the afternoon all day today, and the cold rain, which was rudely spitting at us before, is now coming down without pause. I’m sitting quietly in my dining room, listening to the sound of the rain and watching as the flame flickers out the candle’s last hour of life.

I hate this.

I hate that I didn’t get to spend more of my adult life with my dad. That he won’t get to meet my child and vice-versa. That I have to watch this fucking candle burn out. It’s the end of my year of mourning, and I don’t feel healed, moved on, or through anything. This weather so doesn’t help.

So I wrote a poem because that’s something I used to do a lot more of and something my dad liked a lot. This poem screams of regret, but that’s only one small part of my sadness. He was such a phenomenal guy. I look forward to when I can get past the self-pity and write a poem about that.

Would That You Were

Here in body and in mind
(not my DNA or memory
but your own and in your prime)
you offer to make us eggs
And we know this means much more
To you eggs include bananas
rice and garlic scrambled—
an ambiguous concoction, a yearning
for some distant experience

Taste this ripe persimmon
you say, flesh in your teeth
juice collecting in the hairs
above your knuckles
And we know we should want this—
your desperate, delicious connection
so sticky and primal

Is it enough to try the kumquat?
Its bitter rind bearable
for the reward of a tart center
I prefer the loquats
you bring in by the bowl
We flock to you for the fullness
of its soft consistent sweetness

You ask who will join you
for a time in the Jacuzzi
ready in your soaked trunks
to get back in with company
We, so rapt by the reruns,
do not see the chlorine-rimmed
and hope-filled eyes
Our replies shoot over our shoulders
so we do not we miss anything

Would that you were here
I’d be in the water and ask you
to read me horrible jokes
from your Reader’s Digest
And at the sight of you rising
to the surface of the pool
I’d marvel at the volume of debris
you hold aloft like a trophy
skimmed from its bottom
then hold my breath
as you go back under

Thanks for reading everyone.

All Clear

That’s right. I got an “A” on my HsG test.

The doctor was very nice, but she could take a lesson on the gentle insertion of a speculum. That was really the most painful part. She said, “This part will be over in 15 seconds.” So, of course, I counted. I was in pain, and it was the only thing I could think of besides strangling K’s fingers, which I was already doing. I announced when I got to 15 and it wasn’t over. Just tell me 30 seconds; seriously, it’s better to overestimate and let me be pleasantly surprised at 20.

With K at my side, beautiful in her lead vest and apron, I got to watch on the screen as the contrast moved into my uterus and out my fallopian tubes. Man, are they small! I’m pretty sure a single piece of my hair is thicker. We were really excited to see that there are absolutely no blockages in my uterus or tubes. From the inside perspective, I should be getting pregnant. The doctor actually said, “Your future looks good.” How rad is that?!

Not actually my X-ray

I did ask the doc about my pain, and she said that it could be scar tissue on the outside of my uterus and tubes, but that the pain would probably go away with pregnancy. She listened to my sob story about the horrible infectious laparoscopy I had before, and said it was perfectly reasonable to try a few more months with fresh, if we can, and then jump straight to IVF if I want to skip the laparoscopy experience altogether. I liked this doctor; I like being told that my ideas are reasonable.

But how long can we stay high on these results? We messed up and thought we could simply print off a copy of our donor contact with a new date and all sign it today at Copy Central, where there’s a notary. The thing is, K noticed a sentence at the very end that says we cannot reproduce the contract (even though it’s ours and we paid for it) because it’s actually the property of our lawyer. We’re supposed to meet E2 at 4pm today to sign; there’s not enough time to get downtown to the lawyer’s office, and we’re going to start inseminations tomorrow. Yikes! After this morning’s test, though, I know it’s all gonna work out.

 

 

I Am Woman

This means I have the right to change my mind. Over and over.

What factors into a mind change, you ask? Information and experience.

We had E2 over for dinner earlier this week (our first attempt at African peanut stew was de-frickin’-licious). We wanted to discuss this break we’re taking and his upcoming month-long travel plans. Well, we got a lot of information. For instance, we learned that the month-long trip is only the tip of the we’re-gonna-be-spermless iceberg. E2 is tired of living in a city (who knew Portland was a city?!). He wants to go work on farms. And then travel around Europe. Who knows? Well… I know! Holy crap, he can’t leave! He said there may be a couple weeks between the month-long and the forever trips, but otherwise he’s Audi 5000!

You’re thinking one of the following:
1. They’re gonna try now because he’s leaving.
2. They’re gonna wait and hope he decides to leave in March rather than January.
3. They’re gonna buy Euro wear to camouflage themselves and stalk him through the Continent.

Because I was feeling reasonable, but not so reasonable to give up on having Xanax for my upcoming trips of intensity, I took the news quite well and asked him to please let us know as soon as possible when he has decided on his departure date.

But then my Aunt Flo came to town. She came angry, and she knocked me off my feet. Literally.

So, if you keep up with this blog, you are familiar with my whining about cramps that “just seem to get worse & worse each month. It’s uncanny!” Well, I mean it this time. The day before yesterday I had the worst cramps I’ve ever had. How bad were they? They were so bad that I had to rush home and yell commands at K for a hot water bottle, a barf bucket, and pain killers (which I’d already taken—prescription level, mind you) as I hobbled upstairs, panting. I literally was out of my mind in pain. K had to go pick up her mother at the airport and I had hours of work left to do that day. So, I laid in bed and tried to focus on breathing and not dying. A couple hours passed and so did that extreme pain. What came out of it, besides me in a much better mood, was the thought that something just ain’t right downstairs and I need to get a look-see.

This experience let to my mind changing about the HsG. No waiting ’til January. It’s happening this week. I wanna see what the hell is in there causing me so much pain. And, if it turns out there’s nothing (after all, we’re talking about the uterus, which makes its owner, by definition, hysterical), we are going to inseminate again. As in next weekend. As in no Xanax for me when I fly home for Dad’s unveiling since I won’t know if I’m pregnant. But, oh, my flight home… If I get another negatory pee stick, I’ll be flying higher than the plane.

I sent an email to E2 with the same subject line as this post, to which he replied, “I always suspected.” Cute.
He’s up for it (heck, it’s more moolah for the Eurail Pass), and, assuming the HsG doesn’t show a hairy nodule of tissue holding a big stop sign, we’ll be try-trying again.

Just a parting note on how scared I am about pain all of a sudden. I used to think I could handle it pretty well. But with this period, I’m beginning to doubt the power of my own “roar.” I’ve heard the HsG can be quite, let’s say, uncomfortable… especially afterward. Did I mention the fear of finding something that requires surgery? How about flying without my little friend? Maybe I should’ve titled this post: I Am Woman, Hear Me Whimper.