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Sick and tired ramblings

So apparently my doctor is not amused when I’ve been sick for more than two weeks and show up in her office and she has to tell me that, just like last time I did this, I’m about *this close* to having pneumonia (“your chest sounds very rough, you know”), and I have a full blown case of bronchitis, and would I please just come in earlier next time so she doesn’t have to have this discussion with me. Again. Then she gives me a prescription for lots of antibiotics and tells me to go home and sleep. She also says I’m not supposed to belly dance tonight. I really shouldn’t have asked.

I spent most of the day asleep. I watched Armitage III, which was a rather neat movie. I think I stayed awake for all of it. When Xander got home we watched three episodes of Smallville, which I’m sure I stayed awake through, and then I watched a little bit of one of the Robocop movies and decided that it was really boring and that I’d rather be asleep. Not that “I’d rather be asleep” is saying much right now. If I hold still too long, snoozing is a definite possibility.

The chair in my office at home isn’t very comfortable, so I’m not likely to fall asleep while writing this. Really.

I don’t like being sick. When I get sick, I tend to ignore it for as long as possible. I generally only go to see a doctor when it’s actually interfering with my daily life, which, since I have a pretty high pain tolerance, can take a while. One of the least brilliant things I’ve done in the past few years is ignore pain for too long. I was biking 8 miles to work, swimming for an hour, going to work, then biking home. I loved it. My thumb hurt some after a few months of this, as did the inside of my elbow and part of my shoulder, but I kept telling myself it wasn’t too bad and I ignored it. The day I tried to put on my balaclava so my lungs would have some protection from the cold air and my thumb was suddenly released and I found myself sitting on the ground in an immense amount of pain, I had to stop ignoring it. Mostly because Xander saw it happen. Anyway, I’d managed to get tendonitis in my elbow and shoulder and something called De Quervain’s tenosynovitis on the tendon in my thumb. That took several months of physical therapy to heal. I managed to avoid surgery, happily, but I was told not to swim or bike until it was completely healed. That was very frustrating. I took up walking instead, but it wasn’t as satisfying.

The problem I have, though, is that I have better things to do than sit in a waiting room. I really don’t notice being sick as more than a minor irritation for quite a while. I went in today because I’ve had bronchitis before and this was feeling like that did. If the cough had been getting better instead of worse, I probably wouldn’t have bothered.

I think that either makes me a doctor’s dream (not a hypochondriac!) or a doctor’s pain in the neck (a week earlier would have been better) – I’m not sure which. Oh well.

It’s probably time for me to go back to sleep again. I think I may be getting less coherent.

Licks

He watched her wrap her tongue around it, licking it, clearly relishing the sensation. She made a noise of enjoyment deep in her throat and he shivered a little.

She sucked, licked around the base, then sucked again, passionately.

She stopped, took a deep breath, licked from the bottom all the way to the top, then back down and around and up. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

She breathed in as she licked, slurping a little. His breath shortened.

She started sucking in earnest, stopping now and again to lick the base and wrap her tongue carefully around its rigidity. His breathing grew rough.

She finally finished, licking up the last few drops.

She looked up at him between her lashes, teasingly.

“What? I like popsicles!”

Fears, bravery, and being sick

I’ve been sick for the past week or so. I’m not good at being sick. I get impatient with myself and my inability to do what I want to do, and I try to push too hard and end up sicker for longer because I won’t accept limitations.

I get really frustrated with my fears, too. I am afraid of drowning, due to an unfortunate incident with a boogie board and some big waves at the Del Mar beach when I was very young. I decided I couldn’t stand to be afraid, so I learned to swim well and then I learned to SCUBA dive. It turned out that I was afraid of the ocean even when I knew how to swim, so diving in the ocean was very hard for me to get through, but I did, eventually.

I’m afraid of heights. I’ve discovered, though, that I’m afraid of heights between about six and thirty feet up. Above that, as far as I can tell, some part of my brain figures I’m dead anyway, so who cares? I fly, and I love it. I got up on a ladder yesterday in the snow to get a branch out from on top of a cable in the backyard. I was overbalanced a few times, but I’ve been working through this particular fear enough that I could steady my breathing and finish what needed to be done.

My first reaction to fear is the sensible one. Don’t do whatever you are afraid of. There are reasons for most fears. Spiders, snakes, and scorpions, to name three.

After that first reaction, though, I generally get angry. Why should I let my fears limit me? I understand that sometimes I will have physical limitations and if I work hard I may be able to overcome those. Mental limitations, though, really tick me off.

I am afraid of standing in front of a mirror and dancing. I’m a klutz. I was in ballet for several years growing up and was told I just didn’t have the body for it. My shoulders are wider than many men’s, and while “petite” is a good word for my height, even in perfect shape I am not a tiny person. So why am I belly dancing? Because I was afraid. Because I still am, sometimes. Because I stand up next to others in my class who are poised and comfortable and absolutely stunning, and I challenge myself to learn, dance, and not fall over a veil (again). I’m learning, slowly, how to choreograph. I like moving to music. I may never be awesome at it, but I am getting pretty good. My hands don’t hurt from zill drills anymore. I’m getting better at isolations. I’m even learning some of the harder moves, and I don’t look bad doing them. I balanced a sword on my head, and danced with it, and didn’t drop it.

When I was fairly young, I was fascinated by Nelson Mandela. He said, “I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.” That quote still resonates with me.

I’m still learning to be brave. My braveries are small things, like cooking without a recipe or dancing in front of a mirror or an audience, or even flying, but I am learning to overcome fear where I find it, however hard that can be at times. There are also still things I am afraid of that I have not faced. I may eventually learn to face them, too.

What are you afraid of?

Grandma

My grandma is in the hospital today. She doesn’t know who she is right now.

I wanted to give her memories that might help. The likelihood of her ever reading this is very low, but I need to write it regardless.

Every year, we’d get to go to Disneyland. My grandparents lived in Burbank, so when we went to visit them, they’d take us. I don’t remember much about Disneyland. I remember one year being tired on the way home and Grandma sitting in the back seat so I’d have someone to fall asleep on. I also remember that they liked taking me when the Rose Bowl was going on because there were no lines. It felt like Disneyland was just waiting for us to get there.

We used to swim at the pool in their condo complex. One year I fell asleep on one of the chairs by the pool. When I woke up, I’d gotten sunburned on my shoulders, back, legs, and on the bottoms of my feet. Grandma teased me about that for a long time, but when it happened, she put lotion on me several times a day until I felt better. She only teased me a little while she was doing it.

I was raised mostly on classical music. My grandparents every year made us each a tape with music they thought we would like with a variety of music. They were my introduction to the Purple People Eater and the Yellow Polka Dot Bikini. They also introduced me to Alvin and the Chipmunks singing that highly irritating Christmas song, but we don’t talk about that.

She let me hang out in the kitchen while she cooked. I always liked that.

Grandma always gave the best hugs.

I never felt like I was a disappointment to her. That meant a lot in a family where I was always measured against my siblings and generally felt like I was found lacking.

I inherited her face. That sounds a little funny, but we have pictures of her, my mom, and me at similar ages, and we look amazingly alike. I wanted to be able to have a fourth picture there, to be able to see her hold her great grandchild, but that isn’t looking very likely on several fronts. The loss of possibilities hurts a lot sometimes.

When I brought Xander to meet her for the first time, she asked me if I thought it was all right to leave such a young man alone in the house. She couldn’t help teasing about something. She spent quite a while that same evening trying to get us to turn on a light so we wouldn’t ruin our eyes and go blind from reading in the dark. Xander made dinner, my mom complimented it, and my grandmother waited a beat and, with perfect comic timing, said, “Just think how much better it would be if he were sighted!”

My grandma encouraged us to do what we love. She didn’t care if we made a lot of money. She cared that we were happy, and she worried if we weren’t.

She wasn’t always perfect. No one is. She lost her temper. She got irritated when they took us to see the circus and we argued on the way back and forgot to say thank you. She was really mad that time, but I have the feeling, considering how awful we were when we argued, that we probably deserved it. She didn’t like my dad much, and all of us knew it. Our two sets of grandparents didn’t get along at all.

I don’t know her as well as I would if I lived nearer the rest of my family, and sometimes that is hard for me. I tried to talk her into doing an interview to tell about her life, but she didn’t want to. I get my stubbornness from both sides of the family.

Most of my memories of her are of silliness, snarky comments meant in the kindest way, and really, really good hugs.

She’s the only grandparent I have left, and I love her. She gave me a terrible sense of humor and the courage to show someone when I care about them, and she could make me laugh even when life was pretty hard. Come to think of it, my brother inherited that bit.

I don’t know what else to say. This is one of those “throwing things at the internet and seeing what sticks” posts, I guess. Does throwing spaghetti at a wall actually work? I always thought you’d end up with spaghetti behind the stove, which would not be good.

Mostly I’m worried about my mom right now, who is dealing with this in person and trying to keep the rest of us updated. Grandma probably isn’t too worried about much, even if we’re worried about her.

Life continues.

Children’s books

I have worked with kids off and on for much of my life. I love books. The combination of these two things means that I have read a lot of children’s books. Some I have memorized because I love them, like Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown and Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak. A few others have been memorized because the kids love them, including Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What do you See? by Eric Carle. I really like some of Eric Carle’s books, especially The Very Hungry Caterpillar, but some of his books just don’t stand up to quite as many readings as I’ve had to give.

I like having a copy of the books I love and an extra copy so I can share them. One of my favorites is The Paper Bag Princess by Robert Munsch. It’s a princess and a dragon story, but for once the princess doesn’t have to be rescued by anyone else. She’s strong, smart, and brave, and she recognizes stupidity when she sees it. She is an amazing role model. She stands on her own, does what she needs to do, and doesn’t put up with anything she doesn’t have to.

I grew up hating princesses. Not actual princesses, since I never met any, but Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, and their ilk irritated me no end. They were useless. When I was very little I wanted to know why they hadn’t just told Sleeping Beauty about the spindle problem so she could avoid it. It didn’t make sense to me that someone didn’t at least mention it. She never saw a spindle and no one ever warned her, so when it came time for her to prick her finger, she was clueless. That wasn’t completely the princess’ fault, but it seemed like a very bad idea to me. I never much liked happily ever after, either. Perhaps the princes were just as dim as the princesses, but I couldn’t imagine finding things to talk about with someone who couldn’t think well enough to realize that the dwarves might actually have a reason to tell the princess not to take things from creepy old ladies. Especially once the princess had already done it once. “Oh, it’s a different creepy old lady. It will be fine this time!” Really? “It’s my birthday and a terrifying person wants to take me away from everyone I know to give me a present. I’ll go!” I know four year olds with more sense than that. I have enjoyed some rewritings of fairy tales, especially Robin McKinley’s, because the princesses are people I can understand. I like smart, strong women, not simpering people who can’t or won’t do anything to protect themselves.

I’ve been reading the Pinkerton books to some kids lately. I hadn’t seen them before, but they are about a Great Dane named Pinkerton who gets into all kinds of interesting trouble. The kids love the books, especially when they get to read them to Nyx. They like telling her that Pinkerton is just like her except that she’s better at not knocking people over. That definitely amuses me!

I like reading with kids partly because I like seeing them get involved in the stories and think about the characters, partly because they are learning, partly because it’s a comfortable, good way to be close to someone, and partly because I love watching when they figure out that the things I’m pointing at and the words I’m saying are the same, and they can read them. One of the kids I’m around a lot right now is eight years old. She can just recently learned to read, and she’s gotten excited about it. It’s more fun for me when they are interested.

Anything by Graeme Base is on my list of books I love. Not only are the pictures amazing, the stories can hold the attention of almost any age. There are puzzles and things to look for in every book, but the basic stories are accessible for very young readers. I have spent hours poring over these books, working through the puzzles, and I have spent even more hours with kids curled up next to me, fascinated, as we read each book.

The most recent children’s book that made an impression, though, was Ian’s Walk: A Story about Autism by Karen Ritz. The narrator is Ian’s sister, Julie. She and her older sister take Ian, who has autism, for a walk to the park. Being a sibling of a person with a disability, I can identify with the discomfort that Julie feels at times, but I can identify even more strongly with the love that is clearly evident. The autistic behaviors are very well done and not overdone, which was good to see. The book doesn’t preach or expect the reader to feel sorry for Ian. I really appreciated that. It explains autism in ways kids can understand. I think it would be an excellent book for helping children understand differences. It doesn’t show all facets of autism, of course, but it is a very effective tool for teaching and it hits exactly the mixed feelings that can come from loving someone deeply and still being a little embarrassed by them. Ian’s Walk shows one person’s differences and reactions to them very well, honestly, and carefully. I usually felt anger at the world’s responses rather than embarrassment about my little brother, who has Down Syndrome, but there were a few moments, like when he was terrified of a ceiling fan and ended up sitting under the table at a restaurant, that it was hard for me not to feel a little embarrassed, even as I glared at the people who had the temerity to stare. I love my brother dearly and I am fiercely proud of who he is. I will get a copy of this book for our ever-expanding library.

I’m sure I will come up with other books that I feel you should know about, but that’s all for the moment.

High school was so much fun…

I have a habit when I’m writing of talking about the things I’m proud of or happy about. I suppose that’s only natural. I’m writing this for people in general to read, and it’s hard to think that the first post they read could be something really embarrassing.

I’ve decided, however, that if I can laugh at myself, you get to, too.

When I was in high school, I had a crush on a nice, smart, funny, and really cute guy. We were both involved in backpacking. I did not think that anyone could possibly consider me attractive at that point (it was high school, and I wasn’t a cheerleader, which should explain the entirety of that statement) so I didn’t consider it a possibility that he might be interested, too. I was asked to call him one night to finalize a schedule for a backpacking meeting.

My heart was beating fast and my face was flushed. It took me three tries to get up the nerve to actually dial the numbers. When I finally managed that Herculean task, his mom picked up. I asked for him and he came to the phone.

The first thing he said was, “So, did you call me to ask me out on a date?”

I opened my mouth and nothing came out. To my everlasting embarrassment, what I finally managed, subjectively eons later, was, “Well, actually, there’s a change in the meeting…”

I have never been a social butterfly, but that moment, wrapped up in a high school crush and all of the surrounding angst, was the nadir of my social life. I wanted to say yes, to be cool and relaxed, but that’s never been my strong point. I fell back on what I knew I could say. I’m not sure if it was fear that he’d meant it or fear that he was teasing me, but I could not bring myself to say, “Why, yes, of course!”

Two weeks later he was involved with someone else, so it ceased to be an issue. I still can’t think of that moment on the phone, unable to say anything I wanted to say, without cringing just a little.

I will try to remember to post these periodically. Everyone has moments they don’t necessarily want the rest of the world to see. This is one of mine. I have to laugh at myself to keep from becoming completely full of myself (I never quite understood that phrase) and I’d like you to be able to share in the cringe-worthy moments.

Don’t you feel lucky now?

Cooking and control

I haven’t added all of the bloggers I read yet. Some of the first ones I added, though, were food bloggers.

I like food. I like cooking. I enjoy changing something from a mass of random ingredients into something that makes people happy when they eat it. Sometimes I fail, but generally what I make turns out pretty well. My bread is good, both in looks and in taste. There is one exception – I seem to have issues making whole wheat bread in loaf pans. What comes out is fondly referred to as ass bread. It tastes perfect, but it looks like it has, well, cleavage. I’ve decided I like making rye bread better anyway. I will eventually figure out how to make whole wheat bread that looks as good as it tastes. Hopefully.

I started cooking from cookbooks. I always got the same result. I like consistency. Nice, chewy consistency for bread, thick smooth consistency for Cream of Wheat…sorry, couldn’t help it. Xander cooks by feel. He puts in a little of this, a little of that, and the food never comes out the same way twice. It is almost always good, though. Learning to cook his way gave me the courage to try to do it myself.

It amuses me how scary it is to walk into the kitchen with nothing more than an idea. I like to know what I’m getting, even if it never really works that way in the rest of life. I am learning, though, how to just play. I started this weekend with a general idea for lunches for the week – elk sausage, brown rice, and veggies. Good, but bland. Xander added in cheese, since we had some in the fridge, and turned it into a casserole-like dish rather than the stir fry kind I had been envisioning. It didn’t bother me. In the past, it might have. I knew what I wanted to make and it was going to be good. Now, though, I’m becoming more flexible. It’s ok to change things part of the way through. I’m not following a recipe anyway. I’m making it up based on what we have in the freezer and refrigerator. I can’t easily go find a recipe that has certain ingredients and expect it to only have ingredients that I have available. I have been learning to relax.

I’m a control freak. I try not to be overbearing about it, but I don’t like surprises. I don’t like unexpected schedule changes, frantic rushing around because someone forgot to deal with something despite having a lot of time to do it earlier, or not being able to finish something that is important to me. I don’t like change very much.

I started getting over that a little bit when I learned to drive. I’d go wander, stop anywhere that looked interesting, and not have much of a plan. The first few times were really hard, because I wanted to plan out everything. Eventually, though, I’d just pick a direction and go, see whatever there was to see, and not have the day marked out in my head in segmented blocks of time. That was the beginning of freedom. Cooking seems to be the second step. I may always want things scheduled and predictable, but I am learning to enjoy a lack of boundaries, too.

I think boundaries have helped me feel safe. I grew up in a neighborhood that wasn’t the best. It wasn’t awful by any stretch of the imagination, especially with all of the local dogs to deter certain people, but by the time I was eight everyone avoided the park down the street after dark. We had schedules for my little brother, schedules for schoolwork (although these were somewhat loose), and schedules to make sure everyone got where they needed to go on time. They weren’t written out, at least not that I remember, but they created the framework for my childhood. If I stayed in the lines, kept to the schedule, I would stay safe.

Once I started public school I made schedules for homework and classes and swimming and backpacking and everything I could think of because it made order out of chaos. I was terrified for the first few years of high school that I would miss something important because I was so overwhelmed. Home school is not the best preparation for a high school with 1,600 students, however nice they happen to be.

I like my boundaries, but between driving and cooking, I have learned to open up more to the possibilities of unexpected joys. I belly dance now, which I would not have even considered ten years ago, being an impressive klutz. I’m learning to make costumes, wear makeup for performances, and, soon, to make flowers for my hair, which will be fun. I’m taking more chances. I’m trying things even when they scare me.

I made food without looking at a recipe, and it was good. Seems like it shouldn’t be a big deal, but some days it still is.

Infertility sucks

We started actively trying to get pregnant in 2006. We knew we were going to get married, had (still have!) every intention of staying together, and it seemed like a good time. I went off the Pill and we expected to be within average – a year or so, and we’d be pregnant. We had friends who were getting pregnant by accident. How hard could it be?

For twelve months we did what all of the “Want to get pregnant?” books suggested. No pressure, no big deal, just puttering along. I’ve been teased about having baby making hips all my life. We both have big families – four kids in my family, five in his – so there was no reason to think anything was wrong.

After a year or so, I went to see my OBGYN. She did a few blood tests, said I might possibly have PCOS, said to give it a few more months, and let it be. A few months later we went back, and more tests were ordered. Something came up which indicated fertility treatments might be necessary. The doctor who did that test said he really thought we would make amazing parents. At the time, it made me cry. In retrospect, he probably says that a lot. I mean, is he going to say “Well, good thing your genes won’t be passed on!”?

I was starting to have a hard time when, every month, I got very clear confirmation that we were, yet again, not pregnant. This was supposed to be easy.

We discussed our options. Insurance didn’t cover anything having to do with fertility. Neither one of us wanted to go through in vitro fertilization (IVF). Cost benefit analysis, for us – well, $15,000 for a 60% chance at having a baby was not reasonable to me or to Xander. We didn’t have that much money to play with, and even if we did it would be a lot of heartache for a chance that wasn’t good enough. We knew we had to make that decision before it became a question, because when emotions run high, no one is good at being sensible. We went into this knowing that intra-uterine insemination (IUI, which is much cheaper) was the only procedure we were willing to do, and if that didn’t work, that was it.

We were referred to a fertility specialist in town. I will not name names, but he’s an ass. He talked down to us every time we were there and tried to make us feel like idiots. We said, at our first meeting with him, in the interests of laying all of the cards on the table and being very clear, that we were only going to do IUI and that, if it came to IVF, we were done. He sat and nodded his head, and we thought he understood. He explained the IUI process in very small words (usually the sperm has to get from here to China, but with IUI we give it a head start and it only has to travel from Hawaii!-really? That’s the best example you could come up with?). I would have much preferred that he treated us like we had brains, but that was not his style. He was very…paternal. I don’t appreciate feeling like a doctor would, if he thought he could get away with it, pat me on the head and say, “There, there. You aren’t a doctor, so you couldn’t possibly understand. Let me make all of those difficult decisions for you so you don’t have to worry your pretty little head about it.”

Ick.

Did I mention that he irritated me?

So. Fertility doctor, not the best rapport, whatever. Mostly we interacted with his staff, anyway. His staff who did not once call me by name. Instead I was sweetheart, darling, dear, or whatever else they could come up with.

I overlooked it, although it felt much too sweet. We weren’t there for the social interaction. We were there to try to have a baby. I can put up with a lot if there is a goal that’s important to me.

Ultrasound. No problem. HSG was not comfortable, but not too bad. First results were fine, then they said they might have seen a mass on my uterus, so they had to do a water ultrasound. “Mass” is one of those words that scares me when it comes to medical tests, so I worried for a week. The water ultrasound showed that it was just a slightly misshapen uterus, not a mass. The uterus shape was not odd enough to cause issues with implantation.

So, we were good to go.

Clomid sucks. I mean, the whole process sucks, but apparently I react rather strongly to hormones. (One more reason I miss being on the pill – twice a month I get hormone swings. Argh!) Have you ever seen Cool Hand Luke? Not generally a deeply moving movie, right? I mean, yes, the ending is sad, but not *that* sad. At the end of the movie, the first evening of Clomid, I was weeping copiously. It was so sad! I couldn’t get over it! I figured I was just tired and ignored it. The next day, at belly dancing, I was having a great time and ended up in tears. Clomid takes my good mood and slams it, hard, between about 7 and 8:30 PM. Before and after those times, I was fine. In that stretch of time, I would weep about anything. TV commercials, someone smiling, a moth landing on the window – anything. It was ridiculous. I knew it was ridiculous and it didn’t help or change anything.

5 days of being hormone slammed later, we were finally through that.

Clomid makes me ovulate. 2 follicles, one on each side, good sizes. I got a trigger shot to make sure I was really ready, and we did the IUI.

Two weeks later (we’ll just ignore all of the in-between pain-in-the-ass-ness that is the two week wait) I wasn’t pregnant.

A week after that, we were asked to come in for a consultation with the fertility specialist. Xander had a meeting he really needed to go to. No big deal, I figured. It would just be a “Yes, that was sad, let’s try it a few more times and we’ll see where we are” kind of meeting.

I walked into the doctor’s office and sat down.

He walked into his office and sat across from me.

“You will never have children without IVF. I am ethically unable to do another IUI cycle for the two of you.”

“What?” Just like that, I was crying.

“In this office, we never want people to go without having a child due to financial constraints. Here is some information about IVF. We have several very good programs to spread out the cost, low interest loans, and possibly a grant to help with some of the costs. You see, IVF is like taking that sperm, which had to swim to China, and putting it on a helicopter and getting it right to the egg.”

I was very upset, furious, and a little part of my brain was thinking, “There aren’t any helicopters that can make the flight without refueling, asshole.”

“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want a child. You wouldn’t have come this far if you weren’t serious. IVF is not that expensive. I don’t want you to get 30 years down the road and think, ‘If only we’d done IVF, I might have grandchildren by now!’ I know you want a baby to hold. There’s really nothing like the experience of having a child, knowing that you and your husband have added to your wonderful families.”

“We aren’t going to do IVF. It’s much too expensive. I know it sounds cold, but we basically did a cost benefit analysis, and we can’t do that. We told you that the first day we were here.”

“We have programs to help, though. You really can’t put a price on a baby! It really rounds out your family, and you and your husband clearly want one. Let me call my finance person and she can talk to you about the options.”

(I remember thinking, “You can’t put a price on a baby? You just did!”) “But we don’t…”

“Hello, I’m sending Wendryn in to you to talk about financing options for IVF.” He hung up the phone, walked out the door, and asked a passing nurse to take me to the financial person’s office.

I was crying. You can’t tell from this, but I don’t cry much. This was too much to handle, though, and I felt like I was getting steamrolled by the equivalent of a used car salesman. I sat in the financial person’s office and numbly answered questions, was handed a wad of papers regarding the procedure we didn’t want, then left as fast as I could.

I was angry. I felt cheated. I felt like the doctor was looking for money, not working with our best interests. I felt kind of…well, slimed. I was very unhappy with how the whole incident had been handled, and I wanted to curl up in a hole and pull it in behind me.

After over three years of trying, all of the tests we had done, everyone saying how good we’d be as parents, to be told, flat out, that we couldn’t have kids…it was immensely painful.

There is more to this, but nothing I can write about yet. Infertility sucks.

New beginnings

I haven’t blogged in several years. I felt like I ran out of things to say. I got through a very bad relationship, basically made peace with it, and ended up with a really good, fairly calm life.

It’s still a very good life. Busy, but good.

I can’t seem to stop writing, though. I may not write very often, but I seem to need to write. It helps me focus and work through things. It also helps, when my brain is doing its hamster-on-a-wheel routine, to just write whatever random story builds itself in my head.

The website will be somewhat different from its last incarnation. There will be a fiction section now, where I write snippets of stories that show up. They may not be any good, but that’s life. There will also be comments, which I have not done in the past. I will be checking comments before they are posted, though. If they are rude or spam, I will delete them before they are posted. If that ticks you off, go read something else.

Who am I? I was born in 1975. I grew up in Oakland, CA, with two brothers, a sister, both parents, and an assortment of dogs and small animals. I didn’t grow up with a TV, so I became addicted to books. That addiction still exists. I’m married to a wonderful man, but I probably won’t talk about him much. I’m a belly dancer – I love it, but I’m still learning. I’m an aerobatic pilot when time and money allow. We have a reasonably well behaved Great Dane and two cats, all of which will probably get written about periodically. I won’t talk about work much, either, but I love my job. I live in Nevada now. We eventually hope to move to somewhere in Washington state. I really miss the rain. I have an MBA, which was a lot of work but completely worth it. Some days I think about getting a PhD because I like research, but that may never happen. I love swimming and singing. I swim as often as I can, but I don’t sing much right now due to time constraints. I’m sometimes a pain. When I believe in something, I will pursue it and make it work if at all possible. That does not always make other people happy.

If you have questions, feel free to ask them. I like discussion.

I hope you enjoy this little corner of the internet. I am looking forward to trying a few new things.