Feb 22, 2012: 1/2 full

All of my life I've been one of those irritating people who possesses a sense the world's glass is not only 1/2 full, but that frequently runneths over. No matter how bad things have ever been, I rarely let it get to me. Oh sure, I might privately binge on chocolate. Or oatmeal cookies. And spend more time than usual in bed, but -- aside from a few extra pounds and a crusty, slobbery nap-line on my chin -- I suspect the people around me might not notice.

I don't have an ounce of road range -- I have never so much as honked my horn -- nor have I ever stormed out of a heated office discussion, or told a single lousy waitress: "I want to speak to the manager!" Nope, I've always been pretty much happy, optimistic, and, well, nice, I guess.

Which is why I'm not very good at being sad. And the last two years, I've been sad. A lot.

While I've yet to master that romantic version of sad depicted in black and white movies by women who can throw themselves onto of their bed -- on the diagonal -- and softly cry into their pillows with a throaty, rhythmic "huh-huh-huh...huh-huh-huh", what I have mastered is my own pathetic version of sadness symptoms.

These include, but are not limited to:

* An aversion to showering;
* A fondness for the ponytail;
* A longing for my shuttin' 'er down elastic-waist navy Calvin Klein sweatpants;
* Being seemingly oblivious to the coffee-stain on my pink flannel pj top (I'm not oblivious to it all -- I've just kind of grown attached to it. Like a freaky birthmark.);
* A combination of the above, and frequently, all of the above.

That's what my sadness has looked like through the hurdles, cartwheels, and pole-dancing (okay, we haven't had to pole-dance. But pole-dancing seems like it would be harder than jumping through hoops so felt like a stronger analogy.) of the last two years of trying -- unsuccessfully -- to adopt, followed by trying -- unsuccessfully to make a baby like they do in the text books we got in Grade 6 Health Class, followed by trying -- unsuccessfully -- to make a baby like they do in Hollywood petrie dishes.

Road ragers, you can keep your well-honked horns. I have a coffee-stained flannel top to slip into.

Feb 13th, 2012: Acronyms

I know all about contributing to my RRSPs. I understand the beauty of TGIF. Something funny may result in me LMFAO. And when I'm hosting something, I'd appreciate it if you'd RSVP.

But now, all of a sudden, I'm familiarizing myself with my potentially new acronym-posse, PVED.

Let me know what you think, ASAP:

http://pved.org/

Feb 10, 2012: Bumper Sticker

I feel like the human incarnation of a cheesy bumper sticker. "My get up and go, got up and went." Last night, it was bed at 8pm. Slept through to 8am. Napped for two hours this afternoon. Clearly, I am a toddler dressed as a grown-up. And a very poorly dressed grown-up at that. I've been living in what my friend Kirsten calls, my "shuttin' 'er downs". Tops and bottoms exude loose and baggy, and perhaps in some cases, chocolate stained as well. Comfort food, comfort clothes, and existing by the wisdom of Bumper Sticker philosophies. That's what going through a sad time allows.

Feb 8th: Donor Eggs

While we're not ready to "go there" yet -- well, actually, I am, but Chad believes so strongly in the Law of Attraction that he'd rather we not put too many eggs in this basket upfront (yes, I did say "eggs" before it was too late to be less corny) -- I've begun preliminary research on the idea of the Donor Egg.

I found this article (below), which I love, by Suzanne Schlosberg. I think today she may be my favourite writer. Last week, when I was on ten days of hopeful bed-rest awaiting the results of my first IVF transfer, it was Jennifer Weiner. If you haven't read "Good in Bed" yet, do. Although, if you're paying thousands of dollars for IVF treatments and are at the tail-end of months (or years) into the psychological exhaustion of trying to create a family, you may find the part where she accidentally gets pregnant on a Shiva-call with her ex particularly irritating. Beyond that small detail, it was fabulous.

Suzanne Schlosberg's "I used a donor egg":

http://bit.ly/xXd1f6

And, because sisters should help sisters:

http://www.suzanneschlosberg.com/

Feb 7, 2012: Ten Tuesdays

Today I made an appointment -- well, ten to be exact -- with Dr. Spence Pentland, Reproductive Health Specialist. Every Tuesday for ten Tuesdays, he and I have an acupuncture date. From all the googling I've been obsessing over, acupuncture seems to be one of the key factors in what can make the difference in a "yay" and a "boo" when it comes to IVF. And since I've been boo-hoo'ing the last 4 days, I feel ready to do whatever it takes to get a "yay".

Feb 6, 2012: Happy Baby

Tonight, at yoga, I silently wiped away tears during -- of all things -- Happy Baby pose. The irony that I couldn't even succeed at pulling off a Happy Baby here was not lost on me.

Feb 5, 2012: Broken

The first time I saw Chad look broken was August 2002. I had turned 30 three weeks before, and was determined to set my "fine wine" philosophy of getting better with age into full swing. However, that day I'd had a call from my dermatologist telling me that the 1994 melanoma I hadn't thought I'd ever see again had indeed made a reappearance, this time on my upper left back.

I left work early, in the proverbial fog (yes, it's a cliche, but even now, 12 years later, when I think of that time, I see thick patches of fairytale-castle-esque fog wrapped around the memory of it all.) and left Chad a message telling him I needed to talk to him. When he bound (really, he bound) through the door of our tiny apartment in Vancouver's Yaletown, his face registered a look that can only be described one way: Broken.

I don't know what left a deeper scar, the jagged stain of post-surgery melanoma, or the memory of the broken look on the face of the man who, at 6-foot-2, typically exemplifies words that convey "solid". He is a sturdy Michelangelo. Not a fragmented Picasso.

The second time I saw Chad look broken was February 3, 2012. We had been waiting all day -- well, all day and the nine days previous -- for the results of our embryo transfer. We'd both agreed that imagining "good news" felt so hard for us, after two years of "bad news" coming from our adoption efforts. Yet, at the same time, we felt that we must be rightfully owed good news by now. As if the universe had a score pad. Like a friend who is continually left picking up the tab at the pub, deep down we were hoping that this time, the cocktails would be on the universe.

Nope. Yet again, this round was on us.

None of the three embryos (the triplets, we called them), had decided to stay. Where they went, I'm not sure. A friend's place? Europe? A better womb down the road? I don't know. What I do know is this: with them they took my optimism for the human creation process and my belief that good things have to happen for you if you're a good person. (We use enviro-mugs, we pay our taxes, we rescue animals.) What they left in their place, however, was the memory of seeing Chad look broken for the second time in 13 years of loving his perfect face.