I've Got Sunshine

 First off- at the risk of not wanting to sound crass- it took everything in my power not to name this entry 'Knocked Up Nuptials'.

Anyway, let's get into it.  I'm 35.  I just got married.  I'm pregnant.

Anyone who has read this blog before, or has known me personally, knows that the majority of my adult life has consisted of two things; dating everyone under the sun in my clumsy quest to find The One, and desperately, DESPERATELY wanting to be a mother.

In the summer of 2019 I decided that in the spring of 2020 I would start the process of having a baby on my own.  I had a good job, I had saved up enough money for a down payment on a house (albeit, a small house), and I felt like I had my shit together enough to do the parenthood thing on my own.

As we know, 2020 had other plans, and in March I lost my job due to Covid and therefore my income and all of my plans went kaput.  

Luckily, at the very, very end of December 2019 I had met a guy and knew immediately that he was The One I had been searching for.  In April of 2020 he moved in and in January of 2021 he proposed.

Duh, I said yes.

Jason and I started planning our wedding and we planned to have it that September so we could have an outdoor ceremony and then start trying for a baby right away.

I've been told since I was a teenager that I most likely would not be able to get pregnant naturally.  In the past three years I have had two miscarriages.  I told Jason that we should prepare ourselves to have to turn to fertility treatments, and that became our plan.

In the meantime we turned our attention back to our wedding.  This is what I learned in the process: planning a wedding is inexplicably stressful and expensive, no matter how often you cheerfully say, "We're going to make this as stress-free as cost efficient as possible!".  Planning a wedding during a pandemic sucks.  It is the absolute worst.  Because of safety restrictions enforced in Philly, we were not able to taste test any food or cake for our wedding.  We read a menu, picked some stuff, and hoped for the best.  When picking a venue, we had no clue if at any point capacity restrictions would change and we would have to scramble to downsize or straight up cancel.  When choosing a dress, you weren't allowed to touch any of the dresses in the shops- you had to just show them some pictures and hope that the consultant brought you what you wanted.  The florist I met with relied on Google images for our flowers.

And the money.  Sweet fuckin hell, the money.  At a certain point you just close your eyes and start throwing out paper airplane checks.

Around mid-summer we started getting a hold on our to-do list and basically at that point it was just small details and paying off deposit after deposit after deposit.  There was a small, tiny, hopeful light at the end of the tunnel.

On the morning of July 4th, Jason and I woke up and started getting ready to go to my aunt's house for a family get together.  As I was washing my face I suddenly got ungodly nauseous and prepared myself to spend America's birthday spewing patriotism all over my bathroom.  After about ten minutes the feeling passed and I felt totally ok, so I shrugged it off and we headed to the get-together.

Two days later, on Tuesday July 6th, I woke up feeling like my normal amount of shit and blamed the fact that my period was super late (not something that was abnormal for me).  A little trick that girls sometimes do is to take a pregnancy test when your period is late.  Because 9 times out of 10, the second you take that test, your ovaries are like, "oh shit, we forgot, sorry bout that!" and your period arrives and you move on with your life.

So there I was, peeing on sticks and not thinking twice about it.  I put the test on the edge of my sink and went about getting ready for the day.  I looked down and noticed the first pink line slowly but surely coming into sight.  The first pink line means you're pregnant.  I had only ever seen the second pink line.  What. The Fuck. Was Happening.

I remember saying "Holy shit" over and over again, and then I walked out to the kitchen where Jason was working and just blurted out "I'M PREGNANT".  Not as an exclamation, just as a new, solid fact.  Jason looked up from his computer, I'm sure shocked as hell, and said, "Congratulations?".

From that point, I went into overdrive.  I called my doctor and made an appointment.  I went to the store and bought a million more tests in a million different brands.  I went to my sister-in-law's house and took each test.  They all came up pregnant practically while I was still taking them.  

I was very, very with-child.

I always thought that my gyno was being compassionately dramatic when she told me years ago that the way I have felt every morning of my life is akin to how pregnant women in their first trimester feel, but I'll be damned if she wasn't telling the truth because I truly had no clue pregnancy was something I should have even been considering for the past few weeks.

I can't really describe what it's like to find out you're pregnant two months before your wedding, but I do know that one of the words is not "relieved".  Having a baby is all I ever wanted, but I also knew that I never, ever wanted to be pregnant during my wedding.

I was terrified.  I had no time to mentally, physically, or financially prepare for this.  I did not think my parents would react well.  I had to completely reconfigure how I approached this wedding.  Jason and I lived- and still live- in an apartment so small that it barely fit one person comfortably, let alone two adults, a dog, a baby, and all the necessary infant furniture.  I had recently went back to work but it was part time which meant a smaller income and no maternity leave.

Much like planning the wedding, I had to come up with a pregnancy to-do list.  Jason and I told our parents.  We were excited to tell his, and insanely nervous to tell mine.  Luckily, everything ended up fine on both ends.  Then I had to figure out my wedding dress situation.  The dress I had already picked was beautiful and like a fairy princess dress; the exact opposite of what I ever thought I would want.  It also left absolutely no give for even a food baby after a large meal, let alone an actual baby belly.  I went to the seamstress and tried on the dress and the pins that had been put into the sides immediately shot out on both sides, and the seam in the back split open.  It was like a really stressful cartoon.  I cried.  Hard.

I ended up getting a second dress about a month before the wedding and it was beautiful.  I brought it to a seamstress near me and when I went to pick it up the week before my wedding, she had completely botched the whole thing.  It was ruined.  Again, I cried. So four days before my wedding, after losing an upsetting amount of money on the previous two dresses, I ordered a $50 dress online and it arrived and it was perfect and it needed no alterations and it left plenty of room for my belly.

During this time, wedding planning started to fall apart.  The event coordinator at our venue became impossible to get a hold of.  Our caterer (who was also handling equipment rentals, bartenders and staff, the cake, etc etc) seemed to suddenly get amnesia about everything we had discussed before and it was like we had to replan our menu and the setup and the cake.  Our DJ regularly fell off the face of the earth.  

I also had a ridiculous amount of doctor's appointments.  Since I was 34-about-to-turn-35 when I got pregnant, plus it being during covid plus my history of infertility, I was considered a high risk pregnancy.  During our first appointment, a brash doctor walked in, handed us a folder filled with an impossible amount of forms, then spent the next 45 minutes spit firing questions and instructions at us.  She left and Jason and I felt more bewildered than ever.

I also was absolutely petrified that I was going to lose this baby.  We hadn't had an ultrasound yet so we really didn't know what was even really going on in there.  Every minute of every day I waited for The Loss to come.  It was an awful thing to experience.  It was impossible to get through each day worrying that my baby was going to go away, while also trying to plan a wedding that I really didn't even care about anymore, and also dealing with the fact that I had to go off of my anti depressants while pregnant and I was feeling yucky emotions that had been medicinally suppressed for the past 8 months.  

The few people that knew about the pregnancy would ask me if I was excited and they seemed insulted when I wasn't automatically like, "YES!!!".  The fact of the matter was, like I mentioned before, I was terrified and I had had no time to prepare myself for this.  Their response was always, "But this is what you've always wanted!", which immediately made me feel like a piece of shit and like I was already a bad mother.  Yeah, true, I have always wanted this.  I just didn't expect it to happen LIKE THIS.  Give me a second to wrap my head around it, damn.

Also, I had an overwhelming sense of guilt.  I got pregnant without even trying.  I spent so many years pre-relating with beloved friends who have gone through hell trying to get pregnant, and here I was having it happen as easy as can be.  A part of me likened it to survivor's guilt- only because I had nothing else to compare it to- but the bottom line is I felt like I had done something wrong.

It wasn't until Jason and I had our first ultrasound that it all felt truly real.  The technician put the wand on my abdomen and a little tiny baby immediately popped up on the screen.  Tears ran down my face and Jason reached for my hand and held it while we looked at our child.  It was finally real.

I knew from Day 1 that it was a girl.  I just had a feeling.  Jason hoped it was a boy.  Luckily, it took him no time at all to come around when we got the call that we would be having a daughter.

I had a really rough first trimester.  Constant, crippling nausea 24/7.  Exhaustion that is indescribable.  It never let up.  I hoped and prayed that I would feel better by the wedding.

Our wedding was amazing.  Everything that could have gone wrong in the months leading up to it happened (including nightmares with the guys' suits and the bridesmaids dresses, and our florist giving us bouquets that were NOTHING like what we had discussed and what had been paid for.  When I showed up a couple of hours before the wedding to pick them up, she hadn't even started the boutonniere or cake decorations that I had ordered. I'm still bitter if you can't tell).  But then our ceremony started and it was the most magical experience of my life.  Jason's vows were indescribable.  I got choked up multiple times when reading mine to the man of my dreams.  Except for about an hour when I almost passed out and puked all over myself, I was feeling good.  The weather was perfect.  The neighborhood over happened to have fireworks that night that you could see from the reception pavilion.  Jason and I were husband and wife.  *Chef's Kiss*

Now I could focus on all the weird shit that happens when you're pregnant.  Watching your bellybutton slowly disappear is one of the most bizarre experiences I've gone through. I'm at the point now where it pops out when I inhale and goes back in when I exhale.  It's kinda gross guys, I'm not gonna lie.

I don't know who these girls are who get thick, luxurious hair when they're pregnant, but I'm not one of them.  

MY BOOBS.  Y'ALL.  I get it now.  I get why boobs are such a big deal.  I have them for the first time in my life and They. Are. Awesome.

Weird, blotchy red spots on my face.  Not ideal but they're for a good cause.

Veins in places that they were NOT invited to.

A darling little thing called Lightning Crotch.  I'll let you make your own assumptions because they're most likely right on target.

During all of this, Jason has been the best husband I could have asked for.  He has taken care of me and loved me in every way possible.  I barely lifted a finger until just a couple of weeks ago (partly because I didn't have the energy to even blink most of the time).  He is going to be the most amazing father.

We started associating sunshine and sunflowers with our daughter, and today our little Sunshine is 20 weeks old.  We are officially halfway there and she is making herself known slowly but surely with little kicks and somersaults.  She is so loved, and so wanted, and I can't believe she's ours.

How Losing My Mind Saved My Life

Think of your body as a balloon filled with water, and that water is a collection of all of your emotions, fears, tragedies, and pain that have accrued over your lifetime.  As more "bad" things happen in your life, little holes are poked into that balloon, with water slowly seeping out but still able to be covered up with a piece of tape.  Then one day enough holes are poked that the balloon breaks and the water comes rushing out, surrounding you and filling the space around you until you are up to your neck in hopelessness, struggling to take whatever tiny breaths you can find.

That's what depression is like.

I know I've written about my battle with depression and anxiety in the past.  And I know that I've always wrapped up each story with a happy- or at least hopeful- little bow.  But that's not reality.  And unfortunately, the past year and a half shoved reality down my throat.

2020 was obviously an unprecedented year for everyone.  Friday, March 13th brought questions that had no answers, and we all just had to buckle up and hope we didn't get thrown off the ride.  But my ride started in January of that year.

I was finally in a place where I felt like things were coming together.  I had a good job and was making enough money to comfortably support myself.  I had saved up enough to soon be able to put a down payment on my own house.  I was in a new relationship that I already knew was The One.  I had a new nephew who was (and still is) the love of my life and the coolest little best friend I've ever had.  I was at last able to see the light at the end of the tunnel peaking on through.

On Thursday, January 23rd, I woke up to get ready for work.  I was eating some oatmeal for breakfast when I felt the left side of my jaw lock up.  I didn't become too concerned because ever since I had gotten my wisdom teeth out the year or so before this had started happening.  Normally I would drink some water and my jaw would unlock, or worst case scenario I would go to my oral surgeon, he would prescribe me some steroids, and in a day or two I'd be good to go.  I remember continuing to eat my oatmeal when my jaw suddenly unlocked itself and then quickly locked up again.

"Well this is annoying", I thought.

I finished getting ready for work, called my oral surgeon, got an appointment for that afternoon, and headed into the office.  I worked, went to the surgeon's office, got prescribed the same steroids that worked last time, and went on my merry way.

A few days later the steroids still hadn't worked.  My jaw was locked so tightly that I could barely fit a straw in my mouth.  I don't know how to describe the pain to someone who hasn't dealt with acute TMJ and lockjaw, but it's excruciating.  It travels down your neck, up to your head, and into your ear.  You guys- it hurts so bad, trust me on this one.

Cut to another visit to the oral surgeon where they took some x-rays, saw that things were super fucked up, and sent in a request for an MRI.  He explained to me that we wanted to do everything possible before having to resort to surgery because that was 100% the final option that we did not want to have to do. Unfortunately, I got a Letter of Denial in the mail from my insurance company, saying they wouldn't help cover the cost of the MRI because they didn't deem it to be a "medical necessity" for lockjaw.  

I called my surgeon, explained the letter, and basically was told that surgery was now my only option (kinda felt like I was given up on, but whatever).  I was given the name of a doctor down at Penn that I was to contact for a surgical consultation.  So I gave them a call, thinking I would be able to schedule the consultation within the next week.  It had already been a few days since my jaw locked and I was in absolute misery.  The receptionist at Penn told me that their next available appointment was March 19th.  I made the appointment, hung up, and cried.  Two months I had to live like this.

At the suggestion of my oral surgeon, I went to physical therapy where they were able to open my jaw a few centimeters; enough to be able to open wide enough to fit some food in.  The copay was astronomical, to the point where both the receptionist and the doctor checked with me every time if I really wanted to keep doing this. I thought it would be worth it, so I continued.

After waiting for two months, I was six days away from my appointment when the world shut down.  I received a call from Penn saying they had to reschedule my appointment to April.  In April I got a call saying all non-life threatening appointments were being canceled indefinitely.

As of today, my jaw has remained locked for the past 1 year, 4 months, and 2 days.  The bone structure of my face has changed completely.  My nose and mouth have been pulled to the left as the tendons in my jaw get tighter and tighter.  There has not been a single day where I haven't woken up in pain and gone to bed in pain. I have headaches 90% of the time and it feels like my inner ear is being demolished.  I haven't been able to properly kiss my fiancee since the second week of our relationship.  I haven't been able to eat anything bigger than a cookie without cutting it up into tiny pieces, or taking little mouse nibbles out of it.

The whole thing is enough to make a person go mad.

Doing everything in my power to fix this should have been my top priority this past year.  However, starting in March, it had to take a back seat.

I was laid off from my job a week after the pandemic unofficially hit the US.  I knew it was beyond the control of my employer, but I was so angry and so hurt.  Losing a job that you put everything you had into takes away you self-worth and makes you feel useless.  I saw the office that had become my second home float away.  I saw the house I was so close to being able to buy- on my own, by myself- float away with it. I saw my steady income crash and burn.

I went on unemployment along with so many others and felt like a piece of crap for the following months. I knew that there was an overwhelming amount of people who were in the same boat as me, but personally, I didn't know one single other person who had lost their job.  I felt like a fucking loser.

In April my man moved in and that went shockingly well.  Spending the first year of your relationship living together in a teeny tiny, one bedroom one bathroom apartment while one of you worked from home and the other didn't work at all can make you or break you.  It made us.

Some family drama happened over the summer which I'm not going to get into because believe it or not, I do keep some things to myself.

Then came September.  A couple years ago I wrote about the miscarriage I had, and while I was totally overwhelmed by the response I got from some people, I was also overwhelmed in a bad way by the response I got from others.  I was accused of telling my story for attention and even making the whole thing up.  Some said that since it happened around the holidays, I was ruining peoples' Christmas.  Sorry, I guess?  I'll try to schedule my next personal trauma at a time that works better for people.

Anyway, September.  That next personal trauma came.  Started feeling not right, like last time.  Got this weird feeling in my lower abdomen, like last time.  Luckily, not as much pain as last time.  Long story short- and I'll try to make this as least gross as possible- went to the bathroom, stood up, and what I saw told me two things: 

        1) That right there is a very small, very early little baby

        2) I had definitely been farther along than the first time

I called my Ob/gyn, whose practice had been taken over by the worst people of all time.  The doctors themselves were still amazing, but everything else about this place was the pits. I miraculously got a hold of a nurse after leaving a few voicemails, and after I explained what had happened and that it had happened before- thinking she would agree that I should come in for an appointment- she told me to call back when I had a positive pregnancy test and an actual pregnancy. 

Oh.

I hung up with her and then immediately called back to the front desk to try and make an appointment anyway.  I got put on a waiting list and told it would be a few months.

So I did the only thing I could think to do.  I asked people close to me that had also suffered miscarriages if what I thought happened, happened.  I went online and looked at pictures and timelines.  All conversations, all medical websites, all signs pointed to yes, yes yes.  The entire time I didn't even really feel sad.  All I could think was, 'I hope this doesn't happen every time'.

Near the end of November I got hit with a heavier than normal bought of depression and anxiety.  There was no real rhyme or reason; I mean, I had had a shit year.  Shittier than normal even.  But I was used to still being able to push everything down and put on a smile and crack some jokes and go about my day.  I went to my general practitioner because I had also been feeling lousier than normal physically.  I feel sick every day; this we know.  My doctor once told me that basically every morning I wake up feeling like someone who is in their first trimester of pregnancy.  But now I was at a point where on top of my usual yuckiness, there was a whole new wave of super-yuckiness.

So I went to my doctor.  It was my first time seeing her because my pervious GP had retired.  I didn't realize that Dr. B also had a degree in mental health.  By the end of the visit, I was practically in tears because she had asked me questions that nobody had ever asked me, and made me admit to myself things that I had never admitted.  She used the word 'Trauma' which I had always been afraid to use for myself because I felt there were people that deserved that word more than I did and I didn't want to take that away from them.  She used the words "Abuse" and "Victim" and "Disorder" and "Chemically..." and "Mentally...".  For the first time ever I felt justified and, in a weird way, empowered.

She suggested therapy.  She suggested medication.  I started to resist as these things hadn't helped before.  She said, "Try again".

She left the room for a few moments and then came back with a handwritten lists of therapists, what they specialize in, their addresses, and their phone numbers.  She had done the work for me because she cared. She was an angel.

I went home and called every person on the list.  Voicemail, voicemail, voicemail, not taking new patients, voicemail.  Ok, I'll wait a couple days and try again.

December 1st I woke up and I knew I was done for.  A feeling I couldn't even grasp at was bearing down on me. I didn't want to kill myself, but I didn't want to be alive.  I wanted to lay down and it to be over.

For the past eleven years, Kirby has been the only thing that has consistently given me a reason to wake up in the morning.  On December 1st it was hard to even hold onto that.

I called every therapist on the list to see if by some miracle they were willing to let someone who wasn't a patient come in that day.  All of them said no. These are all 100% real answers that I got:

        "I don't take insurance so you wouldn't be able to afford it"

        "No one is taking new patients right now"

        "I mean, you could but we'd have to do all the intake paperwork and I don't think either of us really feel like doing that"

I called my insurance company to see how much it would cost to go to the Emergency Room.  I called one of those toll-free numbers that I found on the hospital website.  It went to voicemail.

Every therapist I spoke to, every voicemail I got, told me to go to the ER.  So I did.

My fiancee dropped me off (he wasn't allowed to come in, even though he wanted to), and I walked in alone. I went to the front desk, and said quietly so the PACKED waiting room couldn't hear, "I'm having some problems with depression".

"What?" The nurse asked.

I had to repeat myself 3 times, louder and louder each time, before she understood me.  It was humiliating.  

I went and found one of the few empty seats I could find.  Social distancing be damned, this place was a mad house.  We were packed in like sardines, with people coughing, moaning, screaming into their phones.  A very elderly woman in a wheelchair behind me was straight up wailing that she was afraid to die.

I got called into triage and explained why I was there.  They looked confused and asked me what I wanted them to do.  I said I didn't know, all I knew is that I was depressed beyond repair and had been told over and over to go to the ER. The nurse sent me back out into the waiting room, then a few minutes later called me over and took me upstairs to a smaller waiting room that only had a couple of other people in there.

"You don't need to be around the sick people down there", she said.

I waited there for awhile and finally a young medical student came and brought me into the physical therapy room.  He asked why I was there, I told him, and he wrote down some notes.  Then he got a doctor who came in smiling, sat down across from me, and said, "So! How'd our boy do?"

After giving him a progress report about his student though tears, I explained to my 4th stranger that day why I was there. He said they didn't have a mental health unit. I said that their website said differently.  He said, "Huh, strange".

He told me he could give me Xanax. I told him I didn't want Xanax. I'd been prescribed Xanax before and I hated it.  

He told me there was nothing they could do for me. He handed me a small flyer the size of a post-it that had a suicide hotline number on it. He sent me home.

The next day I went to my mom's house and I can't even describe the state I was in. I was crying in decibels I didn't know I had in me.  

She finally called my new GP, Dr. B, and explained what happened.  Dr. B sent in a very small prescription of Lexapro for me and told me to take my first one the next day.

The next day I took my first pill and a sense of euphoria totally washed over me, I don't even care how cheesy that sounds.  I was SO FUCKING PROUD of myself for taking a step towards...what- recovery? Happiness? A life worth living?  SOMETHING.  A step towards something.

That pill and Dr. B. saved my life.  She had bi-weekly follow-ups with me until she ultimately retired this February. She encouraged me and kept me on track.  I started therapy and kept taking that beautiful little medicinal miracle. 

It kept me on track when my grandmother died in the middle of December.  

It kept me on track when, after my beloved family vet of over 30 years passed away, I took Kirby in for routine ear drops and the vet that took over whisked him in the back, ran a bunch of tests and bloodwort without telling me, charged me $500, lied about the severity of his heart murmur, and then told me if I don't let her perform a $2,000 surgery Kirby would die and it would be my fault. 

It kept me on track when I got an astronomical bill for my physical therapy that I wasn't expecting because my co-pay had already been so high, and it had been almost a year since I had therapy.  

It kept me on track when I also got multiple bills for my useless ER visit which added up to thousands of dollars.  

It kept me on track when it was time to get a new health insurance plan and things kept getting messed up because my last name is a nightmare for people to keep straight- something that normally would have caused me stress beyond belief.  

It kept me on track when my old job called me back on part-time and for the first time in a year I was back working.  

It kept me on track when the best man in the entire world asked me to be his wife and we then found ourself trying our best to plan a wedding during Covid.

It kept me on track to step out of my comfort zone and actually talk to people about what I went through, instead of holding it all in.  And I realized that there are SO MANY MORE people than I thought that rely on a little extra somethin' to help them get through each day.  And those people are smart and beautiful and talented and amazing.

My depression has cost me a lot, both figuratively and literally.  But I will forever be thankful for hitting rock bottom because it allowed me to fill up a new balloon.  Yeah, this balloon isn't perfect.  It still has a couple of holes.  But my god it already feels so much better.

He Said, She Said

 How Male Authors Describe Women vs. How Those Women Describe the Same Situation to Their Girl Friends

Male Author:

                        Her body presented itself coyly, sidling away to create a pulsating space of thick, buzzing anticipation between us.  Her breasts swelled with heat and want, calling to me.  I reached forward with steadfast hands, massaging her chest deeply- invigorating the firm yet soft mounds which would one day hold life's nectar.

Actual Woman:

                           "I was PMS'ing so badly and my boobs were killing me.  All I wanted was a little space and this mother fucker reaches over and starts twisting my tits like ballon animals."

*

Male Author:

                        It was meant to be a typical trek on the train.  An ordinary voyage to an ordinary job.  The train car was busy that day- a steel atom filled to the brim with corporate molecules.  I took a seat at the front, where two benches faced each other; an awkward vestibule where strangers are forced to become each others' view.  No sooner had I settled in than a fellow weary traveller took her spot opposite me.  She appeared plain at first glance- it wasn't until you began to study her that her features began to burst forth, each more beautiful than the last.  She situated herself and pulled a book from her bag.  The international symbol of not wanting to be bothered.  As her eyes flitted from word to word, page to page, they began to water.  The waves of her ocean eyes started to swell forth, creating watery tide pools along the coasts of her irises.  She glanced up and fluttered her gossamer lashes in my direction as a single tear began the long, painful journey down her cheekbone.  I gasped inwardly at the realization that this ethereal stranger had chosen me to share the emotion that the world within her book had enveloped her with.

Actual Woman:

                           "I had an eyelash stuck in my eye on the train this morning, and it would not stop watering.  I looked up and the dude sitting across from me was just staring with this dopey look on his face.  It was gross."

*

Male Author:

                        The coffee was strong that day.  Surely a novice barista was still finding his footing among the caffeinated fields.  The din of espresso machines and cash registers and patrons discussing their daily ads created an energetic static electricity that bounced from wall to wall.  As I sipped my dark brown potion, I noticed two women in the corner; a small reprieve of silence among the chaotic whirlwind of the cafe.  Legs crossed towards each other, the two females leaned in close like sleek alabaster magnets.  As one whispered into the other's ear, I could almost feel her soft breath rustling through the delicate, silk-spun hairs of her companion.  Perhaps a profession of adoration, a tantalizing suggestion, or a declaration of yearning- their whispers would forever lie entangled in a web of secrecy.

Actual Woman:

                           "Do you have a tampon?"

Why Did I Come In Here Again?

 Whelp, appropriately enough given the theme of getting older in my last blog, this entry is a follow up.  

Why? 

Because I forgot half the things I wanted to write about. 

Did I have a bunch of notes written down specifically so I wouldn't forget to include them?

Yes.

Did I totally forget to look at said notes?

Also yes.

So here we are, folks.  Part two.  The sequel.  The literary equivalent of walking into a room only to completely forget why you are there and what you are looking for, only to repeat the process another 1-2 times. (The reason you can't find your phone anywhere is because it's in your hand down by your side.  The reason you can't see where your glasses are is because they're on your head). 

Ok, so back to the subject at hand.  The early stages of getting older.  A few days ago I turned 34 which officially puts me in my mid-30's (Assuming 30-33 is early thirties, 34-36 is mid thirties, and 37-39 is late thirties).  

I'm at that age where I don't yet pee when I laugh, but I do throw my back out a little bit every time I sneeze.  

I'm at that age where you look in the mirror and see a curiously long hair on your face and as you reach for it you desperately find yourself thinking, 'please don't be attached, please don't be attached'.  Spoiler alert: most of the time it's attached.

I'm at that age where the other day I found a white hair.  Do you know how blindingly white a hair has to be to stand out so blatantly against blonde tresses?  VERY.  VERY.  WHITE.

I'm at that age where I've started discovering new freckles.  And not those sun-kissed freckles you get on your nose and shoulders by being out in the sun.  No, I mean angry, hidden freckles that are practically holding up a sign that says, "I hope your insurance is good because in a couple years you're gonna have to get me checked for irregular borders".

I'm at the age where last night I had an incredibly stressful dream about buying tomato sauce.

That's adulthood.

I think back to my late teens to mid twenties.  My friends and I wouldn't even start our night until after 10pm.  We would go to multiple places in one night.  During the summers we would often still be up when the sun rose.  And then we would go to WORK.  Exhausted but filled with electricity that fueled us through the next 8 hours.  Our hair would still smell faintly of cigarettes and our lips had a lingering taste of cheap beer.  Our tongues would still be rainbow-stained from jello shots and our feet would be sore from dancing for hours on end.  

These days I've come to realize that my dancing is now less about popping my booty and more about frantically acting out the lyrics with my hands.

I used to joke about having to work out, but I never actually needed it.  Pants were never too tight and I could feel comfortable in a bathing suit at any given moment.

Recently, my doctor told me that I needed to start exercising because my "body had become depressed".  

My.

Body.

Had.

Become.

Depressed.

Gone are the days when I would be a secret little smart ass and think, "Oh gee, I sure hope all that time I spent thinking about exercising has paid off", as a I confidently slipped into a bikini on the first day of summer after a long, idle winter.

Now I practically wear a parka over my bathing suit.

When I would be seeing a guy back in the day, I would shave from top to bottom every. single. time I saw him.  God forbid he knew I possessed even a single follicle.  

But now?  Well, let me leave you with this piece of advice:

When a girl shaves for you, that's how you know she likes you.  When a girl stops shaving for you, that's how you know she loves you.

How'd That Get Down There???

I haven't written anything on here in awhile and in fact, the majority of my entries were written while I was in my 20's.  Well I'm about to turn 34, and there are a plethora of differences between the two decades.  Seriously, so many.  Like, almost an uncomfortable amount.

Let's start with dating, because that's pretty much what this whole blog was about when I started it many, many, many, ugh MANY moons ago.

For the most part, dating in your 30's sucks.  Everyones tired.  Our backs hurt.  Bar music is too loud for our delicate, aging ears.  The idea of being out past 9:30 is horrifying.

Also, people in their 30's (and older) are set in their ways.  Trying to find someone you're willing to compromise for seems as impossible as trying to fit into your favorite pair of jeans from college (RIP elastic denim flares; you served me well.  May your jean afterlife be filled with real pockets, and not ones sewn shut purely for decorative purposes).

Personally speaking, I have lived on my own for the better part of a decade.  During these 10 years,  I have come to find that I am one of those people who has a very specific spot for all of my belongings, and likes things just so.  Picture frames are angled to a certain degree, coffee mugs are put away in specific spots, and the dishwasher is loaded the same exact way, every time.  If any of these things are changed, a true and honest sense of panic and discomfort washes over me and there is a nagging itch over every inch of my body until it's fixed.  This is both insane and something that I truly cannot help.  Ergo, you can imagine the hell I go through when someone else comes into my space and moves something.  Or, god forbid, accidentally breaks something.  Both of these things have happened quite a bit (seriously, people are always breaking my shit, I don't get it), and so far I have managed to suppress my inner crazy until they leave.  This is all basically a long-winded way of saying that I came to enjoy (in an almost necessary way) living alone, and the thought of moving in with someone literally made my brain flip upside down.  But still, I soldiered on and dated guy after guy after guy after guy- you all know the deal with me at this point- in hopes that I would find The One.  Not surprisingly, all of the guys I dated also were set in their ways, whether it be habits, cleanliness, or what have you.  It didn't help that I've always tended to date much older guys, so trying to find a happy medium with a 45 year old proved futile.

(Luckily, I have since found my main squeeze.  He moved in with me and he not only knows, but lovingly puts up with, all of my quirks).

There is one exceptionally good thing about dating in your 30's, and that has to do with the aesthetic and physical aspect of it.  In your 20's, you're always trying to look your best for other people.  You work out, you diet, you do your hair and makeup and put on real pants.  Every time you take off your clothes in front of someone, there's always that thought of, 'Do they like what they see? Am I attractive to them?  Do they find me hot and sexy and desirable and the owner of the best boobs they've ever laid eyes on?'.  But once you hit 30 and above, Literally. No. One. Cares.  We're just so grateful that we've found another single person to have sex with, that we could give two shits what your body looks like. Stretch marks?  Who cares.  Belly pooch? Yeah, me too.  Back hair?  Let me run my fingers through that vertebrae forrest, you financially stable Sasquatch.

And sex itself?  We've both got work in the morning and still have that Netflix series to finish tonight, so let's forgo any fancy moves and missionary our way through these next 20 minutes.  Also, as mentioned above, our backs hurt.

This ties in nicely to the next shocking part of being in your 30's:

Your body changes AGAIN.

Nobody told me that, much like counting the rings on a tree trunk, you can tell someone's age by the number of chins they have after they turn 30.  I am currently curating my fourth chin and it is coming in strong.  And by strong, I mean soft and doughy.

The one resounding accomplishment of my body my whole life had been my booty.  It was at gold star, 10/10, daaaaaamn girl status.  Then, I kid you not, the day after I turned 30, I was in my room after taking a shower.  As I turned to pull on my pants, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  Where- just the day before- a juicy, buoyant set of Farmer John hams had once been, was a stranger's derrière.  Stretch marks ran through it like a topography map.  Cheeks hung down like two IHop pancakes; and not even the Grand Slam kind.  I spun around in abject horror, starting at myself in the mirror as this new reality swept over me.  It was too soon.  I thought I had more time.  Over the years I have had no choice but to accept my less exciting junk in the trunk, as even my weak attempts at squats and lunges have shown no improvement.  Every once in awhile I find myself mourning my old backside figure; my ass, much like my 20's- robust and full of possibilities- now just sad and full of disappointment.

While I may have been a little dramatic there, things really do change surprisingly quick as you leave your 20's.  There are body parts that gravity has taken permanent ownership of.  Stomachs that never appear quite as flat as they used to be.  Boobs that literally just go fucking haywire (I like to call mine Exhibit A and Exhibit AA).  It doesn't help that I have a rib cage the size of a small country with more bones than a porn star's work week.  And the cellulite, OOOHHHH the cellulite.  I feel like I'm built like a bargain bin jigsaw puzzle.

Yet, in a completely different way, there's something about my body getting older that I find really sexy.  My life has been really, really tough at times, both physically and mentally.  So when I see the permanent lines on my forehead due to my years of stress and anxiety and depression, I know that I overcame that (well, somewhat).  When I look down at my belly, I know that one day it's going to make a comfy little home for a baby.  When I see the deep creases around my mouth, I know that I inherited them from my grandmother, whom I think is beautiful.

This brings me to my last point.  The most stark difference between being in your 20's and your 30's, is that in your 30's, you honestly, truly, and completely - I cannot stress this enough- just don't give a flying fuck.  I used to worry so much about what people thought of me and where I was going in my life and fitting into this cookie cutter idea of what I thought a person should be and do.  Now, here is a comprehensive list of the things I have stopped caring about:

All of them.

If you think I'm a bitch, cool.  If you think I'm funny and awesome, equally cool.  If I never have a career and just flit from job to job, neato.  If I see that my friends hung out without me, thank you for not making me change out of my pajamas.  If my tits are small and my hair is thin and my feet are huge and my nose is Russianly bulbous, does that bother me anymore? A resounding Nyet.

Being in your 30's rocks.  Sure, getting up off the couch sometimes is literally an event in its own right, and I have to set my alarm for the morning by late afternoon because at that point I could fall asleep at any second, but I dig it.  I get excited when I save money at the food store.  I haven't bought just a single loaf of bread since 2016 because you KNOW I'm throwing that second loaf in the freezer.  I'm currently looking at houses that I can actually afford, as opposed to wish-list houses.  Pregnancy scares don't exist in my world anymore, because a baby would not only be welcomed, but wanted.  When I get married, I want a tiny little backyard ceremony with beer and pizza, because that money can be saved for a sectional sofa and a dope kitchen remodel.  

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go rearrange the dishwasher.

A Secret Sadness

There are things that happen that immediately and unknowingly thrust you into a new stage of your life.  There is the You before it happened, and the You after it happened.  For me, my life changed almost one month ago exactly.

The Sunday after Thanksgiving, I had a miscarriage.

I didn't know I was pregnant.

I wasn't sure whether or not I wanted to write about this.  However, one of the few people I told suggested that I do so, as there are so many women who have lost pregnancies that feel isolated and alone and confused because it is not something often talked about out loud.  I also thought back to when I wrote about my PolyCystic Ovarian Syndrome and how afterwards I had quite a few people reach out to me and thank me for making them feel like it was ok to talk about their own struggles with infertility and all of the other undesirable afflictions that come along with PCOS.

So I'm writing about this.  I feel nervous and I'm shaking a little bit as I type but if I can help even one person through this, it will be worth it.

For the past fifteen years, I have been told that I will probably have a difficult time getting pregnant naturally, and would most likely have to turn to fertility treatments.  This made me sad as anyone who knows me knows that my only desire in life is to be a mother.  I don't have many great things in my life, but just the knowledge that one day- no matter what and no matter how long it takes- I will have a child, is enough motivation for me to keep plugging through each minute, hour, day, and year.

Throughout the month of November, I knew that I hadn't been feeling well, but I just chalked it up to particularly vicious PMS, which I usually experience for the better part of 2-3 weeks (ah the joys of having a constantly delayed cycle).  One thing that really stood out to me was how much my breasts hurt.  Every gal can get a little tender before their time of the month, but this was weeks of mind numbing pain and sensitivity and gradual growth.  Normally, I would be thrilled to have reached almost a B cup from my normal AA/A, but this was too painful to find any joy in.

I was falling asleep at the drop of a hat at any given time during the day.  My back and sciatica were on fire.  I had insane hot flashes and would gag out of nowhere.

I also noticed that smells were getting to me more than normal, and food and drinks tasted off.  Now, I'm a smart girl and I know well and good that these are all symptoms of pregnancy.  But I have also experienced all of these things before as part of my PMS, albeit to a much lesser degree.  There was a part of me that considered taking a pregnancy test, but a much larger part of me knew how sad I have felt in the past when I've taken one and it has come up negative.

To be clear, I have never actively tried to get pregnant.  Girls know that we've all taken tests over the years, and most of the time we're happy when they're negative, but over the past 5-7 years it became very clear to me that I would be more happy than not if I were to find out I was pregnant.

November trudged on and two girls I know announced their pregnancies.  A very small, very quiet voice in the back of my head said, "Me too".

The day after Thanksgiving I was backing out of my parents' driveway and felt my car tap something.

"It's not trash day, why do their neighbors have their trash cans out?" was the first thought that went through my very fuzzy, very confused brain.  I looked in my rearview mirror and saw not trash cans, but the neighbor's car.  I was shocked as I have never, ever even come close to hitting anything with my car or being in any kind of accident.  Without tooting my own horn (unintended car pun!), I'm an exceptionally good driver, so this situation completely baffled me.  (Luckily, the neighbors could have cared less about the whole thing and were super great about it).  It was like my ability to think rationally had completely turned itself off; it felt like I was a visitor in another body.

I'm going to try to keep this next part of the story as least graphic as possible.  However, please understand that there are some things that I must mention.

Two days later, on Sunday, I woke up and ate breakfast and started my day like any other.  I noticed a little spotting and thought, "Thank god, my period is about to start and I can finally feel like a human again".  This thought was very quickly followed by the most ferocious, brain splitting, out of body pain I have ever experienced.  I am a tough girl when it comes to pain and I can handle a lot; but this was on a whole other level.  It felt similar to over the summer when I had an ovarian cyst burst, but that pain was more centralized to one region.  This pain shot through every nerve in my body.  I curled up in the fetal position in my bed and tried to focus on anything but the pain.  This proved futile.  I felt a very strong pressure around my pelvis and staggered my way to the bathroom, stopping every few feet to grab onto something and let out a soft, almost silent scream, as even straining my vocal chords caused pain.  Once in the bathroom I bled.  I bled more than I thought was possible, and I continue to bleed for the next 30 hours.

I knew something was different about what was happening.  This was not just the worst period ever.  But then again, maybe it was.  Maybe I was reading too much into things.  Or, maybe I was in denial. Because as the hours rolled on, the only thought I had in my head was,

"No.  This is not what I think it is.  I am not having a miscarriage, and I am certainly not having a miscarriage all alone in my little apartment".

The rest of that day consisted of continued trips from my bed to the bathroom.  I didn't eat, I didn't sleep, my poor dog could sense something was wrong with me and held his bladder like a champ.  I tried Advil, I tried a heating pad, I tried laying in different positions.  Occasionally the pain would subside a couple of notches for a minute or two, but no sooner had it stopped than it would start back up again.  My back felt like there was an axe in it and there were other strange things that happened that I will spare you all from.

The one thing I did notice was that the moment I started bleeding, the pain in my breasts went away.  It was the only bit of relief that I felt that day.

During this time, I decided to keep a detailed list of everything that was happening, as well as how I had been feeling in the weeks prior.

The next day I got up and went to work.  I was still bleeding and still in pain, but it was more manageable.  I texted the person that would have been the father and said to him, "This might sound crazy, but there was a part of me yesterday that thought I was having a miscarriage".  He was concerned and told me to keep him posted.  I told myself that as long as there was still blood the next day, I would have nothing to worry about, and this had in fact just been the worst period of all time.

The following day, the bleeding stopped.

I saw the father that day and told him.  "Let's talk", he said.

Quick note: This is a man who has been in my life for awhile and who I have an unyielding supply of care and respect and love for.  At times he has been my best friend, at times he has been my boyfriend, and at times he has felt like a stranger.  But he is someone who always has been and always will be very important to me, regardless of what role he plays in my life.  Because of this, he knows me probably better than anyone.  He knows my moods, he knows my quirks, he knows my physical ailments, he knows my mind and my heart.

We sat down on my couch and I told him what had been happening over the past couple of days.  He then said something to me that I was not expecting at all:

"To be honest, over the past couple of weeks, I thought to myself, 'Alexis is pregnant'".

He went on to explain how I apparently had been acting quite differently over the past couple of weeks.  As he said them out loud- I have to admit- they all checked out.  Things that I hadn't even realized myself until he pointed them out.  Yes, I had been extra moody.  Yes, I had been eating everything in sight at all hours of the day and night.  Confirmation from someone who knows every iota of me, and who also has kids himself and is well versed in pregnant women, gave me an overwhelming sense of relief that I was not crazy for thinking that I had miscarried.

Then he asked me if it was a boy or a girl.

"How would I know?" I asked him.

"You were a mother for that small amount of time.  You know".

I did know.  I knew for sure whether I was going to have a son or a daughter.  But I'm going to keep that between the father and myself.

I called my GYN's office to make an appointment to get checked out.  It took an unacceptable amount of time (days, in fact) for them to get back to me, as they had "mislabeled" my voicemail.  That made me feel less bad about leaving increasingly angry voicemails on every single extension in their office.  Sorry billing department, but now you know about the vaginal house of horrors I just experienced.

For the sake of time, I'll skip the details of the conversation I had with the nurse on the phone, and other things that happened during that time.  The bottom line is, I went to my doctor, pulled out the list I had kept during the worst of it, and by the end of the appointment my doctor confirmed my suspicions.

My first feeling was a sense of relief.  I had been able to get pregnant.  Naturally.  I never, ever thought that would happen.  My second feeling was numbness.  Why wasn't I sad?  Why didn't I feel like I was mourning correctly?  Next came anger.  I had missed my first pregnancy.  I had finally conceived a child- the only thing in the world I have ever wanted- and I missed it.  I will never again have the chance to enjoy being pregnant for the first time.  Yes, I realize that having a miscarriage after knowing you're expecting is excruciating.  But still, I felt gipped.

Next came the depression.  The father has been so wonderful and has really encouraged me to talk to him about how I'm feeling.  The thing is, I don't know how I'm feeling.  I somehow feel love for a baby that I never knew and never will know.  I feel like I'm a completely different person because even though it was just for a moment, I was a parent.  I'm scared that I will miscarry every baby I become pregnant with.  I'm scared that I will never get pregnant again.

I want nobody to know and I want everybody to know.  In the month since it has happened, I feel like a fraud saying "I'm ok" or "Oh, same old same old" every time someone asks me how I am or what's been going on.  But I also don't want to tell them what happened.  How do you even say it?  I personally know 6 women who have had miscarriages, and it always seems to be information you tell someone in hushed tones.

I found this article which gives three different accounts of miscarriages, and I found them both comforting, informative, and relatable:

https://cupofjo.com/2015/11/miscarriage-stories/

One of the women refers to her miscarriage as a "secret sadness", which I think is a perfect way to describe it.  You're going through life holding in this new aspect of your being.  It's not something you should be ashamed of, but it's not something you feel that you can let people know about.  Every woman and every partner- whether it's her husband, wife, boyfriend, girlfriend, best friend, or just somebody she happened to get pregnant by- will handle things differently and feel differently, but the bottom line is the same.  We have experienced a loss.  Some days we will want to talk about it and some days we won't.  Some days we'll be happy and some days we'll be sad.  Or angry.  Or confused. I know it has only been 28 days for me since I lost my baby, but every minute is a guessing game of how I will feel.

Writing this entry is both my way of personally coping, and also hoping to reach others who may have experienced a miscarriage as well.  To those people, I am so sorry and please know that I am here for you.  Even if you're a stranger on the other side of the country, I am here for you.

One thing I do ask is that if anyone has any questions or comments about what I have just written, while I am more than happy to engage, please do not ask the father anything.  He knows I am writing this, but he did not sign on for a question and answer session.  He and I are supporting each other privately and in our own way, but as I said, if you do have any questions direct them to me and I will be more than happy to talk about them.

Also, I want to send out a general apology to my family and friends.  I'm sorry if you called me or texted me and I either didn't answer, or was short and general in my response.  If we were supposed to hang out and I left early or canceled altogether, I'm sorry.  If you told me good news and I seemed only generically enthused, I'm sorry.  I'm sorry if you are about to get engaged or married or pregnant or get a promotion at work or buy a big house with a white picket fence or win the lottery.  I can't be happy for you right now.  In time, I will be.  But right now, I'm so sorry, I just don't have that emotion to give.  I'm still trying to work out how to handle the rest of the world while simultaneously trying to grasp what has happened in my own.

I hope everything I just wrote has been okay.  I hope I haven't offended anyone by being so candid about a somewhat taboo subject.  I hope I didn't gross anyone out by the details.  But mostly, I hope that one day I can wake up to the sounds of a happy, healthy baby.

This One Time, In Key West... (PART FOUR - HEADING HOME)

We woke up early on our last morning, so we could grab a quick breakfast and stop into town to pick up some giant cookies for the plane ride home.  Our flight was at 5:30 later that day, but we were out the door by 9:30am.

We drove to Dunkin Donuts for what we anticipated to be a speedy on-the-go meal, but ended up being there for half an hour as the two slowest women on Earth took our orders and messed up Claudia's food three times.  When we went into town the first store we needed to go to was closed, and the cookie store didn't have the kind that Jil wanted.

"Let's just go home, I think we're done here" was the general consensus.

We drove to the airport, this time not in rush hour traffic, and also this time in the daylight.  We could see the beautiful water as we drove over bridge after bridge, and the big mansions that Oprah and other celebrities had as vacation homes.  About a third of the way into our drive, we stopped in Islamorada for a pee break (I wasn't lying when I said I always have to pee), and Jil showed us the beautiful spot where she had wanted to take us on our way down for dinner and drinks.  It's a shame, it would have been an amazing start to our trip had we not been delayed for ten years of our lives.

One last group pic with our best friend, the selfie stick

The one thing that was not so amazing about Islamorada; there was water beneath the bridge that was filled with tarpons.  For those of you who aren't familiar, they are fish that are roughly the size of a basketball player.  These things are HUGE, and they jump straight out of the water to catch food and their eyes are half the size of my face.  It's not ok.  More ok than the iguanas, but still...not great.  Also with them were sharks.  Because nothing is more comforting that looking down at fish half the size of a football field, only to have a shark mosey on by.

The monster to the left of the shark was easily 6 ft long.  WHY ARE YOU SO BIG, FISH?

We got back in the car and drove and drove and drove.  Luckily, it was sunny, beautiful weather.  We stopped to get gas and stock up on beef jerky for the plane (protein kids, it's all about protein).  We arrived at the car rental place, dropped off the car, grabbed our bags, and walked into the airport.  They weighed our bags after telling us that if they were over 40 lbs we would have to pay an extra $30 fee.  The suitcase that Jil and I had split was 39.5 lbs.  Carol and Claudia's suitcase was 42 lbs.  Carol opened the bag and, understandably frustrated, took out a bunch of clothes and threw them in the brown paper bag that had held our giant cookies.  The part that was annoying was that we had exactly the same amount of stuff in our suitcases as we did on the way down.  And remember when I said Carol hates carrying a bag?  This was not her favorite moment.  We walked to our gate, sat down, and that's when the rain came.  The sky was black, it rained down, it rained up, it rained sideways.  It was like that scene in Forrest Gump.  Jil pulled up a weather map on her phone and we saw Hurricane Harvey coming from the west and a new hurricane coming from the East.  Right down the center was a clear path that luckily included Atlanta, which we had a layover in again.

They boarded us 30 minutes late, and then we sat on the runway (Tarmac? Airport driveway?) for a full hour waiting for the rain to let up.  We then noticed that none of the seats had air sickness bags, so I started doing inventory in my head of how many random plastic bags I had in my carry-on that I could give to Carol if need be.

We finally got off the ground and again we had turbulence.  Not as bad as the trip down, but enough for us to grab the seats in front of us again.  We landed in Atlanta and they told us we had 10 minutes to get off and do whatever before we had to board again.  We ran off, peed quicker than we had peed before, went to board the plane, and were told it would still be about a 20 minute wait.

So we just threw our bags on the ground and sat where we stood.  Chairs be damned, they were a full two feet away.

The second leg of the flight went so smoothly that I thought, "If every flight was like this, I would fly all the time".  Literally the SECOND that thought left my mind, our plane started shaking again and the pilot came on and told us there would be some turbulence.  At that point, I was so exhausted I literally don't even remember what I was thinking.

At around 10:30 that night we landed, and by 11:45 we were home.

Although the travel to and from was hell, the trip itself was amazing, albeit exhausting.  I'll tell you one thing though; as I sat in my apartment the next day, with the temperature outside barely reaching 60 degrees as it poured for 24 hours straight, I desperately longed to be back in those muggy, sunny, iguana filled Florida Keys.

The EP Ladies