(Temporarily) Life after ________

Hmmm, what to name this post? Life after…what exactly? “Life After Death” would’ve been catchy, but a bit morbid, and although true I suppose, not the chord I’m trying to strike. It’s not exactly “Life after IVF”, because that chapter of my life isn’t over yet – just on hold. So maybe, “Life in between” would’ve been more appropriate?

My friend B emailed me last week, and I quote:

“sounds stupid, but I miss your rants, it was like talking to you on the phone everyday. I can actually hear you talking when I read your writings. I AM very glad you are getting a break from the physical stress of the whole deal, but I just miss being an active supporter! Sounds sick, I really don’t know how to describe it better.”

I have missed blogging like mad, and I've wanted to continue it during this "fertility vacation" but in some strange way I feel like using this to talk about anything other than IVF is in some way cheating. I know that sounds stupid. But I guess maybe I feel the same way about my life right now. I’m taking this “break” from fertility treatments – and don’t get me wrong, I am totally enjoying myself – it feels a little bit like…hmm, how to put it…failure? Weakness? Fear? Abandoning my (seemingly) life’s mission? Ok, now that I’ve typed them out they all feel overly dramatic. But something – I can’t put my finger on it yet – feels just out of place. Maybe I’ve just gotten used to operating in life crisis that I’ve forgotten how to sit back and chill. Maybe it’s because we’re still facing the unknown with no idea if there will be a resolution. Maybe I just miss the day-to-day abuse of IVF. I can’t quite describe it yet. It's like because of IVF - or infertility in general - I'm still in a place where so many things seem very trivial and small to me. But I'm living in a world where these things that are trivial to me, are huge to everybody else around me. Not to minimize what other people feel at all, but I feel kind of numb to a lot of things now. I'm not saying that exactly the way I mean to. It'll take some time for me to put it into words. Something different lurks in my brain that I’ve yet to put a name to.

Which brings me back to this blog that suffers from the same Square Peg, Round Hold Syndrome as I find myself in. I’ve discovered that blogging is the ultimate therapy for me. I like to air it all out (as you know). I just need a way to get into "life blogging" instead of "crisis IVF ranting". So…here goes:

[insert 3-hour pause as I sit here staring at a blank screen with no idea where to begin]:


Conversation with Myself

Me #1: Hmm, is there such thing as a non-philosophical, non-crisis, yet interesting blog posting?
Me #2: Beats the crap out of me.

Me #1: Are people going to be bored as hell reading through my daily life doings?
Me #2: Yes, absolutely…sometimes I bore even myself.

Me #1: You should really get out more.
Me #2: Hey, would you like to come with me?

Me #1: You know, now that we’re not doing IVF, we should really be living it up.
Me #2: I thought we weren’t talking about IVF.

Me #1: Dammit, this is hard.
Me #2: Hey, I know. Tell them about the squirrel.

Me #1: Oh god, the poor squirrel…


So one morning, a week or so ago, I get up, and let the dog out. The weather has been nice and mild, so all my windows are open. I walk into the kitchen, turn the coffee maker on and pull my cell phone off the charger. Suddenly my peaceful morning ritual is interrupted by a horrendous scream which seems to be coming from the backyard. I go running out onto the back stoop expecting to see a child being tortured, only to see my dog thrashing around in the flower bed. Mulch and flowers are being savagely tossed into the air. And the screaming is getting louder. In a blink I am hauling ass across the lawn (still in my robe – thank god I had PJ’s on underneath) thinking I am going to the rescue of my hairy-four-legged child. About 30 or so feet away, I realize that the screaming isn’t coming from what moments ago I was calling my “innocent little angel dog.” It’s coming from whatever hairy flash of brown I just saw in this new wild-eyed slobbering dog’s jaws. Whatever it is, I know that by the time I cover the 30 feet between us, it’s going to be a goner. Realizing I still had my cell phone in my hand, all I could think to do was throw it. So I did. Hard.

Now let me tell you something about myself. You know that saying: “you throw like a girl?” Well, I am that girl. In fact, that is an insult to people who throw like girls. I am that girl’s ultra un-athletic friend she doesn’t like to talk to in public. But she wants me in her gym class so she doesn’t look so stupid. So you can imagine my surprise when my cell phone clacked (very loudly) into the side of my dog’s skull. Even with my adrenaline high all I could think was: “Holy shit, J will never believe me when I tell him.”

Unfortunately with the dog’s adrenaline high, she didn’t notice the cell phone. Instead, it fell to the ground, trampled on by the fight to the death with what I could now tell was a poor little squirrel. It was trying desperately to take a bite out of the dog’s face, but failing miserably.

I finally make it to the dog – I feel horrible about it, but I had to rough her up a bit to get her to let go. She drops the squirrel, then with one shot of the “evil eye” from me, backs her little rear end far enough away from ME, but close enough to still see the squirrel.

The little guy was laying on the ground giving me a pitiful display of his teeth, but not moving his hind end. I’m pretty sure his back was broken. I bundled him up in my robe and brought him into the house. Got him settled in a cozy little shoebox, and set it on top of a heating pad to try to ward off shock. Then I got on the phone with the wildlife rescue center. Turns out they don’t take calls until 9am. So at 7:30 am I am bawling on their voicemail: “Please call…dog….murderer….poor squirrel…so sad…help…”

I guess they figure if the animal can’t survive a few hours, there’s nothing they can do for it anyway. Although in the moment I was ready to scream at these idiots for not answering and opening the ER doors for me, or at the very least - sending an animal ambulance. Is that too much to ask?

I got a call a little after 9 and we made plans to meet. But by the time that was settled, my bushy tailed friend had passed away in my size 7 Enzo Angiolini shoebox. I guess there’s worse ways to go.

J got home that night and we buried him under a tree in the side yard - I cried the whole time. The dog wouldn’t come near me for the next several days…in my mind she was ashamed of what she had done. Although in all reality it probably had more to do with the cell-phone shaped goose-egg she was sporting. I continue to imagine a little squirrel family out there living in the oak tree, still looking for their friend. Or maybe they witnessed the attack and have moved on to greener pastures and dog-less backyards.

Either way, the dog continues to go outside with that killer instinct in her eye. And I continue to stand guard by the back door. Cell phone in hand.