Sorry

As I get older and wiser, self-awareness has provided me the ability to admit that I'm not all that perfect. Not that I was always so self-assured and confident. Very far from that. But somewhere along the line, I started believing all those encouraging words that my parents were telling me about being strong, smart, and - as I become more like my mother - ALWAYS right.

There were hints of this as a young child. Let's take a peek at a little vignette of when I was about 6 years old, playing that classic Hasbro Game :"SORRY" with a few older kids...

"Karen, you picked that card, lucky you! Now you can take anyone else's guy and put yours there!"

Gee, this was fun. I could actually win over these big kids!

"Okay, now that you moved your guy, you have to say "SORRY" really loudly!!"

I thought, uh, I don't think so. Why should I say sorry? I didn't do anything wrong. I picked the sorry card and made the necessary move. It was part of the game.

So I said, "No. I'm not going to say sorry."

They all looked at each other and then the eldest said,

"But you have to Karen, it's in the rules." (*I just checked of course, and it isn't - almost 40 years later and it still smarts!)

I shook my head. No way was I going to say "SORRY" for doing everything right.

So they all started chanting "SOR-RY, SOR-RY, SOR-RY!!!!!!"

And I started to bawl.

I never did say sorry.

A tragic tale. To this day, it remains very hard for me to say I'm sorry.

*****

So the point of this story? Turns out my son has been a lunch monitor since the school year started. And apparently he rocks at it... so much so that when he mentioned that he might not continue into the next term, the Grade 2 class wrote him a bunch of "Thank You" cards.

Only they weren't so much 'Thank you" as "Sorry" cards (as in "Sorry I was loud", "Sorry I was bad", "Sorry I didn't listen")

I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see it for myself.

I guess there is hope for the next generation.

****

A Denouement:

I recounted my "sorry" boardgame tale to my brother and sister-in-law about a week before the holidays. My brother, being more than a few years younger than me, wasn't yet around to witness my traumatic experience firsthand. They were so enamoured with my story that for Christmas, lo and behold, they gave our family this...

Thanks little bro. You're so awesome.

The Great Pumpkin Seeds

My jaw is hurting. It must be the day after Halloween.

And I'm thinking about my Dad.

The one thing I always looked forward to at Halloween, aside from the candy and goodies, of course, was the wonderful aroma of roasting pumpkin seeds emanating from the oven.

Pumpkin seeds weren't a rare commodity in our house. In fact, my Dad was a major snacker of the crunchiest kind - peanuts, chips, almonds, sunflower seeds, watermelon seeds, and pumpkin seeds all figured as part of his routine. You'd hear the most satisfying sounds everytime you vacuumed. Seriously, sort of gross, all those shells, but at the same time certainly satisfying at chore time.

But fresh pumpkin seeds, dug out of fresh pumpkins, tossed in the perfect amount of salt and roasting just so while we were out trick-or-treating?

The best.

Rushing back into the house, we would promptly dump all of our loot onto the floor of the family room. After going through the exercise of splitting everything equally between my sister and myself, I couldn't wait to get into the crispy seeds that Dad had prepared.

They never disappointed either. We would usually spend the rest of the evening catching up on all the antics of the trick-or-treaters, laughing as we chomped and chewed, and occasionally spewed. Fun with my siblings, and fun with Mom and Dad.

So every Halloween, I make sure that when I carve the pumpkins, I scrape each and every precious seed meticulously from the orange fibres. I lack the perfect touch that my Dad had for every batch, and I do feel a faint discomfort after snacking on handfuls of these seeds after the kids get back with their loot.

But each twinge brings me those amazing Halloween memories as a kid, and back to a time that I looked so forward to something that only my Daddy could do, on that one special time every year.

Make the most perfect batch of roasted pumpkin seeds ever.

Here's munchin' to you Dad. We really miss you.

The Date and not Hungover*

Our anniversary dinner date was lovely.

The man had hired a car, so we wouldn't have to worry about driving. We left the kids in the capable hands of my mother, who was staying overnight. And even better, my sister, her husband and my cutesie niece came up to have dinner and a visit with them. When we headed out the door, only my sister was there to wish us a good evening. The kids were already off partying. Signs of things to come, I suppose.

Le Select Bistro was a great spot. The decor and ambiance was very much that of a Parisian bistro, and even better...no attitude from the waiter. (Okay, I know I'm stereotyping here, but I've had first hand experience of seeing a server get upset at a colleague because HE had heard the order wrong and brought back a sandwich without ham...another story for another day...).

So where were we...oh yeah, back at the bistro...

A beer for the gentleman and a lychee martini for the lady please. Very nice.

Puff pastry appetizers (escargot of course), lamb and slow cooked beef short-ribs entrees and a lovely bottle of wine from one of the hugest wine cellars I have seen in a restaurant. Wonderful, knowledgeable service amidst the quiet buzz of many a customer having a fine dining experience.

We didn't set the place on fire this time. At least not with actual flames.

After dinner, we walked up Spadina Ave. to Queen Street to enjoy some cocktails on the patio of the Rivoli. Quite a different scene. It was funny because this was just a couple doors over from the original site of Le Select, before it moved to its new location three years ago.

We ordered a couple of G & T's, and set about people watching while we sat amongst a patio of Queen Street hipsters. We've brought the kids down here many times, but hadn't had the opportunity to enjoy the vibe at night just by ourselves in a very long time.

I laughed about the henna tattoo I got a lifetime ago at the neighbouring Le Chateau ... we watched with interest as gaggles of young women walked by wearing sky-high stilettos and skirts barely covering their arses...a family walked by, with Mom pushing the stroller while Dad wore baby and they all wore matching afros ... we got annoyed as the groups of smokers outside of the restaurant hovered in front of us ... the signs from the huge H & M across the street were a bright reminder that indeed, this Queen Street was not the same that we had frequented as students. We noticed the students in their ripped jeans, slouchy hats with their carefree attitudes and we talked about whether we wished to be them again. So much has changed in 16 years.

We got caught up. Turns out there wasn't too much catching up to do. After all these years, we're still in tune with each other. Which in all honesty, was the most beautiful part of the whole evening.

*****

The boys went to see GI Joe the next day. A solid nine out of ten is what the boy rated the movie. What was the story about? He didn't really know, but it didn't matter. Action, it's all about the action, Mom.

The man brought home Famous Magazine and said: "Do you think I look like him*? A little? He's your type isn't he, fair, light eyes..."



I replied, "Actually, he does kind of look like you. Like 15 years ago..."

And so I checked. And he did. Sorta.


Lucky me.

(In more ways than one obviously. I finally got rid of that "Gilligan borrowed John Lennon's glasses and traded in the sailor shirt for a beater" look. Thank gawd.)

*I have yet to see the Hangover, but I hear it's hilarious. In the most immature way, I'm sure, but who ever said I was overly mature?

*****
Musical memory, here's one of our fave songs of 1993...

Friday Fragments - Pop Culture edition

What a day it was yesterday, and continues to be today. While I was congratulating myself for being so cool as to be "in the know" about two events via twitter before they made official headlines (I'm such a geek that way) ... it really registered as to how historically sad it was.

Farrah Fawcett, an original Charlie's Angel. And then Michael Jackson, the icon. Two celebrities who touched the world. And me.

*****

I was a huge fan of the Six Million Dollar Man when I was a kid. And then when I found out that he was married to this blonde goddess in real life, I was totally awestruck. I'll be honest, Farrah wasn't my favourite angel (Jaclyn Smith was my idol) but I did sketches of the Angels and hung them up on my wall. And I couldn't draw, but I loved them, and the show and what it stood for (three beautiful, smart, female DETECTIVES? Catching bad guys? Wow!).

Sure, they bounced around a bit as they ran around, and were always so cutely flirty chatting with Charlie...but to a young girl, they were certainly something to aspire to. Even a little skinny Chinese girl.

I did feel a bit betrayed after she left the show, but looking back, it was a very strong, gutsy move, made by a strong, gutsy woman. From what I've read about her battle with cancer, she was an inspiration.

*****

Michael Jackson. I still know so many of the lyrics to so many of the songs. From the time I used to watch the Jackson 5 cartoon series on Saturdays mornings .... to the days in the basement when I used to prance around to "Shake your Body to the Ground"... to the "Thriller" album that I won when my Dad spent who knows how much $$ at a Fairweather shopping spree for me and my sister... to the first dance I ever choreographed in high school to "Billie Jean". Watching his videos over and over, jumping up to dance whenever I heard his distinctive voice.

I can't believe he's gone.

*****

I took the kids with me to Dad's grave site, after picking up up some annuals to pay our respects. It's tradition to visit before July 1. And it was the first time I'd been there since the winter.

The foundation for the monument has been set. The site is gorgeous in the summer, with a lovely tree and bench right by. I think Dad must love it, it's beautiful.

I spent a half an hour digging because the spot that my brother had cleared had been re-sodded again for the foundation (unbenownst to us, they just put it in yesterday). Digging with the girlie's garden tools, because that's all I brought (d'oh!).

It was a bit of work, in the hot sun, cutting through the mud and clay. But a labour of love...it was the least I could do ... the flowers make it look so much prettier.

After a quick watering, I took the kids' hands and we stood in front of my Dad's spot. My boy bowed his head and said a private message to his Granddad in his head... and then he shook with sobs. I teared up too. We all miss him so.

So after our traditional three bows toward Dad, we packed it all up and walked back to the car.

Into the shiny weekend that I know my Dad would want us to enjoy.

*****

For more fantastic fragments, visit the home of Mrs. 4444 when you get a chance.

Meatball for breakfast

My mother should include "efficiency expert" in her resume. Quick, to the point, not wasting any time, tell it like it is ... all those things add up to "her". She even had my brother pack up all my Dad's things to donate within days of the funeral. I had to act real quick to get a scarf and a couple of ties as keepsakes. Mom had saved a few little trinkets for the kids, stuff that Dad had picked up from their many cruises that she had never cared for (Mom, remember, she's not all that sentimental or nostalgic). But other than that, and the most treasured of things that she kept for herself, most of it was toted away.

I suppose it was part of her dealing with the craziness of everything. She was still in a dream state, partially planted in reality, the other part of her still reeling in the thunder clouds.

So along those lines, Mom cleared up her pantry before she went for her month long trip to Hong Kong. And she passed me this:



Seems my Mom, not a huge fan of a lot of different cuisines, doesn't like Spaghetti and Meatballs. Never did, never will. So my father would pick up a can of this every so often, to get his 'fix".

I told Mom that this would go over well with the L-boy for lunch. And I had to smile.

Dad was just such a big kid at heart.

I have great memories of having a fantastic time with him when we were young.

Mom took all the part-time shifts as a nurse while we were in school, and honestly, the evenings she was working were often the most fun of our childhood. Dad would take us to the pizza joints, the fried chicken restaurants, the burger places, out for fish and chips, anything and everything our little hearts desired. For although Dad could cook (amazingly well, actually, for years even better than Mom), he loved junk just as much as we did.

I remember our trips to the pop Shoppe to pick up all manner of candy coloured soda; chasing my sister through the aisles at the hardware store as he picked up things that he would just store in the toolbox, rarely to use. His toys for his collection.

We would sit in the front seat with him in his baby blue T-bird as we went from place to place. Playing with the radio dial, laughing and joking while he told us to sit still. Trying to play with the switches for the electric window, watching as my little sister opened the door and almost fell out of the moving car in the parking lot while Dad was oblivious to our screaming (what's one type of scream compared to the other when you're dealing with 6 and 4 year old girls?). My sister still thanks me to this day for saving her life. Such fond memories. None of which we were allowed to share with Mom, of course.

So the other morning as I cooked up the can's contents to pack in the boy's Thermos for lunch, I saved myself a little morsel.

And when the kids had gone to school, I ate it. In memory of Dad.

I haven't enjoyed canned meatballs since I was about 8 years old.

But this was the most delicious meatball I've had in a great while.

*****

This coming Saturday would have been my parents' 45th wedding anniversary.

I wish we could celebrate joyously as we normally would; and yet I sit here in sadness, my heart so heavy with dread for my Mother.

And I wonder if this sadness will ever really go away.

Anniversary of the Great Egg Hunt

Today is an interesting anniversary of sorts. Not a typical 5 year milestone that one would mark as "special" on the calendar. Although from my perspective it was quite memorable. In actual fact, unforgettable.

April 15, 2004 was Ovum Retrieval Day.

I remember it almost as if it were yesterday.

*****

After five unsuccessful tries at IUI over the course of over a year, our first scheduled IVF cycle began late March 2004. By the time O/R day came, I had already subjected myself to a couple of weeks of Lupron and Puregon injections, and subjected others around me to my raging hormonal tendencies. And as we tried not to have our life stand still because of our attempts for baby #2, many of these shots were taken at social functions. I would just excuse myself and go to the bathroom, dial up the pen to appropriate level of FSH prescribed for the day based on the daily blood results ... and *BAM* shoot myself in the thigh. Let's just say I carried around a big purse.

I was lucky, though, for one of our closest friends told me that I didn't have the "IVF face". The puffy fertility drug visage that apparently some women can sport as a result of the cocktails pumped into already tired bodies - bypassed me. So although I was churning on the inside, the outside world didn't have a clue.

*****

The morning of the O/R was of course fraught with all manner of logistical issues. I had booked a day off, but still needed to bring the boy to daycare. The problem was that we had to be at the clinic before the daycare was open. The plan was to get to the clinic in time for my prep, then the man had to do what he had to do, and then he would take our little guy to daycare. After which he'd come back to the clinic to pick me up and bring me home to rest. And no one would be the wiser.

Except one little wise man. After I was prepped and ready in my gown, Daddy had to go provide his sample in the -ahem- special room. As he got up to leave, the boy asked, "Daddy, where are you going?"

Both of us frazzled with the situation, we had to do some really quick thinking on our feet. So we came up with "Oh, Daddy is going to have a check-up just like Mommy is today'. The boy seemed content with that. What a relief.

While Ian went to do his thing, my little guy stayed with me. It was exciting but nerve-wracking at the same time. It was also very helpful having my boy with me, my little man who would be turning 4 years old in a matter of days. A great distraction. Did you know that the average 4 year old asks about 457 questions a day? Including...

"Hi Daddy, how was your check up? Are you okay?" as the man came back upstairs with his paper bag.

"Yup, everything's just fine. All is good with Daddy."

Snort.

He handed the nurse the bag for processing and off the boys went. Daddy and our boy also left.

And I was taken into the O/R room, feeling very bloated and nervous, but happy that there were multiple follicles. After trading pleasantries with the doctors, I lay back as they started with the ultrasound, and gave me something to relax. I faded out of consciousness. The day had finally come.

*****

I woke up a bit groggy in the recovery room. I was sore, feeling like someone had ventured into my reproductive plumbing, scrounged around and hoovered up some hidden treasures.

Oh yeah, somebody just had.

But I knew exactly where I was and what had happened. As I sipped on the apple juice they provided to me while I waited for Ian to pick me up, I asked the nurse how everything had gone.

I guess the Easter bunny had left some good egg karma that year.

They retrieved a dozen eggs. From my closer-to-40-than-35 year old body. A perfect dozen.


(To be continued).

Somewhere only we know...

Five years ago this was Day 29 of the cycle before THE CYCLE that changed my whole world.

I thought about this the other day as I sent my husband to the pharmacy to pick me up some drugs, the "we're too old to have another baby but not too old for, you know" medication. Ironically, almost 5 years ago to the day, I was at the same pharmacy, picking up other drugs, the ones handed to me by the same pharmacist who had given me other cocktails five previous times. And he handed me the white bag housing thousands of dollars worth of hope ...with a smile and a cheery "Good Luck".

In actual fact, I had already been on oral contraceptives that whole cycle because, as twisted as this seems, you are NOT to get pregnant while taking one of the drugs in my IVF protocol. So taking OC's in preparation for making a baby. Mind boggles.

The whole infertility train is just full of twists, turns, disappointments, WTF moments. You just go with the flow.

It's hard to believe it was five years ago. But it was like yesterday. Taking deep breaths, drawing the precious liquid into the syringe, plunging that not so thin-gauge needle into my thighs (upper limbs were already getting their share of the poking... all other limbs were now fair game). Daily.

I know we were one of the very lucky ones. We hit the jackpot not once but twice, and now we do indeed have that "millionaire's family" worth much more than millions.

But I do believe, despite our successes, once 'an infertile', always an infertile. Unless you've been there, you just cannot know.

When I catch up on a couple of my blog friends' journeys, I get all wrapped up, all tied up in angst, as I feel it. I've owned it. And I try to send them what I hope are encouraging comments, insightful thoughts and maybe occasionally make them laugh through their tears (okay, I'll stop there, I'm not THAT funny). So that they know they are not alone in this sometimes seemingly very lonely journey.

Because it is somewhere only we know...

Hidden in the drawer

...buried under all the bedside table junk, was a piece of nostalgia that I suppose I just could not throw away.



It was my daily point of reference, my calculator, my diary, my medical chart ... all rolled into one. It was my life captured in a Milk calendar.

In reality, there were a few years' worth of calendars marked for "easy at a glance" viewing. I wasn't crazy enough to keep all of them, though. But this snapshot was a critical one. I should probably get it embossed.

I haven't posted about my infertility story in a while. Not because I'm avoiding it ... although the subject does take a lot out of me, much of which I have buried deep within. The story just deserves more than what a NaBloPoMo'd mind can give.

So the posts, they will be coming.

(This Flashback hosted by Colleen at Mommy Always Wins ... )

Greener Days

One of our local radio stations ran a "Green Day - American Idiot" weekend in honour of the upcoming U.S. election. Every few songs, they would play a Green Day hit.

How interesting that this band was credited by some as the group that brought to the forefront, or at least made publicly acceptable (remember the Dixie Chicks?) the whole anti-Bush wave.

Whatever their political inclinations, I've always really enjoyed Green Day's music. They came out with their first big album around the time that I got married (wow, THAT long ago) and they were just boys back then. I remember when I purchased "Dookie", to add to our audio library. There was a part of me that felt, well, let's just say a little mature to be buying music from this alt rock/punk band. But I found the music pretty catchy, and I was still young enough to imagine that I wouldn't look matronly in your average mosh pit.

As Ian has always told me, I have a golden touch when it comes to purchasing CDs. CDs that he wouldn't necessarily buy himself, but he would end up enjoying so much he'd forget that it wasn't him who bought the thing in the first place. "Dookie", of course, scored big time for the band.

It was still on pretty heavy rotation the year we started what unbeknownst to us would become a long infertility journey. Cranking up "When I Come Around" on a Friday evening after work, talking about plans for our weekend while making dinner in our tiny galley kitchen, enjoying what we thought would be limited couple time before having babies in our midst ... never expecting it to take four years before we were to become expectant parents.

*****

Here we are in 2008. The Boy, after a couple of years of coaxing and cajoling from frazzled parents, has finally decided that he is interested in taking music lessons. Of the guitar variety. We found him a teacher who is a musician in a couple of bands. A long-haired young man, laid back, soft spoken with the look of a younger, thinner Kevin Smith. Certainly a change from my first music teacher (a scary nun who wanted to smash the ganglion on my wrist with a bible ... ugh).

And the first song the Boy is learning to play on the guitar?


(which incidentally, came out the year I got pregnant with little G)

How cool is that?

My Halloween Treat

Halloween was another busy and fun day this year.

I usually go all out with the decorations; my shopping strategy of picking up everything on clearance the day after celebrations actually worked --- I remembered where I had packed it! This year I only managed to get a spider balloon up, some of the faux webbing, and the usual stickers on the door. The man did the honours this year with the pumpkin carving.

It was successful this year. Given the strange weather of the past few days, it seemed like a dream that it warmed up to give us one of the most lovely evenings in recent memory. The kids got dressed up, and we went over to our friends for a casual dinner before they headed out en masse for trick-or-treating. I headed home to pass out the treats.

In between doorbell rings, I managed to clean up the halloween prep mess in the kitchen. The critical thing for me was to ensure that every seed salvageable from that pumpkin would be saved.

You see, I'm the proud daughter of a professional seed and nut eater. Any image I have of my Dad watching television includes a bag of snacks of the nut variety sitting right there with him.

Childhood Halloween memories for me include the cleaning and roasting of freshly salted pumpkin seeds. While we would be out trick-or-treating with my Dad, my mother would be at home roasting the pumpkin seeds. I looked forward to those salty snacks almost as much as I did the sweet loot at the end of every Halloween night.

So while my kids were out with their friends and their Dad, I prepared the seeds.

And after they returned home, surveyed their treasures, had a couple of treats before getting into bed, I set to work on making my treat.

Spread out on an oiled pan, and salted liberally, popped into the oven at 325 degrees to bake for about 25 minutes. And voila. But by this time the man had decided to hit the sack as well.

Too bad.

Now it's just me, my crunchy pumpkin seeds and the TV. Won't my Daddy be so proud of me?

Paris - Fashion Friday Flashback

2003 was winding down and we had decided to get off of the baby train. Our foray into the world of IVF was to begin in March 2004.


Can I tell you what a relief that was? Life at home was less stressful and work was easier to handle. I bet if my boy could remember, he'd probably tell you that I was a bit of a sweeter mommy to him too. At least a little.

When a work trip to Paris came up, to participate in a "pre" product lauch, and share a poster presentation with other global affiliates, I was happy to just say "of course I''ll go". Escape would do me good.

No worries about schedules, which nights I would be away, which drugs to take, oh geez, would it coincide with the HCG shot... and where would the hubs be? Aw, to hell with all that, I'd be in PARIS in February ... whooottt!!! Jambon et fromage avec une biere s'il vous plait ... pain* au chocolat with some heavy duty coffee, walking, shopping, more walking, museums, the architecture... oh yeah, there would be work, but this time I was going to try to really enjoy the city. And drinking, or enjoying, rather, some fine wine. Hmmmm, nice for a change.

It was also nice to be going with my boss. A different boss than before. She knew how to live - work hard, but also experience the city that we were in. We weren't sure whether there would be another trip in the future (company stuff was happening), so we went a couple of days early.

Musee D'Orsay - check
Galerie Lafayette - check (about 3 times)
Printemps - check (about 3 times)
La Coupole - check

I remember also having raclette for the first time ever, in a tiny little restaurant located near Place de l'Opera (at least I think it was, I am so directionally-challenged, and the streets there are anywhere but gridlike).

Shopping, did I say shopping? So what did I purchase on my last trip to Paris? I hadn't shopped in Paris in a long while... so I threw caution to the wind and just bought some frivolous items to perk up ye olde wardrobe. Teeny-tiny numbers perfect for summer 2004. Here's a peek...

Can you feel the wistful undertones in this post? Sigh...

Wonder if I ever got to actually WEAR them in the summer of 2004?

Hmmmmm...

(Well, what would be a miracle is if I could still fit into them... but that's another story.)

(*edited per my friend Badness, wonder where my mind was at LOL!!!... although a "bain" would have done PERFECTLY ... )

Musical Memories - an Ode to Sloan

The other night as I sat down to watch one of the best shows on CBC (well, probably the only show I watch on CBC, if only it weren't on so late every night), the Hour, I noticed that they had changed the theme song. It used to be the New Pornographers. But this season, they're using the distinctive sound of Sloan.

Have you heard of them? If you haven't, check this out... (well, it's the longest intro ever in this video, so forward about 2 minutes to the actual song).



They've been together 17 years now. Wow.

When they first came out around 1992, I enjoyed their indie flavour, the "Canadian-ness" of them. Smart hip lyrics, fun melodies. "Coax Me" and "Underwhelmed" among some of their early hits.

The definitive album for me, though, was "One Chord to Another" released in 1996, where "Good in Everyone" (the clip above) was featured. That song and my other favourite, "Everything You've Done Wrong" bring back some great memories.



Of a time when I was first married, in our first house together. Filled with hope and excitement after deciding that it was time to start our family. I remember bopping around the house to this CD, we were playing it on heavy rotation. Full of optimism for our future.

The journey to family wasn't quite as easy as expected.

To be honest, I haven't been following these guys in the last few years. So when I heard this music introducing the Hour, it made me curious about what they've been up to.

Looks like they're still doing it. And doing it well. They're currently on tour with Lenny Kravitz.

I'm glad. I am in a happy place again, all these years later. Bopping around with my breakdancing wannabe 8 year old and blossoming 3 year old popper. With the occasional 80's dance saved for the Man. And for that I am very, very thankful.

Wishing everyone celebrating this weekend, a wonderful Thanksgiving with your family and friends.

The Grandmas by the bus go ...

One of the things that I remember about my Grandmother was her stubbornness in speaking only Chinese, even though I'm pretty sure she was completely fluent in English. I mean, how could you live in Canada for over 40 years and not be? I swear, she even knew some French, being in Montreal and all. My sister and I would have conversations completely in English in front of her sometimes (to discuss secretive stuff, that teenagers do, we were nice that way)... and she would throw in a word or two every so often that would confirm our suspicions. But whenever we would confront her or ask, she would deny understanding a single thing.

So she would launch into conversation in Cantonese, with anyone, even if they were obviously not Asian. And appear shocked when they wouldn't understand her. Eventually she would just get really pissed off. What a riot she was. She would do this to Ian sometimes, and with a little charade-playing, he could actually understand her. It would make him laugh, a lot.

I thought about her this morning at the school bus stop. All the kids at this stop happen to be Asian. Now I'm not sure whether they are all Chinese, but I suppose that my kids appear the "least" Asian because they are of mixed heritage. "Half-age" -I spelled this phonetically as it's a term I heard in Vancouver for the first time this year. A term used by a hostess at a restaurant who couldn't stop fawning over my kids, saying how beautiful they were and how she hoped she would have kids like that one day (only the young, I know). But I digress...

The little boy across the street started Junior Kindergarten this year and is taking the bus for the first time as well. His family just moved in a few months ago, and he is being cared for by whom I assume to be, both his grandmothers. Who don't speak much English.

This was his first day at the bus stop without either of his parents. Today his grandmothers brought him kicking and screaming. He was crying, and making a fuss. One of the ladies turned to the older boy who waits at the bus with my kids. She started rattling off in Mandarin. I know this because I know bits and pieces, but I couldn't follow her questions. And neither could the boy. He just looked at her dumbfoundedly. Finally the other lady clued in and said in broken English "You understand?" and the boy replied. "No, sorry."

Then I could hear them chatting away to each other, and I'm sure from their tone of voice they were appalled. But they asked "You take Ricki to school?". And the boy said he would, but he didn't know Ricki's class.

So then my boy piped in, "I'll take him. I know whose class he's in, he's right next to G's room".

I told the ladies that my son knew where Ricki should go and they nodded gratefully at him. I couldn't help but beam with a little pride, ruffling my son's hair proudly.

That boy, he's been doing his darnedest to impress me lately. It's working.

And my Grandma? She's been gone almost 15 years now. But she was the one holding and consoling me when I was 4 years old. Crying and not wanting to get on the bus to go to Chinese school - that was me when I was a little Ricki.

A tiny glimpse of what seemed to have happened just yesterday. And it made me smile.

The Break and the Reason

The place: Stratford, Ontario, for an offsite work meeting.

The background: The fall of 2003. About a week after finding out that our fifth IUI (intrauterine insemination), did not take.

The straw: A colleague of mine at this training program admitted that she was indeed expecting.

The camel's back: I excused myself, went to the ladies' room, made sure no one else was there, got into a stall. And broke down. I could not take it any longer.

*****

How did it come to this?

The stress of the scheduling was a huge factor. With the travel and meetings in our work schedules getting in the way, it took close to a year to complete the five cycles. The frustration was bringing us down as well. We were exhausted, emotionally and physically drained. And we still had a very active preschooler to deal with. How fair was this all to him?

The running around each cycle, dealing with the traffic, getting to the lab for daily bloodwork, ultrasounds and the waiting and waiting. The drugs weren't helping my temperament much either. Feeling bloated and cranky 24/7 had actually become the norm.

An open concept office. That was wonderful. At least when we were trying for baby number one, I had a real door. But with the company move, management decided that everyone under VP status did not need a door. In the spirit of working together, better apparently, we all became Les Nessman noobs.

There's nothing like having to track down a small conference room or shut yourself into a filing room to find the privacy to make these "results of the month" calls. I'd whisper quietly into the receiver, keeping my fingers crossed that no one would come in or need the room at the last minute. Then I would anxiously wait for the results of the blood tests taken earlier in the day.

Sometimes the response was compassionate: "So sorry, sweetheart. Maybe next time."

Other times, not so sweet: "Nope. Negative. Bye."

I don't know which I preferred. The news was the same, so in the end what did it matter?

Five times too many. Five times of having to clench my teeth, wipe away my tears, pray that my face wasn't too red, and compose myself before walking back into the office with an efficient clip. As if nothing had happened. As if my womb, still-empty of baby, didn't hold the weight of my heavy, sunken heart. We knew the chances of IUI being successful after more than three times were very small. The law of diminishing returns was in full force.

During the period of the IUIs, we had started looking into adoption. That information package was still sitting there for us to look at again.

Ian was as supportive as ever. He always maintained that he was happy with the status quo. The urge for baby #2 was mostly mine, an inexplicable obsession. But he would welcome a second baby, and had very positive thoughts about adoption. In fact, as we were looking at adoption in China, it might have been a way to fulfill a dream of his own ... to have a 100% Asian baby. We used to joke about that when we were first married; he's always maintained that Asian babies are just the cutest...but I'd respond that if that was indeed what he wanted with our kids, well, his procreative involvement would be problematic.

But I had to be honest with myself. Was this IT for us? The end of the roller coaster? Was I not willing to go the next step? Did I not have enough in me to make that huge leap into IVF land? Did we have enough in u$ to start down the slippery slope of hope?

So we were at a crossroads.

*****

We decided we needed a break. After two years and five IUI's, the next cycle - it came and went. No poking, testing, ultrasounds, shots, stirrups, samples, tubes - nothing. We took the time to gather our thoughts, digest everything and decide what made sense for us, for our family.

In November, we came to an agreement. We would proceed with one IVF cycle. And take it one cycle at a time. How could we not? I never in a million years thought we would have to go this far. But we had to at least try.

So over Christmas, instead of another frantic month, we took it easy. Enjoyed our time with our boy. But we did attend an IVF orientation. We signed the papers, brought the information, including all of the presciptions necessary, home with us. I made another appointment for the new year to learn how to self-inject.

Taking a look at our calendars, the earliest we could schedule our first IVF cycle was in April.

April.

Something to look forward to in the spring.

*****

My musical memory: this was 3.5 year old L's fave tune at the time...

(okay, I'll admit it, it was me trying to train my kid to become the next hot Eurasian lead singer of a hot band ;)

And yes, in case you've noticed, I decided to group all of my infertility posts in one spot - check the sidebar for "My Infertility Chronicles" blog. So if you're new, you can follow my journey from the very beginning, or what I remember of it anyway. Or rehash it with me if you've already been following. Hope it saves your fingers all that clicking and linking, and linking and clicking.

That Was My Life

Artificial Insemination. Something that's always sounded so foreign to me; foreign as in "out of this world - alien". If you had asked me when I was younger whether it would become a crucial part of my world for well over a year, I would never, ever have believed it.

When we signed up with the clinic to begin our quest for our second child, we felt that we knew the score. We decided based on my age, and our lack of success conceiving the traditional way (we're way too radical, don't you know?) ... we would bypass the drug and timed intercourse step and go straight to AI, or IUI (Intrauterine Insemination), a more commonly used term nowadays.

Or why don't we just call it the turkey baster method? Why leave anything to chance, when a tube will do?

So we were back on the Clomid and monitoring train again. We had the boy in daycare fulltime so that was at least covered. Either I or the man would drop our boy off early and I would head to the clinic for blood work before getting back to the office by 8:30 AM. No one at work would be the wiser.

Especially if I wore sleeves all the time. Oh, the poking. And lucky me, my phlebotomist could never get blood on the first prick. NEVER. We would have to switch arms so often, I would forget which arm she did each day (as we tried to alternate). And it would KILL me; as if the whole process wasn't bad enough, I would be guaranteed to have a major bruise on either or both arms as a result. (I don't get it, she was a nice enough lady, but this was her job, and from other discussions in the waiting room, I wasn't the only one who dreaded seeing her every morning...).

The transvaginal ultrasounds, they weren't everyday. They had everything timed so that I should only have to come in for an U/S once per cycle, based on the levels of hormones in my bloodwork. I would keep my fingers crossed that there would be multiple follicles, and that they would be progressing well. If the follicles were large enough, then we could time the HCG shot, and schedule the IUI. And I would make up some excuse for coming in late to work if IUI day happened during the week.

To say this was stressful was such an understatement. I felt very alone in the process - I couldn't help but feel it. I would go for the monitoring on my own; I would wait in the waiting room for my u/s... be given the instructions for the HCG shot. It wasn't that Ian wasn't involved or was detaching himself from the process; there was only so much he could do. Of course the one thing he had to do on demand likely wasn't so much fun either.

The very first IUI I had done was a disaster. I went on my own for purely logistical reasons. The one thing that Ian and I had discussed was that I ask that the sample being used was the right one. I said to Ian that I was sure that they had the procedure in place to make sure of that, but he was adamant that I at least doublecheck.

As I lay there waiting for the doctor to come into the room (and I wasn't sure who it was going to be; there was a roster of doctors who rotated based on availability), I just proceeded to get more nervous as the minutes went by. When the doctor came in, he introduced himself, told me what to expect, what to do, and asked if I had any questions. So I asked.

And I got a big lecture on how these things are quality controlled, it was impossible for the wrong sample, this wasn't a 2-bit operation, the clinic had years of experience, yada, yada, yada... and here, take a look, is that your name?

GAWD!!! I was speechless, felt that I had been told right off. All I could do was lie back, let the procedure happen. And know that the chances of this particular one being successful were likely next to none.

It wasn't until later that I felt enraged. I felt it was within my rights to ask. But I just kept it in. After all, at this point, I really felt that I needed the clinic a lot more than they needed me. Just sitting in the waiting room, and waiting with other desperate people, that was evidence enough.

Funnily enough, after my first IUI, the clinic got an audit as they were being certified. I never got that particular doctor again (thank God) but before each of the next procedures took place, I had to look at the sample, read the name, and sign off that I had checked it. I guess it wasn't such a stupid question after all.

But no matter, another 4 attempts at IUI, scheduled in and around the nightmare of SARS, 2003 was not the productive year we had hoped it would be. At my fourth procedure, I asked the nurse how often people usually go with the IUI step before moving on. She said on average, about six times. So we made an appointment to speak with our doctor again.

After our fifth failed attempt, in the late fall of 2003, we decided to stop with the IUIs. I was going nuts with all the failures; I was driving the man nuts; and although I'm sure our little boy wasn't feeling any ill effects as a result of my obsession, I didn't want it to get to the point where he WOULD start feeling them.

We had a major decision to make.

******


A big hit of 2003 - I still prefer the original Talk Talk version, but Gwennie, she didn't do too bad a job of it.

Testing, testing

Memories...

It seems each doctor has differing nuances in their fertility protocol. And I suppose they must do their due diligence. That's what makes it rather frustrating to the average patient. You really feel most times as if you have absolutely no control.

I wanted my new ob/gyn to give me a "go straight to fertility clinic" card, given my previous history. But of course she couldn't until she felt she had checked everything out. Again. More delays. Things may have changed a bit since actually having a pregnancy and giving birth. You couldn't fault her for not being thorough.

Blood tests. Man tests. More temperature monitoring and charting. And then the lovely experience called the HSG. Again.

Remember the last time? This occasion I decided to go it alone, and left my boy with my parents. No need for the hubs to come with me, after all, he'd already seen the picture a few years ago and my tubes looked as hot now as they did back then.

It was a different hospital this time, though. With shiny, brand-spanking new equipment. Boy, this was going to be fun.

Except it wasn't. I now know what if must feel like for my car to get an oil change. The platform I was on was raised, the dye injected. It all felt very mechanical. I've never felt the same at a Jiffy Lube since.

The dye didn't permeate on the one side as quickly as it should have, so they gave me another hit... which just proceeded to go nowhere except translate into physical pain. Oy. If they weren't blocked before, they certainly felt it this time.

Turns out one of the tubes was possibly blocked. Or maybe not. There was a little bubble that could have been a fibroid. The good news was that at least one was clear. And one is all you need. Well, we would have to see about that. Sore, but at least that question partially answered, we moved on.

*****

Next up: the post-coital test. Fun WOW. Now this one we hadn't had before. And I am very glad of that, because there is no need in this world to have it more than once. Current research even questions the value of this test nowadays. For those of you who haven't experienced this firsthand, it goes something like this:

Doctor: Okay, everything looks pretty normal on the individual front. Let's see if there are issues with you guys as a team.

Me: (in my head: HUH???) Excuse me?

Doctor: On this day of your next cycle, I need you to have intercourse with your husband first thing in the morning and come to the office within a couple of hours. We'll take a swab and test it.

I guess they wanted to make sure that I didn't have a "hostile environment" for the hub's little guys. Which I thought was strange to do, seeing as we did have one child already. Could we all of a sudden have become allergic to one another?

Needless to say, it felt like I was being hauled to the principal's office after doing something terribly naughty. And being given a Pap for punishment. "Naughty" also wasn't the operative word, as said "deed" was not the fireworks-inspiring experience of a lifetime either. Wonder why?

But turns out these results were fine.

So after another several months of this "pre-infertility check to confirm that yes, indeedy, we were still inexplicably infertile" she FINALLY sent us to a fertility clinic. A clinic that was a pain and a half to get to traffic-wise. How in Hades was I going to get there every day? How was the little guy's daycare going to fit into all this? Who would drive when? How was I going to keep it all on the hush hush at work....All the negatives swirled around in my head.

As luck with have it, though, they were overrun with patients at this clinic and asked if we wouldn't mind going to their other location. And lo and behold, something positive. This alternate program was so much easier to access. We were back on track. Well, sort of, anyway.

It was 2002, over a year of TTC #2 and I was thirty-GULP-seven.

Tick tock, tick tock...

On the road to little G

It was decided.

When the boy was about 14 months old we embarked on the "second baby journey". As you’ve probably guessed, it was not to be an easy one.

After an unsuccessful several months of trying haphazardly on our own (no medical intervention) for baby #2 (haphazardly, because everything is a little less organized when you’ve got a busy toddler), I sat down with my doctor and asked her to provide me a referral to an ob/gyn.

The clock wasn’t turning back and I knew we didn’t have much time to waste. (I didn’t go back to my previous specialist, because he was downtown and we had by this time moved to the burbs). (And yes, I'm the queen of brackets.)

Me: “I was so hoping it would be easier for us this time around.”

Doctor: “Why would you think that?”

Me: “Aren’t your chances of conceiving a little better after you’ve already had a baby?”

Doctor: “Well, no. And given your history, it doesn’t surprise me. Why do you want another anyway? Honestly, it was such a hard road for you for your first baby.”

(sidenote: My doctor, who’s my age and has two boys around 12 and 14, is also my parents’ doctor, attended my wedding, and is somewhat of a friend of the family. So she knows EVERYTHING. And she likes to tell it like it is).

This was a really loaded question. Why does anyone want children; more than one child? How many is enough? How many aren't too many? Why did she want her second? Why did I feel I had to answer it anyway? Why didn't I have a smart comeback?

Me: “Well, Ian would be happy with what we have. And I can’t say that I’m unhappy, as the boy brings so much to our lives. But I think it would be nice for L to have a sibling. Someone for companionship, to share life’s load, you know, especially when we’re old and decrepit and need to be cared for. I don’t want it to be all on his shoulders.”

Doctor: “So essentially, you want another kid to take care of you. That’s nice.”

Me: “Yeah, that’s pretty much it. So give me the referral”. (Sarcasm dripping...)

I like to tell it like it is too. (edited to add; snark... a reason, but certainly NOT the prevailing one!)

And so my obsession began. I thought I was so prepared, almost felt like a pro. But actually was still so naive, and had no idea what was in store for us. Who knew it would be more frustrating and even more heartbreaking at times than our first four years at this game?

******

Let's see, it was 2001 ...

A Six-Pack sorta meme

I was tagged for a meme by my Island pal C, and I thought I would do it as I haven't done one in ages. And I don't think I've done this one before.

The rules of the game get posted at the beginning.Each player answers the questions about themselves.At the end of the post, the player then tags 6 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read your blog.Let the person who tagged you know when you’ve posted your answer.

What was I doing 10 years ago?

1) enjoying married life
2) living in our first purchased home in the city
3) trying to get pregnant
4) finishing up my first term of my MBA and killing myself for a country project worth a measly 5% of my mark
5) working in an office that had an actual door
6) shopping (I'm bad)

What are 6 things on my to-do list for today (yesterday - i-net troubles):

1) go to the gym for a much needed Bodyjam class;
2) pick up teachers' gifts
3) figure out what to do for our anniversary this year
4) pick up the boy from a playdate at a friend's house. (edited: they delivered. Great friends!)
5) blog, plurk, twitter, buzz
6) laundry and then order dinner in (hopefully!)

Snacks I enjoy?

1) ice cream
2) potato chips
3) pistachios
4) pie
5) Godiva chocolates
6) Edemame

Things I would do if I were a billionaire?

1) retire the husband; from his job, I mean. I think I'd keep him.
2) help out the siblings and parents - cruises for the folks coming out of their ears!
3) set aside for the kids education
4) invest some
5) give to charity (health charities, and probably sponsor some more kids through Plan Canada
6) travel and buy vacation property(ies)
7) oh, and of course SHOP!!!

Places I have lived?

-Montreal
-Toronto area (snooze ...)

How did you name your blog?


I thought I would start a blog, one sunny day while at home breastfeeding the girl (she was about 5 months old) and enjoying being with her and the boy at home. It was meant to be more of an online journal, because I know as I age I WILL forget all the cute and memorable moments unless I capture them somewhere. And at first I told NOBODY about it. When I told my brother he laughed, and said it was meant to be shared. I'm just such a shy-pie. Now I'm a total comment whore.

So that's how "A Day in the Life" started. I added "one glass at a time" after I joined the esteemed Weekend Bloghoppers earlier in the year. Wanted to spice up my blog personality a bit. But I doubt if I've fooled anyone.

Who am I tagging and do I want to know more about ?

So many to tag, so little time ... if you're not meme type people, or you've already done this, please ignore the tag...

1/ Karen at Rocking Pony
2/ Mah-meeee at Raising A & C
3/ Laskigal From the Cheap Seats
4/ Caffeine Court
5/ Zoe's Dad Ed
6/ I'm Being Held Hostage - In the Gutter

And anyone else, if you haven't done this already, please feel free to do it. Or tuck it away for a rainy "what to blog about" day!

One Enchanted Evening

Timed intercourse. About as romantic as it sounds. But that's the reality of baby-making when it becomes a job. When the unwritten rule between the couple is that there are no comments to be made about performance, no snickers from the peanut gallery about lack of enthusiasm. Just get to business. Sort of takes all the fun out of it. By this time though, we were well past that.

After no luck with ancestral potions nor the first step in pharmacotherapy, and a couple months of conflicting schedules, we decided that we would move to the next stage. This being Clomid therapy, bloodwork, monitoring, ultrasounds and when the time was right, a booster injection of HCG just to crank up the torpedoes and release those eggs with a vengeance. And THEN see if those stars would align.

Monitoring again; oh how I was hating those daily visits to the labs. And even being more depressed when I sometimes saw mothers in there with a child accompanying them. Why couldn't they be happy with that child, at least they had that. I wanted just one baby; I didn't get it (although several years later I would certainly "get" it. If anything I was even more determined/ psychotically driven to have baby #2. That'll be another chapter).

++++++++++

Work was going well; I had been promoted at the beginning of the year and had a few more responsibilities. But I was enjoying it; and had a couple of trips planned later in the year to head office in Paris. And amazingly, for the first time since we were married, our schedules were such that Ian would be able to accompany me. Finally. Paris in the fall, complete with husband, sounded like paradise.

School was a lot of hard work, but the learning and collaboration with my fellow students was invigorating and at least a productive distraction from the lack of success on the fertility front.

With things slowing down a bit in the summer, we decided to try a cycle with the extra HCG boost. Which of course entailed another trip back to the clinic after the usual bloodwork, ultrasounds; and then we had to do our business after 24 hours, the ETA of the grand eggs (yes plural, remember I was on Clomid).

This first attempt failed.

++++++++++

August 1999, the month of our 6th wedding anniversary. Unfortunately, I had to attend an important conference in Montreal on our anniversary weekend. It also happened to land on a very important couple of days in our cycle. So it was a given that the spouse would accompany me. He was also travelling and would meet me the Friday evening.

I was lucky to have the excuse to "go home and pack" - in other words, stop by my doctor's to get the HCG shot just before my flight. Hopped on the plane, attended a dinner meeting with my boss and some other colleagues. It came up in conversation that it was my anniversary weekend.

My boss felt badly that I was working on my anniversary. Being a more-than decent fellow, he insisted that I take Ian out for a nice dinner on the company, and even suggested a restaurant.

So that evening, I decided that we would celebrate, really celebrate our anniversary. It was a gorgeous evening, we were in Montreal, a very romantic city, and we deserved to have some fun. We went to Bice, had a couple of cocktails and a lovely bottle of wine, (which I actually drank), let loose and just enjoyed ourselves. As a couple. For the first time in the last four years of TTC, we pretty much put all of that out of our minds and just focused on being a couple again. It was really magical.

++++++++++

Two weeks later, I went in for a blood test, not expecting much. Ian was away again at a sales meeting. I called the clinic for the results, and instead of a soft-spoken "So sorry, my dear" at the other end, I was told it was a "Weak positive".

What?!!! I almost flipped. I was too scared to be too excited. They asked me to come back for another test. And the second result: POSITIVELY POSITIVE.

I was pregnant. Almost too much to bear. When I told Ian over the phone that night, he just hollered, didn't even bother containing himself.

You see, the stars had indeed aligned. Both Ian and I were born in, and presumably conceived in Montreal. And it had been our anniversary.

So the trips to Paris in the fall? I had to cancel. Paris would still be there.

I had to meet someone very important in the spring, a meeting that we could just not afford to jeopardize:

(Here's the happy dance for the day )

Ancient Chinese Secret?

One thing about infertility is that it is completely non-discriminating. It affects men and women, regardless of race, religion, geography... across the board. What is interesting is the cultural aspect. Infertility is still often seen as a taboo subject; and the lack of understanding and pure ignorance can sometimes be exacerbated by cultural pressures and expectations.

Grandchildren are a huge deal in most cultures, and Chinese is no exception. And I suppose the lack of any at the time, even if it wasn't by choice, was a cause of great concern for my parents.

Frustrated with the lack of progress on the “Western” medicine front, I let my mother convince me to see a Chinese doctor, a specialist in Chinese herbs and medicine. A friend of a friend’s daughter was in her late 30s, not having any luck for years, but after she saw this doctor and got the special soup, presto, she got pregnant.


I was skeptical. I suppose it came from so many years of schooling in science, and then working in the drug industry. What ingredients were in all these concoctions? Hey, where were the double-blind, controlled clinical studies performed to show that that EXACT dose of dried frog testicle mixed with bat wing could actually increase our chances of having a baby? My mom only got me there because a) this doctor actually also had a medical degree from the US. So a doctor trained on both sides of the ocean. Bonus. And b) infertility can lead to desperate measures.

I brought both my parents with me, my Mom to translate in case needed, and my father, because he comes part and parcel with my mother, ever since their retirement. And Mom is the one with the special Chinese pot that she would use to cook up whatever soup needed to be prepared. What is it about Chinese Moms and their soups? Dark, murky, stenchy soups? I was just happy that it wouldn’t be stinking up my place.


Turns out that according to the doctor (at least at the time), Chinese medicines are actually more effective if the fertility issues lie with the male. He felt that I should continue on the standard protocol prescribed by my “Western” doctor, as from what I told him the tests showed that we were both “normal”. Nevertheless, he prescribed a mixture of various herbs in a paper bag, and gave written instructions to my mother as to how to boil it up. It was just a general health soup that both Ian and I could drink. Increase the general health, increase the chances of conceiving. While we were there, Mom also bought some stuff for her and my Dad. I swear I saw desiccated beetle legs sticking out from their purchase.

Leaving the herbal shop, we walked back into the Chinese mall toward the elevator. My mother was happy that I had finally gone to this doctor with her. She began chatting with me about her own struggles trying to have the elusive son for my Dad. There are almost 12 years between me and my younger brother, but my mom hadn’t to this point shared any of her experiences with me. Yet.

The elevator door opened and the three of us got in. A tiny elevator. And I was squished between the folks.

Mom: ” Your father wanted a son so badly, you would not believe …”

Dad: Silence

Mom: ” … the things that we did … the things that we tried and tried ...”

Dad cleared his throat. Shuffled his feet a bit, looking down.

Mom: “I did headstands, if you want a boy you ...blah blah positions …”

Me: “Uh, okay MOM STOP -- I get it!!”

Oh, the things we’ll do for a baby.

Someday...




*disclaimer: I know of people who have been successfully treated with Chinese medicine, acupuncture etc. This is not intended to be an endorsement nor a criticism of this option for infertility treatment. Just my own story, folks. And unfortunately, no, it wasn't a miracle soup for us.

(Images from martialartsgear.com and stock.xchng)