It's officially over

I have made the absolute decision to leave. There is no turning back or way to fix things. I gave R the ultimatum to either see a marriage counselor (and NOT one through his church) or divorce. He told me that he'd never see a secular counselor and if I didn't want a divorce I'd have to go to counseling through his church. Nope, that's not the deal I offered him, and I've given in on every demand he's ever made, not this time. He wasn't willing to compromise just a little bit to make our marriage work. So, I'm out, and there is nothing that will change my mind. He has proven that he doesn't respect my faith or even who I am as a person, he has proven that he is the only one that matters in this marriage. Doesn't sound like a situation I want to stay in, and it's definitely not something I'm willing to put up with.

I don't feel sad that I'm leaving R. I hate this town and can't wait to leave, and I'm feeling less and less concern for R as he is starting to show how selfish and manipulative he can be. I will miss Little H, but one happy weekend a month isn't worth it. I won't be able to tell him goodbye, he won't be here again before I leave. But we will be living in the same area (read: the only WalMart within 20 miles) so I'm sure I'll see him again sometime. The dog is mine, R's keeping the stray cats. And I have never been so happy to break up in my life. I realized that I haven't been myself in at least a year, and in the past 6 months I haven't been anything, I'm empty as a person. This is my chance to fill myself again, with happiness and energy and excitement for life. And I am telling everybody I talk to that I'm getting a divorce, making damn sure I can't talk myself out of it (not that I would ever want to now that I see the rest of the world around me, I don't know how I lost sight of it for so long).

Mel, sneak in the back of the Lushary (I know it's not open today, but please) and pour everybody a drink! Today is a day to celebrate me becoming me again, being full rather than hollow, and independent rather than withdrawn! My life is mine again, and I will enjoy it.

Don't blame it on the sunshine!

Don't blame it on the moonlight!
Don't blame it on the good times!
Blame it on the boogie!

OK, enough Michael Jackson reminiscing. I have been away for quite a while, haven't I? And really, it had nothing to do with the nice weather, or my overwhelming need to sleep, or anything exciting happening. Blame it on the boogie (which in the song means boogie, here I'm using the word to reference everyday life). And then, I went downstate for the weekend, which means that I guess it can be blamed on the good times (partially, from Thursday until last night).

I spent Thursday in Ann Arbor with my baby brother (have I named him yet? I don't think so, we'll go with Doe). Yummy chinese food, sitting around the dorm, contributing to the delinquency (just a little bit, hey, he's in college, he'd find another buyer if I wasn't around). It was nice. We never hang out when he's home, so it's nice to get to know him a little bit when he's in his element at college.

The rest of the weekend was spent in Fenton catching up with some old friends. We hung out, watched a live band at the local bar, watched movies. Every time we left the house we ended up drinking, it's like those girls look for every excuse they can find (not really, we were having an indulgent girls weekend). Waiting for haircut appt??? Let's go to Buffalo Wild Wings and have a beer on the patio. Gave up on haircut after waiting so long??? Let's go to another bar and have Long Islands and play with the jukebox. Live band??? Let's go to the bar and have drinks. And that was all on Saturday. It was indulgent and relaxing and I didn't think about IF or DH at all. I miss those carefree days. And not just the weekend, I miss back in college when I had so few responsibilities and I got to be selfish every once in a while. Even on my indulgent weekend I didn't get to be selfish, because I had a strict budget to follow. Being a grown up sucks!

But, I do get to brag about R a little bit. Saturday there was a tragic crash at a Blue Angels show, one of the pilots died. Saturday afternoon R got a call asking him to completely revamp the official fan club website and include a memorial guest book. He stayed up all night to do it, and now the link is being forwarded to national news stations. Here's the link (go ahead and leave feedback in my comments if you want, he loves any sort of feedback on his websites as he is fairly new at building them): www.blueangelsfanclub.com

Now to catch up on all the housework that R didn't even attempt to do while I was gone. Home for 2 weeks after lap, all weekend by himself, didn't even do dishes. Watched the dog dig a huge hole under the fence, didn't even push dirt back in the hole (or toss in pieces of our old sidewalk like he planned, to keep her from wanting to dig there anymore), so the wife has to do that too. I swear, one of these days I'm going to stab him in the throat while he's sleeping.

Breeding, continued

I realize that I was rather confusing in my last post, maybe. What I really was trying to get out was the thought I had back when R and I decided to work things out. That he is the man I want to do daily injections for, the man I want to show my goods to the RE for, the man I want children with so much that I am excited to endure fertility treatments. At one point, years ago, he was the man that I wanted to roll around naked with, and instantly have a child. But that's not exactly a possibility. Before some of the most recent events, I needed him to become more. I needed to see dedication and blinding desire for children. Before, he was the guy that I knew would bring me a glass of water because of a cl.omid hot flash, but I didn't know if he was the guy that would be everything I needed through all of it. And I wasn't sure if he had risen above "roll around naked to get a baby" status and into "side effects and mixing medications to get a baby" status.

Do our husbands magically make it to that point when we need them to? Does it take a crisis to get them to that next level? The ones that do need a crisis to step up: are they still a step behind the "prepared from the beginning" guys? Have you ever had that warm fuzzy moment when you realized DH had gone beyond "nakie time" and into "fertility treatments" worthy?

Deciding who to breed with

I inspired myself to think about this topic back before the ER/surgery saga, and I believe I now have the time to dedicate to a proper completion to my thoughts.

When I was younger, I wanted to have the life my mom did. She was married at 19, gave birth to me exactly 1 month after the wedding (ok, I was going to change that timeline a bit and be married before I got pg, but 19 was the magic age). By 24 she had her three kids and was the epitome of SAHM. She baked her own bread, she made perfect mac & cheese (it is possible to screw it up, but we're leaving Dad's mother out of this), taught us how to read, showed us the joy of rolling down hills and catching worms for fishing. She crocheted intricate snowflake ornaments, enough to cover the Christmas tree and hang in every window. She taught us to covet the simple things and evade the materialism of the world around us. She taught us to be proud of ourselves and never let somebody else put us down. Until I was 5 years old, she was a single mom, because Dad was a Marine and almost never stayed in one place. Rather than move us around every 6 months (and very often Dad was out of country), we stayed near extended family.

Rather insignificant bit of information: Dad is not biologically related to me. They were married before I was born, his name is on my birth certificate, but his sperm did not contribute to my existance. That guy has never been a part of my life, only met him once and I was too little to remember. But there is a significance, because it contributes to the "choosing who to produce children with" dilema. At the time I was conceived, Mom was romantically involved with that guy, had been for quite some time. She had dated Dad a few times, but he was always taking off for another month in the field or whatever military thing, so she was still somewhat involved with high school boyfriend (i.e. that guy). Things end with that guy, things step up a notch with Dad. Turns out that guy got her pg before Dad came back in the picture. Dad doesn't care, he loves her, wants a family with her. Half a year later they are married, fetal me in the way of their first kiss as husband and wife. And now fast forward to the topic at hand: choosing the "father" of your children.

When it comes to my conception, the criteria for mating was high school love. That imagined love, love that you realize was nearly insignificant once you grow and feel real love (and sometimes that real love is with the same guy, but HS love really is nothing like adult love). Some possibly magical moments, but really just sneaking around to "do it" without parents finding out. That's how my "father" was chosen.

And my dad? Well, with the information at hand, it appears that it was a case of a relationship given the time to blossom, but with a due date approaching and decisions needing to be made. He would be seen as my father no matter what, and if he wanted to stay with my mom he had to be a part of my life as well. It was a situation he jumped into with open eyes and open arms. He is the only father I have ever known, and I know that he sees me as his daughter 100%, I am in no way his stepdaughter. How about my mom's choice in it all, did she put much thought into who I would call daddy? Is it as much thought as we put into that decision when we are diagnosed with infertility.

For most women, being the man they love is enough criteria to father a child. For some, the man just has to be the one they found that night. But for us, is there something more? Do we hold our men to a higher standard? Do we judge whether or not they are worth injections or hot flashes or laparoscopic surgery? Do we question whether they deserve the child we are going through so much to conceive? Do we question whether they are the support system we need while doing so? Is it enough that we love them? Or do we demand that they go above and beyond the "normal" fathering requirements to validate our choice in enduring treatments to have their child? What criteria do we really hold our men to?

We ask them to do so much more in light of infertility. Jerking off in cups, holding our hand during the pain of an HSG, pacing the waiting room when our lap last 3x as long as the doctor prepared him for, wiping our tears and holding our shaking bodies when grief explodes from a failed cycle.

And if this guy doesn't work out, if he can't be what we need, does that change how we date and search for a new mate? Do we test them in upsetting situations? Do we push them a little too hard, to make sure they will be able to handle it?

My cousin is so fricken lucky. She was getting really serious with a guy (Drummer), more serious than she'd ever been before. Tragedy struck our family, our favorite uncle died (one of my first posts tells the story of Goofball). He had been a second father to all of us, even more to her because her parents were divorced. Drummer had just driven from Wyoming to Tennessee two days prior (and we got the call early in the morning, so really he had only been home for 18 hours or so), but immediately packed a suitcase and drove her to Michigan. He had never met the extended family (all 300 of them), and it was the worst case scenario to do so. He was tested that weekend, his energy drained, feeling helpless in such an emotional situation. Lucky her, he was amazing. They are married now. But how lucky is that, to have life test your man so wholely right at the cusp of engagement? Going into it, she has proof that he'd do anything for her and be the kind of man she needs. He is so the perfect husband for an infertile. Of course, they will probably pop out perfect little children without a care.

So, do we judge our men differently because of our infertility? Do we hold them to a higher standard? Do we question or desire to have children with them? Or does or desire to have children trump all?

Goodbye gallbladder, hello whiny husband

You may have noticed that I didn't continue my blog yesterday, and that I didn't update at all after surgery. You may have, but I did not. I was running on 3 hours of crappy sleep yesterday, and I don't remember eating from the time R went to the ER Friday morning until late Saturday afternoon (while he was in the recovery room after the surgeon gave us the report, my mom took me to the cafeteria and made me eat something, which was a good idea since I nearly passed out standing there deciding what to eat).

Surgery went great. They were hoping they could do laparoscopy rather than cutting one huge incision, and they were able to. Four small incisions in R's abdomen, plus the belly button incision. They kept him overnight again last night, which was good because he needed their super drugs to fight the pain. He's been holding down liquids since 6pm yesterday, ate a mushy breakfast this morning, and had turkey/mashed potatoes/stuffing/green beans for lunch. He did well with all of that, so they let him get dressed and come home. He's so much happier in his own bed. He's zonked out in there, I'm assuming he'll probably sleep most of the afternoon and then wake up for an hour or two before sleeping through the night. He took a vic.odin before going into the bedroom, although he had refused pain meds all morning. He's got a heating pad on his back because the hospital bed was uncomfortable and I'll probably give him a backrub later if he's awake.

R's grandma came up, but left not long after he got back to his room after surgery. My mom stayed the night to help take care of the dog since I wouldn't be home much. I was glad for that, I think I was more worried about the dog being left alone than I was about any part of R's surgery. The dog did demolish a brand new ball of crochet thread this morning while we were at the hospital waiting for R to be discharged, but I don't blame her since the past few days have been so hectic and she's been alone and bored.

I am currently enjoying a tiny bit of quiet time before I have to revert back into nursemaid mode and go adjust pillows, bring glasses of water, help in and out of bed, etc. It's going to be a long couple days before R starts feeling like himself again, but he did take care of me after my lap so I can't complain (although he didn't keep the house nearly as clean as I like to, and he's a terrible cook). The neighbors across the road invited me to Easter dinner over there, which I will probably go to. It saves me from having to cook, especially not knowing if R is going to want to eat or not. And I'm still so tired that I don't know if anything I cooked would be edible, or if it's even safe for me to cook in my current state. I'd probably fall asleep at the table and burn everything.

Now for a nap until then.

Diary of a Waiting Room Wife

11:30am Saturday

First we'll get the background out of the way.

R went into the ER around 10am on Friday. Diagnosis: ga.llstones. A bunch of them, big as marbles. IV, medications, and finally a surgery consult around 4pm. They thought his pain was under control and that he'd be able to ride it out with Vic.odin till Monday, so they let him go home around 5pm. Their pain meds wore off around 8pm and he took his first pill. By 9:30 he was in pain again, and by 10pm it was severe enough that he wanted to come back to the hospital. New doc, this one very much more attentive (checked on him every half hour at least, the one in the morning came twice in 6 hours), but not very proactive. We had to request the surgeon come back down, the doc kinda wanted to send him back home again. The surgeon came in, said hi, palpated his abdomen, and pretty much immediately admitted him. The surgeon ordered more meds (R had gotten two doses of De.merol within the first hour we were there, with no relief at all). Those meds were great (if I remember what it was, I'll let you know). R finally got his room upstairs around 4am, all the paperwork and questions were done around 5. I went home, made a couple phone calls (my dad is always up that early), brought the dog into our bedroom (she shares a room with Little H, but I love sleeping with her when R is away), and tried to get some sleep. My alarm went off at 8am, I cursed and turned it off, then went back to sleep for a little while. I woke up again at 8:30 and started making the rest of the morning's phone calls: R's grandma (she raised him), R's mom, my parents again, R's boss/pastor. I gave them the phone number here and his room number and told them to sit tight until we saw the surgeon this morning.

Fast forward past my breakfast and bank card fiasco at the gas station (damn thing stopped working, it worked at BK, then right across the street it wouldn't do anything, not even in their A.TM).

I finally got back to the hospital around 10am. Still hadn't seen the surgeon this morning, but he was doped up on pain meds pretty well. I checked with the nurses to see if there was any idea when the surgeon would show up and how he did overnight (in the 4 1/2 hours I was gone). Half an hour later the surgeon came in, palpated again, and scheduled the surgery. The surgeon had another surgery that was more urgent to do first, so R is scheduled to go in sometime between 2-3pm. R asked for his bible, which I had forgotten when I came in, so I ran home to get it and made another round of phone calls. My mom asked if I needed her, because she could tell I hadn't had any sort of emotional reaction to this yet. I told her no. Called Grandma, R's mom, R's aunt, R's boss. Called mom back and asked her to come up, I think I'll need her later (damn her, I hadn't even thought about being worried or nervous or upset in any way until she suggested it). R's grandma is on her way, too. I got back here again and R's boss and his wife were on their way out (I had left them a message). They let me know that he had just requested something for nausea and was pretty much out of it again. We hugged (which was nice, because there was a lot of drama with them during that whole possible divorce fiasco), and they said to let them know how things go and call if I need anything.

So here we are, now 11:45am, R's out cold, I'm watching the Ja.ckie Ch.an cartoon (because that's the channel R had it on) and writing this all out in wor.dpad (somebody's husband still hasn't installed Office on her laptop). I don't know when I'm going to break, but, now that I know I should, I know I will. I'd spent the entire time in only the clinical mindset, reverting back to my paramedic training and seeing only the clinical aspect and not the personal one. I kept track of his meds and pain, I was his constant bedside nurse. My mom is expecting me to burst when he gets out of the OR, when it's over and I know he's safe and better and I don't have to be strong anymore. I don't know what I would have done, but now that she has suggested it I can't think of anything else. It's like I'm preparing myself for my own breakdown, trying to figure out how I'm going to be strong when I stop being strong. I am so glad my mom is coming, she is my comfort and my rock and I'm going to need that. I can't break down alone, I have to know that somebody is here to take care of him and take care of me first. I won't allow any emotions until I know it won't effect him, so if my mom weren't coming anything that I'm "not" feeling would never come out. I think her coming is a good thing.

So, I actually am a bitch

Think back however long I've been blogging (it hasn't been that long, I just don't care to check and see how long), remember my very first post, the one about J? Well, she just had her HSG. And it didn't go well. Both tubes are something not open (I don't know if they are too narrow or blocked or whatever, she didn't hear much of the initial report due to her crying). My heart goes out for her more than I can say. And it feels a whole lot of guilt.

She started out as that annoying girl that gets "worried" when it hasn't happened in the first 2 months. And then it was 6, and then more. And then she had an appointment with the RE. I was so jealous and hated that she was getting further than I had, that I had been trying for almost 2 years when she started and I had no hope of getting to an RE. I did what I had promised myself I would never do- I rated our infertility. I thought I was more infertile than her because I had been through more, that I was a better infertile because I had researched all the REs in the state and success rates and patient experiences, and because I kept hope that whole first year (sometimes I was a little nervous, but I had hope, refused to chart until 10 months TTC because I "knew" everything was normal, I recently reread my journals from back then and I was surprised at how much hope I had, I had forgotten that it was even possible to feel hope when TTC). I never said anything about that, and I spewed forth my knowledge for her. I listened when she cried, I felt her heart break in the emails she sent me, and I did/said everything that had helped me through failed cycles.

And now that I know she "really is infertile," I feel like crap. I feel so guilty that I ever felt those other things, even though I kept them inside. I feel guilty that I judged her infertility or was frustrated with her emotional breakdown in month 5. Because hindsight shows me that she was justified in her feelings. I had been so bombarded with fertility all around me that I hadn't accepted the possibility that she was one of us. And I kept that admission of possibility out of my mind because I didn't want to feel the hurt if she wasn't one of us, if she magically got pg on month 6 or 10. I didn't want to pour out my heart and feel that empathy towards her, just to get a message a month down the road saying "ooops, I guess I'm not infertile, it just took me a little longer than I wanted to get pg, sorry you can't be as lucky as me." I know she would never say anything like that, but dammit, that's what I would hear.

It wasn't all judging and frustration. I truly did feel for her, I wanted to help her and comfort her and show her the way. I wanted to be someone she could turn to, the person I didn't really have when I had just started out. I would have driven 3 hours (one way) to take her to her HSG. I would answer my phone in the middle of the night and just listen while she cried and screamed and asked God why. Her IUI got cancelled, but I've had the dates written in my calendar for weeks, and the HSG she just had, too. I mentally kept track of the days she was taking clom.id and when her AF would come (so I could check my mail twice as often that day and not miss any messages she sent while upset). I invested as much of myself as I could while still trying to protect myself in case she got what I couldn't have. But I feel guilty that I didn't invest enough. I didn't take that leap of faith and stand behind her 100% in her journey.

I'm sorry J, I will be whatever you need now, I'm sorry if I wasn't that before.

The Bastard

-OR-

I was married once before and it sucked big sweaty monkey nuts

Amy asked, so I will deliver: the story of my first marriage. It all begins my sophomore year of college. R and I had dated for a while and been through breakups #1 and #2. It was the day after Valen.tine's 2001, and I had none. Sitting at the coffee shop, in walks a pretty good looking guy, a regular, but outside of his normal time. I was a regular, too, and the owner decided that this guy and I should talk. We talked for a while, exchanged numbers and all that jazz. That night I got a phone call from the guy. We dated for a while, did that college sleeping together before we really should have thing, etc. He had been living with his parents (ewww, a townie that lives at home, somebody should have warned me), but decided to get his own place not long after we started dating. He was looking for something serious, I was just playing the field for a while. Of course, things didn't work out. We remained friends, he came to me for life advice.

One day he starts talking about the military. Really seriously. I had concerns, he seemed very predisposed to alcoholism (saw getting drunk as a way to "escape" reality, didn't know his limits, never stopped drinking before he was drunk) and that worried me. He joined anyway. He was at staging (self-explanatory) for basic training for the Army on 9-11. He started his training 2 days later. I flew out to Oklahoma for his graduation (I was the only friend he invited, the rest was his family, we truly were best friends at the time). It was very emotional, especially with all of the post-9-11 stuff going on, deployments coming up and all that. He proposed, we picked out my ring at the mall the afternoon after his graduation ceremony, it got resized super quick and he put it on my finger the morning I left to go back home, which also happened to be his 19th birthday.

We eloped 5 weeks later when he was home on leave. His mom was furious, but we were in love. 2 weeks later he had developed an abdominal hernia and had to temporarily stop his AIT training (he could continue with the classwork, but the physical part had to be suspended). That meant a whole lot of time with nothing to do, a lot of free time to explore the town. And if anybody knows anything about military towns, it's that they are filled with strip clubs, bars, and strip clubs. Which is where he started spending all that free time. At that time, I looked way hotter than I do in the pics I posted (not fishing for compliments, I lost the perfect abs and tight little butt when I became a SAHW, I admit it, so even though I do still like the way I look there was a time when I felt better about my body, except my boobs which were smaller back then), so why he was at strip clubs is beyond me. Yeah, I was a dozen states away working on my college degree (I had already enrolled for the semester when we eloped, and had I dropped out of school I couldn't have moved with him anyway since there was a waiting list for base housing), but I was still his wife. Anyway, lots of drinking ensued. Drunk + strippers + calling your wife to tell her all about it = BASTARD!

And he did call, every night. Sometimes we talked about when I would move out there, sometimes we talked about my classes, sometimes we talked about his hernia surgery and how bad I felt that I couldn't fly out to be with him (midterms week, plus no money because he spent it all on strippers and beer). The conversation always ended on how much he drank and which stripper was his favorite that night. He felt the need to tell me what she was wearing, that he had hit on her, that he was taking her to a movie next week. Of course, he didn't remember any of those conversations when he was sober. But I did. It went on for a couple months, me yelling at him, him crying and promising to change and begging me to help him, everything happening again the next night.

I gave up and asked for a divorce, but he wanted one last chance to work on things in person. He flew me out for a week. We were supposed to spend the week together, talking, maybe seeing a counselor, trying to work on things. The second I got off the plane, he started rubbing all over me and trying to make out. I told him before I went out there that he had no hope of getting anything and that he had a lot of work to do to convince me to stay married to him. Guess he didn't listen. One night I forced him to take me to the strip club he always called me from. We went with a group of his friends, the guys pulled me aside and told me that they actually didn't go to this one much, it was too expensive, they usually went to the cheap dirty one where you could get a little "extra" in the lapdance room. I enjoyed myself, I went in with the mentality that I was single and I wanted to have fun. He threw a fit, when we left he threatened to go inside and punch every guy that looked at me or mistook me for one of the dancers. He was drunk, I only remembered him having 2 drinks, but he must have gotten a lot more and hid them from me because he could barely walk.

That night I sat up late with his "best friend" talking about things. This is the guy that Bastard told all of our problems to, the one he confided in. So, I talked to him, got the inside info on Bastard and how he saw things. He told me how much of an asshole Bastard really was, and that is some heavy information coming from the guy he considered his best friend. Bastard was passed out way before the friend and I started talking, but woke up at some point while the friend and I were sitting in the courtyard talking. He must have walked another way to the friends' room and when best friend and I weren't there, he started screaming. He threatened to kill us both. I spent the last 2 days of my "visit" with the best friend and a few others, basically hiding from Bastard. He knew where I was, but he also knew that he couldn't get near me, so he left me alone. I didn't go outside without at least 3 guys around me, not even to walk from the door to the car, and I was never left alone in the house.

4 years later I messaged back and forth with Bastard's best friend from high school (different best friend, this one I'll call DJ for simplicity). DJ hadn't talked to Bastard since he went to basic training. Bastard had thrown things all over his house and nearly stabbed him with a pair of scissors when DJ beat him at some video game. Had I known any of that then, things would have been so different. I didn't know that he had forced his HS girlfriend to get an abortion in Canada (lived near the border) because he didn't want to be stuck with her forever. I didn't know he had threatened to beat up several of my friends that knew his real personality if they ever told me. He somehow scared everybody without letting me see it, and if a big group of his friends hadn't "spontaneously" decided to do the same thing they knew he was doing that night, I might have been too late in seeing it. He had never threatened me before, never raised his voice. Anytime I had said anything to him about his drinking or told him I didn't want to be with him, he cried. No yelling, no attacking me back, just crying and begging. I don't know what made him snap that night when he never had before, but I'm glad I was behind a couple locked doors before he found me.

Several months later we were divorced (later as in after I left the town he was in, the convo with DJ happened kinda recently, sorry I wrote in a screwy order, that's how my brain works). He dragged it out and scammed the government out of over $6000 that was supposed to go to me that I never saw a penny of. I wanted him out of my life, so I never pursued it when I should have. I will always regret any part of my life that involved him, except the day of our divorce. I freed myself from a worthless, manipulative, fake jackass, and I made sure he knew that I was better than him and not afraid of him. And every day I know that I care about myself enough to never associate with that kind of scum again. I'm still a little bitter, I still wish I had gone after the money (because it could have led to military criminal charges against him, including fraud), but as far as I'm concerned he died a long time ago. Unless I ever find out who he is dating, because I will save her the trouble of finding out who he really is on her own.

More Counting

I had a very creepy, way-too-vivid dream last night. Actually, it was this morning right before I woke up (woke me up an hour and a half early and I couldn't even think about going back to sleep). I can still hear the things in the dream, and none of them are anything I ever want to hear in real life. Anybody have a good way to repress creepy dream memories? I want to get it all out of my head and never think about it again.

Yeah, the counting, almost forgot (and it's only been 2 minutes since I typed the title, that dream was creepy, it's screwing up my entire day). Number of contacts in my cell phone: 61. Number that are not friends (Dr, vet, etc): 9. Number that I haven't called in over 6 months and have no idea if they are still working numbers: 15. Number that are additional numbers for a person (home, cell, work): 9. Number that I called when I started packing: 2. That's right, out of 28 people that I know and love, I told 2 (and one on messenger, but we're talking cell phone here). Subconcious faith that I was staying married no matter what it looked like at the time? Laziness? Not wanting to cry yet again? Shame for being in a second failed marriage (the first time I was 19, long story, I may tell it sometime if anybody asks)? Lack of consideration for the people who would most want to comfort me? I don't fucking know. But I do know that I kept thinking in my head that night "would you just go to bed so I can get on blo.gger?" Thanks to everybody who made that thought worthwhile. Your comments really did help me get through every day. A couple times a day I'd get an email telling me about a message, and those emails were my bright spots. I couldn't thank any of you enough.

How many boxes?

How many boxes does it take to hold all my stuff? Well, I guess we won't find that out anytime soon. How many boxes does it take to make R mention that the kitchen feels so empty? Just 1 (granted, it was pretty big) and a tiny start on box 2. How many rooms have to start feeling that empty before R will shut up about not agreeing with the pictures and instead tell me how fabulous they look? 3- kitchen, living room, bedroom. Not quite the answer I would want, considering there are only 2 other rooms in the house (Little H's room and the bathroom) and neither holds any significant amount of stuff. I, of course, made sure I packed the most obvious and likely to be missed items first (like the measuring cups and knife block). I was tired of fighting, I was too emotionally drained to fight to stay. So I did the only thing I could do, I accepted his choice. OK, so packing right in front of him, not allowing him to help, asking about so many random things ("do you want the tree-shaped kitchen timer?" "how about the box of extra toothpicks?"), that was a bit passive-aggressive. But, it did accomplish the desired result: R making the choice to work on our marriage without me begging him or forcing him. Whether I manipulated the situation or not makes little difference, he feels happy with his decision.

5 boxes to unpack today. 1 is clothes, 1 is mostly books, 1 is kitchen stuff, 1 has 3-4 kitchen items in it, and the last contains the bouquets from our wedding. The flowers were all fake, I had them put up on the wall for a while, the only real decoration we had for 4 months (until we got the clock a month ago, that really was a big excitement). R wants to finally take down the Christmas lights around the ceiling. I like having them up, it's convenient to be able to light the entire front half of the house from just one plug. OK, the plug is behind the couch and so we have to move that to plug/unplug, and they're not up evenly or even that prettily, but sometimes I don't want to use 2 lamps and 2 overhead lights to make it less dark. Oh well, minor concession on my part. As long as he takes them down carefully and winds them up carefully so that I don't have to spend 4 hours untangling when it comes time to put them up this winter.

Even after we've decided to work hard on this, even after all the tears and the good night we had (bought Ea.ster supplies for Little H and a couple things to mail to my cousin in A.ustralia, got a nice massage that was very much needed after several nights sleeping on the couch, that kind of stuff), unpacking is stressful. After a few days in limbo, I'm stuck feeling indifferent. I am more relaxed, I did actually sleep well last night, I finally ate without feeling like I was going to hurl, I brushed my teeth and actually cared while I was doing it. But the rest of it, I'm not feeling much anything for. I have no desire to do the dishes, no drive to make my home beautiful and clean again. I don't care if my laundry gets done, I'm staying in my pajamas for a few days anyway. I feel a bit of relief, but I don't want things to "get back to normal." That normal is what got us where we were, but it's also the only kind of routine we have. I have no expectations, just a little bit of hope. 2 1/2 years of infertility have taught me how to have just enough guarded hope to not be depressed, but little enough that I don't get broken by the next upset. Not a personality trait I ever wanted to be grateful for or proud of.

Little H will be here tomorrow night. We have big plans for the week: Tuesday video games and reuniting with the toys he has here, Wednesday video games with dad (R has bible study Tuesday night, so they won't have as much quality time available then) and any spring break homework (gives him plenty of time to ignore school, but not long enough that he can't remember what needs to be done or how to do it), Thursday boil and decorate eggs for Ea.ster (we got a Spon.gebob decorating kit, the cardboard rings are the bottom half of the characters and there are those fun shrinky plastic ring things that are the top half), Friday afternoon is early Ea.ster (we'll all go outside and play, Mama Roy will have to "go potty" and run inside for a minute, when we all come in, the bunny will have magically stopped by while we were playing with the dog), and he goes home at some point after that (the details with that are yet undiscussed). Busy week.

Time to get started with staying, we're going to need a lot of the stuff that belongs to me this week, and it's unusable when it's packed in a box. It will take a long time to come back from this, to trust and understand and listen again. I'm glad I'll have somewhere to turn during this journey, a whole world to escape into, a place to get out my feelings without having to effect R until I figure them out.

On the IF front: one of the pictures is me on my side, sheet draped across my groin. R wants a picture just like it with my pregnant belly instead of a flat one. He talked about it for an hour yesterday, he's desperate to have a baby once we start trying again (we're still taking a break till 2008, no plans to change that part of it, but he is now as desperate for a child as I am, completely willing to jerk in as many cups as I ask him to and spend thousands of dollars on doctors our insurance says we can't see). He's never been proactive about IF before, it's one fabulous change. Little H just had to get old enough to be fun, now R is wondering what he's missing during the week when Little H is at his mom's, and he's wondering how much really great stuff he missed out on before now. Sad that he had to miss so much before he realised he was missing anything, but it's awesome seeing how into being a dad he is. Definitely the man I want to inject myself and have dozens of internal ultrasounds for (hmmm, I wonder how fertile girls decide if a guy is worth it? maybe that's why "we" question them so much, because their only qualification for the father of their child is somebody they'd be willing to have sex with... save that thought for another time, I think I should devote a blog to it, when I'm ready)