Not so funny...

In real life. I am a funny person. Honest. And when I tell stories about my life, about my infertility and my MIL and my life, I can make people laugh. I can.

But when I look at this blog—it's not funny. Nary a word of it.

I'm racking my brain trying to think of something bright and shiny and witty to say. I'm reading and lurking on all these other blogs, and I'm so inspired and intimidated and touched by the lives that the bloggers lead. Going to conferences and job interviews and all such. My biggest accomplishment today was getting out of bed.

In other worlds..

We finally say my ob-gyn yesterday. "We" because my husband went along. He was going to get answers! He was going to get to the bottom of this! My husband is a man who fixes things—cars, computers, small appliances. He assumes that all things work in similiar wasy, that all problems are identifiable and all errors can be fixed.

He hasn't accompanied me on a lot of my infertility-related doctor visits...

My doctor tried to be encouraging, but also realistic. I sobbed buckets and she stopped the exam and just held me for a good ten minutes. (I love my ob-gyn.) My husband kept trying to get those definitive answers, but, to my doc's credits, she flat out said "I don't have answers for you. I don't know."

As we weren't crazy about the last RE she recommended to us (and as that RE is on, wait for it, MATERNITY LEAVE) my ob-gyn recommended another RE to us... This one has a sliding scale and specializes in the "harder" patients.

When we came out, he was upset. Crying a bit. He hugged me, held me hard, hung on for a good long while. "We're going to be fine," I told him. "We'll get through this. We'll be okay."

So sad the day when you realize not everything is easily fixed...

Halloween Horrors!

Today, approximately 7:30AM, my MIL comes running into the kitchen. "I'm supposed to wear a costume today! What am I going to dress up as?"

Her Alzheimers daycare usually has her dress up on Halloween. Halloween as in NEXT TUESDAY. As in NOT TODAY. As is OH DAMMIT I THOUGHT I HAD MORE TIME.

I poke my head into the living room, and ask my darling husband if he knows anything about this. "Oh, yeah," he confirms. "They called yesterday."

So it's 7:30 in the morning, she gets picked up at 8:15, and I've got to put together a costume.

How was your morning?

Long story short, she went as a football player. She put on one of my husbands football jerseys and chanted GO TEAM. Occasionally she even got the team name correct. My husband pitched in to get her ready, getting her excited about her costume.

touchdown!

I am a parent. Sort of.

Yesterday, when I walked through the door, my MIL threw herself in my arms, crying "I am your little girl! I am your little girl!" I have no idea what set her off, although she sometimes thinks that I'm her mother...

I am a parent. I know. I get to help wash her hair and help pick out her clothes. I even get to change diapers! :) But a "traditional" parent gets to look at their kid with some sense of hope. He's getting so big! Look what he's learned!

My days are filled with different victories. She remembered how to work a zipper! She called my husband by the right name! She knows what day it is! She know what city she's in!

There isn't any... hope. She's not getting better. She's never getting better. She's lucky just to hold on to what little ability she has...

I won't lie. In the chasm in my heart, the part that is empty without a child, my MIL has taken an edge off of that need, off of that ache. I have someone to fuss over, someone to snuggle with, someone to coddle.

But for everything that she's given, she's also added and edge to that pain. Because of my MIL, I know that I would be a great mom. I can get through the largest tantrums without loosing my cool! I am overflowing with knowledge on how to clean up stinky stains and messes! I have an exceptionally high tolerance for non-sensical songs (and butchered current hits)! I engage in education activities! I plan healthy meals! I make Halloween costumes! (My MIL likes to dress up).

I know I'd be a good parent; I'm already a good caregiver. My MIL is directly responsible for my confidence that I will be a good parent. And knowing I'd be a good parent... makes it a little more poignant not to be one.

Sound of Music

Have I mentioned that my MIL loves music? As in LOVES music. LOVES LOVES LOVES music. A million years ago when her memory was being evaluated by a young nurse, they started talking about favorite singers, favorite bands. The nurse was impressed because the last CD that she had bought was the last CD my MIL had bought (okay, we bought for her. But still). Some young handsome singer who's name escapes me...

Recently she's decided she like R.ob Z.ombie. Specifically the song "Dr.agula." Don't ask me why. It's been playing here and there because it's near Halloween. She's heard it enough times that she's been emboldened to sing along.

Have I mentioned my MIL's musical ability? No? Well, perhaps it's because... bless her heart, she ain't got any. She sings so off-key and out of time, out of rhythm that a friend of mine who likes to record "alternative music" wants to get her on tape. She's both that charming and that awful. Awful awful.

Yesterday, we're driving back from the grocery store. (I always take her when we go grocery shopping, because there's nothing she enjoys more than the produce section. Can spend hours in there...) And the radio is on, and we're flipping the channels, and "Dr.agula" comes on... And my eighty-plus year old MIL warbles along with Mr. Z.ombie, bopping her head, slapping her hands and not getting a single word right...

Feel free to sing along...

I hate Alzheimers

We told my MIL as soon as we knew. As soon as we knew we were having trouble getting pregnant, all the IUIs we tried, when we graduated to IVF, when we were successful and when, to quote my good doctor, when the pregancy didn't continue.

When we told her we were pregnant, she jumped. She clapped her hands. She cried YAY! and demanded to know the due date. Good, she said when she knew. Close to her mother's birthday

When we told her we weren't pregnant, we were crying. She started crying. She reminded me, somehow, of an upset bird. Throwing her hands and keening NO. Flapping her hands. No. NO.

But that was days ago. And, stomach punching aside, she does want to be a grandmother. She does.

This morning, she showed me a picture. A present she wanted to get me. It was a baby carrier, one of the simple ones that look like a peasant shawl.

I said, Mama, don't you remember? We lost the baby. No, refused my MIL. No. We went round and round a few times until my husband yelled THE BABY IS DEAD, MOTHER DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?

Then we were all quiet for a while.

I hate Alzheimers.

Last week I was pregnant. Today I am not

Coping is over-rated.

In other news, my husband got a job. No health insurance but a decent paycheck. And if we're very good... We may be able to afford another go round of IVF next year.

but let's face it. there is no other news.

Lunch Lady!

My MIL made my lunch today. I have to say, it was very cute. Having Alzheimer's has not stopped that maternal "I must feed you" urge.

SO she made me PB&Js. Sort of. It took her five minutes to think of what to make. Watching (and hearing, as she was talking aloud) her go through the thought process to come up with what she was capable of making me was cute and touching.

The great trauma was that we ran out of jelly. She came running (as much as she can run) into the room crying I NEED MORE JELLY!!! NOW!!! Seems we had run out. My husband convinced her that a PB sandwich (sans jelly) would be just fine. Oh, the sight of her face at that. I want to be that happy on a daily basis.

The best part (and it was all good) was how she wrapped the sandwhiches. My husband told her to use the zip-lock bags, but she couldn't get the bread to fit in them. So she wrapped the sandwiches in plastic wrap, and THEN placed them in the zip-lock bags.

She was so proud. Definitely, a good morning...

Not going to babysit...

I'm reading through all these blogs. Mostly dealing with fertility and infertility. I don't even know who Thalia is and I'm going to miss her.

I am so intimidated. My thoughts don't come in clean even paragraphs. so expect my blog to be disjointed.

Like now. For some reason I am stuck on the memory of the last time that I told my MIL I was trying to get pregnant. She responded with three sharp (hard) punches to my stomach. And then laughed.

Later I'll be funny. Not this post.

Will work for IVF: Someone hire my husband.

Had a lovely little non-fight with my husband moments ago. At the heart of it is that I wanted to leave work early, but I get paid by the hour, and we're cash strapped. So he doesn't want me to.

Mind you, he hasn't worked in 5 weeks, and the only think that's stopping him from getting a job is faxing in a form. Which he won't fax. Because he's too busy. Playing fantasy football.

Love is grand...

Good god, I've got a BLOG.

So my husband keeps saying, "Honey, you should have a blog" because between having a full-time job, battling infertility, keeping house and caring for his Alzheimer's inflicted mother, he seems to think I have lots of free time.

Hmpf.

Okay, well. I'll start a blog. (And If I never post again, rest assured that I have shot myself).

xoxo
Nica