...because I SAY it's getting better

It's getting better BECAUSE...

Because every morning, I stand in this little patch of sunlight in Grand Central Station and say, 'today will be a better day.'

Because I smile. Even when I don't want to.

Because I have your blogs to read.

Because I've had talks with the folks that I wanted to work with, and they lament the fact that I am not with them.

Because I have hope it will all work out.

Because I have medical insurance now, and can move forward on the baby making tract.

Because I have a husband who loves me, a crazy Mother In Law who loves me, and two cats who like it when I'm around. (mostly because I feed them).

Because I've watched T.he S.ecre.t three times.

Because I have a husband who loves me.

and mostly because I SAY so.

Okay, it's getting better

I'll s'plain more when I can.

And no, I didn't find my wallet. Or get the Job I Want. Or win the lottery. Or get a BFY.

But it's getting better, just the same.

And just when you think it can't get any worse...

I lost my wallet. Which contains every bit of my identification.

As well as every bit of Mama's identification.

(As well as my C.ostc.o card and other such useless-to-anyone-but-me items).

This week has GOT to get better...

...right?

Begging and Crying

So I cried. Just a little, but I cried. No one saw me do it, but I cried. And trust me, I will be doing it more later.

And when I was done with the crying, I started thinking. I called H, I posted here. I started casting about for anyone I knew who was good at the HR Speak of the Manager Speak. (I didn't find anyone who'd fluent in that language).

Finally, I went to Boss of Job I Want (not Job I Have) and offered points that she could negotiate with. Another member of my division has a "part-time" deal where he works half here, half somewhere else. So he's available if they need him here. Maybe we can do that, I said. B of JIW said she'd ask.

I actually even mentioned that JIW works better for me as a caregiver. (It's true -- I'd be home to put Mama on the bus and home in time for dinner). I am not above emotional blackmail. (Okay, but seriously -- am I hopelessly tacky to do it?)

And not to be a complete b*tch, I ended the encounter on a funny note -- telling anecdotes of how Mama negotiated with my wedding vendors to get a lower price.

Please, God, please. The part-time thing would work for everyone. Please, please, please.

(I haven't been this down since my last failed cycle).

On to the crying

Update...

And now it seems that division A says that because I "just went permanent" that i am not going to be allowed to transfer to division B.

Maybe.

My potential new boss just saw me in the hall.

She says she's going to my current boss, going to see what he says. His office it 8 feet away. I'm torn between going in and trying to talk to him and just breaking down into tears.

Anyone know what I should say?

First and Foremost

Okay, here's the story:

I've been working at Job A for three and a half years. As a temp. They FINALLY say, "we'd love to hire you," and I say GREAT! and accept. The hiring process, they say, takes about two months. Along the way, I hear about Job B, and I apply, and I'm told that I got it. And Job B is for the same company, same division, but the next department over.

So I ran the assumption that Job B would talk to Job A and do whatever to transfer me over.

So yesterday, I had orientation and it's my official first day and all that, only it's for Job A, my "old" job.

Huh?

Has anyone ever transferred departments? Anyone? It's been a week and a half since I was told I had the "new" job; when can I e-mail my "new" boss and ask, nicely, WHEN ARE YOU GETTING ME OUT OF HERE?

Anyone?

In the meantime, I haven't told anyone in my current department that I am looking to get out. Not even my boss. (Should I?)

I've never done this before, and am completely confused.

And what does it MEAN, I wonder, that Job A's "official" Day 1 was CD 1?

And how do we like the new graphics?

Being Junior Designer now, I thought it was time to spruce up...

Union Square

Anyone know where Union Square is, in New York City?

Obviously, it's "a square," which is to say a spot of open space in the middle of buildings and streets. I went the other day, because (3 days a week) they house an incredible farmer's market.

And while I got off at the right subway stop (that part is easy) I exited out an incorrect door. H always knows, with some incredible instinct, which is the exit that is inches from his destination. Me? Nope. I exit two blocks away from where I need to be.

But no matter, I say to myself. It's a beautiful day and the sun is shining and I haven't been to Union Square in a dog's age. Look! That restaurant has changed names and cuisines. That theatre is now a church! And I'm going to pass by the toy shop, so I can go in and look for that thing for H.

Except that the toy store is now a baby shop.

I don't know why I was so stunned. But I was seriously stunned. To the point that I cannot, do not, cannot tell you what THAT THING was that caused me to head for what I thought was a toyshop. Clueless.

So there I was, dead in my tracks in front of a Baby Store.

And I went in.

There was a short, chubby employee who greeted me when I walked in. Or at least I think she may have greeted me; I saw her lips moving but my heart was pounding SO LOUD I couldn't hear a thing. I smiled warmly (wanly?) and moved on.

I wandered rudderless a while. WHAT AM I DOING HERE I kept asking myself. AM I INSANE was next on the FAQ. IS THIS EVEN HEALTHY followed. My heart was thudding. My breathing was shallow. No joke, there was a moment when I thought I was going to pass out.

So I focused on a bottle display and forced myself to breathe. BREATHE. Told myself, I will not be afraid of this place. BREATHE. I will be back here, one day, to select things for my registry. For my baby. For my family. BREATHE.

And once the panic fled, I left. Head high.

STILL don't know if I was brave or crazy.

Decline

I do not like the word "decline." It's a wimp of a word. "I decline your offer." What's that mean? You don't want to, or you cant, or what the hell?

The folks at Mama's daycare tell us she's declining. Which means WHAT.

Hate that word.

Changing My Life

So a billion years ago, I made some New Years Resolutions. And I've actually made good on most of them.

7. Start a Medical Binder for me, and one for my MIL
Yeah. I'd forgotten about this one until I dug out my old posting. So no, but now that I remember it, it's next on my list.

6. I will do something positive (per Bea) as often as I can. (I hope I can get to 50).
Knowing all of you has changed my life. The only thing that's stopping me from listing you all by name and mentioning how much y'all have given to me, and how you have changed my life, how much I have learned from you is the huge freaking fear that I will not remember all of you (because it's more than the folks I list to the side) and that I might accidentally offend you in the process of praising you. But godDAMN, women, I owe you my life. From inspiring me to do something positive to be better to try for a new job to investigate a new treatment plan. I can do this because I saw you do it. And while I have not done a "good deed" every week, I made the decision (a la Bea) to, as I put it CRAM SUNSHINE into everything coming out of me. Until it got to be something I can do fairly comfortably, and regularly.

5. I will blog at least once a week.
Yeah. Does composing blog entries in my head count? No?

4. I will ask myself Powerful Questions.
All right, I admit it. I still use affirmations. But I aggressively ask questions, and ask positive questions. And I love it. It's a bit NLP, but I recommend it.

3. I will laugh really hard at least once a day.
The D.ail.y S.ho.w. The C.olber.t R.epor.t. My N.ame is E.arl. U.gly B.etty. H.ow I M.et Y.our M.other. Stand-Up podcasts. W.ait, W.ait, D.on't T.ell M.e podcasts. Not to mention, life's everyday antics. Laughing is FUN. (any suggestions?)

2. Continue with the somewhat goofy but "good for me" things I do.
I've been reading The I.nfertilit.y C.ure: The A.ncient C.hinese W.ellness P.rogram for G.etting P.regnant and H.aving H.ealthy B.abies. I bought it a year plus ago, but it took Square Peg saying she was reading it (and liking it) for me to have the patience to crack the spine. And while the book is lacking in some areas, I'm digging it. I mentioned the recommended diet to H, who responded "That's m.acrobiotic.s!" So we switched from struggling vegans to fairly successful macro-psychotics. (It helps that H used to work at the O.mega I.nstitute and has friends who are m.acrobiotic-friendly. Because, man, no one wants to have dinner with the vegans). I've kept most of the list up (except for s.ynthroi.d -- don't seem to need it anymore.) And an accupuncture clinic opened up blocks from my house, so I don't need to haul into Manhattan (and pay Manhattan prices) for my accupunture. I've even taking accupunturist-provided herbs (the most foul-smelling and evil-tasting thing I have ever put into my body).

1. Update my resume. And when the resume is updated, I will look for a job that will offer me health insurance.
Done. Okay, it took me four months (no exageration) to update my resume, but I DID IT. And I sent it out. And I applied for jobs, including one in the Marketing Department of the company that I work for.

And I got the job. (which comes with a raise, better hours, more fulfilling taks and oh yeah HEALTH INSURANCE).

EVERYBODY DANCE NOW!

Oops

These were supposed to come out at different times. (I thought, at least)

Apologies for the blog-spam

Cycles

It's a cycle, and not a good one. I'm away for a few days, months, years, and then I come back, and i feel OBLIGATED to read up on all of you, on what you've been doing, on where you are.

And when I'm done reading, the small amount of time that I've managed to secret away has been expended, and I have to go. And then I'm away for a few decades, centuries, eons. And, like the brooms with buckets in F.antasi.a or dirty laundry, y'all have blogged more posts, conquered more mountains, lived through more hells, and I feel obligated to be witness...

But today, I broke the cycle. I promised myself if I got the actual dirty laundry done, as well as a few other uxorial chores, I would pay the $9.99 at S.tarbuck.s and sit and blog and read and whatever for a few hours.

TA-DAA!!

I even managed to schedule it in such a way that H gets some time to vanquish our incoming bills and (please, Jesus) put us on a schedule and figure us a way out our black hole of debt.

Double TA-DA!!

And as to why I haven't been posting... Here's the story.

I've got a Supervisor and a Manager. And the Manager gave the Supervisor some projects, but even though the Supervisor has two scheduled hours of downtime a day, Supervisor was going nowhere on the projects. So Supervisor comes over to me the day after I get back from LA and INFORMS me (not asks, not even wrapping it in a nice "would you mind") that I am going to do her job for -- wait for it -- SIX MONTHS and she is going to do mine because MINE is EASIER.

Riiiiight.

And I, of course, smiled and said ANYTHING I CAN DO TO HELP because I am a "contractor," a "temp" and three million years ago they said I was on the short list to get hired which means health insurance which I do not currently have.

And so we switched and I did her job a helluva lot better than she did mine because my job is hard, is demanding, is incredibly draining, and you have to make the decision to get through it smiling. (Or, at least, *I* have made the decision to get through it smiling).

You ever notice when you decide to make the best of it, and you actually find the best of it, without sarcasm or snark or teeniest of bitchiness... it actually becomes pretty good?

For the record -- I'm a word processor who is SO GOOD that I've learned three thousand software packages, and was elevated to a position that I am the coordinator/troubleshooter for all the other word processors in my center, and all the ones off in India. Twenty to thirty people I give constant technical and design assistance every single day.

Easy, my EYE. I just make it look like that. (Anyone who has ever managed anyone -- you KNOW what I mean).

So I used to have downtime. Not a lot, but a bit. And I would start a blog on Monday and finish it up a few days later. I had a small amount of privacy, a nice little desk in the back that I shared with other folks in my position (my job is open 24/7). And I blogged.

But since I've been 'supervising'... I'm up at the front, with my Manager by my side. Clients constantly coming in the door to be attended to. (I great every freaking one of them with a smile, unlike my Supervisor, who is a drama queen.) I ask questions, I seek solutions, I say "no" when we can't accomplish something but I follow every "no" with possible alternatives. I'm rocking it, to the point that my Manager said to me, "Nica, I have to be more like you." Score!

But no space to blog. The manager would NOT take kindly to taking my downtime to blog. I think I mentioned, a few months ago, the Company I work for even blocked the blog sites. I figures a way around it, but that's all the more reason for me not to flaunt it.

So, sorry I've been gone so long, but I'm sucking down decaf coffees with soy milk so let's see what I can get done today...

Couples fighting infertility might have more control than they think

US News and World Report

http://www.usnews.com/usnews/health/articles/070429/7infertility.htm

Allright, this is a cop out. More later...

I'm in LA this week...

Work sent me to LA to cover for another worker. Anyone have any suggestions on what and where to go?

Yankees vs Red Sox

Imagine if you will, that you are a huge, D.ere.k J.ete.r loving, stripe-wearing Yankees fan. And more than that you are a New Yorker. An American. But you are in a country far, far away from New York City. And that you have been there for a very long time. Years and years in fact.
And then one day, you see a restaurant open up just a few miles from you. An American style restaurant, with all the foods and customs and mores that you grew up with. You get happy. You get excited. Until you find out...

It's Red Sox-themed.

The same thing happened to my Mother-in-Law, with the changes in the story that she's not from the United States, she's from somewhere else (legally emigrating more that 5 decades back, thanks for asking). And that it's not, obviously, a Red Sox-themed restaurant. But everything else is the same, and for ease of understanding, I'm going to be referring to "Yankees" and "Red Sox."

Entiendamos?

So yeah, there's this Red Sox themed restaurant. And at first, we would drive by it, and Mama would spit at the sight of it. Which changed (thank you God) to her telling us the story about how her father would spit every time someone would say the name "Red Sox." And sometimes she would sing the fight song from the rival team's fight song.

Then, one night, we're scrounging for a place to have dinner/get take out from. H is having a craving for food "like his Mother used to make." And I suggest the Red Sox Diner, laughing as I say it. A strange look comes across H's face, and off he is to enemy territory.

H loves it. And Mama loves it, although we don't mention where it came from. I breathe a sigh of relief that we got away with it.

Next month, we're back.

This time, I accompany H. I, who root for neither the Red Sox not the Yankees (let's go Mets!) feel as though, on some level, I am doing something bad. This is how vehemently and eloquently Mama has conveyed her dislike for the Yankees.

Much to my surprise, God does not strike us down when we walk through the door of Red Sox Restaurant. And the people are nice and the place is far more authentic than I thought. And there's a little, little Yankees logo up in the corner. H says, "Mama would love this!" I'm not so sure, but my husband is always right. Mama loves the leftovers and holds her spit when we tell her where it came from.

So a few days ago, we all decide to go there for dinner. (I know -- we eat out far too much for people so broke). And Mama decides to wear her Yankees T-Shirt. To the Red Sox Diner.

At first we were a little concerned -- this is a serious rivalry in Mama's home country. But we decide to go for it. (Of course, being a chicken, *I* put on the Red Sox shirt that H bought only to poke at his mother).

H leaves us outside the restaurant to go find parking. We ask for a table for three and the hostess leads us right to one.

Once at the table, Mama looks at the hostess. "Do you know what I have on?," Mama asks and opens her coat (like a flasher) to show off the Yankee T-Shirt.

The hostess erupts in a stream of Spanish to quick for me to follow. She calls over to another table. Mama flashes them the Yankees shirt and they cheer. Another table boos. One of the bartenders comes over to shake her hand and compliment her on her "fine breeding" and "great taste." Mama (the woman who cannot walk a straight line without a cane or walker) begins to dance around, randomly opening her coat and flashing people the Yankees T-shirt. I chase after her, get the coat off and her in a seat about a minute before H comes in.

"Did anyone notice the shirt?" H asks.

Huh.

We have a nice, uneventful dinner. I practice my Spanish and all goes well. H pays the check and goes running out to get the car, leaving his mother and I to (slowly) put on our coats and make our way to the door.

As Mama passes a table, one of the men growl "You are in the wrong place!" His manner of delivery makes me a little nervous, but Mama laughs at him and flashes her shirt. An entire table near the front (near the bar) start howling and booing at Mama. She flashes the shirt and blows them kisses.

Once we're (safely) outside, Mama can't stop laughing. And I join her. And we're laughing and laughing and laughing. H pulls up and we're still laughing. And I tell him the story (her entrance, her exit, and everything in between) and H starts laughing. Mama is howling, I am giggling.

And I realize, I can't remember feeling this good in forever.

And I realize, I haven't felt good in so long, it feels WRONG to feel this good.

And I make the decision to keep laughing. Dammit.

The Eyes Have It

Mama's eyes turned red a few weeks ago. (Her ultimate diagnosis: Blepharitis). Her (social model) daycare couldn't handle it; sent her home saying they were not going to let her back until she was declared "non-contagious."

I called her doctor, who said "go to an opthamologist." Mama hasn't seen an opthamologist for two decades, so I was at a loss to find one. QUICKLY.

Luckily, the last time Mama had a medical crisis, I was at work, and my well-organized hypochondriac co-worker supplied me with a list of specialized emergency rooms. So I packed up Mama and took her to the N.e.w Y.or.k E.y.e and E.a.r I.nfirmar.y one fine Monday morning.

The minute we walk in, she says, "are we going to see Dr. B?" I say no and smile and explain that, um, we're going to see an associate of Dr. B. Yeah, that's it. "No," says Mama, stamping her foot like a spoiled child, "Dr. B is my eye doctor."

We (meaning I) fill out forms as we (meaning her) wait impatiently for our turn. (They are mind-boggling quick after-hours, but we had come for a regular walk-in appointment. So we waited about 90 minutes).

At one point, Mama was so agitated I put my I.p.o.d headphones on her and cranked the classical music. It made her SO HAPPY that she began to dance. And sing. LOUDLY. To the orchestral, no-vocals included classical music. (Mama sings SO BADLY that a co-worker of mine who heard her once wanted to record her JUST for the comedy of it...)

We were the talk of the waiting room...

I had placed the I.p.o.d in Mama's hand (and wrapped her fingers around it), because I didn't want it to go flying. At one point, Mama screams "Nica, you have to hear this!" and crams the I.p.o.d. next to my ear. As if it was a transistor radio. I (politely) decline and she shoves it next to her own ear. And continues to dance. And sing. Loudly (and off-key).

Within five minute of the start of Mama's performance, we're whisked to a consultation room. (Coincidence? I think not). A nurse does the preliminary examination, and Mama starts talking about Dr. B. The nurse looks at her (then me) strangely. She asks Mama to repeat the name and Mama repeats it. "I'm sorry," says the nurse. "Dr. B died some time ago." She walks out and Mama and I quietly wait for the doctor.

Mama is sad, and spends the next few moments reminiscing. Dr. B's wife was named A. He had two sons. He was a great man, and a nice man. She gets a little teary, which isn't a bad thing an opthamologist's office.

The Trainee Doc comes in to examine Mama. I recommend the NYEE highly, but the doctors that you see there are fresh out of school. I think I have shoes older than the Trainee Doc. And while Trainee is knowledgeable, she's thrown by the fact that Mama is a sad (and bad) patient. Mama will NOT sit still, Mama will not stick her chin in that thing that you're supposed to stick your chin in (anyone know the name). And the glaucoma test -- where you have to keep your eye open as they blow air in it? -- yeah. NOT happening.

Trainee Doc asks, then begs, then I ask, then beg. We ask in English, we beg in Spanish. (I've explained about the Alzheimer's). Trainee Doc gets frustrated, and says she's going to call her supervising doctor.

"I should send a card to the family," says Mama when Trainee's out of the room. "A sympathy card to Dr. B's family." I nod and plug her into the I.p.o.d, worried about how we can get Mama through the necessary tests.

In walks Dr. Trainee with her Supervisor.

The Supervisor is the son of Dr. B.

The Supervisor, the son of Dr. B. examined her 20+ years ago when he was just a trainee and remembers Mama.

And the Supervisor looks enough like his father that Mama calms down and gets through the exam. (they want us to come back fro some preventative laser surgery, but all should be well).

As we get in the cab home, Mama turns to me and says. "I told you that I was going to see Dr. B."

I ask you -- what are the freaking odds?

This and that.

Am I crazy, or did bogger used to have a fun toolbar? That allowed you to insert links as, well, links? I don't seem to have that anymore. And the short cuts don't work...

Recent articles of interest to me from the New York Times...

MODERN LOVE; In the Grip of Nature's Own Form of Birth Control

Prevalence of Alzheimer’s Rises 10% in 5 Years

And I’m Not Your ‘Girl,’ Gramps

This I found amusing, mostly because I have used this agency and the Home Health Aides did not like to change a soiled bed, much less what they say they do in this article.

Promise to have a real post soon....

Life Isn't Fair. But That's Okay.

Life isn't fair. But that's okay.

A friend of mine and I had a conversation a week or so back. Her life is going great, mine not so much, and I dunno. I think she was looking for the silver lining in my current IF cloud.

"Of course this will all work out for you," she says, "because you're taking care of Mama."

Which took me a minute to put together. And then I asked her explicitly, just to be sure, that I understood her.

And I did. By her logic, I'm going to get pregnant because if I deserve to get pregnant.

Except. Who decides that I freaking DESERVE.

Two weeks ago, when Mama was screaming at me that I was the cause of all things wrong with both her and her life, I yelled back.

Mama never knew me before her dementia, before the Alzheimer's. So any memory she has of being healthy, happy and strong... doesn't include me. So every so often, her logic decides that I am responsible and she shrieks at me to get out. She screams and hits and hits and screams and demands that I get out, that I leave, that her son will be better off without me, that she will be better off without me, that I am fat, that I am ugly, that I am stupid, that she curses me, that I am cursed, that she hates me, that I am evil and deserve to die. And when she hits, she always (always) strikes me in the abdomen and occasionally adds "I kill your baby! I kill your baby!"

Sometimes (rarely) it rolls off my back. But this last time, I screamed back, loud and vicious. After a minute or two of howling, (mine and hers), I sat down quietly. While I can still see Mama (and she me), I cease to interact with her. I pray a little, focus on something (anything) else, and get my calm back. (I think of it as giving myself a time out.) And after a moment of two of quiet, she starts to talk to me. Can she do anything for me, she asks. Can she make me a sandwich? Get me a glass of water? Can she make me a cup of tea?

H called me at that moment, and I collapsed into tears. I crumpled, I whined, I demanded that he make it all better. And he tried, but he couldn't. So we fought on the phone and made up on a second call.

Mama was having problems finding her crayons and when I found them, she said "Thank you Nica. You bring such good things to my life. I love you." And she hugged me and kissed me and happily toddled off to color.

People routinely say something trite. How good H and I are to take Mama in, how good we are with her. Like I would instantly "deserve" to have kids, be pregnant.

But. If we don't have kids, is it because we don't deserve to? Did Mama deserve to have dementia? Does the woman with Alzheimer's deserve to be yelled at for what she cannot control? For how her brain does (and doesn't) function? Does my family deserve to be without health insurance? Does H deserve to have his wife scream at him at work? Did I deserve to have a chemical pregnancy?

Life isn't fair. Mostly, I'm thinking, because life is filled with humans. And humans are frail creatures with frailer bodies. And sometimes they fail -- both the human and the bodies -- despite the best of efforts and the best of intentions. And what's fair for me may not be fair for you, or for H, or for Mama. And if I forgive them -- Mama and H and all the other humans (including me) in my life -- and they forgive me for my frailty, for what makes my life (and their lives) unfair... and if I'm going to continue to try (and to risk failing or really screwing up)... then I have to make my peace with life being unfair.

Life isn't fair. But that's okay.

Feel free to disagree with me. It took me a few weeks to get to here...

What is In Vitro Maturation?

See above. What is In Vitro Maturation and how is it different from IVF? Anyone know?

See, I do searches periodically for news articles about fertility. I keep hoping that there will be something... something. Preferably with the headline "HEY NICA -- THIS WILL GET YOU PREGNANT!!"

In Vitro Maturation popped up a while back, and though I have g.oogle.d it, I'll be darned it I understand it. Because if it works so well... why aren't more folks using it? If anyone has a clue, feel free to share with the rest of the class...

And speaking of being confused by the news... Being overweight is bad for fertility, trans-fats are bad for fertility, but a diet high in fat is good for fertility.

My little head is hurting...

Yesterday

Yesterday, I'm waiting in front of the building. It was shortly after 8:00AM, raining like hell, cold enough to be miserable (but not enough to make it snow). I'm waiting with Mama for the bus that takes her to daycare. And Mama, being Mama, is wandering around. I'm chasing after her, making sure that she's covered by the umbrella, and while she doesn't move fast, she has this superhuman ability to make sure that she's far enough away that I am constantly drenched. And because I am REALLY SMART I am wearing pink fluffy bunny slippers that are sopping and freezing and slipping off my feet and getting filthier by the minute.

And then the morning got bad.

Isa, Mama's former Home Care Attendant, comes walking by, on her way to the subway. She waves and runs up to Mama, chirping a greeting and (thank you Jesus) causing Mama to stop in her tracks. Isa then turns to me and says NICA, WHERE'S THE BABY? WHY YOU NO PREGNANT YET?

Yeah. We're Latin. Have I mentioned?

I was raised in the Midwest, by parents trying (and succeeding) to be middle class. Polite (ish). Small family. You know the kind.

I move to NYC, I marry H, and I am pulled into a large (although now, all moved away) Latin family.

And WHERE IS THE BABY is the way we get greeted. That, or WHY DON'T YOU HAVE KIDS (YET). Just after we were married, we'd respond we're trying!! with laughs and smiles. And then the smiles got thinner and the chuckles died away. And now while I am usually reeling from this hello, H (if he's with me) if giving whomever an abridged version of our attempts to procreate. Up to and including our maybe-chemical pregnancy. (My 2nd RE is convinced it was a real pregnancy, my OBGYN is not. Doc Fight!)

But H wasn't there, so I just stood there. In the rain, feet cold and hair sopping, I just stood there. And Isa continues, YOU'VE GAINED WEIGHT. I THOUGHT YOU WERE PREGNANT.

Yeah.

I wish I could be like H. I wish I could just tell people that we're trying, that it's hell, that it's hell. H actually told his boss that he needed a job that had good benefits because we were having fertility problems and needed great medical coverage. (H is currently working freelance). I wish I could make similar requests to my boss.

But I don't.