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Posts Tagged ‘wedding’

I’m a Missus..

…which is pretty damned weird when you think about it.  

Wedding was a hoot – truly a perfect ceremony for us, a blend of sheer goofiness and unadulterated sentiment – sort of like our relationship, actually.  Our J of the P wasn’t actually certain that his certification – or whatever – was still valid.  Fortunately, his wife is also a J of the P, so we were married – jointly – by one or the other of the J of the Ps in the room at the time.  It rained the entire time we were in New Hampshire.  Boy’s BFF bought us a wedding cake (as did the owner of the B&B where we stayed).  We were serenaded by a teen-aged boy right before the wedding, and photographed by a pre-teen boy who pronounced us incredibly un-photogenic (which we knew.  This was not a surprise.)  The dog slept through it all on the sofa.  Our bed at the B&B turned out to be the creakiest bed – on the creakiest wooden floor – in the world, so the marriage remained unconsummated much longer than anyone who knows us well would believe.   Dog got to run full-out through a field of wet grass, which, given that she’s a whippet, was actually quite impressive.  Middle daughter was cordial, and we ate sushi and ice cream in Cambridge with her and one of her friends.  Meanwhile, the dog ate a screen at the B&B.  The stock market crashed, and we got to hear it all on the radio, as it happened.  We came home early, not feeling much like frolicking on the beach while Rome burned.

We got married.

We laughed, we cried…

No, really.

It was sweet and sincere, and as simple as pledging to love someone forever – in front of witnesses – can be.  It was perfect.  

I’m in love with a wonderful man, and he’s in love with me.  And I get to live with him forever.  Yes, this is one of those happily-ever-after stories.  

You got a problem with that?

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Except, as I write that, I realize that it’s not entirely true.  The actual reason for the hurry-up wedding is in case we end up striking out a couple more times with the IVF, in which case we’ll be looking to adopt some parentless sprog out there ASAP, in which case we’ll need to look as stable and non-flighty as possible, for as long as possible, all of which means that getting married sooner rather than later would be a good thing.

We’re doing it as a part of the wild, wild honeymoon tour of Centralia, PA (site of the ever-burning coal mine – research for one of the boy’s books); Binghamton, NY (home base for a handful of friends we don’t see nearly often enough); Manchester, NH (from whence comes the boy’s BFF, AKA the J of the P who’s going to marry us in his kitchen); Cambridge, MA (to visit the middle child who threatens to call any child I bear “it”, but still wants us to come see her new apartment); and finally a relaxing day or two in Maine walking along rocky beaches with dog, encouraging said dog to attack seagulls and generally amuse us.  

I’m actually looking forward to the vacation part of it, and also to having finished the wedding part of my life (neverneverneverwanttogothroughthisagain!) and to getting on with the fun stuff of being married.  I get a shiny new ring out of the deal – though it will not, due to my own stellar lack of planning, be ready in time for the kitchen-ceremony.  And I get to start calling the boy “my husband”, which, to be honest, I do about half the time already, because, really, at our age, having a boyfriend (and being a girlfriend) is just too silly.  Especially when it gets all complicated with the whole ‘trying to have a baby with my boyfriend’ thing.  A few times at my clinic, when I explained that my ‘partner’ would be by later, they were obviously surprised to see a man show up and not a woman…  

Unlike the first time I endured this whole marriage thing, this time around I’m actually considering the possibility of a name-change.  Mostly because much of the reason for formalizing our relationship is because of our intent to create a family, and because I feel strongly that a family should all have the same name – or at least all have similar names.  Boy’s BFF and his wife split the difference with one kid being Eli M-R & the other being Zeke R-M.  A tidy solution, but not practical in our case – namely because if we were to hyphenate our names, we’d sound way too much like a certain character out of Gone with the Wind.  

Besides, I like my name.  

So I’ll likely keep mine professionally, but if (when!) we have a family, I will introduce myself socially with the family name.  A weird balance, but probably the most honest compromise I can come up with at this late date in my life.  

In other exciting news, an agent has requested a partial manuscript for my fantasy novel, and so I’m keeping my fingers crossed about that.  It’d be nice to have another area of my life open up & not totally suck.  

Going to go wrap the boy’s wedding present now.  And maybe wrestle with the dog.  And then I’m going to sit back in bed and count all my goddamn blessings because, really, I know that I’m awfully fucking lucky, even though I whine too much.

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And today I underwent the procedure I was trying to avoid two months ago when I forewent the D&C for a natural, astonishingly scary & painful miscarriage at home.  

Today’s hysteroscopy/D&C was certainly unnatural, but really not scary or painful at all, thanks to the joys of a general anesthetic, which I’m pretty sure he used to spare me the emotional pain of dealing with the fact that it was probably the remains of my poor baby that wouldn’t come out.  All things considered, if I ever have to go through this again – I’m choosing what’s behind curtain number two right away.  

At least as long as curtain number two is actually a privacy shield in a very clean and professionally run surgical center.

The center itself was a hoot.  Just off Park Avenue, so catering to the, uh, rich and catered-to, the waiting room looked like a boudoir that had seen better days.  Brocade.  Tassels on the lamps.  Framed antique maps and prints from obscure children’s books.  A fireplace.  A samovar.  Truly, all it needed was a woman in the corner,  wearing negligee and smoking a ciggie with a long filter to complete the picture of weird decadence.  I expected to see a hookah in there somewhere, but did not.  Obviously I just didn’t look hard enough.  

Past the waiting room, though, it was all business.  The pre-op/recovery room was just a long maze of gurneys divided by privacy curtains.  Very professional and antiseptic looking, except since most of their early-morning patients were post-colonoscopies being urged to pass all the air from their bowels, it was noisy and awfully surreal in a goofy sort of way.  

The woman in the next gurney-slot over from me was an old dear in for a carpal tunnel excavation, “72 years young”, as she kept explaining to anyone who stood still long enough.  Then she’d praise her doctor to the skies – “He’s a mensch, one of the good guys!  I wouldn’t be alive today if it weren’t for Dr. H.”  Then she tried to hit on the anesthesiologist – which was understandable, because he was a cutie, but it was still sort of weird to be privy to her bizaare bed-top manner.  

The center itself had all the bells & whistles – weird for someone like me who is used to bare-bones medical care, if any at all.  But this was top-notch, and pretty cushy besides.  My hospital gown had an attachment for what – for all intents and purposes – was a hairdryer.  To keep me warm.  Sounds goofy, but oh my, when I woke up shivering from the damned general anesthesia, I fell in love.  I’d’ve stayed there all day if they’d left that thing running.  I want one at home.  As soon as those suckers are commercially available, I’m all over that…

The staff also kept up a running commentary of stupid jokes of the sort I tend to appreciate, though the nurse who insisted on probing for the complete story of my infertility was sort of annoying.  I think she thought she was keeping my mind off the upcoming procedure, but really, what my mind needs to be taken off these days is the infertility – not the various treatments surrounding same.  But everyone was kind.  It would have been all right going there for a D&C.  Next time I’ll know.

(I can’t believe I just wrote that.  Scratch previous negative thought, please.)

And it looks like it wasn’t a polyp or a fibroid or some weird nasty tumorous growth.  Just a remnant from the pregnancy that didn’t want to leave.  When I asked my doctor how it went, he laughed and said, “You do know that this is the fourth time you’ve asked that.”  Er, sorry.  Anesthesia is weird.  But he was kind and explained it all over again for me, and then a few minutes later popped back in to ask if I remembered what he’d said this time.  I do like this man.  I’m glad I lucked into him for my RE, but I sort of wish that he was a “regular” doctor simply because he’s the sort of doctor I could see remaining loyal to for just about ever.  I trust this man more than I’ve ever trusted a doctor before, which makes this easier than it would be otherwise, I think.  So anyway, he got everything out that should have come out, and let everything be that should be let be.  And I’m on Estrace again – it felt funny opening up the pill bottle, recognizing the little lozenges, and then verifying that –Yes!- this time I get to take them Orally!  Who would have thought the day would come when I would be thrilled to take a pill twice a day – down my THROAT!  

Boy was a dear and came to pick me up.  He also managed to get hold of his parents in Italy to tell them about the wedding next week.  *sigh*  Bad enough that it’s an “elopement”, which was really a practicalconsideration so that:

A) My parents won’t have to fly out.

B) His daughters won’t have to choose between being there & being pissy, or not being there & being branded bitches.

C) I won’t have to have a fuss made over me, or endure a wedding where lots of his friends show up, and none of mine can jet across the country to be there.  The fact that his BFF agreed to (and is qualified to) do this just solved an awful lot of problems.  This way it’ll be special, but not stupid.  Because, you know?  I’ve done this before.  I really don’t need the party.

But I still suspect they’ll suspect I put him up to this, when truly, it’s just his scatterbrainedness.  The market’s heaving and pitching this week has him mightily distracted, but still, I hope they’re not too weirded out by this – their eldest boy getting married without them…

But back to the IVF part of the blog.  So anyway, I’m home, it’s over, I am bleeding a bit of bright red blood though really, less cramping and bleeding than I’d feared.  And, according to my doctor, that should clear up quickly (at which point, the Estrace will probably trigger a period.  At which point I need to schedule a new consultation with him to figure out what comes next.)  And, at this point, I can finally (finally, finally, finally) consider my miscarriage complete.

This summer sucked.  But it’s almost over.  Here’s to new beginnings.

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…or as close to it as I can approximate.

Seriously, I’m feeling so much better. Still bleeding, but nothing dizzying. No double-me-over cramps as my uterus attempts to turn itself inside out. I even hope to be able to donate blood at work on Friday, since NYC is having a shortage of my type, and since I have no fear of needles left in me. And as far as hemophobia goes – hah!

It’s been a month since I found out what would be happening this summer. Five weeks since estimated fetal death. It feels disloyal, somehow to that almost-baby, and to my own pain, to be recovering so – dare I say it? – well and relatively quickly. But I think I am. Doing well. I mean, four weeks ago I was raw with pain. Absolutely incapable of setting it aside for even a moment to deal with life. That wasn’t very long ago, though it feels like it was.

It helps that I don’t feel shitty anymore. Hmmph. Ok, more honestly spoken, I don’t feel pregnant anymore. I hadn’t realized how much of my misery really was physical/chemical. It helps that, looking back over my records, I came to peace with the fact that sprog was too tiny from the beginning, and that if my own, brutally honest doc (bless ‘im) had been in town, I likely would have known from week 5 that things were not looking great for teeny-sprog. There was something wrong from the beginning, and the indications were there, I just didn’t have the experience to understand, and my doctor’s replacement was too conservative to try to prepare me ahead of time (not that I would have been in any better place to have had even MORE warning that this wasn’t going to work.)

But somehow, knowing that this pregnancy was doomed from the beginning – I don’t know why, but that makes it a bit easier for me. They weren’t superstar embryos & it simply wasn’t meant to be. Shitty to even look at those words there, & I was (& probably never will be) never in any mood to hear them said out loud, but here, in the privacy of my own head (and the publicly accessible space of my own blog) I can say it & know that it’s truth. Something was wrong with almost-sprog. It simply wasn’t meant to be.

But, I do find it comforting that my body was good at being pregnant. Whatever other troubles we have that make it tough to start a baby growing, I’m good at incubating one, once it’s there. Which seems to me to indicate that I might have a decent shot at carrying a baby to term as long as my ovaries can be persuaded to produce some non-sucky eggs. And, even if they can’t be tricked, hey – at least the economy’s so shitty that women are selling their eggs in never-before-seen numbers. That’s cause for cheer, right?

Right?

*sigh*

Puppy-hunting helps. Well, it helps, but it also helps that the boy’s willingness to give me something I need so desperately makes me realize why I fell so deeply in love with this man. It helps that when he told his best friend that we were getting married, probably at city hall, best friend said, “Er, why not drive up here? (NH) I am a justice of the peace, you know.”

We didn’t know that. We said, yes please, and especially if he’d be willing to put on the fake “mawwidge” accent/lisp from Princess Bride. That would be awesome.

Truly, whether or not he’ll do the Mawwidge speech, I’m thrilled. And touched. And grateful to be able to make our wedding day special without making a fuss over it, if that makes any sense. And delighted not to have to get married in New York City. Or Vegas. *snort*

So, nothing new here, most likely, until the 18th, when I go in for what I hope will be my final HCG test under the OB-auspices. I’m hoping that a real period will follow right on the heels of this bleed-out, and that we can get back in the baby-makin’ game.

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