Searching for a Metaphor

I’m sitting here, searching for a metaphor to describe my ongoing effort to chase down a child. Do I go with a sports metaphor, like how the goalposts keep moving? Do I try to liken it to catching an accelerating car (maybe, if I want to be whimsical, an ice cream truck), where the faster I run the further it gets away? Or maybe I call up Forrest Gump, and say it’s like catching a feather swept away by the wind.

Don’t worry, I’m not going to bury the lead, and I’m firmly anti-tortured-metaphor. So here’s the skinny: J and I are now extending our “break” until April (making it the longest break we’ve been on since we started TTC three and a half years ago, and that’s including the break for my surgery).

He’s had some indicators that his hormone therapy will improve his sperm count, but it still needs a lot of time. I suppose this is good news, but we still don’t know much.

And I’m not ready either. I’ve been in intensive chiropractic treatment (three times a week) for three months now, and it looks like it’s going to be a few more months before I get better. Apparently, I’m one of those super-rare people who respond to treatment by getting incredibly sore (described by my doc as a nerve “flare-up”). Just like I was one of those super-rare people who don’t get “cured” by acutane (the acne came back after 6 months). And one of those super-rare people who aren’t eventually cured by allergy shots after 7 years (I’ve been on them 15 years and counting). And one of those super-rare people that, despite being able to conceive a baby once on her own (with help of man, of course), can’t seem to make it happen via IVF. You’d think I’d stop being surprised when my body disappoints me. Actually, I wasn’t surprised. I was just mad.

You know what? I don’t even want to write about my back—it’s just too upsetting. And I do think it’s going to get better. I even think I might come out of this a lot healthier. Maybe. But it’s taking a lot of patience and faith. And it might not work. And it’s not covered by insurance. Sound familiar?

I started blogging to find other women out there like me. I didn’t start blogging during my IUI, because I was sure it would work. And I didn’t start blogging during my first two IVF cycles, because I was sure my sadness was just a temporary thing, soon to be cured by a nice, fat, uncomfortable pregnancy. I started blogging when it seemed I might really end up without a baby. I started blogging because I wanted an online support group.

What I didn’t count on was feeling like, even among my support group, I’m getting left in the dusk. Is that a horrible thing to say? I’m feeling really bitter right now. But I just realized that I’m going to have to re-organize my blogroll into segments, because half of the people on there now have babies (or are very close to it). And I’m going to have to make some new blog friends because almost everyone out there that I’ve gotten close to is already pregnant or matched or parenting even now. And they’re all so happy. I feel like a real shit for being upset about that. It’s not that I begrudge anyone their joy. I just feel so left out. Like I’m the only one left who just can’t seem to get this thing figured out.

Wow. I had no idea I was going to get so upset tonight. Sometimes I just sit down and write and see what comes out, and I guess what’re coming out are hot, angry tears.

So let me back off from my self-pity and tell you about my amazing weekend, and my amazing mood. DC is going Obama-mad right now; it’s so exciting to be here and be a part of it. I’ve spent the bulk of the weekend getting ready for our wild adventure downtown on Tuesday, a journey which we’re determined to make in spite of everyone saying we shouldn’t. So I’ve been out buying wool socks and hand warmers and warm gloves and stuff like that. (It doesn’t really get that cold that long here, so we tend not to have as many warm clothes around as we did when we lived in Boston.) I wanted to buy J some long underwear (I already have some), but apparently the entire state has sold out of long underwear, at least in the cheaper stores. (I’m not making this up. Today I checked Target, Marshall’s, and Ross, and all I found were empty racks marked “long underwear.”) And everywhere I shop, everyone’s talking about the concert today, and the inauguration, and the parade, and the balls. And every five minutes or so I’ll see something (such as the concert today) that will make me well up with tears. I’m such a sap.

This town has been drowning in Obama-swag-crap for a month, and the crap-pile is just getting deeper. And I have been very good about not buying any of it. It’s not a collector’s item, I tell myself as I walk by the tables and racks and carts, it’s a cheap piece of crap.

So with two days to go and my no-Obama-crap streak running strong, I stop off at the grocery store to get supplies for the upcoming trek downtown. And what do I see? A rack of t-shirts, with “Obama 44” on them, the word and number laid out like a basketball jersey or something. Just too damn adorable. I’m a total sucker, so I grab a shirt. (And then, of course, I buy us some little American flags to take down to the mall with us. And then I buy J some Obama socks, because I can’t leave him out, can I?)

The kid at the cash register rings me up, and I’m all chatty, talking about the end of my swag-less streak. I couldn’t understand a lot of what he was saying (heavy accent), but I did get that this was the first time he had voted.

“That’s awesome,” I said, adding, “the first president I voted for was Bill Clinton.”

He paused and stared at me. Then stared deeper, seemingly perplexed. Finally, he said, “But, but that was, like, in the 90’s, right?”

Did I mention I just got my hair cut and colored yesterday? Oh yeah, that cut-and-color just paid for itself.

For those of you who stuck around to the very end, congratulations on witnessing yet another Babychaser mood swing. Unfortunately, I’m not cycling or pregnant, so there’s not much I can blame it on. This is just me.