Pressure's On!

Today is my birthday.  The day I was born - thirty-nine years ago..today.  One year older, another year passed.

No matter how I say it, I'm sure it means more to my mother than to me.  To me, it's just another day.

...Until I think of the pressure.  Oh man!  I forgot about my deadline!  UGH!

39 was to be my banner year. Well, that is after 32 was suppposed to be my banner year - and then escaped me. Oh yeah, then 36 was to be my banner year; it came and went.  Now here is 39 aready?!?!  Wasn't I in this same place JUST last year?  Hadn't I been warned that my clock was ticking?

THIRTY NINE.  It's the last year you may use your own eggs for IVF implant.  Not the last year they recommend due to the loss of viability or the low percentages...that has been the heads up since I as thirty-two (my first expected banner year..double ugh.); but the last year they will even do it! 

Oh sure, I can use some other woman's egg.  Somebody else's gene pool.  Some young things unneeded extras.  Somebody who has plenty to spare.  Some dumb somebody who isn't me!

That somebody might possibly be healthy, I guess.  I guess they could  possibly have auburn hair.  Maybe quite possibly have blue eyes.  Possibly a few freckles and fair skin; maybe even petite and I guess they could be a good person, hard worker, lover of animals and beauty. 

If thirty-nine doesn't happen - I guess maybe there is possibly always forty.

My Skewed Perception of Inception

I just saw "Inception".   

This is my kind of flick; "The Matrix" meets "Romeo and Juliet" of sorts that suddenly swan dives into the subconscious with mind-bending and soul-bearing power.  What does this have to do with babies and my journey thereof?  Maybe it's in the realm between reality and dreams - but it moved me in a way I can't stop thinking about.  I'm also pretty sure I was the only one leaving the theater in utter tears!

The main character was trapped.  Trapped in a life of running, trapped within his own mind and trapped in the past.  The thing that set him free and kept him alive (in one dimension or another anyway) was a memory of his children.  They were the light that guided him through all the darkness as he fought to find his way back to them.  We are unable to see their sweet faces throughout the film as a reflection of what their father is able to recall.  We find out later that there is a pivotal moment that could have provided closure and a better snapshot of this memory.  It turns out to be his biggest regret.  To know the moment you made a wrong choice - a choice that you will regret for the rest of your life; the combination of themes (out of SO many in the movie) was on that tugs at my heart.

I found myself also searching for those tow-headed fictional children on the big screen; for their light and for my purpose. 

Pink Moon (Part I) - The Song

I first heard the ballad, "Pink Moon", as a child.  Not having any idea who sang it or what it was about, it was more like a lullaby to me (my lullaby)...drifting off to sleep to the almost folk rhythms of "pink, pink, pink, pink...pink moon"; driving me through soft curves and quiet nights into all things magical and delightful - and pink.

You see, I grew up with my mother.  She would sit and play beautiful music with her own fingers on an old and out-of-tune piano; her strong voice belting out old hymns and maybe a random Barry Manilow or Carpenters tune.  But my exposure to the outside world of music and to the radio was limited.  Rock music was not allowed and there was certainly never a spontaneous explosion of dance for sure!  Not inside the home anyway.  Not in front of me.

My father, on the other hand, was a bit of a music buff - or better described, he was obsessed.  He appreciated every style and artist and era.  Coming by it naturally, his father sang with an amazing tenor voice in a gospel quartet that gained local popularity after recording their first (and only) single.  The last gift my dad gave his mother before passing was a more permanent CD of the one-hit-wonder converted from the worn and scratched 45 that she held so dear.  I heard it once.  I can still hear it if I close my eyes and listen close with my heart.

During biweekly visitations with my dad, he would often withdraw into his own homemade studio; mixing eight tracks and tapes long into the night.  He would strum along with his generic department store guitar and sing when the mood struck, sometimes teaching me a few note, but always letting me howl (off key) right along with him until I grew tired.  I would often fake getting sleepy so that he would pick me up and swirl me into a waltz or walk me to bed in a two-step.  Once there, he would quiet the music to something more soothing.  "Pink Moon" was my favorite.

I'm honestly not sure if that is the truth or fiction.  It is simply what I know in my head and how my memory serves.  As with many recollections of childhood and especially in regards to those we love and were estranged, fantasy or wishful thinking can sometimes replace reality.  I am OK with this one.  I had forgotten all about this particular story until a few years ago when Volkswagen used "Pink Moon" in one of their commercials.  Rather than fast forward through the DVR, I sat frozen in time as my mind flashed back to those precious moments - tears and longing streaming down my face.  

I hope you enjoy the new music on my page.  Thank you for taking this ride down memory lane with me.  I hope it makes you feel soft and magical and delightful - and pink.

P is for Period.

Talk about "GEEZ!" - I enjoyed my first visit to a real gynecologist earlier this month.

"HOW?", you might ask, has anyone of the female gender gone through 36 years of life avoiding this right of passage into womanhood? "Complete laziness, avoidance....and ignorance", I might answer.

I grew up an only child to a single mom. She remarried when I was in the 4th grade where I started a new school at Westview Elementary. Very nervous in my new surroundings, I sat in Mrs Coleman's class, trying to translate her German accent into some kind of sense, when I felt dizzy and an overwhelming desire to barf up my enchilada surprise and apple crisp from just a few hours before. I was granted the coveted bathroom pass. Once there, I nearly passed out in terror. I was surely dying! Blood - so much blood!

Eventually, my secret was somehow found out and my mother gave me a Kotex pad the size of a mattress to wear. There was no sex talk - only the assurance that I was not on my death bed and that I would live with this strange condition monthly for the next 60 years. Awesome.

Once I made friends and finally moved on to middle school, getting your period suddenly became as cool as getting braces. Everybody wanted theirs and I was the one clueless about it! My introduction to tampons occurred, like so many firsts do, in the girls' restroom at Lewis Middle School from the bossy girl who knew it ALL. She handed me a harpoon and told me I was truly about to be a woman since using one would cause me to lose my virginity. I was pretty sure I didn't own a virgin so was unfazed by her threats. I fumbled around without instructions, took the contraption completely apart placing it sideways inside myself lengthwise for the best fit. Perfect.

My mother divorced again after a few years trapped in a horrible marriage when I was in the 8th grade. We moved from luxury into the ghetto and I began to put all my energy into trying to be popular, making myself as skinny as humanly possible by any means available, and delving into any after school sport that would have me in order to avoid going back to an empty apartment. I met my first 'real' boyfriend. That summer, I found out what my virginity was and sure enough, lost it. Brilliant.

I started having such pain in the middle of my cycle, then cramped so bad I had to miss my beloved activities. My mother feared something was wrong and took me to our family doctor. I had no idea what a pelvic exam was or what to expect. After that initiation into humiliation, we were told it was all in my head and he gave me some pills that I could take to knock me out of my misery at will. No interview about my personal life or guesses as to any underlying issues that we may need to address. Just normal teenage angst I suppose.

To make a long story - and well, to end YOUR misery - this is why I avoid the inevitable gyno visit. So much trouble, this female reproductive system. So many unanswered questions and so much mystery that still goes unanswered for me. So begins the end of my ignorance...PERIOD!