Hey! Write that down.

person riding motorcycle during golden hour — Photo by Djordje Petrovic on Pexels.com

Zen (my own working-definition): noun – state of being. When you’re cruising down the 10 doing the speed limit in the right lane and a motorcyclist, who looks strikingly like the white Power Ranger, sandwiches himself between you and the car in the lane to your left. He succeeds on passing and pulls in front of you, only to look back and give you the “universal jerk-off” hand gesture (like literally, acted like he was masturbating) . Instead of feeling any sort of anger (maybe this is a result of the Lumineers song currently playing that you absolutely love or that you are riding on the high of just having finished a really great class), the first thought in your head is that your husband would NEVER do something like that, and you realize that is one of a million reasons why you know you made a good choice in your forever partner as well as one of the many reasons you love him.
The second thought, as the motorcyclist continues to weave in an out of traffic in the right two lanes and on ramp, is sitting down and having a conversation with the guy:
“How are things going?” You would ask.
“Not so hot,” he would respond.
“What’s wrong?”
“My inner-core is uneasy. I’m angry at my parents. My partner. At gas prices. At the election results.”
“I’m sorry things aren’t going well, but I have an idea! When you get home, go listen to Michael Jackson’s ‘Man in the Mirror’. Listen close. And be careful out there.”
By the time this thought pans out, white Power Ranger motorcyclist is long gone, you’re smiling, and truly do hope this guy figures things out. At the very least, doesn’t get killed in a traffic accident.

#stoptheroadrage
❤️

I’ve been wanting to blog for years. I started once, back in high school, when a boyfriend who was very IT savvy bought me a domain for my birthday. That didn’t work out (the boyfriend or the domain) and it has been an afterthought ever since.

My goal is to focus on the real – the advice I am always giving my English Composition students: don’t bullshit. Your readers can see right through it.

So my real right now is the IVF world.

This world has found me surrounded by medications with names that I Google and spend countless minutes that turn into hours scrolling on my phone looking at side effects. Lupron. Menopur. Gonal-F. What does the F stand for? And I can’t begin to put the headache that hasn’t gone away for more than five minutes during consciousness (I don’t feel it when I sleep, thankfully) for the past five days into words. Real words. Stinging. Heavy. Sharp. My head feels as though it is top heavy.

This morning I went for my first post-medication ultrasound. I was staring at the screen as the doctor showed me the four-to-maybe-five follicles in my left ovary. There was a large one. He measured it. I am not sure if it was a good or bad thing, and before I was able to ask, he was onto my right ovary and asked, “Did you have this cyst last time?”

“No,” I said, trying to find the cyst on the screen. I imagine a cyst to be pussy. Swollen.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t have missed this one, that’s for sure.”

It was a large black circle on the screen and my mind literally couldn’t grasp the idea that it was an image of my ovary. Inside my ovary. My ovary that is just below my skin.

“This shouldn’t change anything with the planning of the procedure,” the doctor said.

“Is this normal?” was the most intelligent question I was able to come up with on the spot.

“It isn’t uncommon,” he said, “We will see you Friday morning and see what things look like.”

Head pounding, next thing I know I am driving home. I had texted my husband, who is a doctor himself and was unable to be at the appointment, the following:

I have a cyst in my right ovary that wasn’t there before, but they don’t think it should affect the retrieval date. They saw five follicles growing in the left ovary and four in the right.

This is what my texts to him look like just two and a half years into marriage?

Well, he is more gung-ho than I am and doesn’t respond, but he calls immediately.

I try to repeat the words I texted but my voice breaks and next thing I know, I am driving down Alma School crying – not uncontrollably, not the kind that happens when things are really feeling shitty – but the kind that does build a wall up around me. The kind of crying that has historically left me feeling lonely.

“I love you,” he says. And that’s all I need to hear for that moment.

Twenty minutes later and I am home. Our dog, Fawkes, had given me the saddest look before I left for the appointment as he pawed at his leash hanging on the back wall. I was more than ready for that walk now and he was grateful.

The walk was just long enough and Fawkes was just well-behaved enough to leave me the peace to recompose. To grab back onto the moment and prepare to teach two college courses this afternoon. The topic for discussion: engagement rings and Katy Perry’s Part of Me music video (AKA Marines propaganda).