Turning the calendar hit me like a brick today. December. As I breathe in the crisp air that tells me Christmas and New Year's are approaching, I'm reminded that this blog was only an idea one year ago. A lot's happened since then, to the extent that I can barely hold all of 2017 together inside of a single conscious thought. And so I'm travelling through time, like flipping forward and backward through a personal flip book, to reminisce over all the familiar images and to wonder how the story will unfold from here.
If I flip back only a few pages, I see an image of a tree. It's wrapped in white and gold, luminescent with the glow of a thousand tiny stars warming its delicate branches. My first Christmas tree. I brought it home exactly four days ago. Well, not my very first Christmas tree, but the first tree I've owned as an adult.
I can actually remember my very first Christmas tree. I can remember my very first Christmas, period. I was 10. Christmas wasn't a meaningful time of year for my family spiritually, and we didn't have a lot of money to spend on frivolous gifts and decorations just for the fun of it. From ages zero to nine, Christmas meant getting a whole two weeks off from school and dodging the bell-ringer on the way into and out of the grocery store. I knew it was a big deal to other people, and I certainly enjoyed the festive lights and decorations around town, as well as the special parties and activities at school. After every holiday break, all the kids in class would excitedly recite to each other their long lists of treasured prizes, first starting with the smaller incidental gifts before leading up to the big reveal - a new bike, a cool new toy, a new puppy. I'd shrink away at my desk, hoping nobody noticed that I did not join in because, unlike my peers, my family did not celebrate Christmas. Or Hanukkah. Or anything else during the month of December. In a few weeks' time, to my great relief, the holiday chatter would fade away and I'd quietly slip back into society without fear of being discovered as (gasp!) different. Some 10-year-olds want to be superheroes; I would've settled for being normal.
Then when I was 10, my parents bought a tree. I watched for hours as each branch came alive with garland, tinsel, and ornaments. We even strung Christmas lights around the window! I felt jubilant as I slept under the tree that night, and probably for the next several nights in a row. I stared in disbelief when little red-and-green boxes began to collect underneath the tree. Not just one gift, or two, but many gifts that were each meticulously wrapped as only my mother is able to do. My brother and I evaluated each and every gift in its wrapper, gently giving it a shake and listening for a hint before guessing its contents. Whether we guessed right or wrong didn't matter. The game itself was more significant than the actual gift. We did all the usual things that, for us, was an unexpected and thrilling anomaly. It wasn't a religious experience, as Christmas is for some people. But the magic of Christmas is, for many, about the power of giving, and the comfort of family, that lifts up the human spirit in a shared cultural tradition. And at the age of 10, I finally shared in that experience. My first Christmas was truly and profoundly wonderful.
After I moved out of my parents' house, I didn't bother to buy myself a tree during college. When my husband and I moved into our first home together, we decided to hold off a little longer. Like my parents, we were more concerned about making ends meet than with putting up decorations that would only last one month out of the year. Besides, we often traveled to see our families over the holidays, so we got to enjoy all of their festivities, anyway. We settled on the idea that we'd wait to put up a tree and decorations in a few years, when we had children of our own.
The day finally came when I stopped taking those little blue pills. I immediately felt my life was about to change in a very big, very permanent way. I was excited, but nervous. I don't know if anyone feels truly prepared to be a parent. It was more of a decision that I was about as prepared as I'd ever be, instead of having real confidence that I knew exactly what I was doing. I tried not to obsess about starting a family, but I definitely had Baby Brain from the beginning - I researched baby names, pinned ideas for baby rooms, imagined birthday parties, and dreamed of my children opening gifts on Christmas morning around a big, glimmering tree! A few of our friends had kids of their own already, so they gave us a bunch of their used baby items. We began to fill a spare bedroom with a crib, swing, stroller, and other hand-me-downs. We even had enough baby clothes to last us through the entire first year. There was so much build-up that I grew anxious when it didn't happen in the first few months. But I had read somewhere that most women get pregnant within a year, so I patiently waited as Christmas came and went. No tree for me.
Unfortunately, I did not get pregnant the following year, either. Or the one after that. Or the one after that. During one of those many disappointing months, I met with a reproductive specialist who ran some tests and diagnosed me with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS). I felt relieved and validated by the diagnosis, but also disheartened. PCOS is an endocrine condition that's connected to insulin resistance. My own insulin levels were slightly elevated, signalling the onset of pre-diabetes. PCOS is a lifelong condition with infertility being just one of its many symptoms. As a consequence, I wasn't ovulating on my own. My husband and I began fertility treatment right away. It was expensive and intense. We saw the doctor two or three times every week for months on end. I took oral medications. I gave myself shots. My husband gave me shots. I ended up with ovarian hyperstimulation as a result of the fertility drugs, causing painful abdominal swelling, enlarged ovaries, and a $3,000 bill from a surgical procedure to reduce the number of egg sacs produced by the hormone injections. I tried to focus on the good news, which is that I was ovulating. But every time I excused myself to go to the bathroom only to find I'd started my period, I broke down and cried. It was frustrating. I wondered why I couldn't just be normal. After a few rounds of treatment, my husband and I decided to take a break from the drugs, doctor's visits, financial strain, and stress. The constant barrage of activities had consumed our thoughts and our daily schedules, and we needed a break.
I haven't seen my fertility doctor in six months. I finally relented and bought myself a Christmas tree earlier this week - a really nice one to make up for years lost. One that I imagine my family will be gathered around one day, opening gifts and laughing together over hot chocolate and eggnog. I plan on scheduling an appointment in January, now that I've had some space to regroup and re-center myself. Already, thoughts of baby names, baby rooms, and birthdays are creeping back into my consciousness, and I daydream about the possibilities that the New Year will bring. I'm trying not to get ahead of myself, but it's hard. There's a quote that seems apropos as I flick forward and backward through these events in my personal flip book:
"What lies behind you and what lies in front of you, pales in comparison to what lies inside of you."
I've been reciting this statement to myself all week. It reminds me to let go of the negative thoughts that keep weighing me down. As I'm getting older, I'm increasingly hyper-focused on the concept of time. Even while writing these blogs, a lot of the content comes from where I've been, what I've accomplished, and what my goals are for the future. None of that is inherently good or bad. But getting to the heart of who I am and what I'm experiencing transcends all of that. And the truth is that my preoccupation with time is contributing to unhappiness in my life. If I think too hard about unsuccessfully trying to conceive for the past four years, I could wallow in self-pity for days. If I focus on how my husband and I waited a long time to start a family, I'm filled with regret. And the negativity doesn't just come from past setbacks, but from future goals and plans, as well. I've started to become impatient about meeting my personal goals. I don't bounce back as easily as I used to when plans go astray. Having hope for the future should be an awesome and motivating thing, but I've turned it into an excuse to be unhappy with my current circumstances. And objectively speaking, I should be very grateful for my current circumstances. I've worked too hard to be filled with apprehension instead of appreciation.
If I think back to when I was 10, laying under the shimmering lights of my very first Christmas tree, I felt completely content and at peace. My circumstances then were not as good as they are today. Yet as I sit here in front of the glowing lights of my own tree, taller and brighter than the tree of my childhood, I keep flipping back and forth through time, feeling unsettled in the present moment. My thoughts are too easily tugged to the relics of yesterday or the fantasies of tomorrow. Yes, there is a time and a place to reflect on past failures and accomplishments. And yes, making plans and having hope for the future is important. But what really brings inner peace is making the most of today and being the best versions of ourselves that we can possibly be under all circumstances. So as the days count down to January, and as the anticipation of re-initiating fertility treatment grows, it is that inner sense of groundedness that I'm searching for. I'll continue to recite this mantra for as long as I need to, because a flip book is only a collection of images bound together and animated by the motion of time. The only part of it that lives and breathes and ultimately really matters, is the hand, heart, and eyes of the person holding it.
