Katy Vs. Her Ovaries - The Winner?

A year ago tonight I was ringing in the new year in Iceland. Cody and I were fresh off a few days in Denmark, hopping on planes, seeing new things, and constantly remarking on how ridiculously exciting our lives were at that moment. We were crazy alive and demanded to be that way because travelling the world is something twenty-somethings can do only when they don't have children. As the clock struck midnight a year ago, I remember hoping that 2014 might be the year that Cody and I would have to hang up the globetrotting for a while in place of the elusive baby...

Low and behold, on this New Year's Eve I am pregnant. 2015 is officially, God willing, the year of the baby for the Prater's.

I am eighteen weeks pregnant to the day. Early June will bring with it a baby boy, Cody's 29th birthday, and our 5th wedding anniversary.

I have known that I am pregnant since September 29th, and the past three months have been nothing like I envisioned the weeks after learning you are pregnant. The world did not stop turning to allow Cody and I the preferable amount of time to simply sit and reflect and celebrate the end of the infertility battle. I have spent a lot of time at the doctor's office. I have taken a lot of shots. I have worried about progesterone levels. I have told myself that if I can just get to ten weeks and then twelve weeks and then sixteen weeks I can stop worrying about something going wrong. I finally have accepted that I am probably going to need to hold this little guy in my arms before I stop worrying about all of the possibilities associated with creating a human life.

On the last night of this year, I am thankful for so much that has transpired in the past 365 days. I cannot imagine what life will be like a year from tonight. 2015 is going to be the year of love for me. I will get to see Cody be a dad to our baby boy. I will get to see my parents be grandparents to this long-awaited baby.

Finally and most importantly, I will get to meet this little human. He will have a name and a room and those tiny little ears that babies have. He will make really adorable baby noises and really terrible baby noises. He will sleep and not sleep and cry and not cry. He will look exactly or nothing like me. He will act exactly or nothing like Cody. He will be everything and nothing like what I expect he will be, and I am okay with all of that. The older I get the more I understand that plans are for chumps. I am going to love the people I have every day that I get to love them. The past three years have just given me a little extra time to learn how to love a little better.

Katy Vs. Her Ovaries (and Cancer)

My mom is diagnosed with cancer again. I am not pregnant. My mom spends a summer at M.D. Anderson. I am not pregnant. My mom walks with a limp. I am not pregnant. I push my mom in a wheelchair at Ikea. I am not pregnant. The wheelchair was temporary. I am not pregnant. My mom gets radiation. I am not pregnant. My mom walks normal again. I am not pregnant. Cancer markers go up. I am not pregnant. I turn twenty-eight. I am not pregnant. My mom starts chemo. I am not pregnant. My mom has a port surgically implanted into her chest. I am not pregnant. Cancer markers goes down. I am not pregnant. My mom turns sixty-five. I am not pregnant. My mom walks with a limp again. I am not pregnant.

Three and a half years ago my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer for the third time. The cancer was found in her bones in May of 2011. After the debris of a cancer diagnosis was cleared, the only answer I found in the “terminal-illness-slow-it-down-never-cure-it” prognosis that my mom received was that grandchildren were something that should happen sooner rather than later. Suddenly, the idea of having children was an idea that I stopped considering and started pursuing.

Three and a half years later I am no closer to having children than my mom is to being cancer-free. I tell myself that not being able to get pregnant is not actually that big of a deal. I tell myself that if my mom weren’t sick or if I could even just get some concrete timeline of cancer events, I could control my sense of urgency a little better. With every period and every failed procedure the clock keeps ticking, except I can’t see the freaking clock. I have no idea how much time is left. I don’t know when it’s time for the Hail Mary. I haven't drawn the Hail Mary up yet. 

And then sometimes I don’t need to see the clock. My mom is okay, and the cancer markers go down and doctors give good reports. Her hip doesn’t hurt, and she plays nine holes of golf and eats lunch with her friends. We go to the mall and walk from one end to the other without stopping. I show up unannounced and she’s not in bed. Sometimes my mom is the person I remember from three and a half years ago before I knew I was infertile and before I knew there was a clock.

Sometimes my mom is my mom and I am her daughter and there isn't this huge gaping hole where another human that I created is supposed to be. Sometimes.

Katy Vs. Her Ovaries - Unicorns and God

My fertility crusade has been somewhat uneventful as of late. The past couple of months have felt a little less hectic if nothing more because it's summertime. Ultrasounds and appointments have been easier to schedule. I haven't had to awkwardly ask to bail on fourth period in a while, and it's been nice.

Since June I have been doing acupuncture and taking an obscene amount of supplements suggested by my acupuncturist (if that's an actual title). I was skeptical at first. I feel like acupuncture is sort of like unicorns and God - one of those things that exists on faith alone. Nonetheless, Cody and I both decided that acupuncture is one of the last components of fertility treatment that we should give a shot to feel like we have exhausted all of our options. It just happens to add around $400 a month to our ever-expanding "try to get pregnant just one freaking time" fund.

I've been pleasantly surprised with my hippie-dippie medical treatment. The needles don't really hurt. They play Enya on a loop. The office smells like lavender and peace. The actual person who treats me sort of looks like what I assume Mother Earth as a human would resemble. She has a tongue ring and wears Chacos and I still trust her to insert needles into my abdomen on a biweekly basis. She talks in calming tones and tells me that this is all going to work and rubs my forearm when she talks to me. She tells me to relax for thirty minutes with needles sticking from my body and electrodes coursing through my reproductive organs. I stare at birds in trees and breathe a little deeper than I normally do and every once in a while I truly believe that those needles are working. Doing something that the hormones I'm being pumped full of can't accomplish.

This past month did result in an acceptable follicle (egg) and we think ovulation. We had two IUI's (intrauterine insemination) done in an attempt to allow Cody's sperm to bypass my (hostile) cervix and go straight to my (even more hostile) uterus. The IUI's were by far the weirdest part of this whole experience so far. One day I may explain why it was so weird to have my husband's sperm injected into my uterus, but not today. It's just a little too raw still.

Months ago I would have told you that the hardest part of infertility is all of the poking and prodding. It is the hormones and the pills and the ultrasounds. It is the shots and IUI's and awkward doctor's visits. I would have told you that those things are the reason why people stop trying to get pregnant. I realize now that it is the aftermath of all of those things that is actually the hardest.

Any given month is split into two halves. Trying like hell to get pregnant and then waiting to see if you are. There are a couple of weeks (or longer) when women have to wonder if the sperm actually found a viable egg. You wonder if maybe the acupuncture and the supplements and the Clomid and the collection (don't ask) and the pinched cervix (yes, he pinched my cervix) worked. Maybe this is the month. Maybe this will end in May or June or July. Maybe my womb isn't so hostile after all. It's the weeks after all of the hassle when infertility is at its worst. These couple of weeks are what make people crazy.

Each month there is a glimmer of hope that maybe this time will be different. That glimmer only exists in the couple of weeks after all of the treatment. It burns a little brighter with each new procedure and each new medicine. The harder you try, the brighter the glimmer. And in turn, the more devastated you feel when you realize that your stupid glimmer is completely unwarranted and you're not pregnant yet again. This month my glimmer is brighter than ever before. The stars have aligned a little more this time around. I have tried to protect myself. I have reminded myself that thirty minutes of needles and the bypassing of my cervix isn't just going to magically result in a human being. I have tried to walk the tight rope of realistic pessimism and healthy optimism. I have tried to brace myself for whatever impact I am soon to experience. I've tried to manage all of these conflicting emotions all month long and I've come to the conclusion that maybe I will just let myself hope. Forget being realistic and just go with it.

Maybe unicorns and God and pregnancy come only to those who believe. Maybe pregnancy is like the adult Santa. Maybe you've just got to believe.

California - Where Kathy Got Naked - Part 2

After a couple of days in San Francisco, Cody and I headed north into the Napa Valley for the second portion of our trip that fell into the "relaxation" category. We are not wine people per se, but we figured we might as well see what all the fuss surrounding wine country is all about. We stayed at a resort in a Calistoga about twenty miles from Napa. I had read about Indian Springs Resort in a Times article about side trips to make from San Francisco. The attraction with Calistoga again involved mineral springs (like Esalen) and also mud baths.

Our resort was only an hour and a half drive from the city. We arrived in the early afternoon, explored the town a little, ate a late lunch, and then headed back to the resort for our much anticipated mud bath. We had gone from San Francisco weather (mid to high 60s) to drought-stricken California weather (nearly 100 degrees) all within the same day. It was hot in Calistoga. Too hot to be excited about a hot mud bath, but we persevered nonetheless.

Cody and I were under the impression that we would be partaking in a couples mud bath. We have had a couples massage once before, and we just assumed that mud baths were along the same line. We arrived at the spa to find that mud baths are actually gender separate experiences. My track record would predict that partaking in a mud bath without my husband at my disposal would feel like a nightmare to me. I sort of use Cody as a buffer in all types of uncomfortable situations in my life. He is always willing to talk to people that I don't like or ask questions of strangers I wish not to approach. He is like my personal "get out of social awkwardness free" card. Alas, we would not be bathing together as we had in Big Sur.

My mud bath experience started with a thick-accented woman calling for "Kathy" to follow her. Oddly enough, I get called Kathy all the time. I play this constant name game in my life. I just recently, after nearly four years of being a patient there, convinced Dr. Bell's office to call me Katy rather than Kristen (my actual first name). After I win the Kristen battle, I then encounter the issue with Kat(h)y. I suppose because of the "y" on the end of my name some people read or assume that my name is Kathy rather than Katy. Cody jokingly calls me Kathy from time to time. It's pretty out of hand. I considered correcting the spa attendant but decided otherwise since she obviously didn't speak great English. And I figure Beyond has Sasha Fierce so...

In the locker room I begrudgingly followed the attendant's directions by stripping off my clothes and putting on the spa robe. I couldn't help but smile at the realization that I was about to experience round two of nude bathing. Luckily, between my monthly pant-less ultrasounds and my recent nude nighttime hot tubbing, I felt a little calmer about my nakedness than I expected, and I was happy to see that my first attendant was apparently going to hand me off to two more women who actually facilitated the mud bathing. Unfortunately, these two new women also called me Kathy. I decided to go with the Kathy flow and accept that I was in California bathing in volcanic mud and that sometimes being naked in front of complete strangers is worth it.

Rosa was the person responsible for getting me in and out of the bath. I soon realized that the idea of mud that I had in my head was not accurate in respect to the  mud at Indian Springs. This mud was blacker (volcanic, duh) and super thick to the point that sitting on the mud resulted in only sitting on top of mud. You did not sink in the mud like you would in a normal bath.

This is the point at which my mud bath got super weird. In her also thick foreign accent, Rosa instructed me to delicately place my naked body on top of a pile of mud. She then proceeded to pick up mud and place it all over my body. It was so weird. It made my pant-less ultrasounds seem like a walk in the modesty park. I ended up with hot mud weighing down every inch of me supposedly sucking out all of the toxins in my body. This portion of the experience lasted twelve minutes. As soon as Rosa walked away, I strongly considered freaking out about the weight of the mud and the heat and the claustrophobic feeling of being suffocated. I eventually calmed down and employed some deep breathing and reminded myself that this process was good for me and should be calming and healing. At the midway point, Rosa brought me a cold washcloth and some ice water and I started to appreciate the experience and the thick mud covering my nakedness.

After my twelve minutes were up, Rosa proceeded to scrape the mud off of me (even weirder than the application of the mud). I then showered off and was escorted to a lukewarm bathtub of mineral water. By this point in the game, I had sort of owned the nudity aspect of the experience. I laid in a tub and sipped cucumber water and imagined how Cody's experience was unfolding. It was another point in the trip in which I was forced to slow down and make note of my surroundings. There were no phones and no internet and no form of entertainment. There was nothing to pull my attention away from me and that moment in that glorious tub full of mineral water. There wasn't even Cody to steal my attention. It was just me, Kathy Prater, stripped as bare as can be experiencing a mud bath in California.

My mud bath ended with a few minutes in a steam room followed by a cool down period wrapped in cotton sheets with cold cucumbers on my eyes (thanks Rosa). For the second time during our trip, I found myself supremely grateful for the stuff I get to do in my life. Years ago, I had no idea that travelling is as fulfilling as it proves to be time and again. I didn't understand that growing and changing can be accelerated so much in an unfamiliar environment. I didn't know that mud baths in the Napa Valley leave one feeling so rejuvenated and powerful. I didn't know that going somewhere new with someone feels like those perfect firsts that you experience at the beginning of a relationship. I didn't used to know that in order to make sense of where you come from you need to go somewhere else. Years ago, I didn't know, but I am thankful that today I understand the power of exploring new places...with or without your clothes on.

The rest of our time in the Napa Valley was spent driving through vineyards and watching sunsets over mountains that felt fake. We giggled about our mud bath experiences and swam in the mineral pool. We read books and held hands and walked up and down streets of places we'd never been. We drove along two-lane roads completely detached from the hustle of San Francisco and listened to music that sounds as good in California as it does in Arkansas. We said "I love you" and promised that life at home wouldn't feel quite so harsh when we got back. We made wishes on shooting stars and confirmed to one another that we had wished our newest wish - the same wish that has claimed our last few birthdays and eyelashes. We left wine country as believers in its beauty and its mud.

Sunset in between Calistoga and Napa. 

Main Street in Calistoga. 

San Francisco

Cody and I stayed in Union Square while we were in San Francisco. With Pride happening, the atmosphere was electric to say the least.

Saturday morning we made our way to the waterfront and poked around a farmer's market. This was the first time during the trip that I started to appreciate the freshness of California. I have never so much fruit and vegetables and all around awesome food. The organic movement is not a movement in California. It is simply the way things are. We managed to eat the most ridiculous peach while we were there and get a glimpse of the Bay Bridge. 

This was before the magical peach experience.

After the farmer's market, we walked to Coit Tower. This was the point in time that we got a taste of the hills of San Francisco. We walked along streets until the incline warranted someone to build some stairs leading to higher elevations. Apparently these random stairs that weave throughout homes tucked on the sides of hills can be found in more than one part of the city. They claim there are even slides that lead down from some of the stairs. We unfortunately did not get to slide down anything.

At the top of Coit Tower. The Golden Gate Bridge is hard to make out between the two of us. 

This was a stop somewhere along the stairs that never ended. 

The San Francisco skyline makes obvious why so many people fall in love with the city.

After our Coit Tower hike, we made our way to City Lights Bookstore. I did a research project about the Beat Generation when I was in college and ever since I have been mildly obsessed with Jack Kerouac and his crew of writing buddies. City Lights Bookstore was a popular hangout for Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg during the 50's. The bookstore today still has the feel of an independent book seller. They have tons of books scattered throughout the three levels of the store. I almost bought my unborn child a book I found entitled A is for Activist because it's the type of book that inevitably creates really cool, socially responsible, emotionally intelligent adults. 

Open Door - Open Books - Open Mind - Open Heart
The signs in the windows were comfortably Methodist feeling and something I may incorporate in my own English classroom this year.

Saturday night Cody and I went to a Giants baseball game. We aren't huge MLB fans, but we read about the world famous garlic fries sold in the stadium and managed to get super cheap tickets from a scalper. It was a lot of fun. The fries were as good as advertised and we got to experience the professional sports team mania that was obviously present in the city.

Sunday we decided to rent bicycles and ride across the Golden Gate Bridge to Sausalito and the headlands. The ride was around eight miles and on a mostly level surface. I managed without falling once and without hurting my crotch too terribly bad. 

On our way to the bridge. 

Cody took no less than 30 pictures of us actually riding across the bridge.
Turns out more people commit suicide by jumping from the GGB more than any other bridge in the country. The entire time I was riding I kept imagining poor people jumping to their death. Eerie.

The entire day was a lot of fun. We managed to avoid the crowds of people at the parade and saw San Francisco from the other side of the Bay. Cody obviously enjoyed the ride as we all imagine he would.

San Francisco Pride

After our evening in Big Sur with the middle of the night hot tubbing experience under our belts, we headed north back toward San Francisco. On our way we stopped off at the Monterey Bay Aquarium for some shark viewing and ate lunch on Cannery Row. I wish I liked John Steinbeck more and maybe I would have thought the town of Monterey was more exciting than I did. The Old Man and the Sea simply cannot be forgiven in my opinion.

We spent the entire weekend in the city. Upon arriving at our hotel, we learned that we happen to have arrived just in time for the annual Pride Celebration (the largest gay pride celebration in the country by the way). All of the sudden the rainbow flags flying throughout Union Square started to make more sense.

Being in San Francisco during Pride is a good example of why I think all people should travel every chance they get. It is the responsibility (in my opinion) of all humans to learn as much as we can about other humans while we're alive. Experiencing life in a completely foreign place, even if for only a few days, can be enough to change someone for the rest of their life. Cody and I spent 72 hours with thousands of people gathered to celebrate a way of life that is far from celebrated in our bubble of the world. We met all sorts of people (gay and straight alike) who were open and friendly and crazy and passionate about the rights of all people to live whatever lifestyle one may choose. We saw wild stuff unfold on the streets of San Francisco that served as a reminder that feeling a little uncomfortable, having to remind yourself to quit staring, and witnessing happenings almost incomprehensible in your own brain only makes you a more accepting person at the end of the day.

The costumes were off the chain!

Cody and I accidentally missed the majority of the actual Pride Parade as we were bicycling across the Golden Gate Bridge at the time. We did get to be a part of the Dyke March that happened sort of randomly on a street that we just happened to be walking along. The feminist in me loved the enormous gathering of mainly women fighting for equal rights. Their tagline for the parade was "My Body. My Business. My Power." So cool. We saw topless women, transgender women, single women, all kinds of women (50,000 people in all). There were also lots of men in the sea of people celebrating lesbians. We experienced an impromptu dance party that erupted without warning in front of a store that had a large sound system perched out front. People smoked weed openly and literally beside policemen in charge of managing the parade. It was chaos, and it was awesome. Cody and I both had a really good time and walked away with a renewed appreciation and understanding of other people. 

Side note: I unknowingly saw Big Boo from Orange in the New Black during the Dyke March. It wasn't until they posted a pic of her to IG that I realized that the woman who looked exactly like Big Boo was actually Big Boo. 

Next up...other happenings in San Francisco. 

California - Where Kathy Got Naked - Part 1

Somewhere along the Pacfic Coast Highway sits Esalen Institute, a self-proclaimed wellness retreat.

.

I took this picture at about 3:15a.m. and I wasn't even mad. 

Esalen's website describes the resort as the following: "A community of practice. A place of pilgrimage. An integral learning environment devoted to pioneering deep change in self and society; in heart, spirit, body, and mind. Esalen is where seekers serve seekers, and where the veil between what is actual and what is possible is as thin as mist."

So yeah, there's that. Cody and I decided that we wanted to experience this magical place with the thin mist and pilgrims ASAP. We especially wanted to experience this place after reading about its history as a hippie counterculture community where lots of famous psychologists, reseachers, and celebrities (Bob Dylan, Abraham Maslow,  sat around and did LSD and yoga and tried to determine what all of this life stuff means. We gladly paid $25 each to be able to soak in the powerful springs of Esalen from 1-3a.m. All of the other time is dedicated strictly to the people who actually stay at the Institute for one of the wellness programs. 

We set out from our campground in the pitch black darkness of Big Sur, winding along the Highway only feet from hurling our Toyota Corolla into the Pacific Ocean. We were so tired. It was kind of cold. Everything in our bodies was screaming no and yet when someone mentions deep change and a big tub of hot water, Cody and I are both willing to do just about anything. 

Funny side story - Before we started driving toward Esalen, I was waiting on Cody in the car while he went back to the cabin for something he had forgotten. Out of the corner of my scratchy eye balls, I noticed something rustling in the weeds and saw a skunk come walking out of the brush not three feet from my car door. In this moment, time slowed to a crawl as I stared at that skunk frozen in fear for my unsuspecting, equally tired husband who was fumbling in the cabin for his swim trunks. I ran through every possible strategy of how to avoid myself and Cody getting sprayed by said skunk. In the end, I just sat and stared at him until he eventually turned around and went back to where he came from seconds before Cody made his way back to the car. It wasn't until the next morning that I really put together the pieces of how terrible and yet hilarious it would have been if that skunk hadn't simply walked away. 

Okay, back to Esalen and the magical springs. We had strict instructions from the employees at Esalen to park at the top of the (enormous) hill and wait for someone to come get us. There was a definite exclusivity vibe emitted from this crazy place. While we waited, Cody laid on his back with his GoPro in hand and tried to film all of the stars we could see. He also tried to convince me that this weird tube-shaped light structure was the Milky Way. What can I say? It was 1a.m. and there were a lot of freaking stars out there. There were two other younger girls who had also signed up for the early morning soak with us. A guy came and got us right at 1a.m. and walked us down the hill to a small security hut where we signed our names and allowed them to check our bags for glass of some sort. In the midst of the bag searching, there was a joke about how the Esalen employees were not TSA agents, which was only the beginning of the slew of government jokes we would hear before our time ended. 

During the preliminary searching, we learned a few things from the obviously under the influence employees. First of all, there had been a juvenile mountain lion seen on the premises that we should keep an eye out for (great). And secondly, the tube-shaped light structure was definitely the Milky Way according to the guy in the parka. Cody's "I told you so" look was evident even through the darkness.

The next two hours of life are sort of fuzzy. We were directed to the springs (large stone tubs) where we were to soak. We were shown how to turn on and off the water that flows out of a spring at 119 degrees. And then we were NAKED and sitting in huge bath tubs full of lusciously hot water that smelled like rotten eggs and felt like a blanket from heaven. It only seemed weird to be naked in front of complete strangers for a few minutes. Then all of the sudden the fact that I had on no clothes and no bathing suit seemed downright normal, even logical. 

We spent two hours moving from tub to tub mainly trying to avoid ever having to be in a tub with other naked people. We listened to some of the weirdest conversations about government conspiracy theories and must-watch documentaries and aliens and being true to yourself. I was lulled by the crashing waves directly below us. The moonless night was dark enough to hide my embarrassment about being nude and not being part of the counterculture that Esalen takes such pride in. There were some people in the tubs who were actually staying at the resort. These folks were obviously different, if for no other reason than they were willing to spend thousands of dollars to attend a wellness retreat, something that a lot of people (probably including myself) aren't willing to do.

As is the case with a lot of experiences that unfold in the wee hours of the morning, this one seemed significant to me. The cold air and hot water and crashing waves and low voices all mixed together to create a couple of hours of existence that stood out from the rest. As I floated in the water, I couldn't help but consider my own wellness. The past year of my life replayed in my mind as I eavesdropped on strangers talking to strangers about living a life that is true and authentic. I listened to conversations that I would have rolled my eyes at in the daylight, but that I believed in the darkness. I didn't feel like me for those few hours. The environment was too foreign for Katy Prater from Ft. Smith, Arkansas to exist within. 

In those hot tubs, I vowed to be better to me moving forward. I promised not to be so hard on myself, especially in respect to getting pregnant. I assured myself that not having kids at this very moment is not a problem. I resolved to having children one day somehow. I made note of all of the good things in my life that make floating in hot mineral springs on the edge of the country in the middle of the night possible. I laid my head against Cody's chest and I breathed deeply at the thought of the enormous well of love that I have for this impossibly good human being that I get to travel the world with. And for those couple of hours I was exactly where I was supposed to be. 

3a.m. eventually came. We managed to navigate back to our cars without getting mauled by the juvenile mountain lion (although I honestly was so relaxed I wouldn't have cared much). We drove the thirty minutes or so back to our little cabin and crawled back into bed. Before I fell asleep, I made myself remember one more time. I wanted to make sure that the tubs and the love and the vow to be better weren't lost in the dream world of the early morning hours. I wanted to make sure that my two hours at Esalen carried some weight and that the "deep change" that the website touted was a possibility even after the sun rose over Big Sur. 

We sat in this very tub, except it was completely dark so I didn't know it was this pretty.

Northern California

Cody and I just got back from California. We spent time in San Francisco, Big Sur, and the Napa Valley. In a nutshell our trip consisted of soaking in mineral tubs, visiting cool colleges, wandering around San Francisco, and driving north and south in search of the various parts of California that make the state feel like numerous countries all squeezed within a single border. The trip was a healthy combination of exploration and relaxation, which we have learned makes for the best experience for both Cody and me.

The first two days in California were spent driving south along Highway 1 in the direction of Big Sur. The first stop along our mini road trip was Stanford University. Cody often boasts that he recently completed some online classes through Stanford. This pretty much means that the University offers free public seminars on random topics that my husband is interested in and he's one of the weirdos that has enough time on his hands to take free online classes. Nonetheless, he sort of considers himself an alum. Stanford was cool and the hoodies and tshirts we bought are even cooler.

After Stanford we continued on to Santa Cruz. We stopped and spent some time at the Santa Cruz Boardwalk which felt a lot like what I imagine when I think of the west coast. There were amusement rides and palm trees and not too pretty ocean water. It was sunny and cool, which seemed to be the theme of the entire trip. Not exactly hot and not exactly cold.

A panoramic view of the boardwalk and the ocean.

It was a bit windy. 

After Santa Cruz, we drove through Carmel By The Sea - a small town that Clint Eastwood used to be the mayor of and a lot of artists, celebrities and rich people live or visit there pretty regularly. There were tons of dogs and lots of expensive stuff that we didn't buy. I ate a really weird peanut butter and apricot jelly sandwich and Cody ate an awesome grilled cheese and bacon sandwich and then we were on our way.

Carmel By The Sea. And yes, people in California just sit outside and sleep or read or eat or do pretty much anything. I guess that's what life is like where there are no bugs and not so much humidity. 

After Carmel, we made our way to Big Sur. Before this trip, I didn't really know what Big Sur was. I had heard of the Pacific Coast Highway and read about how pretty driving through this part of the country was, but I hadn't heard of Big Sur specifically. After having visited this area, I would describe Big Sur as a ridiculously pretty, somewhat daunting, treasure trove of some of the coolest natural happenings I've seen in the U.S. We stayed the night in a cabin at a campground somewhere along Highway 1. We spent the rest of the daylight exploring the area, and we found some pretty cool stuff.

Cody being Cody somewhere along the Pacific Coast Highway.

Behind me is the Bixby Bridge, which is the most photographed part of Highway 1. 

This was taken on Pfeiffer Beach, which is a fairly secluded beach that has huge rock structures in the water. 

The wind was crazy and sand was blowing in my face. 

This is the path leading through our campground. There were Redwood Trees dispersed throughout Big Sur and they were big and all sorts of regal in a tree way.

Taylor Swift recently posted pictures of her and one of her model friends travelling through Big Sur, which made me feel much more hip and cool for being in this part of the country in the first place. We went to sleep in our cozy cabin tucked far below the tops of the Redwood trees. What was sort of weird about our second night in California was that we set our alarms for midnight to wake up and drive to a nearby resort where Cody and I were going to soak in mineral baths overlooking the Pacific Ocean; this is where our trip got sort of weird...

Cody Wayne

This guy turned 28 yesterday. We celebrated his big day with a pizza party with a few friends and their children. We were home by 8:30 on the couch watching Orange is the New Black. I realize this is what 28 feels like: early bedtimes and pizza parties with toddlers. The world keeps progressing with or without us these days.

On a regular basis I am perplexed by my relationship with Cody. The ease with which we came to be a pair in this world is unlike the rocky and somewhat non-existent road I traveled with men before he came along. Cody was the first guy who liked me without any strings attached. He wasn't scared by my intensity. He didn't mind that I was/am nearly taller than he is. He understood my humor. He constantly chipped away at my walls. He bought me flowers and wrote me sweet notes. He constantly reminded me that I was different in a really good way. And I needed that so much when I was younger.

Cody is the best part of my life today. The longer I am with him the more our relationship has transformed beyond those two kids in college. Cody's support over the past two years of us trying to get pregnant has made me love him more than I knew possible. He now fills so many roles for me that I simply wouldn't let him have years ago. I trust Cody more than I used to. I respect his opinion more than anyone else's. I believe in his loyalty to me as his wife and his friend. I savor his positive attitude and unrelenting faith that there is an end to this process. He is the best human being I know, and I am grateful to have celebrated the last nine years of his life as his girlfriend and wife.

Regardless of how or when our infertility story ends, I recognize the difference between Cody and Katy before and after the discovery of my busted ovaries. Every once in a while, I am perfectly okay with the idea of keeping Cody Wayne all to myself for as long as possible. Or at least until I'm thirty five at which point I realize I have to get serious about finding a kid to call to our own.

Happy Birthday, CP!

32 Days Later

A few good things happened in the past 32 days...a homeless dog is no longer, a blood test claimed that I ovulated for the first time in the past two years, and a good friend of mine is pregnant. Those are all good things that happened in the last 32 days, which is how long it took me to start my period and realize that me being pregnant is not one of the good things I have going on.

I really thought this might be the month. I took Clomid. I had a properly sized follicle. I got a trigger shot. My progesterone level was plenty high. I also fostered a dog (which I realize seems completely unrelated to me being pregnant) on the pretense of giving him away as soon as a home was found; then I got so attached in the approximately twelve hours that I had him that I had to give him back to avoid the anger of my less-dog-obsessed husband and my completely-not-dog-obsessed current dogs. Before I managed to convince my uncle to adopt the dog, I found myself in a sobbing heap on my laundry room floor as I tried to savor my last minutes with Jojo. After the fact, I told myself that my reaction to that sweet little Rat Terrier had to be excessive, right? No emotionally stable human would react to a stray dog that way, right? I told myself that maybe just maybe my craziness could be traced to some sort of hormonal surge in my body. After the Jojo tears, I also had a few days in which I swear my nipples felt weird. Another faint check in the "could I actually be pregnant?" column. I also went to a yearly check-up at which Dr. Bell gave me a pregnancy test to take home with me, like they do toothbrushes at the dentist. Maybe? Finally, I recently found out that a friend of mine is expecting a child. We could pregnant together, right? That would be cool. We could call each other and complain about the growing fetuses in our wombs. We could compare belly sizes and share weird pregnancy symptoms and celebrate in the little humans we are creating. People do that, right?

Wrong. I'm not living in a world in which emotions can be attributed to pregnancy. Or a world in which you commiserate with another woman about your pregnancy. I'm not in that world. Everyone I know around me is in that world, but I'm not.

I think I knew all along that I wasn't pregnant. I haven't been pregnant the past twenty-four months that I've thought I might be, so why would I be now? However, I keep asking myself how many times I won't be before I ever will?

The good news in all of this is that there is an obvious connection between my infertility and personal plight to save every homeless dog on this earth. Felina is proof and now so is Jojo. Maybe I can't have human babies, but I sure can fill that void with sweet fur children whose parents don't love them nearly enough.

Katy Vs. Her Ovaries - Mother's Day

Mother's Day is weird when your mom has cancer and you're infertile. A weird strain exists between the woman who birthed me and her daughter who can't produce viable eggs.

My mom was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer (for the third time) on April 22, 2011. I didn't know it at the time, but after the dust of doctor visits, specialists, biopsies, and treatment plans settled, I was left with a sixty-something-year-old mother with a cautiously optimistic outlook on the future but a terminal cancer diagnosis nonetheless. My mom is a cancer patient and she will be for the rest of her life. It has taken me the better part of the past three years to understand what that really feels like on a daily basis.

My mom's diagnosis was the impetus for me trying to get pregnant around two years ago. I told myself that I could out run cancer. I could get ahead of the situation. I could get pregnant and give birth and allow my mom some years enjoying her grandchild before cancer took anything more from her and me. I wanted to have a child for her more so than me. Today, I recognize the flaw in that plan.

In my experience, the word "mother" exists alongside the word "cancer" - an unavoidable reality of a parent living with the disease. However, my mom has defined her role in my life as so much more than a survivor of cancer. There are a slew of monikers that my mom embodies, many of which she has earned through her unflinching acceptance and strength to fight back against cancer.

Mother's Day is a good day. I'm not focused on my struggle to become one. I'm not focused on my mom's health. I'm focused on my mom and my place in the world as her daughter. I'm focused on all of the good that swirls around both of us. I'm focused on the person I am today because I have had the privilege to be my mom's daughter for twenty-seven years. I'm focused on the ridiculously awesome parent I will be one day simply because of who my own mom is. I'm focused on right now because it does no one any good to try to figure out anything else.

Katy Vs. Her Ovaries - "I'm always pregnant!"

The first pregnancy test I ever took was completely unwarranted. I was convinced I was pregnant with Cody's child (conceived through immaculate conception, of course). I stressed myself into my period being late, and then proceeded to advertise my anxiety and irrational fear of pregnancy to all of my closest friends, until one of them bought a pregnancy test to end the madness. I obviously was not pregnant. However, what's most interesting about this story is that I did not worry about being pregnant just that one silly time. This happened to me more than once. I used to take pregnancy tests like candy. I've even dabbled in the world of emergency contraceptives (just once, I swear). I. AM. CRAZY.

Anyway, I had a period for the first time since Lupron last month. I imagined there would be more anticipation of life post-surgery and post-Lupron. Last July when I had the procedure to remove the endometriosis and then started Lupron injections, I told myself that all of that hassle would be worth it. Dr. Bell, as well as the internet (my much more informative second opinion), ensured me that a person's best chances of conception are the months immediately following a laparoscopy and Lupron. Last month was the month. Or as it turns out, it wasn't much of anything. I had two ultrasounds both of which revealed small follicles and no ovulation. The surgery, the Lupron did not combine for a magically fertile month. The ultrasounds entailed the same subdued, ambiguous responses from the lady examining my reproductive organs. Same pathetic looks. Same half-hearted promises about next month. Same sinking feeling. Same sad elevator ride back to the real world where people don't know that your ovaries don't work and your insides aren't like everyone else's. Same experiences I had before Lupron except less traumatic.

I did not once imagine that my fertility issues were solved. I knew that a minimally invasive surgery and hormone therapy was not enough to fix this mess. The internet had given me enough statistics to understand that severe endometriosis is not generally a quick fix. I no longer think I'm pregnant. Ever. Even with all the sex in the world, I still don't think I'm pregnant. I am on the opposite end of the spectrum than the crazy kid bumming pregnancy tests off her friends all those years ago.

Alright, alright...I have a confession. I am not completely cured of my "I'm always pregnant!" attitude. Despite the small follicles and proof of no ovulation, there was an excruciatingly long wait for my next period. I honestly didn't pay much attention until it had been 34 days and still no period. I kept telling myself that I was still messed up from Lupron and the extra long cycle was just a side effect. I knew I wasn't pregnant. I wasn't, right? I managed to hold off until day 36. I knew there was a test leftover from months ago and on a whim I gave in. There was a few seconds in my bathroom alone staring at the faint line forming when I thought that maybe, just maybe the ultrasounds were wrong. Maybe the lady measured wrong. Maybe the follicles were bigger than she thought. Maybe I ovulate on day 25, rather than 14 or 21. Maybe some force stronger than ultrasounds and ovulation had come into play and this was the moment that I would start writing a completely different story about an unlikely pregnancy, despite all of the naysayers.

But it wasn't the moment. There is no different story. The naysayers were simply reality-staters and I am not pregnant. The month that I have been waiting for since July has come and gone and the severity of the situation only continues to grow.

Next month we will try Clomid and a trigger shot. Next month we will continue ultrasounds in dark, sad rooms. Next month we will ride the same elevator and see the same faces. We will sit in the same waiting room and lie on the same table. We will measure follicles and endometrial linings. We will stare at our feet and make our husbands ask all the questions. We will scour the internet to try to guess the next step, to imagine what the next month holds. We will tell ourselves that this wasn't the right month. We will convince ourselves that we don't really want a baby right now anyway. And then in 28 days or 37 days, we will start all over again in hopes that someday there will be two lines on one of those stupid tests.

Katy Vs. Her Ovaries - Babies and God

I used to think that having a baby must be the closest manifestation of God that a human can experience on earth. The idea that I could (theoretically) create a person, carry them in my womb, and then deliver them into this world used to assure me that there was something bigger at work in this universe than I could conceptualize. I used to think having children was a miracle that God controlled. I assume by now you've noted the past tense of the first three sentences. I used to.

My thoughts about God and babies are very different now. The past two years have allowed (forced?) me to view having kids from a much more scientific, much less miraculous filter. It’s not just my struggle to get pregnant that has jaded me. In the midst of not being pregnant month after month after month, I have paid a lot more attention to who is getting pregnant.

Case in point, Michelle Duggar’s reality TV show is currently exploring her attempt to have her twentieth child. I know. I know. The Duggar’s are not the folks to use as evidence against God’s role in pregnancy, but we must all admit that it is pretty looney tunes that she is considering having twenty children all to herself. My next reality TV pregnancy debacle is pretty much every person on MTV’s Teen Mom or 16 and Pregnant. I just recently watched Jenelle Evans abort a child and then get pregnant ON PURPOSE mere months later with a man that she’s been dating for eight weeks. She then proceeded to explain to her first biological child that she is pregnant with his brother or sister (it’s a boy by the way that she named Kaiser, logically) and then leave that first child with her own mother to continue to raise. Mind blowing. Outside of reality TV, I have spent the past two months teaching a girl in my fourth period English class who is with child. She is sixteen and has hot pink hair. She can’t pass freshman English, yet she managed to get pregnant. I don’t have the opportunity to see her on a regular basis anymore because she was recently put in jail for truancy as part of her probation program. She is now sixteen, pregnant, and in jail. I’m twenty-seven, barren, and ridiculously normal. 

It just doesn’t add up. It’s hard for me to understand God’s willy-nilly system for handing out embryos. If pregnancy is a gift from God, if it is divinely inspired, what am I doing wrong that Jenelle is doing right? How is my fourth period English student a better candidate for a baby than I am? I’ll stop there. I know better than to compare myself to Michelle Duggar. She seems like the sweetest lady that ever existed. I don’t mind if she gets the big 2-0 if she’s willing to put up with Jim Bob. A saint I tell ya.

It’s not just reality television and teenage pregnancy that have shifted my ideas about children. When someone starts considering removing eggs from your body and injecting them with your husband’s sperm in some lab somewhere, the glossiness of conception sort of wears off. There’s nothing miraculous about latex gloves and microscopes. There’s nothing Godly about $10,000 to outsmart natural selection. This isn’t about God. I can’t have children because the cells in my uterus attack the rest of my body each month. God didn’t give me endometriosis just like he doesn’t control whether I get pregnant. Jenelle Evans doesn’t pray for babies in between joints. Fourth period pregnant kid doesn’t conceive because of God’s plan. She gets pregnant because she’s sixteen and irresponsible and apparently fertile.

I guess what I’m getting at is that if you attribute getting pregnant to God then you also have to attribute not getting pregnant to Him as well. And then you’re left wondering how in the world any of this makes any sense at all. People have children when they’re bodies allow it. Not when God does.

When I was flying home from Mexico a few days ago, there was a Baptist preacher seated in the row directly in front of me. I know this because he was having a conversation with a man beside him about God. He was sharing his testimony as Baptist folks would say. Later in the flight, the preacher proceeded to type on his laptop about his recent experiences in Mexico doing mission work. In between the seat backs, I read his screen as he went on to explain that people often get hung up on why life is not fair. The preacher noted that people question the existence of God when they have terrible things happen to them. Things that they deem not fair. I'll be the first to tell you I don’t think it’s fair that I am struggling with infertility. I do think I would make a good mother and Cody would be a good father. I am not on heroin. I am not sixteen. I have a job. I pay my taxes. I don’t smoke cigarettes. I have really exceptional hand-eye coordination. This is not fair.

I started paying more attention to the blinking cursor on the laptop in front of me. I started to wonder if maybe this man’s response about fair and unfair life experiences would be the explanation I needed to quit questioning God’s role in pregnancy and honestly God’s role in everything.

The preacher’s response eventually boiled down to this: humans don’t actually want a fair God because that would mean we would all be going to hell because we are all sinners. Moreover, humans don’t actually know what they need or want so our thoughts of fair and unfair are pedestrian (my word, not his) desires that aren't actually what God deems fit for our lives. There were a lot of biblical references in there, but I stopped reading after that. My hope for a message sent from above was lost on me. . Some people get pregnant. Some people don’t. It depends on anatomy, not religion. You don't have to believe in God to get pregnant. You don't have to deserve a baby (whatever that means). God does not release eggs and swim alongside sperm. He doesn't attach an embryo to a uterus. Human bodies do that just like dogs and horses and squirrels. 

I say all that to say that sometimes you just draw the short stick, regardless of whose hand you think you’re choosing from. 

Katy Vs. Her Ovaries - Square One?

In August 2013 I took my first Lupron shot. I worried that I would spend the next six months a crazed, hormonal shell of a human like the horror stories on the Internet. I worried about bone deterioration and depression. I worried that my ovaries would never recover. I worried that I would never get to be even the endometriosis-ridden version of my 27 year old self that existed before I took that shot. I worried that all of this effort would not result in a pregnancy. The only worry I have left today is the last one. Eight months later I have returned to pre-lupron Katy. In fact, I assume I am a more healthy version of myself. My ovaries work again. All one and a half of them managed to crawl out from their medicinal hibernation. All one and a half of them managed to prove the women on the message boards wrong. We're back. I've been in Mexico for the last two days playing phone tag with the nurses at Dr. Bell's office and relaying the news of my return from menopause. I found myself asking the same questions I was asking nine months ago. Infertility Groundhog Day. "What do I do now?" "Am I okay?" "Am I normal? " "Do we just try to get pregnant? Like everyone else?" "How do I get pregnant?" As before, the answers from the other end of that phone line were delayed and hard to understand, no matter if I'm in Arkansas or Mexico. At the end of the phone conversation, we decided on an ultrasound on day fourteen to determine if I ovulate. This is the same process that resulted in the finding of the cyst on my left ovary a year ago. This whole infertility mess is just a system of circles. Monthly circles. Yearly circles. We just keep running the same race over and over again. Nonetheless, I'm glad to be off of Lupron. It wasn't as bad as I imagined it might be, but there were some notable issues associated. I haven't felt particularly healthy for the past few months. I've broken down in tears in front of a middle-aged man (whom I still have to answer to on a regular basis at work) in the midst of trying to fight for my female athletes to receive the same treatment as male athletes. The embarrassment I still feel about crying while trying to convince a man that we are equal human beings is simply too much for me to bare. A few weeks later I adopted a dog that I stalked for days and days. I cried uncontrollably as the flea-ridden canine sat on my lap in the car. I referred to her as my "spirit animal" in between breathless sobs of appreciation as my husband sat stunned in the driver's seat. It's safe to say that Lupron has had some interesting side effects. I am glad those things have subsided. Despite all the tears and weirdness, there was one good thing about the last eight months of Lupron. I got a break from the race. There were no negative pregnancy tests to be taken. There were no days to count. There was no timed intercourse. There was no analysis of basal body temperature or other bodily predictors of fertility. There was nothing to worry about. No disappointment to be had. It was easy. I have to admit the reality of trying to get pregnant month after month is a much more difficult race to endure than the side effects of Lupron. I feel like I'm back to square one and as confused as I've ever been about pregnancy. Also, this time around I am even more invested in making this work with the scars (both physical and emotional) to prove that I am willing to sacrifice for the same outcome that some of us experience with such ease. I am willing to work for a child although the past two years of childless life have certainly left me with a notably different perspective on creating life. I tell myself that years from now all of this will make sense; the resolution will be evident. The longer I live without a child of my own, the more I realize that the much sought-after resolution does not necessarily have to involve me being a parent. Parenthood is no longer the only acceptable ending for me or us. It's taken two years to understand that the infertility race does not always end with a child. I feel like I should confess that the articulation of my new acceptance of infertility struck me while lying by a pool in Mexico as I stared at the ebb and flow of the Gulf of Mexico. We all know a good beach can round the edges of even the most jagged stones in life.

Katy Vs. Her Ovaries - Did I get had by Aunt Flow?

 I started my period in the wee morning hours of a slumber party in 1996. I was almost twelve-years-old and celebrating the end of a school year and a friend moving away. I wasn’t the first. I guess I was aware that the same fate would befall me as it had some of my friends. Nonetheless, I was embarrassed and upset. I remember refusing to utter a word to the throng of tween girls strewn throughout an empty living room piled high with sleeping bags and pillows. Remembering this milestone years later, the paradox of a slumber party and menstruation strikes me as an accurate portrayal of growing up.
         After a few hours of careful analysis, I finally accepted that I must share this occurrence with at least one person in this world. My mom would hand me a Maxi pad and ask a few uncomfortable questions about the occurrence and then we moved on. Silent partners in the world of women. Sometime later, after the initial shock wore off, my period became public knowledge amongst my sleeping bag friends. My mom eventually assured me that periods were not the end of the world (granted, all of this conversation occurred in hushed voices) and that I should actually be grateful for this dreaded monthly happening, for a period would allow me to fulfill what my mother still touts as her proudest accomplishment: having children.
        My friends and I were notably less sold on the power of a period. We spent years sharing tampons and stories about the trials and tribulations of growing up female. Some of us cursed more than just the inconvenience of a period, angered by the sacred possibility of pregnancy in our hormone-driven world of adolescence. I always respected reproduction far more than most of my friends. My seemingly regular cycles bolstered my mother’s “be grateful” approach to menstruation. I always trusted that the agony endured would one day be worth it when I was thirty and married and a mother.
        I haven’t had a period in eight months now. Lupron fulfilled its promise of “shutting down my system” as the doctors communicated to me. I feel like I have caught a glimpse of life on the other side of womanhood, a snapshot of menopausal Katy, complete with bone pain, hot flashes, and unwarranted tears. Even after Lupron is technically out of your system, a person does not immediately go back to a normal reproductive being. There is a window of time before a patient starts producing hormones and eventually has a period. This is what got me thinking about periods and puberty. This flip-flop between a healthy twenty-something-year-old to medically-induced menopause and now to waiting and wondering when (if?) these busted ovaries will ever start functioning again. I am becoming a woman. Again.
       After I was diagnosed with endometriosis, I started wondering when the disease started setting up shop inside of me. Were the cells of my uterus attacking their reproductive friends since that fateful summer night in 1996? Is the moment that I walked through the door to being a child-bearing woman also the exact moment that my body started fighting against itself? Did I endure the “be grateful” advice from my mother for nothing? If I had ever had uncommitted, unprotected, premarital sex with anyone, could I have even become pregnant? Or was all of this a sham? Have I been unable to have children for as long as I thought I could? Did I get had by Aunt Flow?
       I used to believe that people get what they deserve. Call it karma or blessings or whatever you will, I used to think that things work out the way they should. The longer I exist with the ever-present infertility cloud hanging above me (and my husband) I wonder if maybe all of this is a lot more of a crap shoot than I’d like to believe. I worry that those years of periods were nothing more than annoying.  

Rolling Boulders

To wrap up our Denmark and Iceland adventure, I am going to document a few random happenings along the way.

One day in Iceland we devoted some time to finding Crossfit Reykjavik. Cody is not a crossfitter per se, but he has been interested in the workout phenomenon for some years now and watched the Games long before everyone else thought Crossfit was hip and cool. On a whim, Cody mentioned that some of the best Crossfit athletes in the world come from Iceland. Before long we were exploring Reykjavik while looking for gyms. Cody specifically mentioned Annie Thorisdottir, a Crossfit athlete that is so famous that even I recognized the name...to make a long story short, we eventually happened upon the gym (no, I cannot bring myself to call it a box) that Annie is part owner of. Naturally, when we walked in, Annie and a few of her ridiculously in shape buddies were fixing to work out. We got to meet all of them, explore the facility, and talk all about muscles for close to an hour. Cody was in workout heaven and all of the athletes were so very nice.

As is the case with any somewhat lengthy trip, there were also some entertaining moments. Cody and I got along so well on this trip it was ridiculous. There were very few times that I found myself frustrated with his silliness or annoyed by him standing in the way or driving too slow or taking pictures of the most useless stuff that no one will ever want to remember. We just really had a great time. These are a few pictures to capture how often Cody makes me feel really happy and glad to be alive.

 And here's a compilation that sort of defines us.

A few other things I want to remember...Cody filmed close to four minutes of nothing but my butt while on our trip. Walking onto planes. Riding on escalators. Getting on trains. Staring at paintings. All of this was unbeknownst to me as I was actually doing productive stuff during these video shoots. Also, he saved a lot of this footage according to the action I was performing. In more than one of the saved videos he spelled "escalator" as "escilator" and because I love him, I think that is adorable.

At some point I had some deep thoughts on this trip and what it meant for us as young married people in love and wandering the world together. At some point I felt like I knew exactly what it was that I would take away from all of this. At some point I remember telling myself to remember this or that. However, over a month later, I am left with what I always cherish about travelling: a renewed appreciation for where I come from. I am left with a relentless love and respect for Cody for always being willing to run with me when I feel like there's somewhere else I need to be. I am left with a new perspective on the boulders at home that seem to shrink when you're an ocean away. And I am left with a little more strength to roll the boulders that remain the same even after thousands of miles of running, for it is those things that are worth fighting for in Arkansas and Iceland alike. We must keep rolling the boulders.

The sunset as we boarded the plane from Reykjavik to home with Icelandic quotes about travelling and searching and ultimately finding who you are. 

Go somewhere.