Infertility, Vacations, & Other Stressful Events (Thursday)

(Start with "Tuesday" if you can. I don't take it personally that some of my readers probably pray for a holiday to fall somewhere during the week so they only have to listen to me four days out of five. "She's mildly amusing occasionally but she just goes on and on and on and on."  If you have a higher tolerance--like you can stand a root canal with the dentist's office music as your only sedative--you probably can handle another day of Laughing IS Conceivable. So consider subscribing. Once a week you'll get some fun info from me and I'll send you away with a tube of toothpaste big enough for one brushing.)

So, what were we talking about? Oh right, the benefits to going on vacation when you're going through infertility.

The toughest part about going on vacation while you're dealing with all of it is wherever your body goes, your mind  usually follows. My emotional baggage rule is the same as my regular baggage rule: If it doesn't fit under that tiny space in front of my seat on the plane, it has to stay behind.  

And this ain't easy. How do you turn off your brain so you can enjoy the vacation? I mean it's easy enough to leave some of infertility behind. Don't pack the framed photo of your doctor that you keep on your nightstand or the 3D picture of your uterine lining that's tacked to your refrigerator, or the lab results for your husband's analyzed sperm. (Although since my husband's sperm were a perfect specimen, he always kept his lab report in his wallet to show at parties. He couldn't have been more proud of his sperm if they had actually fertilized something. "Look, my boys  are on the fertility clinic's sperm honor roll. Their picture is up in their 'Hall of distinction'. They won the gold cup three months in a row. They got a swimming scholarship to Harvard.")  

When planning a vacation, we avoided as many mine fields as possible: Oh let's look up that restaurant before we go: "Family-friendly atmosphere".  NEXT!

And that goes for the whole getaway in general. There are plenty of places that cater to couples only. This not only cuts out the stress of seeing the little folks, it also keeps you from accidentally becoming a part of the next big: "Drunken Sophomores Gone Wild!" video.

The great thing about going away is that wherever you go, when you get there... you won't know anybody, and more importantly, nobody will know you.  So you can be two totally different people than the ones who left your driveway this morning. Dye your hair. Use a fake accent. 

Nobody has to ever mention infertile, pregnant, IVF, IUI. Nobody you meet will automatically bring it up and neither of you should strangers OR to each other. Screw infertility... let it take its own damn vacation. Trust me, you guys need a trial separation from it.

And unless you are an heiress, don't blow a lot of money on this little retreat if you can help it. If you return to both home and reality and toss hefty vacation bills on top of the hefty infertility bills,  your stress level will start rising like the ocean tide you were gazing at a few days before.

One emotional side effect we inadvertently brought along on one of our getaways was our senility. I'm not sure if others experience this, but from all of the strains and exhaustions of the whole infertility debacle, we found that we went stupid a lot.

One evening, my husband and I were resting up a few states away, in the state we got married in. Upon driving up to a new restaurant, we realized that the restaurant was actually inside the place where we'd gotten married. And that's what we told everybody we ran into on the way into the restaurant.

About half way through our perfect, moonlit, romantic meal, as my husband and I debated over how the layout of the place had changed in the time since we last were there, we brought the server into the conversation to settle our dispute of what was where. I told her:

"I remember walking out french doors that were over there and down the aisle by the lake and then there was a waterfall right there." To which she responded:

"I know exactly what you're talking about. But I'm not sure how to tell you this. That place is a couple of miles down the road."     

Listen I gotta go. Since that night, I make it a practice to meditate every morning and then read over my driver's license before I leave the house so I'll remember where I live when I'm ready to return. I also carry a photo of the house in my wallet.

I'll talk with ya again tomrrow.