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"In this tempestuous, havoc-ridden world of ours, all real communication comes from the heart." | ||
- Etty Hillesum |
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February 03, 2006 |
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What a drag it is getting old. |
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What a drag it is getting old. I was driving to class this morning (I�m a graduate student, for those of you who are new here) and I was listening to the Rolling Stones. LOUDLY. �Mother�s Little Helper� came on. And I know the song is about tranquilizers. But with a little tweaking, and a mind focused on your own infertility problems, you can easily change the lyrics so that the drugs she needs are fertility drugs. Doctor please, some more of these Actually, what I find most interesting in my life right now is this weirdo waiting thing. I�m just waiting for my period to show up, so I can take birth controls for three weeks, have another period, take estrogen, and implant my frozen embryos. That�s like, a whole lot of nothing. And maybe if you�ve never been under intense medical care, you�ll think I�m strange. But it feels WEIRD to not have anything going on. No doctor�s appointments. No racing home at a certain time to give myself an injection (or three). I actually miss the interaction with my doctor. And I miss actively doing things that will maybe, someday, hopefully get me pregnant. I mean, hey, we�re actively having sex � but in our case its status has been changed from a procreational activity to a strictly recreational one. What the hell am I supposed to do with my free time now that I�m not rushing around to doctor�s appointments? I feel lost. I am living one of life�s true ironies right now. I�m a nurse, and as a nursing graduate student, we do a lot of clinical hours. Not just papers and tests and crap (although we have a lot of those, as well) � we do a lot of hands-on, see patients and do things with them type projects. One of my current projects is working with two patients (�clients,� we call them at the graduate level, as though we�re making money from them or some such nonsense). I have to work with them in a series of �wellness counseling sessions.� That is, they want to lose weight, and I�ve got to help them figure out how to get motivated to do so. Help them set goals, that sort of thing. Yet here I sit, not ten feet from the treadmill, and I DO NOT WANT TO GET MY FAT ASS IN GEAR TODAY. I�m finally down to 151 � that�s four pounds up from my recent low of 147 and the fabulous size ten jeans that ZIP instead of having elastic. Of course I know that those four pounds are water that I�m still carrying around from that damned surgery a few weeks ago. And you know what? Walking isn�t going to get rid of those four pounds. Granted, walking could get rid of some of my other excess poundage. I�m not that dense in the head. But it doesn�t seem to matter. I�m all �eeeeh� about losing the weight. Mostly, or partly, I�m sure, because the minute I start shooting up with Mother�s Little Helper Hormones, I�ll gain gain gain! And there�s nothing I can do about it. Excess estrogen makes women put weight on their bellies and thighs. God wants it that way. He�s a wicked supreme being with no respect for infertility issues. Yet I get to go counsel my two patients on why they should get off of THEIR fat asses and hit the treadmill. Irony! Lest you think I am a total sloth (although I don�t care if you do or not, since you don�t live in my house and I don�t have to see your eyes rolling back in your head when my ass stays off the treadmill until it�s good and ready to get on) � my husband, on return from Las Vegas last weekend, stated to me, �We need to start the South Beach Diet. I�m fat and want to lose weight.� I�d rather put hot pokers in my eyes than restrict my carbs on a stupid fad diet� I can lose weight by cutting back and just eating LESS of everything. But he can�t, bless his heart, and if I don�t South Beach with him, he won�t diet. And he weighs about fifty pounds more than he did when I met him, and I liked my tall skinny sexy man a whole lot, so I�ll do anything (re: hot pokers) to help him get back there. So I�m on the South Beach Diet by default. So even if I don�t treadmill, the muffins and bread and rice and pasta will begin to melt off of my thighs anyway � just not quite as quickly as it would if I was MOVING at the same time.
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Last Few Entries |
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Back? - November 10, 2007 |
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� More about Etty Hillesum, the woman in the photo.� |
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