Muchas Gracias

I don’t think Thanksgiving has ever meant so much to me, until this year. The only reason I’ve really liked it as a holiday in the past, is because I get time off from school or work and I'd usually book a kick-ass trip. Cabo, anyone? And then school is out a few weeks after that.  It’s more of a stepping stone for me to get to Christmas. It makes me think of Jesus’ red-headed stepbrother who hates Indians. It's been baffling me by how mushy and pleasant I’ve been this holiday season, because I currently have the least amount of possessions I’ve ever had, no money in my bank account, and I’m extremely far away from my family and friends. I almost never see my husband, and in case you haven’t noticed, American Thanksgiving is an AMERICAN holiday and we don’t live in America. Hence, no Thanksgiving break. Billy took a few hours off from studying so we could go to dinner at a local resort and then play at the beach after. I had crappy, overpriced pizza and it didn’t feel like Thanksgiving in the slightest. So why do I feel so sappy and appreciative for my life on this year in particular?

Because: no shoes, no shirt, no problems! Everything in life can be tied into a Kenny Chesney song. Everything.

I’m gonna shoot it straight with you now, I absolutely love living in Grenada. A lot of people out here have a really hard time living on this rock, and I try to commiserate with them, but I have fallen madly in love with the place. Sure, it sucks that we don’t get all the modern American amenities. But I think that’s part of the reason I love it so much. My perfect self is not into money and things—I’m into experiences and relationships. (Let’s also keep in mind that my ideal self sails around the world with her family while being a yogi master and living off the land.) But somewhere along the way, I lost those ideals and became a shopaholic. And I feel that I’m getting rid of my selfish materialistic nature little by little here on this island. And learning to live in the moment. There are freakishly hard days where I just want to punch our lovely concrete walls or amputate my limbs because they are infested with bug bites. But most days, I feel so content with who I am and where I am, it’s such a strange feeling. Especially for someone who has been whining for a baby for her whole married life. I’m actually a little bit nervous to go to the States over Christmas break because I’m worried that I’ll revert back to my old ways pretty quickly. I’m also nervous to drive on the right side of the road again. And for temperatures below 75 degrees.

I think our situation before this really set me up to be obsessed with the Grenada. We were lucky enough to live with my parents for a while and then with Billy’s parents after that. They were both amazingly generous to let us mooch off of them while we saved money on rent to save up for med school go on fun trips. By the time we moved out here, I was ecstatic just to have our own place. It doesn't matter that it’s the tiniest apartment out of all the apartments I've seen here. It’s ours! Not that living with the Strongs and Griffiths wasn’t just delightful. My parents were supposed to be empty nesters, but they sacrificed that alone time to go on a lot of double dates. Billy’s parents were also supposed to be empty nesters, but we moved in just in the nick of time to spare them the loneliness of such a fate. It was sort of wonderful to interact with all of our parents as a fellow married couple—it’s a different relationship and I’ll be forever grateful for that time we had with them. And for the money we saved on rent. But after 3 years of mooching, it was high time we grew up and learned how to fork over some rent money and live on our own. Yes, I know, it’s not even our money, it’s all loans, but hey that’s progress for us!

Also, I never bought groceries before this, because I never cooked before this. So, everyone complains about how expensive the groceries are here, but I never knew what things cost before this, so I have nothing to compare it to. Blind gratitude, dude.

Speaking of loans, we are in one of the most unique financial situations we’ll ever find ourselves in. All of our SGU friends without children get the SAME EXACT AMOUNT of money for loans. What other time in our life will we be friends with people with the same amount in their bank account as us? (This may be somewhat of a stretch since we are the least responsible with our money. But at least, we all STARTED with the same amount this term.) I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—these chicas know exactly what I’m going through because, on paper, our lives are the same! It takes out the nasty "Keeping up with the Joneses" comparisons that seems to come second nature to me.

I think what I’m trying to say with these random points is that I’m starting to understand why those in third world countries are the happiest people you’ll ever meet. They don’t have a lot of stuff and so they value what’s important. We had an enrichment activity at the church (guys, I now attend enrichment. WTF) where we had a “bonfire on the beach” (firewood was wet, so we gathered around flashlights at the church) and sang our favorite hymns. In case you ever want to make the whole Relief Society cry, go ahead and plan this same activity. One of the Grenadian sisters told us that her favorite hymn was “Because I Have Been Given Much”. She explained that it spoke to her because she has been given so much through the gospel of Jesus Christ and she felt so privileged with this knowledge. This sister probably had the least amount of belongings in comparison to any of us in the circle. And her favorite hymn was “Because I Have Been Given Much”. If that doesn’t define Thanksgiving, I don’t know what does. I hope I’m as cool as she is when I grow up. And let’s just pretend that I didn’t throw a tantrum the other day because all I wanted was some sour patch kids.

Thanksgiving dinner at La Luna

Post skinny-dipping :)

This Christmas is the first time in our marriage that neither of us have any responsibilities (at the same time) for a whole month. So much free time with this stud. 

St. George's baptismal font. The best kind.

National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day

I would have been 36 weeks today. Due November 15, 2014. I would have seen on Instagram that it was National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance day and my heart would break for those poor mothers. And then I would go right on prepping the baby nursery and slathering my stretch marks in coconut oil. Instead, this day is filled with mourning for what could have been. What should have been.

I was planning on posting about our fertility struggles once I was about 20 weeks along and we were in the clear. It’s so much easier to look back and talk about the hard times once they are over. But alas, we are still right in the midst of them.  I’ve felt an urgent need to share our story, because too often we are afraid to talk about it. I’ve been trying to be more brave, and one of my biggest fears is sharing my weaknesses with others—even those I’m super close to. Infertility is one of those awkward subjects that make people uncomfortable. And since I am a pro on talking about forbidden subjects, here we go:

Billy and I have been trying to start a family for a little over 3 years. After 3 rounds of IUI, 1 laparoscopic surgery, 1 IVF cycle, and 1 frozen embryo transfer, we still have not given up. I got pregnant this past year after the IVF cycle. We were thrilled. Our waiting was finally over.  I knew even before our pregnancy test, because my body had never felt like that before. I could never sleep long enough and I couldn’t even breathe without hurting my ta-tas. I took a home pregnancy test a little earlier than my scheduled blood test, so we found out when I was about 3 weeks along. Which is kind of stupid because my transfer was only 7 days before. How dumb is it that they count the 2 weeks before you are even pregnant as part of your pregnancy? It will never make sense to me.

Unfortunately, IVF isn’t as easy to hide as good ole regular sex is, so all of our close friends and family knew that the transfer was successful. I even had to tell all my co-workers because we had a big event coming up and I wasn’t allowed to lift anything over 10 pounds. So, instead of looking like a lazy worker, I decided to tell them. I was worried about miscarrying, of course, but I was also worried that the baby was a hermaphrodite and I’d have to choose what gender s/he was before they were old enough. And worried that my child would grow up to wear capes and be obsessed with dragons and I wouldn’t know how to relate to them. Although, Game of Thrones has helped me get rid of that worry, because now I am obsessed with dragons. Basically, I’m a worrier, so you can never trust my worries. Plus, the thrill of the good news outweighed any reservations I had about sharing too early. So, the word was spread throughout all of Vivint and Utah County.

We saw the baby’s heartbeat at 6 weeks and then again at 8 weeks.  That’s the good thing about fertility treatments—they want to check up on everything to make sure it went smoothly so you are always getting ultrasounds.  The other good thing is that I’m not even scared of going to the gynecologist anymore. I remember the first time going right before I got married, and I was a nervous wreck. Now, I’m undressed and wide open before the doc even shuts the door.  My lady parts are a free-for-all in the doctor community. Anyway, we thought we were in the clear because so many people and even our doctor had told us that once you see the heartbeat, your chances of miscarrying go way, way down. I had my last appointment with the fertility center at 9 weeks, and then they referred me to a regular OB. A regular OB with regular people who were actually pregnant! Just like me! I told Billy not to worry about coming with me that day, because he had a test coming up and we had just seen the ultrasound the week before. Plus, I’d bring him back pictures. I remember pulling in to the parking lot and feeling all nostalgic, because this is the last time I’d be here for a few more years. Oh, but nostalgia’s a bitch. As soon as they found the baby, I knew. I had been so excited to see that funny little fluttering of a heartbeat. How cute that its heart had to beat so fast like it was running sprints! I saw the familiar little shape and it was gut-wrenchingly still. I didn’t dare breathe. I watched my doctor’s face for a reaction and felt my heart sink at the pursed lips and furrowed brow. She said, “I’m not seeing a heartbeat”. Welp, I’m not either, Doc, but PLEASE, PLEASE find it! I started praying my eyeballs out. Through the sound of my heart breaking, I could tell she was really upset. I’ve never wanted to teleport to my bed so badly as I did in that moment. How am I supposed to drive home? How am I supposed to tell Billy? How am I supposed to be happy ever again? Please, oh please don’t talk to me about doing another IVF cycle right now. 30 seconds ago, my biggest worry was whether I should drive through McDonald’s on the way home. Thankfully, she explained that I had a few options for what to do now: I could wait to let my body miscarry on its own; I could take some pills that would trigger the miscarriage for me; or I could have a D&C. I decided to wait and let my body miscarry naturally.

That waiting ended up taking too long. I was still having all the symptoms—fatigue, nausea, headaches. But there wasn’t even one single positive aspect to my sickness. Nope, I was still sick and my body was trying to grow a baby that wasn’t alive anymore.  After a week of waiting for my body to get with the program, I couldn’t handle it emotionally anymore. And so I decided to take the pills. On the plus side, it was over within 5 hours. But those 5 hours were the most painful, traumatizing hours I had ever lived through. Physically and emotionally.

During the whole ordeal, from start to finish, telling Billy was the absolute hardest part. Why couldn’t he have been with me? Why did I have to say the words out loud? How do you tell the man you love that your body had let you both down yet again?

We were lucky enough to be able to send a tissue sample in to a lab. The lab found that our baby had a chromosomal abnormality called triploidy—meaning that two sperm got into the egg. This condition is not compatible with life, so it was reassuring to my logical brain to find that there was a reason my son or daughter hadn’t made it.

I’m not writing this so that we can be pitied or so that people are more sensitive to our situation. Being the proud woman that I am, I HATE being the subject of sympathy and that was one of the things holding me back from even posting this. I like to think that I can do things on my own and I’m too selfish to want to try and reassure everyone that I’m doing okay.

I’m writing this because as I have started being more open about our fertility struggles, I have had so many people reach out to me saying they are going through similar issues. People that I never would have guessed. Because we all lie about it—“Oh, not till I graduate from college”; “Once we have enough saved up”; or “After we travel the world”. It’s easier to pretend that we don’t want it, than to admit out loud that we want it more than we’ve ever wanted anything. My recent candor has made some people feel awkward (and I’ll admit, it started as my bitter intention when acquaintances will ask me, “So, when are you two having kids?” Never, ever, ever ask this question.) But, then it morphed into something that I’m not ashamed of. I hate that my personal problems are now public knowledge, but they are a part of who I am. And in order to raise awareness, I felt that I needed to share our story.

I know couples who can get pregnant from sneezing, and when they hear our story they feel guilty. And that’s not the point. I don’t want their babies. I want my own. I’m genuinely happy for those who can conceive on their own. Lord knows I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. And while I love the support of having friends reach out to me and tell me they are experiencing something similar and they feel my pain, my heart breaks that there are so many of us. So, instead of only sharing once our happy ending comes, I’m sharing while we’re going through it because I know there are men and women out there that need to hear an honest story. And maybe sharing will help them through it—I know it has helped me—but sometimes keeping it to yourself is what you need.  And I apologize to anyone that I have made to feel uncomfortable with my candor and detail about this journey of ours. It’s part of my life, so I am getting more comfortable being brazen, although I know it’s not always the case for those who haven’t experienced it.

And if you are now thinking back on all of our conversations and wondering if you ever said something insensitive or offensive, please don’t! I have extremely thick skin. Sometimes, I try to get offended about things, and then I forget about them the next day. It’s too much work for me. But, please realize that many others (that you may not realize) are going through the same hell as we are, and they may not have thick skin. So, watch what you say. Which is probably a good life motto in general. A lot of “conversation topics” are none of our damn business.

Miscarrying our baby was the worst thing that has ever happened to me. But out of it, I gained such an appreciation in the Lord’s timing. The Lord doesn’t want me to have a child right now. I have so much more faith in His plan for me. It still sucks and I still have nights where I cry myself to sleep. But, looking back, I probably wouldn’t have finished my undergrad if we had gotten pregnant when we first started trying. I wouldn’t have been able to be promoted to my last job at Vivint and met all the amazing friends that have changed my life for the better.  We wouldn’t have had all the one-on-one time that we’ve been able to enjoy these past 3 years. And while I like to think that I’ll still travel all over once we have kids, I know that we wouldn’t have had nearly as many trips these past few years if we had gotten pregnant. Obviously, I would trade all of it in a heartbeat. But I trust that the Lord knows what He is doing. He knows what we need better than we do. Hopefully, by making us try so hard, we will be better parents than we might have been.

My love goes out to all of those with any amount of experience in this category. It’s a shitty ordeal, and no one deserves to go through it. I’m always here for anyone that needs someone to vent to or who has any questions. I’m not much of a let’s-talk-about-my-feelings girl—I’m more of the publicly-announce-it-on-your-blog-so-that-you-don’t-see-the-look-of-pity-in-their-eyes type. But I consider myself a pretty good listener. And I’ve had a taste of your pain. So, let’s be friends.

No blog post is complete without pictures.

Just a couple of kids

After my laparoscopic surgery. Sometimes I'm so photogenic.

All the drugs that go into making a baby.

Post egg-retrieval. Ouchie.

First time getting sick in a year, and it happened on the day of my embryo transfer. Brought a barf-bucket to the appointment. Real classy.

Bet you didn't know this is how you really make a baby...

The two transferred embryos. Such cute little guys!

Your eggo is prego.

Our little bundle of cells

Baby in that belly!

Yes, that's my bum bum. But look at the size of that needle! And I had to inject DAILY for the Frozen Embryo Transfer.

Ode to Bilbo

Today is a pretty fancy day in my life. 7 years ago today, Billy got home from his 2-year LDS mission serving in Mexico City. 4 years ago today, Billy asked me to marry him in Ghirardelli Square in San Francisco and I said "yeah". So, October 1^st is one of those forever-good ones. No matter how bad my menstrual cramps are kicking my trash. (Sorry I said menstrual in my ode to you, babe). And no matter how long Billy has to stay on campus tonight. And there’s no way it could be ruined by a torrential downpour starting as soon as I hang my sheets up to dry on the clothesline. 

Because I’m so grateful for that punk. I’m grateful that I didn’t know him when he came home from his mission (from what they tell me, he was pretty awkward with his chipped teeth and sermons about not watching TV on Sunday). I’m grateful that I met him at a time in our lives when we both needed to turn things around. I’m grateful that he challenges me to become better by not putting up with my crap. I’m grateful that we both love Tosh.0.  I’m grateful that he works so hard at school to do something that he loves. I’m grateful that he wants to travel the world with me. I’m even grateful when he shoots my trip ideas down because we don’t have the money.  I’m grateful that he laughs at me when I'm taking myself too seriously. I’m grateful that we love the same sports (even if I can’t quite get on board with watching EVERY SINGLE NFL and NBA game. But at least he’s over his “not watching TV on Sunday” phase). I'm grateful that in spite of my dilapidated fallopian tubes, we have been able to have so much time together--just the two of us. Life is just so much fun with this guy.

***If I show up dead in the next month, it's because he murdered me for posting this***

Hippies and Tings

 Somehow, I earned myself a nickname with the locals in our neighborhood. I’m not 100% on what they actually yelled (they speak English, but sometimes that Grenadian accent is a whole other language, son) but I’m pretty sure it was either “hippie” or “yippie”—variation of yuppie? I’m praying it’s hippie, and also hoping it’s because of my clothes (my sister calls my style "eclectic") and not because I never brush my hair. There’s this street corner right by our house with a huge tree, and there are ALWAYS at least 3 local men sitting under the tree. I don’t really understand what they do all day, but who am I to judge when I watch an average of 3 hours of Netflix per day? Today, I was driving my scooter (more about this later) back from my friend Kayla’s house and praising God that the rabid dog that protects the street didn’t chase me again. When all of a sudden, the “tree men”, (this has a double meaning because they were under the tree and also, Grenadians don’t pronounce their h’s when in conjunction with a t, so three sounds like tree, through sounds like true…the pun isn’t as good when you have to explain it) get REALLY excited to see me and start yelling “HIPPIE! HIPPIE! GOOD EVENING!” and throwing their heads back laughing and waving. I know I’m not supposed to support catcalling and it’s sexist but I just couldn’t help but smile. Their enthusiasm was contagious. And why can’t Billy greet me that way every day? 

Here’s proof of the missing H’s.

Yes, you read me correctly earlier, we bought a scooter! It’s not nearly as cool as the red rocket we drove this summer or my personal favorite—the black mamba who owned the summer of 2010. But, it is the white panther of Grenada. AKA: A used, rattly, overpriced scooter. Scootering is no joke around these parts—it’s more like mastering the slaloms in order to avoid the potholes. But it really has been such a lifesaver. We have been hitching rides and taking buses and burdening all our friends who have cars. It’s so nice to be an adult and be able to go where you want when you want to go. Yes mom, I wear a helmet. And it has blue flames—nothing but the most stylish accessories for this trophy wife.

In other news…PINTEREST! I know I’m the last female on earth to start a Pinterest account. I have this aversion to popular things. I boycott them forever and then I realize how awesome they are so I jump on board about 3 years too late. Kind of like when Harry Potter came out in 2^nd grade, but it was too trendy and those kids were nerds, so I didn’t read it until 4^th grade and obviously now I’m obsessed for life.  My fantasy football team is Team Gryffindor. And I did the same exact thing with Twilight. But, back to Pinterest. I have become a cook out here because a girl and her aspiring doctor have gotta eat. After every meal, Billy says, “Who are you and what have you done to my wife?” Even his insults make me weak in the knees.

I’ve made scrumptious meals and not-so-scrumptious meals all thanks to the “recipes with little ingredients” search. As it turns out, nothing is healthy when there aren’t many ingredients. And the budget dinner pages are crap because they act like feta cheese and chicken are so cheap, but they’re obviously shopping at Walmart. Show offs. On a more positive note, I never need to buy salt here! All I have to do is shake my head/pits over the meal I’m cooking because cooking is an Olympic sport around here and makes you sweat in places you didn’t know had sweat glands. There’s not any AC in my kitchen or living room—only in the bedrooms. Combine that with a gas oven, and you’ve got a free sauna for a house. Living in swimsuits ‘round the clock over here, peeps.

And here I go again, ranting about my hectic life when Billy is busier than a mosquito at a nudist colony. It’s just that I like things to always be about me and frankly, Billy’s days are not as lively as mine. I should really stop asking him “How was your day?” if I’m not willing to listen to his responses of all the science and junk he’s learning. It’s not that I’m not interested, but as soon as he starts talking about his classes, my brain shuts itself off. I’m all about the soft sciences and Star Wars, but real science and I don’t mesh well. But I do try my hardest to tone down my love of the island, because he can’t really want to hear about how awesome the snorkeling at Magazine beach was the other day, right?

Regardless of my poor wifely duties, I’ve been so proud of how hard he has been working. He wakes up at 6:30 every morning and I drive him down to the school. I come back to bed for a few hours while he is slaving away. Sometimes I meet him for lunch around noon and then he has classes from 1-5 every day. After that, he comes home to devour a home-cooked meal from his fabulous wife and starts studying again from 6:30 PM until midnight. Then he sleeps and starts the whole thing all over again. I really don’t know how he does it. He did well on his first exams, and now he has a much better idea of what he needs to focus on for midterms (which are in 3 weeks, yikes! When did it get to be the middle of September?). Those who knew us while we were dating would be shocked to see the people we have become. I swear we went boating every single day, because he didn’t have a job and I called in sick to work like twice a week. We sure love to have fun, but fun needs to be funded. I guess.

Here is my life according to my phone and GoPro...as if this post wasn’t random enough.

Facing my fear of sea urchins. It pays to make friends with the locals.

Just chillin' at BBC beach with some nuns. We had to ask them to put their tops back on for the picture.Photo stolen from Erin Anderson :)

Some of us trophy wives went river-tubing on the Balthazar river. Such gorgeous scenery and even better company.

Our guides were great. Definitely a "must-do" in Grenada.

Billy shows off his shark tooth necklace to anyone nice enough to pretend to care. Even interrupting a quality FaceTime sesh with my girlfriend.

Studying himself ragged means he falls asleep while cuddling every night.
I kinda love it though. It's like when a busy toddler will only cuddle when they're sick and moms eat it up.

Budgeting is a lot simpler when all of your money is spent at IGA.

Taking his exams last Monday meant that we had a full day off to spend with each other and some bad ass friends. We even got to eat lunch together. The good life y'all.

We bribe them to be our friends by sharing our private beach. :)

We FaceTime each other from different bedrooms. Not THAT pathetic, right?