My Thoughts on Aging

I’ve been feeling out of sorts lately, and it always surprises me how much better I feel after writing. It’s exactly the reason I started this blog in the first place—to see my thoughts written out in a somewhat coherent way is cathartic for me. And yet, I forget how good it feels every time. My journal, (which is a little less sarcastic and has a whole lot more feelings), doesn’t require drafts or editing (except when I’m redacting my high school years for posterity’s sake), so it doesn’t have the same therapeutic effect. Believe me, if you think my blog is erratic and tangential, you should read my journal. It sounds like it’s written by 7 different people.

            So, it finally happened to me. Back in January, I turned 25. I’ve been in denial ever since. I had to rent a car the other day, and my hands started sweating when I realized I could put my own information in and not my 30-year-old sugar daddy’s info (Billy). And you know how when you subscribe to a website, they ask what age range you’re in? I’m not even in the first age category anymore. Rest in peace, 18-24.

I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal, but it has really thrown me into a panic.  I threw out all of my beauty products and stocked up on anything and everything with retinol in it. I’m pretty sure I have retinol in my deodorant. I’m also toying with the idea of getting preventative Botox. A few years ago, my sister-in-law was getting certified to give facial injections of the miracle drug and offered to practice on me for free as part of her training. I completely trusted her, but I declined because I didn’t feel like I was “that kind of girl”. At the time, it seemed hypocritical to get Botox since I’ve always identified as a tomboy and didn’t obsess about top of the line makeup or expensive clothes. I always try to look good, but Target suits me just fine. But on the day I turned 25, I woke up seriously regretting my anti-chemical/surgery stance. Give me all the Botox.

I know you’re probably supposed to worry about your health your whole life, but I missed that memo. Everyone warned me, “Tanning will make you look like Yzma from the Emperor’s New Groove” or “Diet Coke is how they administer chemotherapy orally”. I’ll blame it on my brain not being fully developed until 25 (the only positive of this ghastly age, although it’s not that positive because I can’t blame my ineptitude on my brain anymore), but when people would tell me these things, I would wave it off. That stuff happens to old people. I think I even used to say, “I’d rather look good while I’m young and have skin cancer when I’m older than be pale”. *Gritted-teeth emoji* That’s just the narcissistic version of YOLO, right? My parents really should have given me a good slap every now and then. But now that I’m 25, I’m scared as hell. I’m positive that I’ll pay for my recklessness and disregard for my health pretty soon, so I’m trying to reverse all the damage I’ve already done*. I’ve even started another stint of working out and eating clean. I’m hoping this time it will stick, because Billy and I both feel like we would be the first to go in a zombie apocalypse because of our sitting-at-a-desk-all-day muscles. Or lack thereof. 

I’m in the worst shape that I’ve ever been in. I tried to hike a mountain with a bunch of the wives down here. I think it’s a 4-mile round trip hike (that’s probably being generous) and I gave up. There were 3 girls with 6-month olds strapped to their chests that did the whole thing. Mind you, the hike was pretty steep, I hadn’t worked out for 2 months for medical reasons and we were going at a very fast pace--I’m more of a hike 2 minutes, rest for 10 kind of girl. But I can’t get over the fact that I actually quit. I’m 25 years old and if I had to run up that mountain to avoid a tsunami, I would die. My ancestors and Charles Darwin would be ashamed. (Just so you don't think I've entirely let myself go, mangoes are back in season and it's all I eat now. My colon is very happy!)

Going to town on a mango. This is why no one ever wanted a second date with me.

I guarantee you I will not live until I’m 100, so I’m more than ¼ of the way through my life. Which is beyond scary. When I got married at 3 weeks shy of 21(yes, that means 20), I figured I might as well start popping out children before I turn 26. Why 26, you ask? It is the magical age that Obama designated when I get booted off my parents’ health insurance. The goal was to have at least 2 kiddos by now so I could get my parents’ money’s worth of prenatal and maternity care. However, my fallopian tubes have quite the sense of humor.  Since I’ll definitely be 26 and childless, I’m back to being a student again while fighting off wrinkles, sun damage, and obesity. Did I mention I live on a Caribbean island where the sun is always shining, and it’s too hot to run outside? Every outside yoga class is Bikram whether you want it to be or not. Even swimming laps in the ocean (water temperature is an average of 80.6º F) could give you heatstroke. So, these self-improvement plans might also be on hold until we’re back in the states. But I always feel better knowing that Billy is turning 30 next year. Because if I think 25 is bad, I know 30 is going to be miserable. I feel so lucky to have Billy and his receding hairline to put things into perspective.

*I wrote this post yesterday, and then today, I played beach volleyball and went swimming. And got super burnt in the process (pictured below). So, probably don't ever listen to anything I ever say. I'm not to be trusted. BUT NOTICE THE FOREHEAD WRINKLES!!!!

            

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***

Acupuncture and Hibernation

This week, I got acupuncture for the first time. I had heard great things about it, and so when I saw a Groupon, I snatched that bad boy right up. After I bought it, I found out that my insurance covers 24 visits of acupuncture per year, so that was a good waste of $40. 

Anyway, I was a little bit nervous about it. Particularly about the needle part. The acupuncturist asked me some very intimate questions—males should not read this next part. This means you, Billy—like the color, thickness, and odor of my blood on my period. Yuck. I’ll spare you my responses. After giving him my menstrual autobiography, the acupuncturist then asked me if I had any questions to which I said “No” (I REALLY just wanted for him to get on with it). He said, “Wow, you must have done a lot of research then”. Ummmm…sure.

He then proceeded to look at my tongue—thank goodness I brushed my teeth that morning. Apparently, you can tell a lot about how your body is functioning by what your tongue looks like. My tongue is too purple, has thicker than normal white-stuff yum, and the sides of it have teeth markings. Which means that my liver isn't doing a good job, I have excess phlegm in my body, and my liver isn't doing a good job. So apparently, I've been diagnosed as a raging alcoholic? 

He then took my pulse in two different spots on each wrist. He felt stagnation in the spot that coincides with my reproductive organs, so either he really found something or he just read what I wrote on my patient form: infertility because of endometriosis (spell check wanted to change that to optometrists). And from another pulse spot, he could tell that I hold my stress and tension in my neck and shoulders—that one was more impressive.

After he diagnosed me, I lay down fully clothed, and he started putting in those damn needles. He put about 5 in my left hand, 1 between my eyes, 1 in my right hand, and then 5 more on my legs and feet. And then he left me alone for 40 minutes. I’m not gonna lie--my left hand kind of hurt like a mother. I think he poked a nerve. And halfway through, my legs started twitching. When he took the needles out, I was so relieved, but also kind of scared because I had little red spots where the needles had been. I also didn't realize there would be blood on the needles afterwards. Cue my squeamishness.

I know you are supposed to keep doing treatments weekly for acupuncture, but I wasn't too impressed. I was kind of thinking it would be more pleasant—like a massage. I believe it works and all, but I also believe I am more of a modern medicine kind of gal. I’m too skeptical to do anything that unpleasant again unless they give me Valium. My fertility clinic gives me Valium during some of the more painful procedures and it is definitely my drug of choice. In the Griffith family, half of the children have the TBG gene (Thomas Beall Griffith) which means that we are perfectionists, have OCD, have major anxiety, and can’t shut off our planning brains just like our Daddy. That Valium is the temporary cure to my TBG woes.

After that eventful appointment, this weekend was pretty embarrassing for the Strong household. A friend once commented on how adventurous we are—probably because of my relentless Instagram feed @torstrong which tries to prove how much fun we have. However, I am here to attest to you that most of the time, we are about as fun as your typical old married couple. You would think we were hibernating. In our defense, there really is nothing to do on winter nights except eat and watch movies. We had planned on going down to St. George, but it wasn't that much warmer down there and I can only golf in at least 70 degree weather. Plus, our golfing buddies couldn't make it down with us. 

In Provo, the bone-chilling wind howled for three days straight and we had the house to ourselves, so of course we ventured outside as little as possible. I think we left the house maybe four times in three days. I would be shocked if our total TV time was less than 30 hours. Once while on a diet coke run, I told Billy I had to drive so I could use my brain for something (since driving takes so much brain power?) On a less depressing note, I made a scientific discovery—your muscles CAN atrophy in a single day.

Below is an actual conversation that took place on Sunday night:

Billy: We should move

Me: So we can get a puppy? Great idea, I’ll start looking at apartments! (My mother-in-law has a strict No Pets Living at the Compound rule)

Billy: I meant off the couch.

So, needless to say, we are already in the right frame of mind for a good old-fashioned wear-your-leggings-so-you-can-watch-football-and-stuff-your-face Thanksgiving dinner.

I hope you all have a happy Thanksgiving with your family and loved ones!
I'll be dreaming of warmer and more productive times in Cabo and Lake Powell. While still being thankful, of course.

Billy teaching me to surf

Boat ride with my Macster

Strong Family

Tried to Domesticate Ya

It’s time for me to face the facts. I’ve known it was coming for a while now. It’s the unspoken Mormon housewife checklist:

1) Get married. ✔

2) Get a kickass job. ✔

3) Buy a puppy.

4) Pop out some chilluns.

5) Start a blog.

6) Buy a mansion.

7) Travel the world. (Billy wants to go into outer space, but he is so on his own for that one)

I hate this checklist. It makes me feel confined and too domesticated. If you know me, then you know that the sole purpose of my life is to think of everything that is expected of me...and then do the exact opposite. I about died of embarrassment by getting married at 20. It went against everything I believed in. Plus, a high school teacher once bet me that I would not be able to graduate from BYU without getting married and I soooo wanted to win that bet. 

I can’t don’t cook, I’m a sugar mama, I finished my degree while my husband protested (he’s charmingly sexist…in a good way)

I don’t even have Pinterest!

Before you think I am the worst wife that ever got married at 20, let me clarify the real reasons why I hate this checklist. We haven’t bought a puppy because we don’t own a house--we can’t buy a house because we will be living off of food stamps for the next 4 years while trudging through medical school in who-knows-where? And I’ve got the fallopian tubes of a 90-year old. 

Suffice it to say, even though I really do want to gradually mark off the checklist, I am completely unable to. And when the universe tells me no, I want it BAD. Since I graduated, I have really had an itch to start writing again—but nobody was assigning me essays, it was the darnedest thing! So, I assigned myself the task of starting this blog.

Why Bonnie and Clyve, you may ask? Well, one time a stranger said “You guys are named Tori and Billy? Those are the perfect outlaw names!” So, naturally I thought “Hey, we are just like Bonnie and Clyde!” And I've been telling myself that in my head ever since. Also, Billy legitimately wants to name our first son Clyve. Or Merlin. So, since that’s definitely not happening, I’ll help a brotha out.

Our full names are William and Victoria, which I think sounds like royalty, but we are so not proper or well-mannered or any of that garbage, so I like the rebel ones better. Don’t be fooled that Billy will EVER write in this blog. It’s all mine. My Facebook is really all mine too, except when people start writing us messages in Spanish, and then it's all his. But, he is my best friend and my inspiration (gag me) in just about everything so I will be posting a lot about him. So, I guess he can be mentioned in the title. Hopefully it makes up for the all the times I publicly humiliate him.

Starting now.

Isn't he just a babe?

Please don’t take this blog too seriously. Mostly, I just like thinking out loud and writing and being dramatic. 

Over and out.