Saturday, May 30, 2009

I am Pelé

Leave me be.


A scratchy mantle

Like a shield

Covering my damaged surface ~

Cracked outer shell.

My dome appearance



To crusty cool.

Raging inside.

Million bits bursting



Engulfed in flames

Spitting searing sparks.

Most active

Mountainous perception.

Massive internal swelling,

Nature's course.

Time's indication,

Violent expulsion,

Through that cursed gaping hole.

Down deep

Melting hot

Lava flow

Escaping from caverns below.

Unstoppable river force




Molten Red.

Stress intensity ~

Telltale sign

Towards consistent eruption occurrence.

Immense proportion

Causing great damage

Along its violent pathway

Vaporizing fragile landscape.

All life lost.

Copyright ©2008 Sarah B. Paquette

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

It’s my body and I’ll cry if I want to.

I had my consultation appointment yesterday with RE concerning the options available to me since the ectopic. As it stands, there are (3).

  1. HSG to detect whether my right tube is now blocked from the ectopic. If so, IVF. If not, continue with IUI and hope for the best.
  2. Straight to IVF bypassing tubes altogether.
  3. Laparoscopy to determine if my tubes are blocked, cysts, anything that would prohibit pregnancy…or find nothing wrong at all.

I sat there with my mouth gaping open. In February when my ectopic was diagnosed and needed immediate response, I tried everything in my power to avoid lap surgery to remove my tube. Now, after (2) rounds of the demon methotrexate and my hCG level back to -0-…I’m still under the radar for an invasive procedure that may or may not find anything wrong with my body. An u/s revealed fluid movement around my uterus, so RE is quite sure he will find something awry with my innards.

Needless to say, I’m pretty upset. So upset in fact, I called my mother last night because I really needed someone else’s opinion of what is happening to me. My mother had (4) children of her own so I’m sure it is not easy for her to help me; however, I just wanted to bend someone’s ear and she came to mind. I could barely mouth a full sentence and I broke down in tears on the phone.

I do not like my mother to see/hear me vulnerable for many reasons. However, I really feel desperate. I feel as though the rug has been pulled out from under me and there’s really nothing I can do to change it. I’m faced with the ultimate decision – be happy with life as it is…childless…avoid invasive medical procedures, as I originally intended, and move on. OR, try every experimental gynecological procedure under the sun to help conceive my child while I’m still young-ish.

I’m just not eager to be sliced open like a grapefruit. I’m not prepared to put my body through even more medication distress; I’m not satisfied with living a completely childless life. I’m not ready to compromise. I’m starting to crack under the pressure.

Sunday, May 24, 2009

How Do You Put a Title on Profound Thought?

Name Field: Blank.

Current Status: Blank.

Mood: Blank.

Classification: Blank.

Date: Blank.

I lay on my back with my naked skin touching the crisp paper wrapper. It crinkles and sticks as I shift side-to-side for a more comfortable position. Looking up, I notice the abstract mobile floating aimlessly above my head. Twisting wire is attached to assorted geometric shapes in primary colors of red, blue, and yellow. My eyes focus on the powdery dust that speckles their tops like heather-gray woolen caps.

The white lab coats walk through the heavy wood door and as if by involuntary reflex, my legs automatically spring forth. I slide my ass to the front of the table, rest my navy blue stripe stocking feet into the stirrups, and take a deep breath. Their voices are calm. Their smooth latex hands are cold. A rough cotton sheet covers my knees and thighs. I refuse to look straight ahead. My mind goes completely blank.

My eyes are closed while my other senses amplify. A chilly metal cone-shape gadget is inserted carefully in my open vagina. The mechanism pokes and stretches wide like the skeletal veins of a shoddy umbrella. I clench my fists feeling every slight peck and scrape of the razor tool. Seconds seem like hours. A salty tear slides down my weary face and delicately touches my dry cracked lips.

A maternal voice speaks softly. I nod. It gradually comes out of me, rests on a metal tray, and is traded for another foreign medical object. I can feel the muscles in my abdomen clench as the lubricated condom-covered dildo-like device is inserted deep inside. I squirm. The device swirls within, moving back and forth scanning my innards with high frequency sound so as to detect abnormal growths, rips, blockages, and worse: cancer. I can't see the small screen that projects an image of my womb, but I hear a slight mumbling under faint breath in a language I can't seem to comprehend. I agonize.

My heart beats wildly within the walls of my chest cavity as if it were about to feverishly burst. I wish my husband was holding my hand. I sink well-absorbed into the table's padding as if it were a rectangular pool of water. I am not there in the examination room. My mortal body is.

The tapping of leather soles on expensive footwear resounds throughout the space as if the procedure was occurring in an underground cave. It startles me to awareness. I'm empty and wet. Someone hands me a scratchy square napkin. I use it to blot my face.

It takes all of my strength to lift myself up. The ghostly figures move away and my gaze settles on my husband seated patiently in the corner. I yearn to sit on his lap and curl up into a little fetal ball. My internal clock resumes its instinctive ticking. I reach for the rumpled denim skirt hiding my blood-stained underwear and dress myself in anticipation of my next reproductive assignment. It hits me. Profoundly, we are already dutiful parents in a process of rebirth in our relationship where the initial creator key is due acceptance. What is done now is only the beginning.

"Sarah? This way, please."

Copyright ©2008 Sarah B. Paquette

Friday, May 22, 2009

Mental Gems, Diamond Mind

The weekend before Mother's day, our local tea shop hosted a Victorian tea. Being a small place as it was, I made reservations for my mother-in-law and me to ensure our spot. There would be a woman there, dressed in Edwardian garb, sharing Victorian tea etiquette whilst we ate cucumber finger sandwiches and biscuits and drank delicious teas.

mMmMmMm. Raspberry tea with fresh lemon:

I simply had to make something for the occasion...and in one day designed this necklace in pseudo-Victorian mechanical "steampunk" style. The collage pendant was given to me by an artist ~ I wired the rest of it and added the rusty keys amongst other bits:

I brought the necklace to my next jewelry class and my teacher was quite impressed. She took a photo of it for the student gallery section of her website. To be honest, I'm really happy with how it turned out. Dare I say, I love it! Can I say that?! Anyway, it came out pretty awesome...the little girl on the pendant looks a bit melancholy...I can certainly empathize.

Oh yes! I nearly forgot to mention...there just had to be earrings that matched.

What, oh what, will I do next?

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Fragile. By Design

There they sat. A few were slightly slumped over while more of the same leaned against one another for gentle support. All aligned in pretty rows closely resembling 'Little Debbie' snack cakes haphazardly arranged on a party serving tray. Completely decorated from head to toe in attractive frill and flounce attire, evidently pristine from mushy food and playground romp deficiencies. Bodies full of pure fluff…their immaculate characteristics to match. Tiny dimpled hands grasped plastic teat decanters that delicately touched their pouty-lipped cherubic faces. Pairs of stubby chubby legs dangled freely from side to side. Bleached-white toothy smiles were fastened to artificial skin tones subtly colored in tan, brown, peach, and yellow blended hues. Blue and brown orbs reflected vacant stares seemingly resolute yet beseeching. Synthetic locks perfectly styled in braids, ringlets, or a straight-cut bob. Several had little silky strands scattered here and there on their roundish porcelain tops. A small number were as bald as the loss they dutifully personified...

Wide-eyed and hopeful, a desperate pair longingly gazed at each sugary delight, one by one. Their heavy thoughts pounded inside tight brain confines. Their hearts, suspended helplessly within frail bony frames, beat wildly like a dark cavity packed with rampant fluttering bat wings. Which one would they desire to hold close and dear? Expectant mother fingers reached out to make safe contact with the dainty display. And with that impulsive, well-meaning motion ~ a flash...

She will be present. and I don't want to deal. I have to. and plaster a smile. When all I feel is anger and hurt. and I'm supposed to be celebratory. with infant insanity all over the fucking place. people rubbing the spherical bulging tummy. telling the tired warm vessel how eager they are. Can't wait to meet the precious cargo. Can't help but mind. I was supposed to be first in line. and here I am. distraught.and jealous.and guilty. and last. there will be classic attempts to speak with me. in private. about matters which should not be any concern. Having been absent through the entire grueling fruitless process. one becomes bitter. yet there is still a certain affinity to a little girl with crushed hopes and dreams. Kindreds do not do what she does. especially to people they regard. I am alone.removed.detached. continually empty. Tomorrow is supposed to be fresh. Yet there is always the same grave misconception. buried deep. depths of despair. regularly arising. like a blazing phoenix. from grimy ashes of doubt.

A single alabaster figurine suddenly fell from the rigid dusty shelf and shattered. The ground collision, as ephemeral as a longing dream, shaped the illusive irreparable damage. Pieces of ceramic humanoid components, broken beyond recognition, scattered across the checkered linoleum floor leaving a permanent cracked expression on her disfigured face. She vanished. He calmly pulled a straw broom from the shadowy closet and silently wept, sweeping her fragmented bits into a waste pile destined for an empty bin.

Copyright ©2008 Sarah B. Paquette

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Baby Train

As a self-proclaimed writer, it is not easy to admit the following information. I am all out of words these days. Nothing a thesaurus or incessant contemplation can fix, I'm afraid.

Mother's day came and went. I spent it with DH at the flea market and picked up a few trinkets. There were small children and mothers EVERYWHERE.

With that being my current state, there still is this...this feeling inside that I'm dying to express. I found a short poem that seems to fit the circumstance. It helped to read it. a little. But the pain is still there and hopefully tomorrow will be fresh...with more captivating vocabulary.

The journey from infertility to family,
someone once said,
is like taking a train ride;
Never knowing whether
you'll reach your desired destination.

There are plenty of stops along the ride.
And each of the passengers
makes it's own decision
when its time to get off.

Some never need to take the train.
Others ride it for a lifetime.
But whether you reach your destination or not,
pay attention to the journey.
If you will,
as painful as it is,
it may reward you in unexpected ways.

New York, December 2000

(c) 2000 Ronen Divon, All Rights Reserved.

Hope you'll find it in your heart to forgive my lax posting.