O RLY?

I had posted on a pretty much defunct roller hockey message board a couple of months back, “pretty much” translating to “no new posts since sometime in 2007.” On impulse I looked and there was a reply, saying that yes, indeed, roller hockey is returning to the East Valley.

All excited, I follow the link and I’m like, East Valley? Really? SWEEEEET!

The Barney Family Sports Complex (“”BFSC”) is opening soon in, of all places, Queen Creek. Queen Creek is barely in Maricopa County, folks. In fact, as it grows, it straddles Maricopa and Pinal Counties to the far south and east. When I was a kid, if someone talked about Queen Creek, it was as far as the moon, or Mars, or freaking Jupiter.

In any case, from the blog posts regarding the progress of the building, it’s a pretty ambitious project, and they’re planning on offering basketball, volleyball, indoor soccer and inline hockey. It’s nice to see that the family who owned the land for so long insist that something good for the community be built on what used to be their land, and the buildings look awesome. Bravo!

Those folks who have been traveling to Castle Sports Club or Rollerplex from the East Valley are reportedly ecstatic that they won’t have to go to essentially Moon Valley and the edge of the universe, respectively (personally, I just don’t see where it’s reasonable or sane to drive waaaaay the fuck out to 75th Ave/Bell–for the trouble, you might as well join a traveling league). However, unless one lives in south Chandler or west Gilbert or south Mesa, this new venue’s not really close to anything.

For me, it’s the devil or the deep blue sea: per Mapquest, it’s 26.58 miles (34 minutes) to BFSC, and 26.85 miles and 34 minutes to Castle Sports Club, both of these mapped from my house. I am in the dead middle between the two. Holy crap. Flip a coin.. in the end I’ll probably wind up at BFSC because a) it’s new and b) it’s in a much nicer neighborhood. For now, though, CSC gets me on Wednesdays to skate between classes since I’m out there anyway.

Confession Session 3, Part 2

REITERATION: Still going to be some graphic scenes here. You are still under warning.

 DH had a playstation, and he had bought Sly Cooper II. I was watching him play as usual that night when I started to feel very uncomfortable. I figured it was a delayed MTX Express, so I went to the bathroom downstairs there. I had severe discomfort on my left side. By the time I’m on the toilet, I’m breathing hard, nothing happening. I try to stand up and I can’t, I’m in so much pain. I manage to get my underwear back on, but almost immediately drop to my hands and knees in pain. I crawled out to the living room and called my husband’s name.

 He’s playing away on his PS2. “What?”

 I wail his name. “It huuuuuuuuuurts!” I’m on the floor, this screaming ball of pain in my abdomen getting worse and worse. I braced my feet on the walls to counter the pain.

 I have been burned on a fire and spent a week in the burn ward; I have had my right knee reconstructed after I blew it out in high school, and a few years ago I had it scoped. I know pain… and this was untouchable.

 DH flipped out when he saw me writhing on the floor, and called 911. The FD was there in less than five minutes, but it felt like forever. All I could do is cry piteously, with DH holding my hand. I told him to call my mother as they wheeled me out the door.

Confession Session 3, Part 1: The Barren Place

DH and I had a wonderful conversation about a heartbreaking decision on the night of July 18, 2008.

 

We went to Mucho Gusto to get out of the usual rut at what we call Cannery Row (the strip of restaurants near our house). Tired of the same ol’ same ol’, it was nice to go there. They do serve all organic food, and tonight they were on their game. The chicken enchiladas were to die for. My margarita left a bit to be desired, but it’s okay. It served its purpose.

 

We were talking about this and that, and a subject that had broken my heart came up. After four years and nothing doing, I’m finally comfortable with the idea of adoption.

 

Now, for a little background:

 

I am the barren daughter of what is congenially called a “fertile myrtle.” Dad would barely look at Mom and she got pregnant. She was twenty for her firstborn, my eldest brother, in 1957. She had a miscarriage in 1958, No. 2 brother was born in 1959, No. 1 sister in 1960, No.2 sister in 1961, No.3 sister in 1962 (she lived only two days) and #3 brother in 1964. Mom, physically and psychologically worn out with the constant childbearing, and with both sets of parents dying, and other family members) after No. 3 Brother was born, went on hiatus. Eight years were to pass before I was born, and then No. 4 Brother two years and nine months and ten days after me. Mom would have had a dozen kids  in a heartbeat, but a) her psyche and body said ‘forget you’ and b) the doctor said “no more” after little brother was born—she was 37, almost 38 then.

 

Funny, in this modern era, women (like me!) work so hard to not get pregnant in our teens and twenties, but when the time comes to settle down with Mr. Right when we’re 30ish, it’s a race with time to get pregnant. Many of us are losing; me, for example. And, if you look around the web, there are a million blogs and websites that deal with infertility. Some blogs are years old, still running, and the ladies are tenaciously hanging onto that quest. Some blogs have happily moved on to that joyful club of parenthood. There are some, though, that have either frozen in time or been deleted because the end result of the quest was too heartbreaking for them to continue, and they have to deal with broken dreams for the rest of their lives.

 

The methodologies differ. Some just needed a medicinal push. Some need extensive, invasive, expensive assistance. Some adopted locally, others adopted internationally. And, honestly, there are some who are content to admit that it’s fate, God’s will, karma, whatever cosmic force they believe in, that they do not have a child or children. There are also some who gained the dream at devastating costs: destroying finances, emotional stability, even marriages. I’ve run across all kinds since that day I learned that my life could be at stake if the ectopic wasn’t dealt with appropriately, and I’ve learned a little from all of them.

 

My personal favorite blog in this realm is smart and snarky Julie at A Little Pregnant; I’ve been lurking on her blog before Charlie was born. I stumbled across her blog in that phase of terror in dealing with an ectopic pregnancy–and as you cruise the comments on her blog, that happens a lot.

 

You name it, she’s dealt with it, including an ectopic. Her first successful pregnancy almost killed her and her son Charlie; her second pregnancy, resulting in another beautiful son who she named Ben, has been blissfully uneventful—I’m pretty sure she was happy to deal with gestational diabetes to be able to have as normal a pregnancy as one can ask for.

 

Every time I’m on Julie’s site, I click the link to So Close on the left hand side, and I read about Miss Tertia’s trials and tribulations in trying to achieve parenthood. She, too, went through heartbreaking tragedy—in her initial ’successful’ pregnancy, she lost one twin in utero, and lost the other from complications of prematurity. Her determination was rewarded by a later twin pregnancy,  and now she has two year old twins, a boy and a girl.

 

As much as I love Julie and Tertia, in my eyes they’re the exception in the general quest for parenthood. They were able to afford the multiple IUIs and expensive clinics and the other methods and byways of assisted reproduction to get them where they are; Julie even admitted as much when she was considering a second child, and went through the egg donor route with great success. I’ve cheered for Julie and Tertia over the last four years even as my own heart cramped in envy. Julie and Tertia have beautiful children that they sacrificed quite a lot for, and they have hearts bigger than Alaska in sharing their stories. God bless them, and bless every blogger in the infertile club.

 

But I am not so lucky thus far. Here is my story.

Fuzzy Math

For all my freaking out, I got As in both classes for summer school. I’m completely mystified. I was expecting to do only fair to middling in both classes, because about midway through, I didn’t give a rat’s ass. I just wanted to be done. I’m bored with school, bored with the classes, bored with the dumbasses that go through this program with no fucking clue in their pea brains. I just wanted out, and as long as I passed both, I was content.

Prof had no choice in ethics but to curve grades on the final–I think everyone was heartily tired of the class, tho’ not of him, and tired of the disconnect between the material in the class when compared to the questions on the tests–and I think he tinkered with some of my grades, because I distinctly remember not doing terribly well in certain assignments. How? By brain farting and forgetting about them. That tends to do it.

To be more specific: in Torts, I completely missed two assignments, each worth a hundred points. I flubbed an online discussion by not posting my response to another student on a different day than my original response to the question. I have a C average in the quizzes, if I don’t drop the one I didn’t do; if I drop that quiz, it bumps to an 85 average. Same idea with the homework assignments. Good thing is, I nailed the discussions, the midterm, and the final. But with all the flubs, I still got an A.

In Ethics, I got a 89.5 according to his count, and Prof stated in the individual grade sheet that he was rounding up, and so he did, posting an A. But as I scanned the grades below that from the entire term, my eyes slitted a little in suspicion. A memo worth 100 points, 75/100 for a discussion, a quiz worth a hundred points, another quiz 25/40… these anomalies amongst high nineties and hundreds would still bring the score down.  He dropped the memo I’d forgotten to complete. My saving grace was that I nailed the term paper and the presentation that I had agonized over–ah ha, that’s how it got there… I think.

It’s still fuzzy math. Very fuzzy.

I guess I shouldn’t complain. And, as the high poobah of the program, Prof has the right to do as he wishes. It preserves my straight As. Certainly I’m not going to send an email that says, “Where in the hell did you get the A?” Oh, no, I’m not that dumb.

So, I go into the last semester of the program with a light heart. It’s almost over, and if I can ace the two more difficult courses during the accelerated summer courses, I can survive three classes this fall.