August 4, 2008

Part II, The Wound Is Healing

If you haven’t yet read the first part of this series, please click here to do so.

I remember the feeling as though it is surfacing right now at this very moment.  The thrill of knowing that I was pregnant, if only because a 5-inch plastic stick said so, was so surreal and yet so exciting.  Even after calling Doug and sharing the news with a few people, staring at those two pink lines brought joy to my heart.

Several moments later a fit of panic filled my body.  What if this test was wrong? What if I jumped the gun and told too many people?  What if I jinxed myself?  What if I wake up tomorrow and this is all a terrible dream?  A nightmare?

It was nearly impossible to finish my shift at my job (Note to self:  never take a pregnancy test at work), the combination of happiness and terror was making me anxious as well as sick to my stomach.  When I got home that night, my husband wasn’t as happy for us as I wished him to be.  Looking back on that night, I understand he was being cautious.  He didn’t want to get his hopes up.  He had to be strong for both of us, just in case “something bad happened”.  He was afraid to breathe and I was afraid to admit I felt the same way.

Why can’t I fucking enjoy this?  I’ve waited so long and here I sit, sleepless and full of anxiety?  Why can’t I be a normal pregnant woman?

The next morning I made an appointment with my ob/gyn, or his nurse actually.  She scheduled me that morning to come in for a blood test, as well as another urine test.  The procedure itself was quick, but waiting for the results was torture.  I returned home at 10 a.m., had breakfast, threw it up (it had to have been the nerves) and waited.  And waited some more.  At 2:30 that afternoon the lab called with my results on behalf of my doctor’s office.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Tuszke.  Your test results are positive for pregnancy.  Please hold the line for Dr. J’s office.  He’ll need to see you in four weeks.”

The feelings of disbelief returned and my face drained of color.  Doug was sitting on the couch and he asked, “Is everything okay?  Are you alright?”

“I’m pregnant.  I’m truly, really pregnant!”

“Are you sure?  Maybe your urine is fucked up.  Are they sure you’re really pregnant?”

“It would be a cruel, sick joke to play on a someone who wasn’t, don’t you think?”

I believe my husband was just as astonished as I was.  That was the day he bacame a father.  That was the day he had another person to love and care about.  Another person to provide for.  He was happy, but afraid of the unknown.  Before our baby was born he had never held another child.  Not even his niece.  Doug was just trying to navigate his own emotions, as well as be supportive for me.

The next four weeks were filled with sore breasts and morning sickness.  There was one week that I was so ill I thought I was going to do harm to the baby because I couldn’t stop vomiting.  I cried for days about the fear of having a miscarriage.  I couldn’t bear to think about such atrocities, and yet the thoughts consumed my mind for months.

I had an early ultrasound and was ecstatic to see the baby’s beating heart on the fetal monitor, but my axiety was high and I wasn’t able to calm down until I heard my little one’s heartbeat on the doppler at 11 weeks.

Every doctor’s appointment was filled with anxiety of the possible bad news I might be told.  Nothing was ever wrong (thanks be to God), yet I felt as though I was swimming near a dam and constantly pulled under the current of emotions.  I remember Dr. J ordering me to relax because high stress levels wasn’t good for my health or the health of my child.  I desperately tried to relax, even forced myself to take it easy, but it seemed to make matters worse.

At seven months pregnant I was diagnosed with pregnancy induced hypertension, or pre-eclampsia and was sentenced to bedrest.  It wasn’t because I was eating terribly or not exercising, hell I ate so well and walked Murphy (our dog) everyday.  Sometimes we’d walk one or two miles.  The combination of work related stress and pregnancy anxiety caused my blood pressure to sky rocket.

Hearing the doctor’s words tossed me over the edge in a barrell of despair.  Financially, we coldn’t afford bedrest for as long as my doctor suggested.  After a week of it, I tried to go back to work only to be sent home because I passed out at my desk.  I spent the last 11 weeks of my pregnancy at home trying to grow my baby to full term.  At 38 weeks I was induced because the protein count in my urine was too high.

Dawson Douglas Tuszke was born on September 16, 2004, nineteen days early.  He weighed 7 lbs., 8 oz., and as the doctor placed him in my arms the feelings of relief washed over me.  My baby was here.  He was healthy, and beautiful and mine.

To this day, I struggle with the emotional impact this child has on my life.  He’s my world.  He’s the air that I breathe and I love him more than I can ever describe in a blog post.  So much of motherhood is about the way I feel when I look at my little boy.  If I close my eyes and think hard enough I can still feel the joy and pain of his birth, and I wouldn’t trade that in for anything on this Earth.

My post-partum days were a blur.  The reality of what motherhood entailed controlled me.  Nursing, diaper changing, crying over anything and nothing all the same time; it was a sky dive without a parachute at times.  I put on that happy face to hide the insanity boiling over inside me.  It wasn’t PPD, it was anxiety.  The fear of the “something bad” was enough to make me want to hide under the covers.

And then the image of what my body looked like, post childbirth, haunted me.  I wasn’t angry, more shocked.  I was navigating the stormy seas of first time motherhood.  I was the captain of my own destiny and that of my son’s, at least until he was eighteen.  I was blissfully happy and emotionally bankrupt.  I didn’t understand how this was possible.

After six months of doctor’s supervision and “outdoor therapy” (also known as three mile walks and serotonin supplements) my life was getting back to normal.  Not pre-baby normal, but I was able to control my emotions better and able to raise my child in a healthy, happy environment.

As Dawson grew older, I learned to enjoy the stages and milestones of his development and I couldn’t wait to have another baby.  Financially, we weren’t ready due to the long months of bedrest, but then in August of 2005, when Dawson was 11 months old, I suffered what the doctors think was a miscarriage.

I didn’t know I was pregnant until I started bleeding.  The clotting, the cramps, the emotional chaos were frightening.  I didn’t understand any of what was happening.  My period wasn’t technically late, because I hadn’t gotten one since Dawson was born.

I went to the doctor who ordered bloodwork.  The results came several days later.

“Based on the test results, we think you had a miscarriage.  There were low hGg levels indicating pregnancy, and the spontaneous bleeding and clotting support that diagnosis.”

I didn’t cry at first.  I didn’t feel anything.  No emotion.  I was numb.  And then four days later the floodgates opened.  I mourned for a child I didn’t even know.  I couldn’t fathom what was happening and it spiraled into a depression.  I couldn’t look at my son without crying.  I couldn’t let my husband touch me without the fear of shattering into tiny little pieces in his arms.  I didn’t understand the volume of my emotions and I couldn’t believe how badly it hurt.  How could one person feel this horrible?

Several months later the questions began.  Friends and family were constantly asking, “When are you going to have another baby?”  It was infuriating.  I felt like I was constantly on the defensive, justifying why we weren’t pregnant again.  I made excuses, rather than admit my fertility trouble.  Instead of facing the fact I had a miscarriage, I buried myself in a hole of denial.

I was spitting out the stock answers, all the time.  We’re not ready yet.  We’re happy with just Dawson right now.  We can’t afford a second child.  The timing isn’t right.  Someday we’ll try again.

Then one day I had heard enough and hit my breaking point.  I finally admitted my difficulty in getting pregnant.  I used the word infertility out loud.  And the person I told gave me a look of disbelief.  This person was so uncomfortable with my confession that she laughed and said, “That can’t be true.  You’ve got Dawson.  It’s not impossible for you to get pregnant.”

I was heartbroken.  I confided in someone and she didn’t take me seriously.  Instead she made feel inadequate in a way that even now, more than two years later, I can’t describe.  It was hard enough to say that I have fertility problems, but take away that reason and what would my excuse be?  It was a mindfuck.  I couldn’t wrap my head around what I was thinking or feeling so I continued to deny it.  I remember actually repeating the words to myself, “Maybe nothing is wrong with me.  Maybe it’s just mind over matter. Delusional, yes, but easier to deal with than the issue at hand.

I remember having a conversation with my mother and she kept nagging me about having a second child.  I was so angry I yelled, “What do you want me to fucking do?  Write a letter to my ovaries?”  She replied, “No…I want you to write a letter to God.”  As if it was that easy.  And maybe it is that easy.  But for me, it was the most difficult thing to cope with.  It still is.

For the past year, Doug and I have been really trying to have another baby.  Every late period, every negative pregnancy test, spins me into an emotional tornado of anger and grief and self-pity.  Thankfully, I have found a doctor who listens to my concerns and things are looking up, but it’s not an easy road this time around either.

Naturally, when I heard that BlogHer was offering a panel on Infertility at the conference, I didn’t want to go.  I wasn’t prepared emotionally and I didn’t know how I would react to the discussion.  I had never revealed my story to anyone after my first attempt with a friend.  Her reaction made me think that everyone would react the same way.

Naively, I didn’t even realize there were so many infertility bloggers out there until I began working with the BlogHer Ads Network.  I knew there was the possiblity they existed, but I could never bring myself to Google them.  I was scared.  I was terrified.  I didn’t want to be labeled as an IF blogger.  I didn’t want to admit that I belonged in that group.  Denial is more than a river in Egypt, as they say.

The truth is, I didn’t feel like I had the right to join that group because against all odds, I conceived a child and gave birth.  I didn’t feel entitled to share my experience because so many women still yearn to have children of their own.  On the contrary I didn’t feel like I fit in with the mothers who conceived easily because I was still struggling with my own infertility issues.  It was a catch-22 and I didn’t know how to deal with it.

For so long I read those Infertility blogs and nodded silently from behind the safety of my computer screen.  I felt comforted by the fact that I wasn’t alone, and I was perfectly okay with not joining the discussion.  I wasn’t ready to jump from that airplane.

The stigma that our society places on infertile couples is absolutely horrible.  We’re made to feel like second class citizens, simply because we have difficulty producing children.  It’s shameful and unfair and it makes me angry.  Often I feel as though the “mommy wars” are nothing compared to the war between fertile and infertile women.  It shouldn’t have to be that way.  We should be able to support each other.  Because of that stigma, that the lives of infertile women are not relevant to motherhood issues, I was afraid to ever blog the struggles I experienced.

As the BlogHer conference grew nearer, I realized I couldn’t avoid it any longer.  I would have to rip off the band-aid eventually, and when I did, I wanted to be with people like myself.  I wanted to know that I was safe to feel the emotions without judgement.

I didn’t realize how quickly those floodgates would open.  I was a sobbing mess; hysterical, angry, frustrated, sad and emotionally worn out.  It took several long moments of quiet sobs before I could bring myself to open my mouth.  But when I did, it all spilled forth and these women (and men) understood.

They understood. They got me and they didn’t judge me.  They wrapped their arms around me and welcomed me into the safety of their hearts and I am forever grateful.  I will never forget that feeling of relief.  The “wow…this is what I was missing…” feeling, was such an epiphany for me.  The heaviness rolled off my shoulders and I was finally able to stand up straight.  I was finally able to say, “I suffer from infertility.”

I can finally say I’m Dana, and I belong here.

I no longer feel empty because I found support from those who have walked in my shoes.

For the first time, I feel whole.   For the first time, I am able to blog this and share my story with all of you.  I’ve made many attempts, but never in great detail.

My struggle is nowhere near being over, but I finally have the courage to move forward and continue fighting this battle for the good.

This post (and this one) wasn’t easy for me to write, but I did it.  I put it out there, and I must send my sincerest thanks to Pamela (Coming2Terms),  Lori (Weebles Wobblog), Monica (Rantings of a Creole Princess), Melissa (Stirrup Queens), Cecily (Uppercase Woman), Rachel (Fertility Stories), and several other amazing men and women who approached me (and regretfully I have forgotten their names, but never their sentiments).  From the bottom of my heart, I thank you kindly for your support and your compassion.  Your words mean so much to me and I shall hold them in my heart for the rest of my life.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.

And to Jenny, who came over to hug me after the panel, I must thank you (and the rest of the amazing BlogHers) for giving me the opportunity to work with you — for if I hadn’t, I may never have gotten up the courage to meet the wonderful men and women who struggle with infertility as well.

You are all my people, and I puffy heart you.  Every one of you.

August 2, 2008

Ripping Off the Band-Aid, Part I

Alternate title:  Confessions of the Queen of Denial.

When I attended last year’s BlogHer Conference, I was a newbie; a virgin so-to-speak.  I didn’t quite know what to expect and I was rather overwhelmed with all the sessions and blogger meet-ups and overall conference what-to-do.

This year, I considered myself a veteran and I found it easier to meet new bloggers as well as re-connect with my pals, and when it came down to choosing which sessions to attend, I chose the Mommyblogging track.  And it was the Infertility panel that struck a chord that still resonates within me,  weeks later.

I’m in a point in my life where motherhood consumes me.  I’ve been at this Mommy thing for almost four years now; longer if you count pregnancy and all the worrying I did about my son’s impending birth.  The fear of breaking my vagina as Dawson’s head pushed through was always teetering at the back of mind.  Perhaps because it took so long for me to conceive, I was nervous and worrisome for the entire nine months.

Looking back on those years before I became a mother, I remember quite vividly the feelings of frustration, sadness and anger I felt over my conception woes.  It was an emotional roller coaster, and I felt like I was held captive on this ride and never let off. To completely understand what I went through, I’ll have to give you a little back story.

I was raised in a Polish, Catholic family where it was commonplace for women to get married, have lots of babies and constantly feed everybody.  My parents were born into large families; my mother the oldest of seven and my father the youngest of nine children.

Family gatherings were big as well as blithe, laughter was never hard to find, and our extended family grew every year.  I remember Christmas holidays when year after year at least one of my aunts was pregnant.  I never had a shortage of cousins to play with when I was a kid.

I can still remember how easy, and somewhat glamorous, the women in my family made motherhood appear.  No one ever complained about the lack of sleep or trouble with breastfeeding they experienced.  There was never any talk about the hundreds of diapers that needed changing.  No one ever discussed the fact that their husbands became useless and clueless after the birth of a baby. Instead, it was all happy babies and loving mamas sharing peek-a-boo moments.  Boy, what a delusion.

Naturally, I grew up believing that motherhood was the grand poobah of aspirations.  This was what little girls dreamed of becoming.  At the age of 13, wifedom and motherhood was the end all, be all in my book.  In all honesty, if the fear of God and my father weren’t as strong as they were when I was 17, I’m pretty positive I would have gotten pregnant in high school.  I know that’s an almost insane thing to admit, but I couldn’t wait to be a mother.

I remember when a schoolmate told me she was expecting during our senior year.  I was shocked at first and then later I was somewhat jealous.  Of course those feelings dissipated when I watched her struggle with pregnancy and later childbirth and the day the baby’s father abandoned her.  That was my first glimpse of the reality that is motherhood.  That was the day I realized that there is no glitz and glamor to becoming a mother.  And yet, I desperately yearned for the day I would have my own child. I didn’t realize the difficult journey to motherhood that was ahead of me.

My first brush with the infertile world (although I didn’t know it at the time) happened a year after I graduated high school.  It was May of 1998, and my period was late.  I remember the fear that something was wrong with my body.  I was still a virgin, so pregnancy was not possible, unless of course I was chosen by God to give birth to the next Savior of the world.

It turns out my periods would cease for 19 months.  After a year and a half of this craziness, I decided it was time to see a doctor.  I didn’t have health insurance, so I didn’t go to the clinic, but instead I scheduled an appointment with the local Ruth Gilfry office.  They referred me to a physician who prescribed progesterone/progestin to start my periods again, but no explanation was given as to why they stopped to begin with.

There were speculations, such as my rapid weight loss (at age 20, when I got down to 130 pounds, my lowest weight ever.  I graduated high school at 150.) or the fact that I was exercising too much and eating too little, as well as my family history of ovarian cysts and fibroids (I had a cyst burst during math class once, causing me to double over in pain), and the possibility I had endometriosis (an ultrasound and laproscopy ruled that out, thank God).

At age 21, I got a job that offered health insurance and I decided to finally have a full physical examination to see what was happening with my ovaries and uterus.  My periods had finally started again a few months before, and I wanted to make sure everything was all right, reproductively.  I had gained back all of the weight I lost and then some, causing my menstrual cycles to last 40 days or longer and I wanted an explanation.  My doctor told me I had polycystic ovarian syndrome.  WTF is that, I thought.

I honestly thought it was some made up “disease”, a diagnosis created to group a whole bunch of symptoms and unexplained conditions together.  I was told I was overweight and suffering from a metabolic disorder, yet my thyroid checks came back normal every time.  My doctor prescribed Glucophage (metformin) to keep my insulin levels in check.  Several months later, I was told I was a “borderline diabetic”.  My world felt like it was crumbling, especially when the doctor explained, “this condition will make it difficult for you to have children.” I was crushed.  I felt as though my dream of motherhood was being pulled away from me.  Stolen.  I felt robbed.

I was advised to lose weight, but not too much and told not to continue the excessive exercise regime.  It was thought that if I lost twenty pounds, having a baby may not be so difficult.

After my husband and I were married, we decided to begin trying to conceive immediately.  After 12 months of no luck, I went back to my doctor who referred me to a specialist.  The doctor ordered me to continue taking the Glucophage as well as Clomid, a fertility drug.

I began charting my cycles, and taking my temperature every morning and still, I wasn’t pregnant.  Every time my period was late, I’d pee on a stick and become angry and frustrated when a big, fat negative result turned up in the test window.  After another year of this, I lost hope.  I told Doug that I didn’t want children anymore.  Not if it meant going through that, month after horrible month.

I confided in my mother about my frustration and she was supportive, yet she told me she didn’t believe anything was wrong with me — that maybe Doug and i weren’t having sex at the right time of the month.  Other friends told me to relax, that it would happen when I least expected it.  I know they meant well, but these words pissed me off.  I wanted so badly to tell them all to shut up.  I wanted to say, “You don’t know what I’m going through…you don’t understand how difficult this is!”

Every time I saw a pregnant woman, I wanted to run away.  I wanted to cry and yell and throw things.  I wasn’t mad at the person, I was mad at my situation.  And maybe I was jealous.  I didn’t understand why that couldn’t be me.

When these feelings surfaced, I stopped taking the drugs and decided to concentrate on other things.  It was November of 2003 and my co-worker Melissa and I decided to try the Atkins diet.  It was all the rage back then and we both thought we could stand to lose a few pounds.  It was the dumbest thing I did, I realize that now, but the rigidity of that “diet” gave me something else to focus on.  Counting carbs and peeing on Keto sticks took my mind of taking Clomid and peeing on ovulation sticks. I lost 37 pounds in 3 months.

In January of 2004, Doug and I decided to get a dog.  Murphy became our baby.  And then one day I stepped on the scale and discovered I had gained 9 pounds in a week.  My fear consumed me, because I was following the Atkins diet religiously.  Later, I noticed my period was five days late.  I took a pregnancy test.  Negative.  The old feelings of anger began to rise in my throat like bile.  It was devastating.  I felt like the universe was jerking my chain and taking great pleasure in it.

Ten more days go by and still no period.  My breasts were sore.  I was tired all the time.  Something didn’t feel right.  Never did I think I was pregnant, and I pushed the thought out of my mind.  The fear of that negative stick haunted me.

On January 26th, I threw up at work.  What the hell is wrong with me?  Do I have the flu? It didn’t feel like the flu.  On my lunch break I walked to Shopko and bought an E.P.T., but when I returned to work, I couldn’t take the test.  I was scared.  I confided in Melissa (we both worked the 2nd shift so she was my sound board for many things) and she and another friend, Shannon, urged me to take the test.  I went to the bathroom and bit the bullet.  And then suddenly, through my tears, I saw two pink lines appear.  Then I dropped the stick in the toilet.

The utter disbelief paralyzed me.  I fished the stick from the bowl and hurried to the sink.  As I was rinsing it off, I noticed the line getting somewhat darker.  I wrapped the test in paper towel and ran to my desk.

“Is this a line?” I shrieked at my friends.

“Is what alive?” asked Shannon.

“Oh my gosh! You’re pregnant!” Melissa said.

My boss, Angela, who was also pregnant at the time, rushed over to confirm the results.

“Congratulations!” she said, as she hugged me.

I took another 15 minute break to regain my composure, and then called my husband, my mother and my friend Kelly.  I couldn’t hold back the news.  It finally happened.  I was pregnant.  Those two pink lines were so exciting and thrilling.

Little did I know they would spring me into a state of panic and fear that consumed me for the duration of my pregnancy…

July 30, 2008

BlogHer ‘08: Feelin’ Funky Friday

Friday at BlogHer was a day of non-stop activity. I woke up at 6:00 a.m. when the alarm in our room went off in my ear. Elizabeth had to work in the BlogHer Book Store, so she had to be up at that time. After turning off that screaming, wake-up machine, I tried to go back to bed. I had a migraine like you wouldn’t believe and I was thirsty. So very thirsty.

After popping an Excedrin, and downing an entire bottle of warm water (yuck, but it helped) I decided to try to blog about the night before. But, really, I was kidding myself. The in-room WiFi sucked and I was too distracted by all the upcoming events of the day.

I went down to the Mezzanine level for breakfast and after eating I got to try out the Wii Fit. Let me just say how desperately I want a Wii and Wii Fit. I’ve been coveting one for months and we just can’t shell out that money right now. Maybe by Christmas. (You hear that Nintendo? I’m in desperate need of a Wii. Can ya hook me up? What? Shameless begging you say? Yes. Yes I know.)

I met Krisco in the grand ballroom and we sat together to hear what Lisa, Elisa and Jory had to say during the opening keynote. The we did some speed dating and I collected and gave away oodles of business cards.

The speed dating session at BlogHer ‘07 really intimidated me, and halfway through it I found myself hiding in the ladies room. I really don’t know the reason, other than it was my first time at a blogging conference and I was so overwhelmed.

This year was much better because we had a different way of meeting new bloggers. We all sat at the table, talked for a few moments, exchanged business cards and when the time was up, two bloggers moved to a new table. It was like Survivor: BlogHer in San Francisco, as Lisa described it, and I liked this method much better than standing in two circles like we did in Chicago last year.

And this is where I finally got to meet this amazing, hilarious, wonderful blogger. She fucking rocks my world. I was so excited, I squeeed her. It’s only because I missed her in Chicago last year (I saw her in a panel, made a mental note to talk to her, but then missed her — so this year I was elated to talk to her and pose for a photo with her.)

After speed dating, it was time to head to my first session. I chose the MommyBlogging track and geared up for “Is MommyBlogging Still a Radical Act?” This session was very informative and the many viewpoints that other mom bloggers presented were interesting and relevant. Lindsay Ferrier did an excellent job of moderating the panel. The focus seemed to steer toward the monetizing vs. non-monetizing issue that so many of us get worked up about. Metropolitan Mama did a wonderful job live-blogging the session so I encourage you to read her post to learn more.

After that panel, my brain got a little fuzzy. I went to lunch and had a delicious Thai Beef salad. I can’t even remember who I sat with. I think it was Ashley. Yes, yes it was Ashley. I swear the days are blurring together, which is why it is VERY important to blog it all right away, yenno?

After lunch I attended the second MommyBlogging panel, “Public Parenting & Privacy”. I really enjoyed hearing what Shannon Lowe, Chris Jordan, Crystal McKee, Shino Tanaka & Shireen Mitchell had to say about the privacy and security issues we face when we blog so publicly online. It’s My Life live-blogged this session wonderfully, as well.

I learned a lot about the online dangers we face every day, and I became particularly concerned about using Dawson’s name publicly. Chris and Shannon use pseudonyms for their children’s names to keep their kids “Google Proof” and I worry about the fact that I didn’t do this.

Anyone can Google my son’s first and last name and read all about him, at least from the point of view of his mother. This issue is so duh! for me, because when I first started blogging, I did use nicknames for Doug and Dawson. Then one day I slipped up and used their real names and felt I had to continue doing so from that point on. I’m still not sure how to go about this now.

After this session, I stayed for the next panel: Mirrors: Ours, the Media’s, Our Cultures’ and Our Kids’ (live blogged at Body Impolitic). I enjoyed this panel because it talked about body image and some of the issues our children face about their own looks and self-image.

I asked a question and I was so nervous about speaking with a microphone at hand, so I was totally flustered when I revealed the morals I was raised with. For the record, I said “I was raised in a very strict Catholic family. I couldn’t wear anything that looked too sexy or too revealing. You can’t have sex before marriage. I held to that.”

What I was trying to say but totally screwed up in all my nervousness: “I was raised in a very strict Catholic family. I couldn’t wear anything that looked too sexy or too revealing. You can’t have sex before marriage. I held to that standard, until I was 20 years old.” (I just want this blog to be authentic and felt the need to correct the misinformation.) I don’t know why I was so darn nervous. Maybe because someone said our panel was being video recorded? (Still makes me nervous! Still!)

After that panel, I went to the Community Keynote and cried my eyes out. Not once, not twice, not even three times. No, I had to be the girl to cry four times in less than half an hour. I sat with Lorraine from Wifey’s House and I told her that wasn’t the first time I cried that day. I swear it was all the estrogen roaming the halls of the Westin St. Francis. And, that fact that each of the bloggers linked above wrote moving posts that were even more stunning when read aloud. Just hearing their voices and the emotions behind them really touched me.

After that we all went down to the cocktail party at Ruby Skye. Where I danced, just a little. Here’s a few Ruby Skye photos:

Ruby Skye is definitely one of the coolest clubs I’ve been to in awhile. But after this fabu party, we headed off to Maggie Mason’s house for her Haus Party. And I danced more (it was like funky dancin’ Friday or something). And that’s where I met Dooce. You already saw that photo. So I’ll share a few others.

Let’s just say that I was so tired at the end of the night I thought I’d never wake up the next day. But I did. At 6 a.m. to go to Yoga. I already told you about that, and yes — I know. I think I’m crazy, too. Stayed tuned for the BlogHer Saturday/Final Recap.

July 26, 2008

BlogHer ‘08: Thursday Edition

I know I’m very late in posting my BlogHer Conference recap, but after I returned home from the beautiful city of San Francisco, it took several days to decompress and return to normal life. Whatever normal is, I have no idea.

The Wednesday before my departure, I frantically ran around town as well as around my house, completing last minute errands and checking my luggage 80 million times to make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything. Total waste of time, because I realized I packed too much when the mountain of swag I collected wouldn’t fit in my suitcase. I ended up having to ship most of that stuff home on Sunday, because there’s no way that Northwest Airlines would let me check that bag without charging me $50.

I couldn’t sleep at all that night, the anxiety and anticipation were killing me. However, I had nothing to worry about, because this year’s trip to BlogHerCon was fantastic. 100% better than Chicago, and I love that Windy City.

Thursday morning I woke up at the ass crack of dawn, showered and got dressed, while Doug got Dawson ready. My boys were driving me to the airport and thankfully, I was smart enough to put all my bags in the car the night before. At 5:30 a.m. we were on the road for the 35 minute drive to Central Wisconsin Airport.

It was kind of difficult for me to leave Dawson. I must have kissed him 100 times and I started to cry as I walked into the airport and saw my little boy waving from the backseat as they drove away. Doug didn’t want to bring him inside the airport because Dawson wasn’t so happy with me leaving and it might have made matters worse.

After the usual checking-in procedures and getting through the grueling security measures, I was on my way to San Francisco . My plane departed at 7 a.m. and I was dreading the 4 1/2 flight. I was so excited to be going to California for the very first time.

I arrived in the City by the Bay at around 11:30 a.m. Pacific time, and I managed to find a shuttle to the Westin St. Francis Hotel where the conference was being held. Once I got to the hotel, I tried to check-in but didn’t realize the intricacies of hotel check-in procedures.

Turns out, I need a credit card with a huge limit in order to stay at the fancy Starwood hotel. For security reasons, we keep our credit limits low ($500 max) to avoid huge losses in the event our cards are stolen, so I wasn’t able to get my room keys. I tried to use my debit card to pay for the room in full, but apparently the Westin doesn’t accept payment in full until check-out (which is very, very strange) and instead they asked me for a cash deposit for the room cost plus $200 for incidentals.

Unfortunately, I don’t carry $800 in cash because my greatest fear is being mugged. So, I had to sit in the lobby for nearly two hours until my amazing roommate got to the hotel. She was able to use her American Express card to get us checked in.

While I was waiting for Anne and our other roommate Elizabeth, I found PunditMom wandering around the lobby and we had a quick bite at Caruso’s, a little cafe in the hotel lobby. While we were chatting, Jenn from Mommy Needs Coffee stopped over. A few moments after that, Christina from A Mommy Story popped over and we all hung out for awhile.

After that, Jenn welcomed me to her hotel room to wait for my roommates, and I met Busy Mom for the first time. She and Jenn were roomies and they graciously allowed me the use of their ladies room to straighten my hair and change out of my travel clothes.

A little while later, I met Krisco from Crib Ceiling and told her how much I missed Mary Tsao. She and Mary were roomies at BlogHerCon last year, and I told her I go to Flickr every day to get my Daily Dose of Mary via her fabulous photos. I was happy to learn that Kris does the same thing!

Finally, Anne called my cell phone to let me know she arrived at the hotel and just a little while after that we had keys to our room. Or so we thought. We got up to room 952 and started to put our luggage on the beds. The I looked in the closet and saw someone else’s clothes hanging in the closet. Anne discovered a man’s business cards on the desk. We had been checked in to an occupied room.

I made a frantic call to the front desk and told them about our problem and I was assured that we’d be checked into a fresh, clean, unoccupied room immediately. I ran downstairs to get the new keys and then Anne and I rode the elevator to the eleventh floor and where we found our new, much larger and totally awesome room.

We each claimed two corners of the room to toss our suitcases, and then I patiently awaited for Elizabeth’s arrival a little while later. Once she got in, I gave her a room key and then we all just sort of chilled for a few moments.

Elizabeth then introduced me to her friend Lori who came down to our room awhile later. Lori is awesome. She has this sweet, southern accent that I somehow managed to pick up. Okay, really, I’ve always had this knack for picking up accents, but the suthin’ speak is something I’m accustomed to, being that one of my closest friends is from Texarkana and whenever we hang out I start saying things like, “Fixin’ to” and “All y’all.”

After our introductions and a few photos, Elizabeth, Lori and I headed to the lobby to meet Jennster (also known as Dirty Mouth Whore, if you ask Lori — don’t worry, it’s a term of endearment, I promise) before going to the Kirtsy/Alltop party at Guy Kawasaki’s house. Anne stayed behind to freshen up and grab a bite to eat before the many other cocktail parties going on Thursday night.

Let me just say that Guy Kawasaki lives 31 miles south of San Francisco, and somehow we thought he lived 31 minutes south of the city. After a two hour shuttle ride to Atherton — two hours because our driver was a moron who twice passed the street we needed to turn onto — we arrived to a beautiful California home with rose bushes and hydrangeas lining the flower beds.

Guy’s backyard was meticulously manicured. Green grass, beautiful Japanese lanterns and swimming pool in shape of the number eight were just part of the scenery. The food was delicious. We had paella, grilled vegetables and barbecue in a cup, as well as delectable hors d’oeuvres and wines.

I was in awe of everything, and when I was introduced to Guy Kawasaki, I was rather shy. In all honesty, I didn’t know who he was, other than the founder of Alltop (and no, I’m not on Alltop, but I was asked that a hundred times that night).

We stayed at the party for about an hour and then promptly got back on the shuttle to head back to the city for the three other cocktail parties we had to attend. We stopped by the Mom Central party, the Experience Project Party and then finally, the People’s Party. (Note to future party hosts: Please, don’t have all the parties on Thursday night! It’s too much stress and takes way too much planning to be able to attend everything all in one night.)

I can’t exactly remember all of the goings on of Thursday night, but I’m sure the pictures will explain it all:

Shannon, Shannon, Crunchy Carpets, Liz, Amber & Me

Christina, Me, Deven, Lori & Jennster

Christina, Me, Julio & Lori

Lemon Drop…deliciously tart.

Yumm-O

Guy Kawasaki & Me

Me & Jennster and boob grabbage.

Jenn & Me

Caruso’s, in the hotel lobby.

More photos here.

Stay Tuned for Part II of my trip to BlogHer.