Baby steps

Over the weekend my parents came for a visit. Brief recap for those not in the know, this visit was the first time I have seen my parents in 5 years. It was also the first time they met the Beats. So one can begin to imagine the emotional land mine Grey and I have been sitting on top of.

The long and the short of it is that overall it went well. My parents did a good job of mostly respecting boundaries (my mother struggling a bit with this one) and they were both immediately taken with the kids. The Beats clearly didn't know what to make of the situation, but they warmed over the weekend and were offering hugs at the end.

On our end, Grey and I have really been processing all of it. The distance, both physically and emotionally, has allowed us to be in a unique position of seeing things for what they actually are. To see how insecure my mother is not only with herself but also the world around her. It's actually quite sad because she does have this need to control in order to find comfort and it makes me reflect on her life in general and how lacking in control she must feel. Staying in her comfort zone is key. Recognizing this made me reflect more on how I deal with uncertainty (lots of anxiety) and how that impacts not only me but those around me. So a lot of inner reflection has come from this.

All that said, Grey and I do see a road forward. Though travel is out of the question for now, video chats will be scheduled. Though my parents don't know exactly where we live, we're getting to a point where we're feeling comfortable sharing that information. And boundaries are being set with good behavior being rewarded to enforce this and bad behavior being confronted. In short, it's a work in progress. Baby steps being the theme, both for healing and for moving forward.

Quantifying love

Yesterday I received a text message from dear friends informing us that their beloved cat Tigger had passed away. The message was a simple one: "Some last shot of our old man - he was ready to go. It's awfully quiet in our home" combined with some photos. I teared up immediately as I scrolled through. You see, I loved Tigger too.

The bond between Tigs and me formed years ago over a night of grading. Working my way through 210 exams, he was watching me carefully, answering the questions I was asking to myself with a gruff meow. At one point, I came upon an exam where the student had answered the question by drawing a picture of a coconut tree. Angrily asking "WTF!!" Tigs responded by slamming his paw down on the exam and meowing as if to say "that's right!" The next day, I turned in my stack of graded exams to the instructor, most of them covered in fur. And Tigs earned the title "Professor," becoming a beloved grading companion.

There's been a lot of emotions surrounding this news, especially with the responses to my friends. Some are kind and filled with empathy. Others say things like "he had a good run," which leaves me hurt and a bit angry. Those messages have triggered memories of comparisons of loses. The quantifying of pain.

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For as long as I can remember, there's a value and definition put on love with some instances being seen as more important and worthwhile than others. The love between parent and child, love between partners, love within family, love of friends and, at the bottom, love of animals. We encourage all types of love, make no mistake. But when one half of that relationship is suddenly gone, either through death or the relationship ending, grief is immediately quantified based on the type of love. We also judge others based on the types of love they have experienced. Hence it's become a measure.

Worst yet, is when one type of love is used to silence others. In this community, we've all heard the stories about those who conceive easily informing the infertile person watching about how they can't possibly understand love because they don't have children. But the same is done time and again with losses. Early miscarriages are seen as being less painful as the potential child was just an idea. Or how never experiencing a pregnancy isn't as painful as experiencing a miscarriage. Pets come into play here often too. A beloved companion is lost and the grief is immediately minimized solely because they weren't human.

Yet I wonder, what right have we to quantify love? Speaking from experience, I know that the love I have for Grey is different than that I have for the Beats and also different from what I have for Jaxson and Daisy. But it's not less. One is not better or more important. And so it brings me back to why there's this need to quantify and qualify it. Why do people outside looking in care so much?

**************

Years ago, I lost two beloved cats within 3 months of one another. Sawyer, a polydactyl grey tabby, was just 2 years old when he was struck by a car. He came home, laid in my roommates bed for most of the day. And when it was time, he made his way outside to his sunny spot. I found him a day later and in addition to absolute sadness, was filled with guilt that he died without me there. 3 months later, Kali ran away after Grey and I moved across town. I searched for her for weeks, filled with more grief and guilt as I knew she was trying to make her way back home.

It's been over 12 years since I lost them both. Yet the grief remains. Held in check by those who told me that losing them wasn't as terrible as losing family or a loved one. But I can tell you, after now burying my beloved grandfather, estrangement from my whole family, 2 miscarriages, failed treatments and even losing friends, it still hurts. It's not any less.

*************

To my dear Professor Tigger,

I will miss you dearly my friend. Until we meet again on the other side of Rainbow Bridge. And if you see Kali and Sawyer, tell them I'm sorry and love them. And I hope to see them again too.

#MicroblogMondays: New beginnings

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~ And suddenly you just know: It's time to start something new and trust the magic of new beginnings.
- Meister Eckhart

Packing my parachute

Tuesday morning, I had a meeting with E. Walking into her office, I immediately shut the down and then tried to calm myself as I sat to face her. The first words out of my mouth where "this is really hard for me," at which point I burst into tears. Something I really didn't want to do.

For the next hour E and I talked. We talked about my postdoc and how grateful I am for this opportunity to be working in the lab. We talked about long-term career goals and paths we've both taken. Then I took a deep breath and shared with E the email I received last Friday. The note from the director of a program training scientists to do curriculum development for science education.

Hi Cristy, I hope that you are well.  The Genetics positions is posting next week and already went out to the listserv and on our site.  If you are interested in applying and the timing seems right, please do! Take care,Hanna

****************


Last Autumn, following my arrival to my current position, I attended a talk geared towards academic scientists. Titled "Pack your parachute," it laid out the realities of being in academia: the bad pay, the extreme competitiveness of securing funding and even a job and the high attrition rate. His whole message was those who went down this route should be prepared to sacrifice everything else in their lives to pursue this career.

But the most important thing this young professor said during this lecture, which left the packed room severely depressed, was that the only reason to pursue this career was because it was fun. Fun meaning that even during the bad moments you'd find yourself excited about what you're doing. Fun being that you don't have to defend why you love what you're doing. Fun in that given all the sacrifice, you wouldn't trade what you're doing.

I've known for a long time that I have zero interest in being a professor. But this lecture motivated me to really examine not only why I loved science, but what I really wanted to do with it. Initially I thought it would be working in consulting, but after a couple of encounters that left me sick to my stomach, I realized that instead of completely abandoning the path I was previously on, I needed to modify it. I needed to go back to what I had been building up over the past 4 years and even during my time in graduate school and find a way to put a new spin on it.
*************

In 2011, just before I defended my dissertation, I applied for my first position as a visiting professor. The application was a long shot and I really didn't think I would get the position. I learned later that one paragraph my cover letter grabbed the attention of some of the faculty.

My interest in teaching came from my failure as a student. As an undergraduate, I did not perform well in my introductory science courses and was frustrated that the long hours spent studying were not effective. It wasn’t until I started working as a teaching assistant that I recognized these same frustrations in many of my students. It wasn’t long after this realization that I began working with others science educators who were modifying teaching practices in order to increase student learning.     

For the next 2 years, I spent working in a position I thought I would love. I taught courses. I ended up forming a collaboration with a colleague doing research. In theory, working at a small college was perfect. And I learned so much in such a short period of time.

But I didn't like how the administration resisted me modifying my courses to increase student learning. They wanted me to teach in a manner that prioritized memorization over practicing science. I got feedback of students being unhappy when they were challenged or asked to interpret data. I remember being told I was "intense" or "scary" because I asked questions during student presentations. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I wanted to do evidence-based teaching. I wanted my students to be pushed outside their comfort sphere as discomfort and struggling correlate with learning. Most importantly, I wanted them to learn how to be critical of data presented and how to form their own opinions.

And so I began to hunt. To look for people that were having this impact. The first group came in the form of science educators at my graduate institute. They were breeding a new field of science education and providing data for what worked and what didn't in the classroom. They were publishing too. But most importantly, they were having an impact on their students. They were reaching those who didn't see themselves as being good at math and science. And it was making a difference.

*************
Since Spring, I've been taking the bus from campus into the medical school for meetings. A new group has formed bringing science educators together to share projects, get feedback and brainstorm. Following my first meeting, I texted Grey to announce that I had found my tribe. And so I began to interact. I began to meet independently with different members of this group, trekking across the city to do so.

Some meetings were non-starters. But other meetings left me inspired. And as I met with many, I began to get a clearer definition of what I wanted to do moving forward. Or at least where I wanted to start.

About a month ago, I learned that the search for one of these positions had fallen through. Sitting with the group before the meeting started, they talked about the candidates and their frustration that none were a good fit. Quietly, I typed out an email to the director asking her about timeline to fill. She answered telling me that they hadn't originally considered me because I had told them I needed another year in my postdoc. But that it that had changed, I should definitely apply. I didn't respond because though I was interested in the position, I didn't think the timelines would match up. After all, I had made a commitment to E. I had to honor it.

I wasn't until I had a similar offer during a meeting with a new education group that also does science policy and works with the community that I began to reconsider. After all, the goal of this postdoc was to find these opportunities as well as to learn new techniques. I have zero desire to set up an academic lab (especially now with the current political climate and lack of funding). But also, I'm tired of being a trainee. I'm tired of waiting.

***********
E has been amazingly supportive. Without missing a beat, she told me to apply and we made a plan for me finishing up if I do get the position. She told me she wouldn't advertise for a new postdoc until I was offered a position, but we have a plan moving forward.

My letter writers have also been supportive. All of them very excited that an opportunity like this even exists. They are awaiting my application, which I need to get to them soon.

All of this has been surreal. My CV is updated, but I need to work on my cover letter and teaching statement (and if anyone wants to read, please let me know). Despite the personal invitation to apply, I'm nervous. None of this is in stone and it's possible someone even more amazing will come along and secure it. Nothing is truly guaranteed.

Still, I won't know until I try. I won't know until I assemble this application and take the purge into a world that I'm excited about. And even if there's failure, it doesn't mean this is the end. Maybe that's the most important part of this process.

#MicroblogMondays: Fail

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The pain of grief is indescribable, yet so easy to recognize once you've lived through it. All consuming at moments, leaving you struggling to breathe as you manage emotional wave after emotional wave. There are times where anything outside the grief seems unreal; that somehow it will lessen over time impossible. 

Like many who have spent there time in the trenches, I've vowed never to forget this pain. To be changed by it only for good. But also, now knowing what I know, to never inflict more pain on those dealing with grief. Somehow, because I've lived through my own, I would know how to navigate it with others.

Instead, I've failed big time.

Four years ago, we were in opposite situations. Though we were both diagnosed with infertility, her first round of IVF had resulted in a successful pregnancy and a take home baby. Meanwhile, I was struggling to make sense of two miscarriages, a failed FET and no road forward. In an effort to protect myself, I pulled away. I struggled with the anger and resentment of the unfairness of the situation.

Four years later, the situation is flipped. 

This past week, the Beats turned 3 yrs old. There was much celebration in the Grey/Cristy household for them reaching this milestone and both kids clearly enjoyed themselves, claiming the specialness that comes with having a day to celebrate solely for them. Ironically enough, the child of this friend was also celebrating their birthday. A party was planned and we were excited to attend.

The morning of the party, though, was also beta day for her. The final beta she would ever go through. Unlike the first time, she had been suffering from failed cycle after failed cycle and this was the final one. Grey and I knew that despite her cheerful nature and assurances that she was okay because she had her child, she was still hurting. We just didn't know how much.

The party was a fun one, with the Beats getting their first exposure to water balloons and squirt guns. Consumed with chasing two preschoolers, making sure they didn't cause too much damage or overly offend anyone, I didn't have much time to interact with my friend. Grey and I also talked about giving her space, not wanting to trigger her during a day of celebration for her son.

It wasn't until we were in the car home that I realized how stupid that reasoning was. When Grey looked at me with concern in his eyes and told me he had never seen her hurt so much. Text messages were sent letting both her and her husband know we were sorry and thinking of them. But I also know that I've failed her big time. That despite knowing the pain of grief, I completely flopped at being the support she needs.

The past few days I've been kicking myself. I know first hand all the things not to do, but I'm also at a lost on how to be the support she needs. Because unlike my situation, she doesn't get to resolve infertility with the family she wanted. The younger sibling for her son and the chance to go through pregnancy/childbirth won't be a reality. Sure, we could offer options (adoption/donor gametes/embryo adoption), but I know too well how difficult and personal those choices are. I also know that she needs time to grieve this loss. The question now is how to do that. All while being humbled about the fact that I don't have the answers on how to help her navigate this. How to undo my role in adding to her pain. How to rectify failing to support her when she most needed it.

Enough

Trigger warning: this post talks about stalking, harassing and mental anguish. It's taken me almost 10 years to process all of this and recent events have highlighted the physical toll. So if you are a survivor of an abusive relationship, a hate crime or harassment of any kind, skip this post or proceed with caution. Take care of yourself first.

The email came on May 11, 2016. A summons to small claims court. Management and our association lawyer quickly proved useless for guidance, claiming that maybe it would be best to pay him what he demanded. Even though there was overwhelming evidence that we had done nothing wrong. Even though there was additional evidence that he was using the small claims court system to harass and extort money.

Over texts and multiple phone calls, the board president MB and I formulated a plan. She would go to court and face him (the others flaking out on this out of fear). My job was to dig up all the evidence. To summarize the past 10 years of harassment, bigotry and threats. That we would countersue also to stop him from ever doing this to anyone we knew again.

I just never expected the toll from doing this to be so high.

**************
In 2006, Grey and I purchased our first home. Like many first time homeowners, we were excited about having a place would could make our own. The day we moved in, I was greeted by a smaller man who lived next door. Instead of saying "hi" or "nice to meet you," his first question to me was "are you sure your sale went through?" Thrown off guard, I asked him why he would think such a thing. "Well, because the for sale sign is still up. And I have a friend who is a realtor and he says the sale didn't go through. You know, it's illegal to trespass." He smiled after saying this and went into his unit.

When relaying the story later on to other neighbors, they would sigh heavily and say "yeah, that's Cyrol."

Knowing what Grey and I know now, this was a sign of the beginning. The wall should have immediately gone up. But we were naive. We wanted to believe that our neighbors were inherently good people.

***************
On June 30, MB went to the county court house to attend a mandatory mediation session. The goal of mediation is to help settle disputes outside of court. The second Cyrol saw MB, he sneered at her and announced that this needed to be over quick so he could get to the bank with his money. The mediator, despite telling both MB and Cyrol that his job was to remain a neutral third party, looked shocked by this statement. That shock quickly dissolved into visible anger once they sat down in the mediation room.

Cyrol immediately pulled out a stack of papers that he kept close to him. He started in on how we caused him to lose money on the sale of his unit. How he had the emails to prove it. When the mediator asked if he would submit those documents for evidence, Cyrol put a hand over them and shook his head. For the next hour he would wax and wane about how unfairly he had been treated and how he had been lied to.

When it was MB's turn, she pulled out 3 binders filled with emails, resale certificates and legal notices, 2 of which she submitted to evidence. It took her less than 10 minutes to tear down the story Cyrol had put forward. And as she did, he became visibly angry. He interrupted her, spewing threats and screaming to drown her out. She didn't stop though, refusing to be bullied by him. In a final attempt, Cyrol looked at the mediator and announced, knowing that MB is a lesbian, "you know, she's a man-hater. You can't believe a word she says."

MB said the mediator looked like a truck had hit him. He then order Cyrol out of the room to talk with MB. It was clear there would be no resolution. Trial was set for the following week.

**************
In 2007, a question was posed to our HOA Board about talking to our current manager to see if our management fees could be reduced. Cyrol immediately volunteered to call her, promising he would solve the problem quickly. We knew at this point that Cyrol had been calling our manager regularly, screaming at her over the phone. I felt bad for this woman, so I responded and said that I thought it was a good idea, but that Cyrol shouldn't do it because of his temper.

Big mistake.

Immediately Cyrol responded, threatening to sue me for emotional distress and defamation of character. He sent email after email directly attacking me, accusing me of being the problem and twisting the truth for his own gain.

Later that night, when I met with the former board president to talk, Cyrol came into this person's unit and pounced on me. He screamed at me, within an inch of my face. I'm truly surprised he didn't strike me.

When Grey found out, he lost it. In an attempt to protect me, he pounded on Cyrol's door and demanded he come out. Seconds later Grey calmed down and told Cyrol he wanted to talk. Cyrol responded by saying he was going to have Grey arrested and that he was planning on stabbing Grey "in an act of self defense."

Later Cyrol would attempt to extort money for his "damaged door" from us, even though there was no damage (and Cyrol wouldn't allow the association to inspect). An issue he wouldn't let go of even to this day. He would also admit to listening through the walls and obsessing about our movements.

But the real killer was that Cyrol believed I should be submissive to him because he was a man. That it wasn't my place to ever call him out.

************
Our case was the last one for the day. MB suspected that the word was out on Cyrol, meaning he would go over time. In the early afternoon, the judge sat down and asked Cyrol to present his case. Cyrol spent the next hour picking apart the binder filled with evidence we had submitted. He broke the rules of mediation and spoke openly about the conversations there. He presented himself as the victim and demanded he be paid for more than the limit of small claims.

Finally, MB was given a chance to speak. Dressed in a 3 piece suit, complete with tie, she opened with the following: "Your honor, this is not a case about lost financial gains.  This is a case about a continual history of harassment, abuse and racial/sexual discrimination from Mr. Cyrol."

MB then presented newly found evidence about other small claims cases filed by Cyrol: One against an African American woman who fled the state to get away from him (that case was dismissed), one against recent immigrants extorting money (outcome for him because they were no-shows) and one slated for the following week against the Seattle School District for emotional distress after Cyrol had been terminated due to repeated racist remarks directed at elementary school children and for bringing a whistle to class to silence them.

At the end of the day, the judge dismissed the case, denying Cyrol's claim. But she rewarded our association for the filing and legal fees. MB told me later that Cyrol immediately threatened to appeal. Smiling, MB said "Sure. But know if you do, this will go to superior court. And we will be countersuing for much, much more than legal fees as we'll have our lawyer involved."

*************
As the drama with Cyrol played out, the news came in about the shootings in Baton Rouge and Minneapolis. And then there was Dallas. I couldn't bring myself to watch the footage or read much of the news, knowing that it would cause me to go further down the rabbit hole of fear. And like many who protested, I found my anger hitting a new peak.

For almost 10 years, Grey and I lived under continual stress and fear of an individual who stalked us. Though in our calmer moments we reasoned these threats were hollow, the truth is we were never fully sure. Cyrol attacked whenever he felt like it. We watched him threaten anyone he deemed as weak. And no one stopped him. Not even his family, who we meet, had the courage to tell him enough.

This post from Justine, talking about domestic abuse. Specifically, this part rung true.

"That abusers can stop abusing their partners, if they take responsibility, if they learn communication skills, if they examine their own pasts.

Maybe there are lessons to be learned here.  That domestic abuse can stop. That abusers can redefine what it means to be masculine, that they can begin to see their partners as partners, not as threats. That we can find ways to support both abusers and survivors. That we can offer hope."

Given all that has happened, this is definitely the heart of the issue. Because Cyrol has shown that he won't take responsibility for his actions. But also all of his actions are routed in deep-seated fear.  Just as those police officers who murdered Alton Sterling and Jamar Clark. Just as those who then in turn shot those police officers. And just as those who attack/abuse/bully anyone in any way.

There is hope that things can get better. Part of it is recognizing the problem and formulating strategies for how to address it. But the other part is finding the courage to stand up to this type of hate. Both if directed at you or someone else. To demand it be done and that the abuser seek help.

With Cyrol, Grey and I are finally armored. We now know how to defend ourselves, calling him out on his threats and making it clear it will hurt unless he stops. I don't believe he's completely processed that message, but we also believe he's escalating because that message is coming from all sides. And we are refusing to hid because that feeds his obsession.

Still, my firm wish is that someday soon we can come together as a society and recognize that what matters isn't the color of your skin, your culture, your religious background and even your sexual orientation or gender. What matters is what is in your heart. That we need to reward love and recognize that though differences do exist between different populations, no one deserves to be treated less. To live in fear.

#MicroblogMondays: it still hurts

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A longer post today. Sorry in advance for breaking the Microblog rules.

In July 2012, Grey and I came to Boston for my postdoc interview/vacation/to attend his youngest cousin's wedding. There were many lessons I learned during this trip and to this day mark it as the beginning of our journey to healing from infertility (even though we were firmly in a place of uncertainty). 

The thing I didn't talk about, though, was a moment that still haunts me. An innocent enough moment that I've been shoving away because I assumed it was my problem and a fault I needed to deal with. But this post made it clear that sometimes the best thing to do is talk about it. So here goes.

Bit of background, this trip to Boston followed on the heels of some terrible events. We had just had gone through a failed FET, which followed on the heels of my second miscarriage.  The adoption agency we had planned to work with had told us to hold off (understandably so, but still hard to hear). And then the final element of Grey's brother and SIL announcing they were expecting almost immediately after my miscarriage. I knew going into this situation I wasn't going to do well. Grey and I had been working with David to try to defuse it as best as we could, but the reality was I was hurting and filled with anger. 

So seeing Grey's SIL, who was clearly pregnant, was hard. A reminder of the babies my body had failed to carry. There was also my MIL, who was clearly excited to be around her grandchildren and to be near my SIL as she was the one mainly providing these children. It was hard not to be jealous.

But the icing on the cake came later in the day. Grey and I had bought his niece and nephews some books. The kids were excited to have them, asking to be read. So the 3 youngest children gathered on the couch with my eldest nephew, who was a teenager, and as he read to them the adults sat back, smiled happily and snapped photos of the scene. All while Grey's SIL unconsciously stroked her belly.

It will be 4 years since that scene has played out this week. A lot has changed. So much in fact. And yet, that image still is a painful one. For years I've picked at it, trying to dissect why. I've tackled jealousy, envy, the fear and all the misunderstanding. I've been told that time heals all wounds and there have been many examples of how much the Beats are loved by our families.

Yet, the hurt remains. Something that seems so trivial still just isn't. 

With Bent no Broken's post, I realized that sometimes there isn't a way to make those moments okay. Despite how much as our loved ones want us to. It's hard because there's this assumption that the only road to peace is through absolving someone of any wrong that was done. Which leaves me wondering why. And who does it benefit.

On Wednesday the Beats turn 3 yrs old. Seeing them read their books, I think about that picture and play out in my head the dialogue I would have with myself all those years ago. That despite having them here now, that situation really sucked. And maybe that's okay to admit.