There was an interesting conversation on our Facebook page awhile back. I said that when there are new babies or little kids, I love to be able to hold them and squeeze them and pinch their chubby little cheeks. Not everyone agreed with me, and a couple of people said they absolutely can't handle being around other peoples' kids.
It's very hard to explain to people who have children what my experience is like. Without thinking about it, when I hold a baby or when a little kid asks to hold my hand or play a game, my imagination runs wild. "This is what it would be like if I was ever to become a mommy," my brain says. Believe me, I wish my brain would not have these flashes of insight. I wish it would keep itself grounded. But still, on it goes. "This is what it would be like to have an adoring little face looking up at you all the time. This is what it would be like to go out and have people assume that the baby or kid is yours. The knowing glances, the smiles, all of it would be directed at you. This is what it would be like."
The problem with my brain doing this, of course, is that none of these babies or kids are mine. The time comes when they ask for their mom, or when their mom picks them up to snuggle, or something else happens to break the spell. I find these little moments to be devastating, no matter how healed I am. It is Don Quixote realizing that he is not really a knight, but rather just a crazy guy in love with a prostitute who waved a sword at some windmills.
I'm not that crazy but still!
These two elements, the ability of my brain to fantasize away and then the breaking of the dream, happen without any thought from my conscious self. I hang around kids thinking that it's great that my friends have such wonderful children, or that there are such wonderful kids in my family. But my brain is a sneaky thing.
I am trying to think of an appropriate analogy that would help my friends with children understand my probably confusing reactions. I ask to see pictures of their kids, I ask if I can hold the baby, but then I might get quiet or withdrawn later. What is that all about, they likely wonder. If holding a baby upsets me, why do I do it? If being around kids upsets me, why do I do that?
I love children. That's the whole reason why I want to have my own. It's like lusting after something someone else has. You aren't wanting it just for the heck of it. You aren't envious just because it passes the time. I love children. I love their innocence. I love how their personalities start mixing with imitations of various adults they know. And babies, well, who can resist a sleepy little warm bundle of baby mush?
I don't expose myself to children to teach myself to cope better or because I really enjoy the endless cycles it puts me into. I love children, and I always think that if I can't have my own, why not enjoy the children who are already around. It all seems reasonable till I'm in the process, and then my brain goes wild again, imagining things that can never be, offering me a peek into the toy store before the curtain goes down.
This is one area where I will say I think suffering from infertility is harder than a lot of other things a person can deal with. It's so easy to get glimpses into what your life could be like. When you babysit, when you are accompanying a parent and their kid shopping or to a restaurant. For brief moments you have a glimpse at the one thing you want but can't have. And that's the part that I need to figure out how to get around.
Do you have that problem? Have you found a way to deal with it? I'd love to hear about it.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Conversations
It seems like a lot of the joy people express when they've been struggling to have a child and then they finally have one is that they can finally participate in the same conversations as everyone else. This is not often verbalized, of course, but you kind of sense it. The people that used to be mocked or joked about are now just people to talk to. Pregnancy ups and downs, diapers, the first this, the first that -- all of this is now fair game for the formerly excluded man or woman.
Conversations are so important in our daily lives, and yet I think we probably take them for granted. A conversation is a sharing of thoughts, experiences, and ideas. Sharing a conversation can strengthen and deepen a friendship or relationship. Feeling excluded from the conversation can result in a weakening of the relationship or feelings of depression. We know all of this stuff in our heads, but we don't really think about it much.
Since the onslaught of online networking sites, especially Facebook, it seems like common conversations are ever-present. As a woman who has no chance of going through pregnancy and who has a pretty slim chance of ever having a child in any way, being exposed to these conversations can really wear me down sometimes. It's not that I begrudge people these conversations, and no matter how tempting it may be, I don't really think it's right to say, "Hey, can all of you new parents I'm friends with talk about other stuff?" What I really lament though is that pregnancy and then parenthood are so all-encompassing and major life factors that there aren't many other conversations going on that I can relate to. My Facebook network has become a place where I can't really feel comfortable a lot of the time, and the same holds true for real-life gatherings.
What can we do about this? Well, like I said, I suppose one option could be to try to change the subject, but that gets pretty obvious and pretty old after awhile, and I think it can also come across as selfish. "What, I can't talk to another friend of mine about the fact that this major change is coming in my life?" Yeah. I wouldn't like that either.
Not surprisingly, starting a conversation about infertility doesn't really work either. Talking about nausea and morning sickness at a dinner table still carries an air of excitement. Talking about depression because of infertility is a real buzz kill.
I guess, in an ideal world, folks would occasionally take breaks from their talk of pregnancy and excitement and wonder and ask me about that book I mentioned, or ask me how my trip was, or ask me what crafts I'm working on these days. Or tell me about books they're reading. But in an ideal world, I would still be able to have good conversations with people who have children or who are expecting. They would still meet me at points that we have in common and we could return to those points, much like you used to return to the "safe" spot during games of tag. I would never ask someone to squelch their joy or excitement or sharing. I just wish infertility wasn't synonymous with feeling left out.
Conversations are so important in our daily lives, and yet I think we probably take them for granted. A conversation is a sharing of thoughts, experiences, and ideas. Sharing a conversation can strengthen and deepen a friendship or relationship. Feeling excluded from the conversation can result in a weakening of the relationship or feelings of depression. We know all of this stuff in our heads, but we don't really think about it much.
Since the onslaught of online networking sites, especially Facebook, it seems like common conversations are ever-present. As a woman who has no chance of going through pregnancy and who has a pretty slim chance of ever having a child in any way, being exposed to these conversations can really wear me down sometimes. It's not that I begrudge people these conversations, and no matter how tempting it may be, I don't really think it's right to say, "Hey, can all of you new parents I'm friends with talk about other stuff?" What I really lament though is that pregnancy and then parenthood are so all-encompassing and major life factors that there aren't many other conversations going on that I can relate to. My Facebook network has become a place where I can't really feel comfortable a lot of the time, and the same holds true for real-life gatherings.
What can we do about this? Well, like I said, I suppose one option could be to try to change the subject, but that gets pretty obvious and pretty old after awhile, and I think it can also come across as selfish. "What, I can't talk to another friend of mine about the fact that this major change is coming in my life?" Yeah. I wouldn't like that either.
Not surprisingly, starting a conversation about infertility doesn't really work either. Talking about nausea and morning sickness at a dinner table still carries an air of excitement. Talking about depression because of infertility is a real buzz kill.
I guess, in an ideal world, folks would occasionally take breaks from their talk of pregnancy and excitement and wonder and ask me about that book I mentioned, or ask me how my trip was, or ask me what crafts I'm working on these days. Or tell me about books they're reading. But in an ideal world, I would still be able to have good conversations with people who have children or who are expecting. They would still meet me at points that we have in common and we could return to those points, much like you used to return to the "safe" spot during games of tag. I would never ask someone to squelch their joy or excitement or sharing. I just wish infertility wasn't synonymous with feeling left out.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Don't forget what you love
On Monday, I returned from a trip to Boston. I've been wanting to go to Boston for a very long time. First there is all of the Revolutionary War history that happened there. Then, when I was pursuing my Masters in History, I wrote my thesis on a slave poet named Phillis Wheatley, who lived (and died in poverty) in Boston.
I've been on a real high since I got back.
You see, in Boston, I remembered everything about my greatest love - History. It might seem strange that a person could forget something as basic as "I really love this." However, when you are on a really bumpy roller coaster, which is perhaps the best description I have for infertility, sometimes your focus becomes narrow.
For the last ten years, there have been a lot of periods of time where my brain was consumed with trying to make sense of this strange diagnosis I live with. Why can other people so easily have children, to the point where they have children "accidentally," and I, who always imagined myself as a mother, can never even hope to have children who are really mine? What is that all about? How can I make it through another day with this great weight on my heart? How can I express joy for other people who seem to just be living out all of my dreams?
I haven't spent a lot of time in the last ten years thinking about things that I really really liked. I made up all sorts of reasons for this. I was soooo selfless. I was sooo busy. Whatever the reasons were, ultimately the fact was that I had become separated from myself. Depression and various hardships had split me from who I truly was, and I was lost.
Unlike in the soap operas, I was not able to take a random trip for 3 months to go looking for answers. That's the problem with real life. It keeps going, and you have to keep doing little things like getting up, going to work, and doing laundry. Finding your bliss gets put even further back on the back burner.
I remember, now, though, that History has always been my greatest love for as long as I can remember. I remember reading a book when I was first learning to read. It was called Wagon Wheels, and it was the story of a Black family who traveled to Nicodemus, Kansas. I had read it tons of times when one day I noticed the afterword. It was a true story!
I remember finding out that I was part Cherokee.
I remember going to Washington, D.C. for the first time, going to Mount Vernon, and somehow sensing that I was in a place of great importance.
My love of History is like being a fangirl or a fanboy for a celebrity. To walk in places where people I read about walked, to touch things that people I admire touched. These are things that fill me with incomprehensible joy. And it's something that likely will seem very strange to a lot of people. But that's okay. This is my bliss. We've been separated for quite some time, and it's so nice to have my arms around it again.
Do you remember what your bliss is? Do you know what it is without thinking? Is there something you can see or hear that makes you weep for joy right away, before you can even analyze what is going on?
Don't lose track of that. Don't try to fill that space with something else that makes sense to other people. Find your bliss and let it be your compass. Don't let it get lost like I did with mine. It is a long and winding unbroken path to get back to the paved road of right direction. Stay on, ever forward, and take it for all that it's worth.
I've been on a real high since I got back.
You see, in Boston, I remembered everything about my greatest love - History. It might seem strange that a person could forget something as basic as "I really love this." However, when you are on a really bumpy roller coaster, which is perhaps the best description I have for infertility, sometimes your focus becomes narrow.
For the last ten years, there have been a lot of periods of time where my brain was consumed with trying to make sense of this strange diagnosis I live with. Why can other people so easily have children, to the point where they have children "accidentally," and I, who always imagined myself as a mother, can never even hope to have children who are really mine? What is that all about? How can I make it through another day with this great weight on my heart? How can I express joy for other people who seem to just be living out all of my dreams?
I haven't spent a lot of time in the last ten years thinking about things that I really really liked. I made up all sorts of reasons for this. I was soooo selfless. I was sooo busy. Whatever the reasons were, ultimately the fact was that I had become separated from myself. Depression and various hardships had split me from who I truly was, and I was lost.
Unlike in the soap operas, I was not able to take a random trip for 3 months to go looking for answers. That's the problem with real life. It keeps going, and you have to keep doing little things like getting up, going to work, and doing laundry. Finding your bliss gets put even further back on the back burner.
I remember, now, though, that History has always been my greatest love for as long as I can remember. I remember reading a book when I was first learning to read. It was called Wagon Wheels, and it was the story of a Black family who traveled to Nicodemus, Kansas. I had read it tons of times when one day I noticed the afterword. It was a true story!
I remember finding out that I was part Cherokee.
I remember going to Washington, D.C. for the first time, going to Mount Vernon, and somehow sensing that I was in a place of great importance.
My love of History is like being a fangirl or a fanboy for a celebrity. To walk in places where people I read about walked, to touch things that people I admire touched. These are things that fill me with incomprehensible joy. And it's something that likely will seem very strange to a lot of people. But that's okay. This is my bliss. We've been separated for quite some time, and it's so nice to have my arms around it again.
Do you remember what your bliss is? Do you know what it is without thinking? Is there something you can see or hear that makes you weep for joy right away, before you can even analyze what is going on?
Don't lose track of that. Don't try to fill that space with something else that makes sense to other people. Find your bliss and let it be your compass. Don't let it get lost like I did with mine. It is a long and winding unbroken path to get back to the paved road of right direction. Stay on, ever forward, and take it for all that it's worth.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
"All Joy and No Fun"
A friend of mine just posted this article to Facebook today:
"All Joy And No Fun"
It's a long article, the general jist of which is that a lot of parents find that parenting is exhausting, not a lot of fun, hard to manage, stressful, sometimes painful, but oftentimes extremely rewarding. The article talks about how people with children often appear to be less lonely than those without children, and their lives seem to be, to them, more full.
Now, of course, reading this article from the perspective of someone diagnosed with infertility was an interesting experience. Perhaps the biggest surprise for me in all of my years of struggling has been the immense PRESSURE I felt to somehow have a child. For many years, I wouldn't even contemplate buying myself things or going on trips because, I would callously joke to myself, I was saving up to buy a baby.
Where does all of that pressure come from? It makes sense from a primeval or historical perspective. Humans used to have to reproduce to keep the race and evolution going. Reproducing was about keeping land in the family, trying for sons and beautiful daughters who would ensure our well-being i old age. Children, as the article points out, were farm hands and would keep the family business running. But what about now?
Of course, I still am deeply pained that I was not given a choice in this matter. It has marked my life without question. But the article is interesting in that it points out, as few rarely do, that parenthood is not necessarily enough to fulfill your every wish and desire. You as a person, as an individual, are still really important, whether or not you can or decide to have children.
My greatest fear for myself, over the last couple of years, and for others struggling with the same fight, is that being diagnosed with infertility can make you feel like you have no purpose. But based on this article, parenthood can sometimes make you feel that way too. When you are cleaning up messes at 2 AM, when your child is throwing a tantrum at a nice restaurant, or when you just want to relax and not hear the word "mommy" or "daddy" for a moment, maybe at those times you wonder what your life's purpose really is.
So you see, we childless folk have something to share with our friends and relatives who have children. We all still need to value ourselves. We all still need to find a purpose that extends beyond the biological and emotional realities of reproduction. If we do not value ourselves, even 15 children would not be enough to make us feel happy. If we are okay with ourselves, we can head on our way to healing.
Interested, as always, in your thoughts!
"All Joy And No Fun"
It's a long article, the general jist of which is that a lot of parents find that parenting is exhausting, not a lot of fun, hard to manage, stressful, sometimes painful, but oftentimes extremely rewarding. The article talks about how people with children often appear to be less lonely than those without children, and their lives seem to be, to them, more full.
Now, of course, reading this article from the perspective of someone diagnosed with infertility was an interesting experience. Perhaps the biggest surprise for me in all of my years of struggling has been the immense PRESSURE I felt to somehow have a child. For many years, I wouldn't even contemplate buying myself things or going on trips because, I would callously joke to myself, I was saving up to buy a baby.
Where does all of that pressure come from? It makes sense from a primeval or historical perspective. Humans used to have to reproduce to keep the race and evolution going. Reproducing was about keeping land in the family, trying for sons and beautiful daughters who would ensure our well-being i old age. Children, as the article points out, were farm hands and would keep the family business running. But what about now?
Of course, I still am deeply pained that I was not given a choice in this matter. It has marked my life without question. But the article is interesting in that it points out, as few rarely do, that parenthood is not necessarily enough to fulfill your every wish and desire. You as a person, as an individual, are still really important, whether or not you can or decide to have children.
My greatest fear for myself, over the last couple of years, and for others struggling with the same fight, is that being diagnosed with infertility can make you feel like you have no purpose. But based on this article, parenthood can sometimes make you feel that way too. When you are cleaning up messes at 2 AM, when your child is throwing a tantrum at a nice restaurant, or when you just want to relax and not hear the word "mommy" or "daddy" for a moment, maybe at those times you wonder what your life's purpose really is.
So you see, we childless folk have something to share with our friends and relatives who have children. We all still need to value ourselves. We all still need to find a purpose that extends beyond the biological and emotional realities of reproduction. If we do not value ourselves, even 15 children would not be enough to make us feel happy. If we are okay with ourselves, we can head on our way to healing.
Interested, as always, in your thoughts!
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Allow Joy As You Want Others To Allow Your Grief
One thing that I have noticed in trying to find a support network for infertility is that there tends to be an uncomfortable gap between people who have persevered and ended up with a miracle and those who haven't yet or who never will. This is extremely unfortunate and can have dastardly effects on both categories of people.
For example, you say?
When I first started reaching out to people online, I ended up chatting with a woman who ended up becoming kind of a pen-pal. I was in the pits of my despair at the time so appreciating that I had someone to talk to did not cross my mind. I just knew that if I had a particularly tough day, or a question, or an experience, I could write to her, and I knew that she felt the same way.
One day, I checked my e-mail and saw a message from this person. She and her husband had just adopted a little boy. Apparently this had all been in the works for quite some time. They found out that they were getting their son very late at night and the process just sped up from there. She sent me a picture of her new little family.
I admit that at the time, I was not very "sportsmanlike." I am not even sure that I emailed her congratulations. I felt a little betrayed. My comrade in despair had gotten better? That's not supposed to happen. We lost touch shortly after that. I don't know who initiated the cessation of emails, but I am pretty certain I played a major role.
Fast forward about six years later. Another situation where I am confiding at long last in a person sharing somewhat similar experiences. This time I am in mad appreciation mode. I was in the "I need to talk about this to someone who understands" mode, and to have that person be a friend was too good to be true. Eventually, this friend, who had endured a tremendous amount of pain and loss, found out she was pregnant. I felt heartbroken at first. It's very hard to see someone conquer something that you know you just can't, and hey, humans are selfish wee beasts, are we not? But I supported her and encouraged her to enjoy the heck out of her experience.
I was shocked to learn that other women that my friend had encountered were not just silent, but they actually were pressuring her so much that she didn't think she should have a baby shower because it was just going to be too painful for so many of her friends. Now that really made me heartbroken. Who better to appreciate the joy of pregnancy and childbirth than those who have not been granted that gift? Sure, there will always be sadness and envy attached, and we might handle things with more or less grace at various times. But who are we to tell a person that they shouldn't rejoice in their change in fortune? I was very disturbed. I reflected back on my first pen pal and wondered if I had made her feel that I didn't want to hear about her joy. I'm sure I did, or she at least got that impression.
When you are diagnosed with infertility or when you are just having a hard time reaching your objectives, you want everyone to appreciate where you are coming from. It seems reasonable to storm out of conversations, to avoid joyful occasions, and to proclaim that you carry a burden no one will understand. But I think that there needs to be a trade-off. If you want people to support you in your grief, as they should, then I think it is fair to support people in their joy. It's not easy to listen to a friend or loved one who is in despair. It may not be easy to listen to a person gush about their new baby. If we support those who do have children...if we support those who overcome barriers, even if we can't -- people will be more willing to pay us the respect and support that we ask for, or so it seems to me.
What do you think? Can we bridge this gap?
For example, you say?
When I first started reaching out to people online, I ended up chatting with a woman who ended up becoming kind of a pen-pal. I was in the pits of my despair at the time so appreciating that I had someone to talk to did not cross my mind. I just knew that if I had a particularly tough day, or a question, or an experience, I could write to her, and I knew that she felt the same way.
One day, I checked my e-mail and saw a message from this person. She and her husband had just adopted a little boy. Apparently this had all been in the works for quite some time. They found out that they were getting their son very late at night and the process just sped up from there. She sent me a picture of her new little family.
I admit that at the time, I was not very "sportsmanlike." I am not even sure that I emailed her congratulations. I felt a little betrayed. My comrade in despair had gotten better? That's not supposed to happen. We lost touch shortly after that. I don't know who initiated the cessation of emails, but I am pretty certain I played a major role.
Fast forward about six years later. Another situation where I am confiding at long last in a person sharing somewhat similar experiences. This time I am in mad appreciation mode. I was in the "I need to talk about this to someone who understands" mode, and to have that person be a friend was too good to be true. Eventually, this friend, who had endured a tremendous amount of pain and loss, found out she was pregnant. I felt heartbroken at first. It's very hard to see someone conquer something that you know you just can't, and hey, humans are selfish wee beasts, are we not? But I supported her and encouraged her to enjoy the heck out of her experience.
I was shocked to learn that other women that my friend had encountered were not just silent, but they actually were pressuring her so much that she didn't think she should have a baby shower because it was just going to be too painful for so many of her friends. Now that really made me heartbroken. Who better to appreciate the joy of pregnancy and childbirth than those who have not been granted that gift? Sure, there will always be sadness and envy attached, and we might handle things with more or less grace at various times. But who are we to tell a person that they shouldn't rejoice in their change in fortune? I was very disturbed. I reflected back on my first pen pal and wondered if I had made her feel that I didn't want to hear about her joy. I'm sure I did, or she at least got that impression.
When you are diagnosed with infertility or when you are just having a hard time reaching your objectives, you want everyone to appreciate where you are coming from. It seems reasonable to storm out of conversations, to avoid joyful occasions, and to proclaim that you carry a burden no one will understand. But I think that there needs to be a trade-off. If you want people to support you in your grief, as they should, then I think it is fair to support people in their joy. It's not easy to listen to a friend or loved one who is in despair. It may not be easy to listen to a person gush about their new baby. If we support those who do have children...if we support those who overcome barriers, even if we can't -- people will be more willing to pay us the respect and support that we ask for, or so it seems to me.
What do you think? Can we bridge this gap?
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Father's Day
When I started this blog back in November, I didn't really have a good plan for it. By all rights, then, I probably shouldn't have started it. Ah well, you live and learn.
In the meantime, I have begun to see a community grow on Facebook -our page "Infertility Should Not Be Taboo" has become an important online meeting place for people struggling with this issue. However, there are privacy concerns with Facebook, and the space for "talking" is limited.
A blog, paradoxically, can be more open to the world. You don't need to log in to see what I'm saying here. However, being anonymous is much easier. Strange, but true. Therefore, I'm going to use this space to expand upon the things I have been posting to our page. Issues that have come up. And people can pop by here and comment anonymously. Safely.
Expanding this project today is not an accident. Today is Father's Day. Now, I know how I feel when Mother's Day comes around, and I know how a lot of women feel. It's like a day has been set aside to purposefully make you feel crummy.
I imagine it is the same for Father's Day, but as much as I complain about how little support there is for women, I think there is less support for men. Whether the man is dealing with infertility himself or whether his significant other is struggling, men do not seem to have a good way to get the support that they need. So today, while I am thankful for all of the dads I know, especially my own, I want to let you fellows out there know that your woes are not unimportant or forgotten. We're thinking of you. Hang in there.
In the meantime, I have begun to see a community grow on Facebook -our page "Infertility Should Not Be Taboo" has become an important online meeting place for people struggling with this issue. However, there are privacy concerns with Facebook, and the space for "talking" is limited.
A blog, paradoxically, can be more open to the world. You don't need to log in to see what I'm saying here. However, being anonymous is much easier. Strange, but true. Therefore, I'm going to use this space to expand upon the things I have been posting to our page. Issues that have come up. And people can pop by here and comment anonymously. Safely.
Expanding this project today is not an accident. Today is Father's Day. Now, I know how I feel when Mother's Day comes around, and I know how a lot of women feel. It's like a day has been set aside to purposefully make you feel crummy.
I imagine it is the same for Father's Day, but as much as I complain about how little support there is for women, I think there is less support for men. Whether the man is dealing with infertility himself or whether his significant other is struggling, men do not seem to have a good way to get the support that they need. So today, while I am thankful for all of the dads I know, especially my own, I want to let you fellows out there know that your woes are not unimportant or forgotten. We're thinking of you. Hang in there.
Monday, November 9, 2009
It's not your fault
When I was waiting for my wayward period to come back after a medical treatment I had as a child, I was told (being in eighth grade) that it would probably come back if I just wasn't so stressed out.
This was told to me in the confines of a hospital where I had been part of an experimental treatment for several years. After I had undergone daily injections for several years. After countless tests could not explain why I was not "normal." Sure. No stress there.
In the end it was discovered that I had premature ovarian failure. Again, inexplicable. But no one hypothesized after that that if I had cut my stress back, there would have been a different outcome.
Why is it that infertility has to be someone's fault? There is a study posted over on Twitter that infertility could be related somehow to being overweight. Well no pressure there, right? If a couple can't get pregnant it's because they're trying to hard. You're not eating the right kind of foods. You're too high-strung. You're too overweight.
Being diagnosed with infertility is tough enough. Do we really need to lay blame? Where is the care in the medical profession for the power of this kind of diagnosis? I have yet to see it, sadly. I'd be happy to hear about different kinds of experiences.
This was told to me in the confines of a hospital where I had been part of an experimental treatment for several years. After I had undergone daily injections for several years. After countless tests could not explain why I was not "normal." Sure. No stress there.
In the end it was discovered that I had premature ovarian failure. Again, inexplicable. But no one hypothesized after that that if I had cut my stress back, there would have been a different outcome.
Why is it that infertility has to be someone's fault? There is a study posted over on Twitter that infertility could be related somehow to being overweight. Well no pressure there, right? If a couple can't get pregnant it's because they're trying to hard. You're not eating the right kind of foods. You're too high-strung. You're too overweight.
Being diagnosed with infertility is tough enough. Do we really need to lay blame? Where is the care in the medical profession for the power of this kind of diagnosis? I have yet to see it, sadly. I'd be happy to hear about different kinds of experiences.
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