Birch and Maple

Go Read This

Because it's something I've been struggling with for nearly a couple of years.

While you're at it, read this too.

I don't really know what to say about the site, We Are The Real Deal, perhaps you read it and have different opinions than I do.  The site, which sprang from a BlogHer panel, had one of my favorite bloggers, Kate Harding, as a member.  So, um, yeah.  They have a mission statement, and then one of them wrote something, and the website kind of blew up.  Here's the post which brought me to the beginning of the blow up...I'd be interested in your take on it:

Part the first
Part the second
Part the third
Part the fourth
Part the fifth

Oro out

Time Keeps On Slippin'

I had this great post written up the other day, but didn't have time to post it, so I saved it.

Too bad I can't remember what it was called or where it is, eh?

But that's okay, I was flipping through the 8 stations and landed on The Steve Miller Band In Concert on PBS - woohoo!!  It's a pledge drive, naturally.  I glommed on to SMB my senior year in college, when I was living in a single in the basement of my dorm (the basement people rocked)(also, there were only the 5 of us and as a consequence, our bathroom was fairly clean)(and I had a loft) and the guys, J and K, who lived next to me were big guitar heads.  The girls down the hall were a) a concert pianist and b) a field hockey player.  Anyhoo, we J and K and I loved SMB and Aerosmith and Boston - hello, I feel old - and generally enjoyed each other's company.  Ah, good times.

What the heck has happened to PBS anyway?  Remember when pledge drives happened only twice a year?  Now it's every quarter if not more often, and there are so much boring stuff, too many commercial lectures, like Suze Orman and Rich Dad and Christiane Northrup, too many sucky concerts like Daniel O'Donnell (please, someone explain his popularity to me)(anyone, anyone, Bueller?) and Celtic Women (gah), and then there are the ads, ads on PBS, for goodness sakes!  I'm a dedicated Antiques Roadshow watcher (US version only, thanks) and I hate the stupid car ads.  Now, I know PBS needs funding from somewhere, nonetheless it rankles.

~*~

A bit of pregnancy talk.  I thought about posting this on TLU, but I figure it might be more helpful here.

Thing is, my pregnancy is like a dream. now.  After longing for pregnancy and a baby for so many years, it never ever occurred to me that I could barely remember what it was like.  Except for the fear, of course, I still get electroshocks of fear 3 months on.  I hope FET 2009 works, I want to get pregnant and give The Chieftain a brother or sister - oh, the optimism!  OTOH, it worked once, surely it'll work another time?  Yes, I have to believe that it will.

And if it doesn't happen, what then?  I don't know.  What I do know is that I want a sibling or two for the Chieftain, and that I do want there to be a bio connection, if there isn't, that's okay too.  I have friends who are adopting out of the foster care system, and their son-to-be is a great kid (a geek among geeks, nay, a nerd), but I have to confess that I want another infant.  Crazy, hunh,  Despite the sleeplessness and the frustrations and the occasional ambivalence and the fear, I want another infant.

This parenting thing catches on like mold, I tell you.

~*~

Steve Miller totally rocks.

I am not pleased to have spent a minumum of $100 on gas this month, yet have only once gone further than 30 minutes from my house.

I have not yet found a job, nor, worse yet, do I want one.  I need one, but I don't want one.

I hate Japanese Knotweed with the heat of a 1000 burning suns.

Everything I planted last year save the California Bluebells and the French Lavender is growing well, thank you.  I've planted the lilac (no great hopes, I'm afraid), but the rose is going to have to wait until I have a spare hour.

~*~

Welp, I must catch up with everyone...I keep hoping for a good update about Millbarge, but no news as of yet.

Oro, out.

And Now, Afterwards

This is the post I was talking about some time ago, the one about pregnancy and birth and first time parenting when infertile. Be warned, metaphors abound. And some other random stuff.

I had a dream last night, I can't remember the majority of it, but while watching this video (a bit of the old ultraviolence) I realized that I'd dreamed about checking into an old fashioned hotel in Boston, and while going up to my room on the second of three floors, I somehow lost my luggage. This was very important as it had my fertility meds in it, and I was going to a doctor's appointment the next day.  Panic ensued, with me running around the halls, trying to find my luggage with the 100 needles and bottle of something (it was large, and sodium light orange, and I had to take 101mg (mg?!) of it a day before my appointment).  Anyway, I eventually found my zipped, pencil case bag of meds in my purse, which had miraculously appeared in my right hand.

Mr Oro and I went home yesterday after wintering at my mother's house.  The plan is too move back there today, now that my car's brakes have been replaced.  I put heaps of milk in the freezer and then decided to check on the state of the meds I had left over from last June.  It's all out of date, now.  I'd hoped to be able to use some of them next year.  The red sharps container I bought with my trigger shot sits on top of the refrigerator, the real, shockingly physical reference to my infertility a reminder that even though The Chieftain is here, living and breathing, that without the aid of Science and a lot of luck, my life would be very different, now.  When I look at it, I literally feel pain, an inner blow as if I've actually been punched in the gut...it's hard to explain.  Maybe I should have kept all my needles in that empty mayonnaise jar after all.

So here I am, nearly 9 years after we started trying to have a baby, sitting in bed, typing on my laptop while my two month old son sleeps next to me.  To say this  is at times surreal is an understatement.  It feels like he's always been here, yet this is clearly far from the case. 

I understand, now, the difference.  A living, breathing child blunts the sharpness of infertility while at the same time honing its edge to cut a little deeper.  If you've ever thought there's a difference between primary and secondary infertility, oh yes, yes there is.  Primary infertility reminds me of getting stabbed.  From what I've read, you can be stabbed yet not know it for a little while.  You feel a blow, as if someone's bumped in to you while walking down the street, and it's only some time later that you start to feel dizzy, maybe notice the itch of the blood trickling down your side, before looking down to see the sticky red on your fingers.

And then you realize what's happened and your entire world falls apart.

I began planning when I was going to have my FET before I was six weeks pregnant.  I had yet to experience any bleeding, although the late-onset OHSS which had me in the hospital for a week was worrisome, and having read so many blogs, knew that miscarriage was the likely end to my dreams.  I flinch even to write that word, now, isn't that funny?

So now I am one of the dream people, I got pregnant on my  first and only treatment, my very first IVF cycle.  For which 'gratitude' is not the appropriate word.  I would gladly prostrate myself before any deity with tears of thanks streaming down my face, set out offerings of incense (and peppermints), et cetera, et cetera.  Still wouldn't be enough.  Yet one must continue on with the living, afterwards, despite the fears of this somehow being a dream. 

And fear does linger.  One of infertility's most insidious gifts.  You find yourself pulling away from the miscarriage blogs, from, gods forbid, the stillbirth blogs and, even more horrific, the neo-natal death blogs, where all of your worst fears have come true.  For someone.  Who is not you.  You hope and pray to be one of the millions of parents whose babies are happy and healthy and grow up to adulthood.  Of course, recognizing that most people, infertile or not, hope the same, is of no help whatsoever.  Because you've been through the hell of infertility, and even though you are now off Infertility Island, you can't help but look back from the Mainland, terrified to return yet frightened of moving further inshore.

The wound from the stabbing of Primary infertility may have healed over, but the scar tissue can be thick, so thick it unexpectedly pulls and hurts when you move in certain ways.  Secondary infertility is painful, sharp little papercuts when you least expect it.  You'd think the skin would heal quickly, but no.

Here I am, the dream achieved.  This world is still strange and new.  I expect I'll get used to the fear as any other parent does, and even, to some degree, forget about the infertility.  An odd concept.  Forget about the main issue of my life for the past 9 years?  How is that even possible?

It's true, what they say about childbirth (unless it's been hellashiously traumatic), you do forget about the pain (not that much pain, in my case, but I had an emergency c-section) due to the newness of a baby who suddenly requires all your attention distracts you from what you've just been through (unless you've had a c-section, in which case you're dealing with the after affects of major abdominal surgery)(which is shocking in and of itself). Am I willing to go through it all again, hell yeah.

But I'm terrified of going through pregnancy again.  I am scared of miscarrying, of stillbirth.  I'm scared of having to have another c-section, as the local hospital doesn't do VBAC, which means a 1-3 hour drive during labor, and staying in a hotel if we're told it's too early.  Assuming, of course, I even get pregnant again.

Anyway, life, pregnancy and birth post-Primary infertility is pretty much everything you think it is.  The things you don't expect, however, include depression, your baby doing weird things like breathing funny, physical pain from pregnancy/childbirth, recovery from surgery, and honestly?  Trauma from infertility.  I don't think we truly realize how  much it affects us until after that baby arrives - regardless of arrival, via pregnancy, adoption, surrogacy, fostering. 

There isn't really a point to this post, it's just one long ramble.  I'm sure I've missed things I really wanted to talk about, but I got distracted.  Also, I'm quite depressed, very tired, and not looking forward to the Chieftain getting all screamy when he gets his first vaccinations in a couple of hours.  From there, I've got another 'appointment' between 1 and 5 pm, then packing, shopping, and moving back home.  In the midst of all of that comes pumping every 4 hours, as the Chieftain has never gotten the hang of feeding from the breast.  Oh, he'll do it occasionally, but it's a struggle, and both of us get frustrated and occasionally teary, so pumping it is for the foreseeable future. 

So much to do and I'm going to be one doing most of it.  Throw in some serious stress over money, my search for a part time job knowing that at minimum wage,  at least 1/3 of my weekly pay is going to be spent on gas traveling to and from said job...

...I'm a mess.

Also, I'll be back on dialup as of tonight, so no more YouTubery unless I stop at home for a few hours, so my blogwhoring posts will be even more linky, but with very few photo or music or cool stuff posts.

I guess that's me.

 

~*~

Here's a random video, an oldie by the Chemical Brothers, The Golden Path:

I can't resist Believe, which is, hands down, one of the most disturbing videos EVER.  It's like the Dr Who episode, Blink - you just can't look at machinery in the same way again.  Creepy:

Oro out.

Bloglines

I unsubbed from a couple of blogs today.  I feel mixed emotions about that.  Oh, they weren't all IF blogs, but still...I feel a bit guilty.

There was a blog, however, that was simply so damned negative (now, this was the point of the blog, so it's not like I went  in there with my eyes closed) that I couldn't take it anymore.  I'm a cynic and pessimist depressive too, but jeez...some days the sun does shine, y'know?  Infertility and assorted other medical stuff sucks (Dee, I am not talking about you), there's no question about that.  And yet, that doesn't mean life isn't worth living.   I have no idea if the blogger has other people in their life they can discuss these issues with - I get the feeling that their perception is that they're all alone, and who knows, maybe they are.  However, they keep themselves apart from the online communities who might be happy to commiserate or discus strategy or just talk about how all of this bites ass by not leaving an email address or allowing comments.  This left me very frustrated, because while I don't have a lot of the same overarching issues, there are a few that I feel I could 'help' with, or at least pass the virtual bottle of wine about.

So I unsubscribed.

I feel like I've abandoned a fellow infertile, even though the choice to be abandoned was their choice in the first place.  Good luck to you*.

I was going to save this for my next blogwhoring post (listen, I'm on 'easy rest' for the next few weeks, you didn't think I wouldn't be blogwhoring, did you?  Just have to catch up, is all) but I think it's too funny to pass up:

Surprise Orgasms Baffle Women Undergoing New Infertility Treatment

And then I went to the programs website and  found it, ah, interesting.  I'm going to guess that the majority of their patients have been diagnosed with unexplained infertility - and if they have good success rates, more power to 'em.  But isn't it funny how women with hormonal problems such as PCOS aren't listed?

Just sayin'.

Color me cynical.  Or maybe just skeptical.  This program sounds like 'just relax' and 'just do acupuncture' and 'just do physical therapy' all rolled into one.  I don't doubt that for some people, this will do the trick.  I certainly don't believe it's the end all and be all for everyone, though.  Know what I mean?

Oro, off to catch up on the remaining 224 new posts in her bloglines

*nah, not telling who it is.  Also, I've kind of forgotten the title of the blog, so, um, yeah.

Spy Vs...?

Two recent experiences have shed, if not precisely light, then perhaps a glimpse of the divide between fertility and infertility.

In the first case, the maternity ward.  That is a seriously strange place to be in.  I mean, there are women in there, having babies.  Babies!  It's what the whole ward is about...having babies.  And while men are there as techs and doctors and husbands and brothers and partners and grandparents and siblings, it's all about Woman and what she achieves.

The maternity ward is the ultimate expression of what it means to be female, and gods damn it that what we infertiles have long suspected is actually true; our inability to conceive or carry children to term does, in some very primal way, make us less.

And that's  not our fault.  We are not crazy to think people view us as flawed, or, worse, unnatural. I've concluded that many don't want to know about infertility because in a very real sense, to be  infertile is to be outcast from humanity.  And - mostly - fertiles are unaware of that gut feeling of 'wrongness'.  They can sympathize, just as I can sympathize with someone who has cancer, yet I know well that I don't have a clue as to what someone with cancer is going through.  But at least I can acknowledge that I don't know, that I'll never understand, yet still be there, supportive, or snarky, or gossipy, or be what that person needs me to be in that moment. 

Anyway, in the maternity ward, women have babies.  Not only that, you can hear them having their babies.  Women in labor.  There are those who've done the Hypnobirthing thing, groaning lowly but pleasantly, clearly going with the flow yet keeping calm.  There are the quiet ones, who labor in darkened rooms, the only way you know someone is in there by the nurses coming in and out, or the sudden cry of a baby fresh from the womb.  And then there are the not-so-quiet ones, whom you can tell are just, to be honest, overwhelmed by what's happening.  These are the women you don't see in those Lamaze videos, btw.  You can hear the fear in their voices as they cry aloud, the pain they're going through (unlike the others, who are working towards the end goal) beyond anything they've experienced before, caught up in the never-ending moment.  Lastly, the women being wheeled through the hallway to the OR for c-sections.  I didn't see any of them up close as they were covered with a tall canopy from head to foot. 

It was all rather surreal.  Not being one who'd ever given much thought to what the maternity ward might be like in real life, I was pretty...shocked?  Surprised?  Kind of frightened?  It's one thing to think about labor, quite another to hear it going on in action!

Incident #2.  I had to pop over to the OB's to get swabbed for my current UTI (btw, Akeeyu was right, catheters + more than 1 hour = what's that burning sensation when I pee?) and walked into the world.

There was the young couple, either infertile or undergoing a miscarriage.  I'm pretty sure it was the former, for they looked both resigned, anxious, depressed, and sad.  P came out and took them upstairs.  I'm not familiar with IUI, but P was carrying a medium sized plastic box, about the size of a toolbox for small tools, several large pads, needles,  tubing, and large capacity plastic syringes.  My OB's office used to be a large house, so to get to the upstairs (business office, exam rooms) or downstairs (ultrasounds, exam rooms) you have to go through the waiting room.  Anyway, they left and about 30 minutes later P and Dr B went upstairs, too.

There was an older mom, probably in her late 30's to mid 40's, with her three girls.  I'm sure the eldest was no more than 11, the youngest 6 or so, but they all looked like this woman, and were very sophisticated young ladies to boot.  Y'know the kind of girls I mean, so mature for their ages it's easy to forget that they're children.

I'd heard S on the phone, taking a call from someone in a panic.  Some 20 minutes later, a woman came in with The Face.

Y'know.

The Face of desperation.  Of fear.  Of deep, deep sorrow.  I didn't have to know her story to know she was afraid she was having a miscarriage.  I surreptitiously watched her from the corner of my eyes, her unhappiness pouring from her waves as she watched those girls read their books, color, and listen to their MP3 players.  She'd bite her lips or pinch them with her fingertips, staring out the window watching traffic pass by.  I wanted to lean forward and pat her on the arm, say, I know or, Look, you have the Internet, right?  She eventually went into one of the exam rooms, then went downstairs for her u/s.  Her face was only marginally less unhappy when she returned, and she left soon thereafter.

Finally came the young couple, mid-twenties at the latest, with two children, the girl pregnant with the third.  The little boy was blond, with big blue eyes, no more than 2.  The girl was dark haired and chatty, asking the other mom about the doll she'd pulled from the toy basket.  Dad looked nervous and miserable, like he couldn't quite believe that this was now his life.

And then there was me, looking at the whole scene with fresh eyes and wondering which camp I belonged to, now.

 

However, I can't not say that things have changed.  The world is different and I'm only very gingerly stepping into my new role.  Which isn't to say that I doubted my abilities to be a mother, just that I'm not used to actually being a mother.  I have a suspicion that this is how many adoptive parents feel (if I'm wrong, tell me!), too.  A big adjustment to having other people recognize how we ourselves have always felt.  It's kind of like being newly married.  There's a whole new set of expectations, you're treated differently, the rules have changed.

I don't know where I'm going with this post, I've been pondering it for days.  But then, I don't know what the hell is happening to my identity, either.  I'm the same me I always was, a writer, a reader, a bellydancer.  I'm infertile, I've lived in a foreign country, I'm married, I've been in the depths of despair and have reached the height of extacy.  Or maybe Karen has it right when she wrote Infertile 4-Evah?

 

One of my commenters asked me a question that I find pretty interesting: How can I call myself infertile when I'm pregnant?

 

This is something that I have thought about: am I still infertile? Does getting pregnant mean you are instantly not infertile? And if so, then what are you? Fertile? Sub-fertile? Quasi-fertile?

 

Would it be different if I had gotten pregnant, say, on one of my many IVF or IUI cycles? Would I still be infertile (requiring medical intervention to get pregnant) or would that count, too?

 

Or am I in "remission"? An "infertility survivor" but not technically infertile?

Personally, I think commentator #2, Brenna, has it right:

I haven't personally experienced infertility, so I don't know if my opinion matters, but I would think it's like alcoholism. Even if you don't drink anymore, you're still an alcoholic.

So that's where I am right now.  In and out of Limbo.  I could drink the waters of Lethe*, but why?  What's not to treasure about my experiences of infertility, which will continue on for the foreseeable future (GO FET 2009!) or until I reach, heh, menopause.

While my posts here on B&M might get a little more sporadic over the coming weeks, I have no intention of giving up this blog.  TLU is going to become a parenting blog (I still feel weird typing that, heck, I only read a few parenting blogs as it is, and most of them I wouldn't consider parenting blogs except I needed a handy category)(and no, I don't read Dooce)(sorry), while blogwhoring and writing about infertility and the upcoming FET will remain here.

Um, yeah.  I'm way behind in my bloglines, so you'll have to forgive me while I catch up!

 

Oro out.

* the River of Forgetfulness, one of the rivers which flows through t he Underworld

 

I Feel Old. (nws)

With over  8 years of trying to have a baby under my belt, does this make me one of the oldest members of Infertility Island?  Not the oldest in age, but in terms of 'fuck me, 101 cycles with nothing to show for it' and 'I hate pregnant women' and 'get me the fuck out of Britain' and 'I'm just treading water'.

Y'know, that sort of thing.

I'm feeling...old.  Ancient.  Jaded.  I've spoken about this within the past couple of months, of course, but I guess it's hitting me even harder lately.  If things had gone the way I'd planned, I'd have a 6 year old now, probably one or two others, besides.  Of course, I'd still be in Scotland, too.  Life would be very different.  And, given my current situation, I can't say I regret anything - but if -

No.  No 'but if'.  I'm not going to play that game tonight, I'm not going to go back and rehash what might have been, what still could be.  Things are different now, I have to adjust, start thinking differently, think about what is going to be rather than what might be.

I don't know how to do that.

I'm not a positive thinker by nature.  I'm a pessimist, a cynic.  Or, as Mr Oro would say, a realist.

Dare I hope things change?  While infertility has definitely had (has?) an affect on  me, at my core I'm the same person...more or less.  I think.  I'm pretty sure.  Just a lot more bitter.  But essentially the same.

Well, I've reached the redundant stage of blogging, time for bed.

Oro out.

Brief Letters - with language

Dear Neighbor,

For the record, I hate you with the heat of a thousand burning suns.  If your brood of foster children (at $1500 a month, each, tax free) weren't enough, or the fact that you spend your days at the VFW playing bingo, or your lack of discipline with said children, or that you live off the proceeds of said 'fostering' (which appears to consist of food, housing, running the street's block party each summer, and 'having a place for the kids to hang out'), or the fact that your dearest darling nephew Who Can Do No Wrong is illegally breeding pit bulls in your back yard, or that you allowed them to run free in the neighborhood because 'they're really nice dogs', the fact that you let one small dog out at night and then are too fucking lazy to get up  to let said dog in, so it yelps, whines, barks, and screams for at least an hour every godsbedamned morning is more than enough to make me want to set fire to your house so that it will be you and your brood screaming and whining and wondering where the fuck you're going to go in the morning.

I was really happy to learn you'd been fined $400 for the 4 loose pit bulls running up the street, and even happier recently to learn that 2 of said dogs were recently removed from your home by Animal Control (who is possibly the second most hated member of the local power structure for A, being a total cunt, B, stealing pets, C, driving around all day doing fuck all and getting well paid for it, and D, ignoring calls or arriving hours after the fact so that, frex, clearly ill raccoons drooling and reeling in one's front yard during the height of the rabies epidemic were allowed to simply wander away).  Personally, I would like to remove you from the neighborhood entirely.

But we all know that's not going to happen, because you are a 'safe' foster parent, and have been for many, many years.  You are considered a saint and a savior for your 'work' with the children, who appear to be, if you ask me, teenagers.  Now, I have no problem with fostering in and of itself, several of my friends are and have been foster parents, and excellent ones at that.  By which I mean, they choose to actually, y'know, parent, by providing discipline as well as treats, by making sure the kids go to school and get jobs and working on their social skills and trying their damnedest to do the work the natural parents should have done to ensure those children (teens as well as grade schoolers) have a future that does not include pregnancy, junkiedom, or jail.  Some of those kids have succeeded, some are still trying, others have become completely lost, as would be expected of people who've been through far too much crap far too early in life.

However, you?  Your skills suck.  And by the way, so does animal abuse.  Oh, I know, state law is that as long as an animal is fed and watered, there's nothing the state can do.  Which is ludicrous, but there it is.

If I ever come across that dog being on its own at any time between 9AM-5PM on a freakin' weekday*?  I will do my best to see that it is removed post-haste, because someone has to watch out for it, since you are clearly unable and unwilling to do so.

Yours,

Not A Fan

And, seeing as I'm short on sleep this morning, having gone to bed late, and woken yet again to the sounds of a screaming dog, a wee letter to Tim 'I created Heroes' Kring;

Dear Tim,

Crossing Jordan bites.  Jill Hennessy, you were much better on L&O.  Miguel Ferrer, I'm sorry the Bionic Woman didn't work out for you.  Ravi Kapoor, you deserve better.  Also, I'm very impressed with your accent.  I'd never have guessed you were from Liverpool.

Yours,

Disappointed TV Crime Fan

~*~

Bah, humbug.

Oro out

* those are the hours said Animal Control officer works.  What, you expected differently?

Putting Things Into Perspective

I know a lot of you are dieting out there in the hopes you'll get pregnant faster.  As I've said before, fatness in and of itself will neither increase nor decrease your chances of conception. 

Don't believe me?  Read this.

Oro, currently losing something, but not weight, from the near constant diarrhea (apparently the stomach cramps just weren't enough miserableness for my body)

Yay, More Medicine!

Because I love swallowing big assed pills.

Yes, after checking me out for MRSA (or, as they like to say here in the US "mirsa") by staring hard at my armpit, he palpated (I think that might be my new favorite word) the skin and decided that yup, there was a big lump under there.  Alas, it didn't ooze.    Nonetheless, I now have a bottle of  Augmentin (amoxicilin/clav.), taking them 875mg  2x  a day for 10 days.

My favorite warning on the label:

CERTAIN MEDICATIONS may ALTER the EFFECTIVENESS
of BIRTH CONTROL MEDICATIONS

The thing is, though, it's so tiny you can barely read it anyway, so why not put it all in caps?  Oh well.

The fun shall begin when I eat dinner...here's hoping I keep it down!

ETA: according to the weight measurey thingie, I have gained 7lbs in less than a week.  To which I say, hmmm...

Oro out.

Thank You For Being Inappropriate - Now With Bad Language

When you are a new reader to a blog dealing with, say, infertility issues, pretty much the number one thing not to say after someone has a miscarriage or gotten a negative on a beta is:

WHY DON'T YOU JUST ADOPT??

Hokay.  I've come across new commenters saying this in a couple of blogs over the past three days, and people, can I just say, shut the fucking fuck up.

Seriously.  What the fuck is wrong with you?  Just adopt?  Like, oo, gosh, we infertiles  never have given adoption any thought before you brought it up?  I mean, you wouldn't tell someone in a wheelchair that with enough hope, they'll be able to walk again, would you?  Or that with a cochlear implant, a deaf person could hear again, would you?  Or that all a person with an eating disorder has to do is have a sandwich, would you?

It does not take any deep amount of thought to be considerate or compassionate.  Just because you've adopted or stopped smoking or eaten the damned sandwich or found ::deity of your choice here:: that doesn't mean that's the answer for everyone or that, indeed, they're at that point in their journey or will ever be at that point in their journey.  Or that maybe that part of the journey that worked for you is not a stop on the road they're on.

My point is that wandering onto someone's blog and making a comment that you think is helpful when it is absolutely crystal clear that the blogger has had a major event occur in their life is flat out wrong.  It is so very tempting to look at one's own life, and yes, I'm as guilty as anyone, and speak what one thinks is The Truth to someone you've only just met.  But unless you take the time to get to know their story*, and damnit, that's pretty easily done by hitting the 'about' link or going back to the first few posts of the blog, frequently it's simply better to say 'I don't know what to say, I'm sorry for your loss' or hell, just a 'life sucks'.

It's not rocket science, I swear.  If you think you're on the verge of saying something inappropriate, put yourself in the bloggers shoes and ask yourself, how would I feel if someone said that to me?  And if you're wavering and post anyway, and then later on feel you've been inappropriate, either post another comment saying so or email the blogger explaining why you said what you said.  I've certainly had to do both of the latter in the past, and even now will acknowledge that I've got my asshat on when making some kinds of comments.

I know you mean well (mostly), but meaning well simply isn't good enough.

/rant

Oro

*does not apply to longtime lurkers