On Dying Dreams

Last night I dreamt that I was lying in bed, curled in a fetal position, crying inconsolably.

This is not an uncommon dream these days.  I've had it about six times since January 15, 2020.

We had just returned from vacation the day before and our only real task that morning was a visit to the urologist.  (In fairness, Husband had a LOT of tasks on his list in preparation for the coming semester and I had laundry and cooking on my list, but the only really IMPORTANT thing, so far as I was concerned, was that visit to the urologist).

It's strange, sitting or standing in the exam room of a urology clinic, looking at charts and models of male and female urogenital anatomy and reading little blurbs and numbers about things like how many couples face infertility and whose body contributes at what rates, while my husband produces a sample for the doctor and I try to offer him privacy, knowing that I want to peak through the microscope at what's on the slide and that this happens in such short order I can't exactly wait in the lobby and hope to be called back when things are prepared.

The slide looks empty at first, and then I see one and then another - sperm that are wiggling with all their might, going nowhere.

This isn't right.  The last time we went through this, there were sperm everywhere and they were swimming across that slide like champions - our own little storehouse of Michael Phelpses.  "So, your numbers and motility are both down substantially in the last three months," the urologist says.

We return to the exam room and all take seats.  "I mean, we got back from vacation yesterday," I say, holding onto anything that might offer a glimmer of hope.  "Between the hot tubs, cases of wine, and blackberry gummy edibles...."

"It's possible," says the urologist.  "What's probable when we see unproductive motility is the presence of Anti-Sperm Antibodies (ASAs).  They grab onto the tails and prevent them from propelling forward."

I'm a married to a guy who does statistical modeling for a living because he finds it fun.  Okay, fun is an overstatement.  I don't get it and when I ask, he tells me, "It's really, really interesting and when something works, it's really, really cool."  When the urologist says, "probable," I know what that means.

The glimmer of hope I had been holding onto is extinguished.

"So," I ask, already anticipating an answer in the negative, "would that mean IUI?"

"No," the urologist says.  "That means IVF would be your only option.  If that's something you're open to exploring, I can give you a referral for more testing, but at this point, if you're not considering IVF, there's not much point."

We headed home with a referral for more testing, though I had already drawn my line in the sand.  I knew that IVF would not be an option for me.

Still, we did more testing and by the end of January learned that, yes, ASAs were the culprit.  Yes, IVF would be our only option for a biological child.  For me to become pregnant, to generate life, to carry and birth a new human.

I don't actually know anything about the experience of IVF.  I have a general knowledge of how it works, but I don't actually know the nitty-gritty details.  So, reconsidering my line in the sand and wanting to have all the information before making a decision, I registered Husband and myself for a "Demystifying IVF" seminar.  February 13, 2020, we had the sexiest, most depressing Valentine's date in the history of the multiverse.

As it turns out, IVF is even more horrifying than I had imagined.  On top of that, with ASA factor infertility, standard IVF is not an option.  We would be looking at ICSI and IVF - where they pick the single best sperm available and inject that single sperm in the the single best egg available and hope for the best - with significantly increased risk to the resulting embryo.  Fortunately, I do not have to even consider this.  We are ruled out of IVF for other medical reasons.

So, that's it.  The end of the options.

I have spent my entire life doing the necessary internal healing work with one goal in mind - to create a life that was conducive to generating life, to raising children in a safe and health home.

Now, I know.  It took too long, the obstacles were too many, and the amount of trauma that needed to be transformed was just too much.

It appears that in building a life for children I will never have, I managed to build an extraordinary life for myself.  And I am not a hedonist.  I do not want to live exclusively for my own pleasure and comfort.

Whenever I stop to think about these things, something like hope and joy come bubbling up to the surface.  "Grace abounds," is the refrain filling my entire being.  "Even in this, grace abounds."

Still, when I sleep and the world falls away and my mind has space to feel the loss and grief, I dream about the grief of dying dreams.  And I weep.

Bittersweet Chocolate and Montmorency Cherry Scones

Having been convinced, by a candle that smells like Gwyneth Paltow's vagina, that the only way to survive the pandemic is "clean" eating, I broke out the bag of turbinado (raw) sugar that's been sitting in the pantry for two years and made a batch of scones.  They're baking in the oven as I type this.

I have no idea how they'll turn out.  I've never made scones before today.  I like scones, but if I'm going to whip up something in the kitchen, it's usually something to feed a crowd (like a couple dozen cupcakes) or that can be single-serving frozen (like cookie dough) for the need-to-have-now cravings that occasionally make their appearance.

Every once in awhile, I'll pick up a scone for myself from our local co-op while grabbing a rustic croissant for my super hot Husband.  Husband treats croissants like a guilty pleasure and rarely eats them in front of me - saving it for a snack (he swears).  Not wanting to moan in glutinous, pastry based ecstasy is my hunch.

The problem with the local co-op scones is that they're way too dense.  A common problem with gluten-free baked goods of all varieties.  I mean, my wedding cake was delicious and I could have done better at home with one hand tied behind my back.  It wouldn't have been as pretty and I love the pictures that will eventually make their way into our wedding album, if we ever find the time to sit down and prioritize those pictures we want highlighted.  Perhaps this pandemic and the requisite extra time at home will make that happen.

That, however, is really neither here nor there.  It's somewhere in the ether.  What's here is scones - or the recipe for scones.  What's there is the actual scones baking in my kitchen oven.

I used this recipe by Stella Parks as a base for my first scone experiment.  I'm not such a fan of milk chocolate in my baked goods.  Gwyneth Paltrow's vagina candle convinced me that "closer to the natural state" is the only thing that will save us.  So, I swapped out the milk chocolate and added bittersweet chocolate instead.  Being celiac, I also substituted gluten-free flour for the all purpose flour.  Then, deciding that what a scone with bittersweet chocolate truly needed was some montmorency cherries and almond, I adjusted the amount of flour to accommodate blanched almond flour and cut back on the amount of chocolate to accommodate some dried cherries.

Here's the modified recipe:

7 ounces gluten-free flour
2 ounces blanched almond flour
1 Tbsp baking powder
1 tsp kosher salt
2 tsp sugar
2 ounces high-fat butter (Hope Creamery)
3 1/2 ounces bittersweet chocolate chips
2 1/2 ounces dried montmorency cherries
2 ounces whole milk
6 ounces heavy whipping cream
1 tsp almond extract

Turbinado sugar for sprinkling


Pre-heat the oven to 400F.

Whisk together the flours, baking powder, salt, and sugar.  Cut in the butter until it all forms a coarse meal.  Stir in the chocolate and cherries.  Make a well in the center and pour in the milk, cream, and extract.  Mix to combine.

Turn the dough out onto a piece of parchment paper and shape into a 7" round.  (Rather than buy one of those fancy boards or try to draw a 7" circle on my paper, I placed my parchment paper on the bottom of an 8" round cake pan and patted the dough out to within 1/2" of the pan edges).

Cut into six wedges, sprinkle with a bit of turbinado sugar, and transfer the parchment paper to a baking sheet.  Bake for 25 minutes.


I just heard the kitchen timer warn me that there is one minute left in baking.  Let's hope this worked well and that they taste better than Gwyneth Paltrow's vagina candle smells.