I need to take a break from thinking and writing about infertility. I want to write about the things that make my heart snap its fingers, like it’s in a 1940s jazz club, listening to a trumpet belt out “Have Yourself a Merry Christmas.” For today, I want to celebrate the sweet quirks in my life.
Growing up, Thanksgiving took place at my parents’ home. My grandparents, great aunt and great uncle would come over for the big dinner and the coveted Thanksgiving bird that my dad religiously smoked outside on the Weber grill. Were hickory chips underneath the turkey, to give it a smoky and almost sweet flavor? You bet there was! Was the bird lovingly doted on by my father? Did he patiently give the bird time to rest when it was needed? Most certainly.
In fact, the bird was so important to our meal every year, like many other families, that pictures were taken to document the turkey being removed from the grill before it was taken to the basement to sit for a bit. As we grew older, and reached the legal drinking age, the photos became a little more outrageous, less serious, more off center, and a little…cockeyed? Many things remained the same though: relatives bickering, my dad telling jokes in hopes of embarrassing his children, laughter, sometimes tears, usually from my sister, and lots of food.
How is it, you may be asking, that I ended up at Ruby Tuesdays with my husband this Thanksgiving? Infertility. Infertility is the culprit.
Our plan this year was to head to Jersey to spend Thanksgiving with my in-laws. We would head out for a few days, spend time with the fam, and then come back to Pittsburgh in time for work on Monday. Instead, in mid-November, the doctor office called and said they wanted to attempt an egg transfer before the embryo lab closed for December. A closed embryo lab that prevented anyone from receiving transfers during the entire month of December? Yeah, sadly just one of the many annoying logistics involved with IVF. I know I said I didn’t want to write about infertility, but it’s a little impossible, as it seems to inform our daily lives on a regular basis.
Once we knew we would have to stay in Pittsburgh, thinking that it might be great timing for a transfer, I had time off from work and I could relax after the procedure, we decided to rent a cabin, just an hour away from our home and the doctor’s office, for a few days. We’d celebrate a quiet Thanksgiving together, in the Laurel Highlands, with our cats, in a cozy little cabin. We’d be close enough for the doctor’s appointments while still feeling like we were able to get away for a few days. It all seemed like a much-needed option.
After I talked with the nurse about meds, injections, timelines, appointments, and expectations, we let our family know that we wouldn’t be able to make Thanksgiving this year, made reservations for the cabin, and settled into the thought that this might be our time. This might be the start of our family. This might be what we’ve been waiting for. We were wrong.
Insert annoying record scratch noise. At an appointment, the doctor’s found more cysts on my uterus, and these jerks were feeding off my estrogen. This is all to say, that if I started the meds for the transfer, the huge number of hormones would only feed my cysts and they would grow larger. So, for the sixth or seventh time, our transfer was cancelled, just a few days before Thanksgiving.
With a reservation and no refund, we decided that we still needed to get away and spend some time in another place. We packed the homemade stuffing and cranberry sauce, along with some pre-made meals from the market that we were too lazy to even think about making from scratch, we packed the cats, and headed to our getaway.
The rented home was cozy, with a Christmas tree already up, a fireplace, lots of books, and some boardgames. We settled in the night before Thanksgiving, disappointed that another transfer was canceled, but grateful for the change in scenery. We had chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes, and the Thanksgiving sides all ready for the next day. We’d get up in the morning, put the Macy’s parade on, and get everything ready. Then, we’d sit down, eat, and give thanks for one another.
Thanksgiving morning arrives and I am sad. I miss our families. I miss my dad’s turkey. I’m angry that the transfer was delayed, again, and I am not in the mood for anything resembling a holiday. We couldn’t get the parade on the T.V. and we were feeling unmotivated to do anything. My partner, who can’t sit still for too long, finally decided that we needed to get out and go have dinner somewhere. What restaurant would be open on Thanksgiving, in a little resort area outside of Pittsburgh? Well, we soon found the one open restaurant in the Laurel Highlands.
We drove to the restaurant, passed rolling farmland, and made our way to the restaurant parking lot. To commemorate the event, we took a selfie in the parking lot and giggled as we walked in.
The small but compact salad bar greeted us, along with three or four other tables with couples and small families. Our hostess wore a holiday sweater, an explosion of orange, brown, yellow, and red. “Welcome to Ruby Tuesday’s” she smiled. We sat across from the u-shaped bar and the wall of televisions that broadcasted the annual Lion’s football game.
Our kind waitress, Kelsey, greeted us and ran off a list of drink specials. Did we need alcohol this Thanksgiving? Oh, we sure did. Even my partner, who rarely drinks now, ordered the sangria with a shot of whiskey in it. Eventually, our table was littered with plates of food. We ate nachos, cheese sticks, and salad. If I didn’t know better at the time, I’d argue that we were actually having a good time. We laughed at the situation. We made each other smile.
My partner drank two sips of his drink, then passed it over to me. He had surrendered and knew I couldn’t let an almost full glass of wine go ignored. So, there I was, double fisting sangria at a Ruby Tuesday’s, on Thanksgiving, and crying barely entered my thoughts for the hour we were there.
Of all the places that infertility has taken us, hospitals, doctors offices, pharmacies, Ruby Tuesday’s, on Thanksgiving Day, was the last place I expected it to take us, but there we were. At that moment, we lacked any control over our lives, and we had no power to change our situation. The past five years have been riddled with feelings of despair, anger, jealousy, and sadness. But, Thanksgiving 2022, would be different. This year, we would shove fried food in our mouths, give one another a kiss, and enjoy Ruby Tuesday.
Stefanie Wielkopolan 