Fear of 'missing the bus'?

So I had a weird dream last night. I often have intense, strange dreams that wake me up during the night. But I get up, and by the time I'm eating breakfast (yeah, the healthy stuff), they're so distant from conscious thought, it would no longer be appropriate to even call them memories.

This one stuck with me.

I was on my way to the airport with one other friend or family member (can't recall whom).

We were in some sort of airport shuttle bus. For whatever reason, my husband was in a different shuttle bus. We were all headed to Europe, so I needed my passport. Shortly after pulling away from the house, I realized that I had left mine behind. I began pleading with the bus driver to turn around and let me quickly run inside to retrieve it. My efforts were in vain. However, somehow this other friend or family member was able to convince the wretched woman to give me one, brief minute inside the house. If I wasn't back in one minute, she could leave me.

So I run inside quickly to the spot I was certain I had left it. It wasn't there. I swung around and searched another spot. Le voilà! I grabbed the blue and gold prize and out the door I was...only to see an empty spot where the bus had been. I darted around the corner as quickly as I could with legs that felt weighed a ton a piece. I managed to catch a glimpse of red break lights, just before the bus rounded the corner. No matter what I did, I could no longer move those 2-ton legs. I was stuck, with my goal, disappearing before my very eyes.

Cookin' up some good vibrations.

My hubby is away for work. I've felt so listless, barely the energy to move my little self from A to B.

I'm fighting it! I won't let this overcome me. Why I feel the need to broadcast these sentiments over the Internet is beyond me. Strange thing our society has become. We can talk to potentially millions we don't know, yet we can't get close to those right next door....

First I ate something healthy (like I said, gearing up for the next IVF)...that would be soy oatmeal with walnuts and blueberries; for lunch I actually consumed white beans (that I soaked all night beforehand) with steamed red beats. Miam.. (that's French for yum...)

I made a list of potentially excellent vintage stores in Bruxelles I am going to visit with you. A supposedly excellent flea market is included. That'll all be in the upcoming weeks.

So now I'm in the kitchen concocting beauty treatments that not only make me soft and smell de-lish, they keep my spirits high. Feist is playing a role, too.

In a bit I'll be off to acupuncture... Life dictated by a child I may never have. It's crazy how busy I can be not working...

A sneak peak inside real workshops of local Belgian artists.

So we got out of the house yesterday. Artists throughout Wallonia (southern, French speaking part of Belgium) had their homes open for people to walk in and visit, see them create their particular speciality. We chose a wood-maker, an iron sculpturer, and a potter. I was hoping they would have items I could utilize in my jewelry creations, but there was nothing that struck that particular fancy - although to learn and see what it entails to make these items was truly fascinating! I took some photos. The one of the iron fence door - took the artist about 150 hours! The things we take for granted! All 3 artists were located in very small villages - quite a treat to see. Oh - and the wood-maker was located near the famous monk-operated brewery, 'Orval'. The artist's wife even offered all visitors one! (in the correct glass, of course)... Beer is a BIG deal in belgium. This is not a stereotype.

Of course I passed. Our next IVF is in about 3 weeks. All I can think (and worry) about is the follicles I've got brewing in me right now. 

You can see the rest of the pics after the jump here.

Resisting the temptation to 'mommy' other people's kids.

The drinking age in Europe, from what I'm told (hence not based on official research) is 16.
Sweet sixteen affords you beer. When you're 18 you can have the hard stuff.

So we spent the day yesterday in Luxembourg. Having a relaxing day, until I saw these babies being served beer. Is it possible that these youngsters are sixteen years of age??? Something was oh-so wrong about seeing the group of them sitting so comfortably at the bar and downing beers (you can see the huge contraption they ordered in one of the photos - yes folks, that is their own personal keg..)...

My husband practically had to hold me down to prevent me from walking my little infertile self, not only to the barman, but to those youngsters to ask them if their parents knew where they were.

Then I thought about this new adventure I've embarked upon (this blog), and asked myself if this was really about my deep-seated need to be a mother? Am I trying to raise other people's kids?

If something is given easily, is it easy to not appreciate it, take it for granted, or perhaps go so far as to neglect it? It's something I'll be thinking about.

P.S. A weird thing happened after we left. An employee from the bar/restaurant (we're thinking the manager) met us at the other end of a tunnel as we were exiting (meaning he had to run ahead from an outside area to cut us off). He asked if I had taken pictures. I lied.

For what seemed like an eternity, I did reflect on how to respond before the lie came out of my mouth, but hey, he was muscular and I was trying to avoid conflict. But as I walked away, I couldn't help but think his actions reflected culpability....

Exposed.

I was thinking about yesterday’s entry. Feeling embarrassed. Even though I don’t think a single soul will ever really read this, I still feel exposed. Like some old boyfriend or long, lost friend will stumble across some of these embarrassing realities.

Infertility is embarrassing. It’s like something is wrong with you or you’re not good enough. Inadequate.

It’s tragic, really. The thoughts you have. I'm not worthy of procreation...I'm somehow being punished...

For both my husband and me, it honestly seems unless you live it, no one really understands what we’ve gone through the last decade. Do people really try to empathize with others? 

I actually recall being in high school and reading about infertility for the first time. Being the sensitive soul I am, I was disturbed for days worrying for all those people living that reality. Honest to goodness.  Never in a million years did I think it would happen to me.

I guess that last statement is unfair. It’s not just happening to me. It’s also happening to my husband. And oddly enough, I feel to blame. Like this whole infertility thing is my fault. Like I am the one who is un-whole. Could be the way the process is set up. Even though endless amount of testing has revealed no problems for either of us, doctors never cease to tell us during each and every treatment how wonderful my husband’s sperm is. So it’s gotta me my fault it’s not working. Right?

Anyway, I hear myself often saying and writing that we are on the last stretch of our infertility journey. But in reality, I don’t think there will ever be a real end. In fact, if we do not have our own children, I’m pretty certain it will haunt me until the day I die.

The embarrassing impetus for this blog.

Now I’m feeling guilty. Like I haven’t provided full disclosure. I’ve been asking myself is it relevant? But something tells me it’s better to share. Maybe someone can relate and won’t feel so alone…Isolation is something I've come to understand too well.

Why did we leave the U.S. and move to Belgium?

You defy your worst fears and you meet the man you love. Together you climb the ladder of your respective careers, and eventually buy your dream home. I did those things. We did those things. What comes next in the American dream? Why a baby, of course. But it wasn’t that simple for us. Despite being poked and prodded and tested on every part of our bodies, doctors have never been able to explain our infertility.

7 YEARS, two or three clomid cycles, half a dozen IUI cycles (many of which entailed injections), and one failed IVF…and we’re still where we started: childless. And in the United States, this has not been an inexpensive journey. We sold our dream home to finance it.

We’ve traveled around the globe for treatments and insight. We’ve seen Chinese practitioners with whom we can barely communicate (drank their herbal potions of roots and god knows what else); we’ve meditated, received acupuncture, changed our diets, not consumed dairy, wheat, sugar, salt, soda, caffeine, or alcohol (and did I mention my husband is Belgian??)…we’ve done chi gong, exercised, not exercised…you name it. I even quit my job to avoid stress and make time for all the cooking and mediating the various ‘fertility-enhancing’ regimes required. But alas, we’re still where we started: childless.

Well, here in Belgium (and most of Europe), as Belgian citizens (which as you know, I newly am), as long as we live here, we’re entitled to 6 free rounds of IVF. That can amount to about 130,000 U-S dollars. Yes, it’s a big deal. The funny thing is, most Europeans I’ve encountered don’t even know or appreciate the privilege they have. They expect it as a given. Well, we appreciate it – and we’re giving it our all. We both wanted to feel we had done that much. No regrets, right? So age revealed, newly 37 – aging takes on a whole new tone. We are literally trying to beat the clock. We made the decision and within 3 months, I'd quit my job, my husband had found a new job and we were off to this new land.

So now you know why I am sitting here on my tushie, able to stay at home, travel around Europe looking for beautiful materials…while my husband works his butt off all day to support us. I’m supposed to be zen.

Traversing 3 countries on the hunt for a friggin' craft store.

So I took some snapshots to show you, my imaginary reader, on just what it is I've embarked. 

I ventured out and crossed the border all by my lonesome. Actually I was in 3-countries today, in the span of about a good hour! To get to France from Belgium, I had to first cut through a section of Luxembourg.

(Carefully) I took some snapshots from the car as I crossed the old Luxembourg/France frontière, which is no longer staffed since Europe is united. 


More pics and the rest of this blog post after the jump.

What's wrong with this god-forsaken European country?

So I've been driving throughout “Wallonia” (name for the Southern portion, French-speaking part of Belgium), where the only semblance of a craft store I can find is called ‘Ava’. It’s that rare thing in Europe: a chain. I felt like a real idiot, but I snuck some photos of the the store to show you, my imaginary reader(s).

So yeah, it’s pretty decent. But no appliqués, no lace, no yarn, no jewelry findings. Heck, I cannot even find heavy cardstock or apple barrel paints here for heaven sake’s.

I’ve gone up to several complete strangers in the store (thinking they were crafters, right?) asking if there were other craft stores. Nope. No luck. They all shared the same sentiment… “Il n’ya pas beacoup en Belgique”. That’s French for, ‘there isn’t much in Belgium’.

But grâce à Dieu, persistence paid off for me late in the day yesterday. I went to a different Ava in a town called ‘Messancy’ and happened to stumble across a friendly Frenchman. He tells me if I cross the border to France, I’ll find all the jewelry making items I need in an apparent crafter’s wonderland called ‘Cultura’.

So this morning had my decaf Earl Grey with soy and some toast with Nutella. Need to clean myself up…and I’m off to Cultura.

If anyone’s out there…care to join me?

Origins of the mission

So I’ve left my job in America to move to Belgium with my Belgian husband. Sounds romantic and oh so adventurous, right? Try living it.

Thank God I studied French in school, but hey, it’s been awhile. And half the country (that you can traverse in 3 hours, IN A CAR) also speaks Dutch (including my hubby), so I’m taking a stab at Rosetta Stone Dutch courses. All I can say is, motivation, when you’re alone ALL DAY LONG is the biggest obstacle. (My belle famille is naturally on the other side of the country in the Flemish region – I’ll explain these fun intricacies of this lovely country at a future date…)

It’s amazing how as a foreigner (weird to be on that side of the coin)… one can feel so small and insignificant…the pain at not being able to communicate sufficiently…the insecurity at no longer having the security of an important job…the isolation of not having any friends. Woe is me, I know.

So I’m going to pull myself out of this black hole of uncomfortable feelings and get back to what I do best – creating. After all, it’s an excuse to get out of the house, explore, and not reach the depths of the D-word.

Like I mentioned before, finding crafting materials has been sheer HELL.

To occupy myself and rediscover a sense of meaning, I’ve just opened my first ETSY store (working on populating it), where I’ll showcase pieces of jewelry that I’ll make with the unique items I find on the journeys highlighted in this blog.

We’ll explore my new country (all 30-thousand kilometres of it), and of course the environs (that’s French, for ‘surrounding areas’).

P.S. In Europe – that’s everything!

I live just south of Brussels (‘Bruxelles’, en francais), again in the French speaking part of the country. But I’m not kidding when I say, despite living in what’s been dubbed the land of lace, I cannot find a single store that sells lace appliqués – or fine lace, for that matter (and I’m not talking about the tourist trap kind of lace either – that you can find and will definitely not do for my Etsy store)...

I have done many, many kilomètres (and guys, these roads are a scary place for an American!), trying to find materials to get started… without one iota of luck. So I threw in the towel and ordered my getting started materials (chains, clasps, dye, etc.) in the good ol’ U-S of A. (Hasn’t arrived yet; still praying customs doesn’t make me pay an arm and a leg to get my packages!) So I’ll have the minimum of what I need to get started. Now it’s time to find the good stuff and hence, embark upon the journey of discovery (thrill? Frustration?). You can be the judge.

Coco à Bruxelles

This is the real life story of an American, newly living in Belgium, trying to find her way.

But it’s not all it is. Through marriage, I’ve just gained citizenship, and I’d like to pay tribute to my new country.

It’s not always easy.

So you can call me ‘Coco’.

Often it may seem Coco has split personality (that love-hate thing) and really should be deemed ‘Cuckoo’ – but I’ll only be saying it like it is. It’s one thing to visit a place. But have you tried staying?

It’s crazy the things we Americans take for granted.

So I make things. I’ve always been a creative person. I’ve dabbled in a little bit of everything. Creating has kept me sane. But here, in Europe, you won’t find your Target’s, Michael’s, or large surface, fabric havens…

There’s nothing big and convenient here, as far as I am concerned.

You can find the items those stores carry, only they’re scattered in a hundred different smaller, obscure places! And believe me, IT IS A JOURNEY to find them.  Sometimes a big daunting one, like you’re lost in the middle of the Sahara. The hunt. But is it really a thrill or sheer frustration? Honestly, you have to get out and ask (over and over and over) or poke your head in every nook and cranny. I say that last part, because the most mundane storefront (hidden in some narrow, dark, alleyway) may hold the treasure of the finest silk threads… or the most beautiful vintage lace you’ve ever seen. But again, it don’t come easy [stressed with the bad grammar]….

Why ‘Coco à Bruxelles’?

I think we Americans place Paris on a pedestal, thinking it is the only European city with charm. Not so says my new-founded Belgian pride. There is beauty, charm, sophistication…and lots of yummy eye candy in Belgium...this is what I hope to show you in the course of this blog.

Hey, you may hear lots of griping and agitation, but after all, I am an American living in Belgium.