The Realization

So here it is. To make a long story short, 28 months, two miscarriages, one diagnosis of unexplained infertility, and one intrauterine insemination later, today I found myself sitting on the stoop of my stairs sobbing uncontrollably as a result of a blog post from a former classmate. It was about how this person didn't want kids, but had a change of heart in order to be with their spouse. Exactly one shot was all it took for them to conceive. This classmate and I were in the same spot at one point in our lives - definitively against having kids. We both changed our minds. This person change their mind and boom. Baby. We weren't so lucky. How is any of this fair?

Being diagnosed with unexplained infertility broke my heart. Basically, the doctor's don't know why we can't conceive children on our own - all of the plumbing works for both of us. Eons ago, not only was I not going to have kids, I was adamantly against infertility treatments. Being diagnosed with infertility caused me to do a lot of research, which changed my mind about fertility treatments. That being said, I still feel uneasy about being poked and prodded all in the name of conceiving a child. Especially when the chances of success hover around 10% per treatment.

I'm pretty sure this will be my one and only treatment. I haven't enjoyed the invasive procedures, nor the twice daily dose of progesterone that leaves me exhausted, overwhelmed, full of hot flashes, and emotional. So I find myself in this weird place. Everyone around me is having children. I see daily updates on Facebook from people I know or have known about their pregnancies, births, and children. I want kids, but I don't want to go through any more torture, either mentally or physically. This is it. If we're successful, then we hold our breath until after the first trimester, when the likelihood of miscarriage decreases significantly. My two previous miscarriages have demonstrated to me that nothing short of a full-term pregnancy ending in a live birth means anything.

If we're not successful, then that means that we won't have kids. My life is in complete limbo. Of those couples I know whom have undergone fertility treatments, they all have been willing to do anything to get their baby. I'm not in that same boat. In fact, of all the people I know, I know of only one couple whom found themselves in the exact same boat that I'm in. They wanted kids, but weren't willing to put themselves through the wringer to get them. It's a lonely group. I find myself having a hard time relating to my friends that have kids. I feel distanced from them. Like we have nothing in common anymore. As more and more of my friends have kids, I fear that I'll be in the same state with each of them.

If you've read this far, you're probably thinking "What about that realization?" Well, my realization is this: Whatever life holds, whether we have kids or not, I cannot let the latest news of someone expecting rule my life. I have only a handful of friends who never wanted kids. I suspect that a majority of our friends who do (hoping that they don't have fertility issues like we do) will start having them within the next couple of years. There's no denying that it hurts. But I have to find a way to be more productive with my time than sitting around feeling sorry for myself that we weren't among the lucky ones. It's time to pick myself up by the bootstraps and realize that my limbo has an expiration date - the day that aunt flo comes to town or that we learn we need to hold our breath for the next twelve (or forty) weeks.

I am the Face.

Yesterday, I posted on Facebook that I am the face of miscarriage/stillbirth/infant loss. 1 in 4 women in the US suffer this horrible fate. By opening up about my own miscarriages, I personally have spoken to many women whose lives have been affected by the loss of a child. There are no words for the feelings that arise as a result of losing a baby, regardless of when it happens. For those of us who struggle to have a child, and there are many of us who do, the news of learning you're pregnant is like a weight being lifted off your shoulders. The ups and downs of infertility, the emotional monthly ride, finally comes to an end when that stick has two lines, a plus sign, or simply says 'pregnant.'

Last year, I was fortunate enough to experience that joy myself. After wasting tons of money peeing on that stick, just hoping that it would say yes, it finally did! I was on business travel, and was overjoyed to send the picture of the positive test to my hubby and tell him "We're having a baby!" I was barely home two days from my trip when the spotting started. I knew in my heart that something was wrong - really wrong - with my pregnancy. Three days and a trip to the ER later, the doctor delivered the devastating news - I had miscarried. Our family got to live with the joy for about a week before our dreams were shattered. The shock of the experience sent my head reeling. The innocence of pregnancy had been ripped from me like a child learning cruelly for the first time that life doesn't always go the way you want it to. A million questions immediately began swirling in my head: "What did I do wrong?" "Could I have changed the fate of my baby if I had only...." It seemed like there was no end to the question of "Why?"

It took 7 weeks for my body to go back to normal - eg, have a period again. Those 7 weeks were like torture. I desperately wanted to try again. I wanted to move on, but my body betrayed me. Every day that I didn't have a period was a brutal reminder of what I had lost. It took me a long time to come to terms with the whole thing. After reading about others' stories, I decided to commemorate our baby by purchasing a piece of sapphire jewelry. Sapphire is the September birthstone - mine and my husbands' - and the month in which we conceived our first child. Our baby would have been one year old this past June.

Almost exactly a year later, long after we had given up hope of conceiving a child on our own, we found out that we were expecting with our second child. September must just be our lucky month! This baby's due date, June 10, was only 8 days before our first, on June 18. Joy was followed by trepidation - after all, we had already lost one baby. Because of our history, we were sure to get early tests to ensure that everything was going along as it should. While my hcg serum tests were perfect, my progesterone was low, and my midwife had me begin a regimen of progesterone. That should have been our first clue. 6 weeks in, I was feeling the full pregnancy effects. If there was an early pregnancy symptom, I had it. I took all of this as a sign that maybe, just maybe, we would be able to keep this one.

Yesterday, we went for what was supposed to be a joyous event - an early sonogram to hear the heartbeat. Normally a woman doesn't have her first sonogram until at least 8 weeks. Just like the early blood tests, we scheduled an early sonogram to ensure that everything was fine. Turns out that the embryo was malformed and at 6w6d, there was no heartbeat. I had actually started to look at baby furniture the night before - had dared to allow myself the time to dream about bringing this little one into our lives.

I don't know if I have the strength to go through this again. At this point, I am uncertain about pressing forward with the idea of being a parent. We had gotten the first round of fertility testing when we found out that we were pregnant. So obviously the plumbing is working, but our babies keep having something wrong with them. I know that there is no way to even predict that at the beginning, which is why the idea of going through fertility treatments scares the shit out of me. I mean, what if we go through all of that, and we still don't wind up with a baby? Or worse yet, we have a baby, and everything goes along just fine until one day during the pregnancy, it just doesn't? Just like it had the first two times?

I'm sure that in a year, I'll have a perspective on this that has some meaning. But now, as I am still carrying our second child - a child whose life was to never be - there is no meaning. It's completely senseless. As a relatively intelligent individual, I understand that life is like this. Event occur at random, and we're left to pick up the pieces of our broken hearts. In some sense, I suppose my own lack of faith actually helps me through this - helps me realize that there's no grand design, nothing that's happening 'the way it's supposed to' or anything like that. It relieves some of the stress.

It is slightly easier the second time around. I'm not experiencing the same shock. My innocence about pregnancy was stripped the first time around. But, I am grieving for our baby. I know I will always wonder what he or she would have looked like. Would they have my husband's smile? My hot temper? Would the parental curse of "one day, you will have a child just like you" have come true?

I will always wonder how this baby, our second, would have gotten along with their sibling. Would they have loved each other and taken care of one another? Who would they become? Who would they marry, and how would they have chosen to live their lives?

There's not much else to say about lost dreams and hopes. Other than I am not alone. Countless women have suffered the same. Knowing that gives me strength. For those who have lost a child during or shortly after pregnancy, I am sorry. Please know that you are not alone, and it does get better.

Saying Goodbye

I was given a bit of shock today, as I found out that I have to say goodbye to something that has been a part of my life for over 5 years. I must say that even though I wasn't all too surprised, the suddenness of it all really rocked me to my core. A year ago the stress of the situation would have probably made me crack. After all, I've got a much more solid foundation now than I did a year ago at this time, and it still threw me for a loop. It's funny how you can find yourself taking things for granted, only to have them pulled out from under you going "what just happened?" Come to think of it, I guess that's usually how it goes. The initial shock lasted about 45 minutes while I had this deer-in-the-headlights sort of feeling. "Did I really just have that conversation? I must have been dreaming." The tears that were shed were shed out of sadness, but also out of a sense of feeling like I had just been personally attacked and left for dead. I couldn't help but feel like my whole world was going to tumble down all around me.

After the shock wore off, I found myself falling into a loop of desperation - it's so-and-so's fault, and this thing happened that had nothing to do with me - that I have seen in other people and have despised them for having that attitude. I definitely played the blame game, and as I did, it was almost like I was watching myself from the outside. I didn't recognize myself and certainly didn't like myself in that moment. Although I have endured many things in my life that could easily allow me to play the victim card, I for one was not going to allow myself to go that way. Yes, the situation sucks. And yes, chances are when I have the conversation that is unavoidable, I am going to find out things about myself that I didn't want to know.

But I ultimately believe that this is how people grow and learn. We get too comfortable with ourselves and how we operate, and life has this funny way of coming along and reminding you that we must forever be vigilant about ourselves and our actions. Getting comfortable means getting sloppy, and once you get sloppy, you make mistakes. Isn't that what being human is all about - making mistakes and learning from them? The thing that is different between last year and now is that I'm armed with tools to help me cope with it. Last year, my stress levels were already operating at 80% capacity 24/7. I was overworked, tired, and on edge at all times. Now that I have gotten used to the stressors that caused my brain to overload, I have had time to re-evaluate how I react to the world around me. I recognized that I could no longer continue on the path that I was taking. Stress was taking its toll on me and the people around me that I love.

So now, faced with this challenge that has happened, all I can do is move forward. Forward into a world where I mitigate what can be mitigated, serve penance for my mistakes, and grow as a person. I'm not going to blame everyone and everything around me for what has happened. While circumstances arose that ultimately led to this point, no one circumstance or person can be blamed, including myself. What I will also not refuse to do is take a long, honest, hard look at myself and the mistakes I have made that were contributing factors to this goodbye. To turn a blind's eye to one's faults is to never learn from our mistakes, never grow as a person. I don't want that for myself. I'm short enough as it is.

And what about this goodbye? It's strange. I have mixed feelings. I know that I will learn from this situation, and ultimately it will help me be a better person in the long run. But at the same time, I am saddened to have to let go of something that has been a part of me for so long. It was there when I took my first steps, learning day-by-day what it is to be who I am. It was there as I endured the growing pains of pushing myself beyond what I thought my preparation taught me. Could it be that this goodbye was meant to be - a casualty of those growing pains? I may never know the answer to that question. One day in the future, as I look back on this situation I hope that I can say that this goodbye, as painful as it is, has taught me to push the envelope, reminded me to keep a watchful eye, and made me a better person. For now, saying goodbye has taught me that I still have a lot to learn, and for that I will be eternally grateful.

A New Year, A New Decade, A New Beginning

I kind of think it's funny that we as humans put such emphasis on the passage of a year, a decade, or even a millennium. Remember the panic that was Y2K? Hard to believe it was a decade ago. :-P I wonder what it is in our nature that makes us place such significance on the passing of one second in time. Because really, that's what it all comes down to - one second. (I suppose I could make the argument that it comes down to a femtosecond, but really.. who counts down in femtoseconds besides the occasional physicist?) When the clock strikes 00:00:00, you're a year older (in the case of your birthday), it's a new year (in the case of January 1), and everything is supposed to change. When the clock strikes 00:00:00 on your 18th birthday, you can all of a sudden buy cigarettes, vote, and join the military. One second stands in the way of whether or not you can legally order a drink at a bar. Yet I'm susceptible to the same labeling scheme as the rest of us. This year, one second meant making (and keeping) a New Year's resolution for me.

So what is it that keeps us coming back to the turning of a year? And what is it that makes us believe that the passing of a year is the best time to make new beginnings, new resolutions? What is to prevent us from making those resolutions at any time of the year? What is preventing us from deciding that, right at this moment is the best time to take charge of our lives and our destinies, rather than waiting for some perceived significant passing of one second?

I made a resolution this year for myself, despite that in past years I didn't even believe in them. Why the sudden change in heart? I realized that the reason why I didn't make them in the past is the same reason why I decided to make one this year. I've always wondered about the New Year's resolution phenomenon. I thought "why wait until now?" And then I realized that I was always waiting for some significant time to make a change in my life - until I reached a certain milestone in age, until work settled down and wasn't so hectic. Was it really all that different than making a resolution? Not really. Our lives are short. The average life span of an American woman is 79 years, which is 2,491,344,000 seconds. We spend 30% of our lives sleeping, leaving 1,743,940,800 seconds of our waking time. Approximately another 30% is spent at work. That leaves 1,220,758,560 seconds for me to do what I chose over my lifetime. Now, given my age, I have slightly over half of my life left. Divide my free seconds in half, and I'm left with 732,455,136 seconds.

Given the availability of seconds left in my lifetime, do I want to wait for some perceived significant time in my life (a promotion, a new pet, more time, etc) to decide that I want to make a change? No! So, I guess I really have made two resolutions for myself this year. The first is to finally make the changes in my life that will leave me healthier and 35 lbs lighter. The other is to not wait for some "significant point" in my life to decide I want to change something. Life is just too short to make excuses or "wait" to make changes.

Triathlon training & Motivation

I don't know what my problem is, but lately I have had zero desire to train for this sprint tri that is looming only 3 weeks away. I signed up for the thing with the best intentions. I thought having an event with an actual deadline would motivate me enough to get of my butt and do something productive for my health. That was seven months ago.

Perhaps it's because my upper lip began to sweat immediately once I stepped outside to take the dogs for a walk today. Perhaps it's because.. well, I don't really know why it I'm procrastinating. I realized that all the swimming I had been doing had contributed significantly to my ability to do the marathon hiking in GNP a couple of weeks ago. Trips like those are exactly why I want to stay in shape - so I don't die when trying to do some of my actual enjoyed exercises like hiking and backpacking. I think perhaps part of my motivation is linked to my weight loss issues. It's not that me being overweight is preventing me from doing the activities like biking and swimming. I think it's more that I have this illusive goal of being this ripped, in shape wonderwoman, and I realize the amount of time and energy it would take to get to that point. Part of me thinks "yeah - I want to be healthy and in shape, and have a low body fat percentage" and all that jazz. The other part of me seriously doubts I would ever be able to make it to that point.

It's just like me, you know. I stress out about things I have no control over - like episodes at work that make me crazy. And then, the things that are perfectly within my control - like getting healthy - I completely ignore and most times do the opposite of what I know I should. What is that about?

I've been successful in weight loss before, and I was regularly exercising and generally feeling good. I've proven to myself that I'm capable of losing weight and making healthy choices for myself. I recently saw a picture of myself at the lowest weight I had achieved in years - almost 30 lbs lighter than I am now - and thought, "holy crap! Look how skinny I was!" I know that skinny person is somewhere inside, desperately trying to show herself again. Yet I'm doing everything I can to ensure that doesn't happen. It's time to get to the bottom of this.

Glacier National Park

I've decided that after that trip I'm either incredibly resilient or amazingly stupid. The truth is probably somewhere in between. It started on 01 July when our friend Brad said at climbing "I'm going backpacking in Glacier. Anyone wanna go?" I perked up out of my unusually bad mood (I had been dragged to climbing against my will) and responded with a "Hell yeah!" Long ago Oscar and I had discussed doing a similar trip as part of our honeymoon, but it was waylaid by other plans (you know, a rocket launch, that sort of thing). It usually happens that Brad goes on vacation at the last minute, so none of us were surprised by his announcement. We just asked for him to give us more advanced notice when he goes on these sorts of things so that we can tag along too. Last time he told us three days before he left, so this time we got nine days notice!

Anyway, it turned out that Oscar and I both could go. Suhweet! Oh yeah, the resilient vs stupid debate. That one can be decided for yourself. I'm going to add a very large asterisk to this story: Brad planned everything, so I really have no right to complain about the amount of hiking we did ;-)

Day 1: We began our day with a fabulous breakfast at the Park Cafe (love them!) after being dropped off by shuttle #1. A quarter-mile walk (as if we needed to do more walking) to the St. Mary Visitor Center inside Glacier Park, and we were on another shuttle. We were dropped off at a location called "The Loop" along Going to the Sun Road. So our adventure began. It was hot. Stupid hot. Mountains aren't supposed to be that hot! It didn't help that our entire trek that day was through an area that had been completely burned out 6 years ago. No shade, with the exception of the side of a hill. Dude. What did I get myself into? I thought I was going to die. Nausea from the lack of electrolytes plus the steep ascent had totally kicked my booty. And not in a good way. Imagine my relief when we reached the top of the hill (or at least the top of the steep section). Short-lived. Mosquitoes. Thousands of them. Which led to the hour long sprint through the meadows (ok, not a sprint, but damn near close to it) to try to avoid them. Didn't help. Oscar and Brad got chewed to bits. Fortunately for me, I was hiking in between two very good mosquito magnets. I just had to deal with the occasional bite and a swarm as thick as syrup.

Our trek continued along this line (more uphill, are you serious?) across the top of Flat Top mountain. Our total ascent that day was around 3,000 feet or so. Several hours into our hike and as we were running out of daylight, we realized that we had to climb back down that dang mountain and up again to our campsite. Damn. Can't we just have a zip line? Sometime around 10 pm we rolled into the camp site (lots of daylight in that part of the country in the summer). I kept watch over our stuff at the food site while Brad went to get water and Oscar set up our tents. I think they really just didn't want to stand still with the mosquitoes. Not that I could blame them. :-P Then food. Oh food. How I love you.

Brad had asked me to put together the stove. I hadn't used it before, but I figured it couldn't be that hard. Burner: check. fuel: check. pump: check. Oh. It's leaking. Perhaps I had put it together wrong. I decided to leave it for Brad to check on. Yep, I had not seated the pump properly and it was leaking about the top of the fuel canister. No problem. It still leaked. Wait, what? Turns out that the stove was over 10 years old and the pump was cracked. Given that the fuel canister needed to be pressurized in order to deliver fuel to the burner, using it with a leak was not a good idea. No stove. Dinner, then, was recovery drink (don't get Luna dark chocolate recovery drink - tastes awful!) and some trail mix. Then bed, probably some time around 11 pm, judging by the twilit sky.

Day 2: Ok, muscles aren't too sore. A little stiff from our 12 mile hike the previous day, but not too bad considering. The previous night we decided to add water to our meals and see if they "cooked" overnight. Bad idea. I had a freeze dried version of Pad Se Ew noodles. With rice stick noodles and raw garlic. I probably could have choked down the crunchy rice stick noodles, but the raw garlic was simply inedible. Blech. Burned the back of my throat. Ok, so it's granola for breakfast. The granola was a win. :-) The scenery for day 2 greeted us with a smile. Meadows of yellow and white wild flowers with an occasional stream and a snow field for good measure (see picture). The hike on day 2 was only 8.2 miles. Much more doable than the 12 from the previous day. The bulk of the hike was spent descending the side of a mountain to a stream. We were treated to sweeping vistas of glacial valleys and waterfalls. The stuff storybooks are made of. I was glad to have such a stark contrast from the previous day. We actually saw pine trees that were still alive! The last 2.6 miles of the day were up another 1,750 feet climb to a cirque basin, bringing the day's total to around 2,300 feet. Dang. I decided that we were bad-asses. ;-) Thankfully we were greeted at our campsite with a welcome sight: friendly fellow hikers who were willing to share their stove! We actually had a hot meal that night. Pesto salmon never tasted so good! The camp site at Stoney Indian pass was located at the foot of a small glacial lake. The pit toilet - well let's just say it had sweeping views and throngs of mosquitoes.

Day 3: Our fellow hikers got a much earlier start than us. They were out of there before most of us had exited our tents. Turns out that was a really smart thing to do. Breakfast was followed by me using our tent as a haven from mosquitoes as I packed my backpack and got ready to go. We had all just finished packing and getting water when we saw a lightning bolt hit the mountainside not 200 yards from where we were. Crap. Not good considering we needed to hike 1,000 feet up to cross Stony Indian pass. And either way we sliced it, we were now at least 20 miles from civilization. As we sat on Brad's foam sleeping pad and hunkered down in our rain gear, a though drifted through my brain, "What in the hell am I doing?" It wasn't the first time that thought had entered my head. We waited out the thunder and lightning and set off for our 8.7 mile hike. By the time we were at the head of the lake the rain had stopped. Sweet. Hopefully that was the worst of it. I decided to keep my rain gear on (just-in-case), as the clouds looked threatening enough. Brad took his rain pants off and nearly got a serious case of hypothermia. The view from the top of Stony Indian Pass would most likely have been stunning. That is if it weren't for the driving rain that greeted us at the top. We descended the valley past a series of lakes and waterfalls, all the while being pelted with rain. By the time we reached our campsite, the rain had stopped. At least long enough for us to hang our packs, pitch our tents and get inside of them to dry off and warm up. The Glen Lake head campground (which wasn't our site) allowed fires. We found this out because we passed a group of people looking rather toasty by a roaring fire. One of the members of the group walked past us and said "You look rather wet." Thank you captain obvious!

We didn't take many pictures on Day 3. It was far too wet and cold for us to stop long enough, and that combined with the views of the clouds made for lousy photo conditions. It started to rain again about 15 minutes after we climbed into our tents. And it continued to rain until about an hour before we all woke up. Our tent held up relatively well considering. A few drops had found their way through the rain fly, but it wasn't anything we couldn't deal with. Brad's tent, on the other hand, didn't fare as well. It was a good thing he had a closed-cell sleeping pad. Otherwise he would have wound up sleeping in puddles. As it was, all of our sleeping pads and bags had gotten somewhat wet from our fabulous trek through the torrential rain earlier in the day. Oscar brought up the question that was looming in all of our minds "Do we stick it out for the whole time, or try to get home tomorrow?"

Day 4: We decided that we had enough camping. Especially now that everything was soaked. Water makes everything heavier, and with the combination of not being able to eat our freeze-dried dinners and all the wet stuff we were carrying, our packs were heavier than they were when we started. That's exactly NOT what is supposed to happen to them! Our decision to cut our trip short by a day meant that we had an almost 18 mile hike ahead of us that day. Thankfully the sun graced us with its presence, and the weather warmed up quite a bit. The first six miles of the hike were relatively flat. Day 4 was supposed to be our easy hike day. An elevation change of 200 feet and the shortest distance. It would have been a great day to relax (wait, what is that?) and hang out by Elizabeth lake. We hung out around Elizabeth lake for about an hour. Long enough to dry out our feet, restock our water supply, and enjoy some "gorp" of pepperoni and cheese that some fellow hikers generously shared with us. I'm so bringing pepperoni and cheese next time. Stupid stove! :-P

I could write an entire blog post about the rest of the hike on Day 4. The middle 6 miles were studded with a 3,000 foot climb to the top of Ptarmigan Pass, switchbacks, a really, really, really incredibly steep, narrow incline up the side of a mountain, and a tunnel. I would not recommend it for those of a faint of heart (or fear of heights). Did I mention that I'm afraid of heights? Yeah. The whole time I was hiking along that steep section of the trail I kept saying "this is crazy." I was petrified. But there was nothing to do but push through it, tell myself to put one foot in front of the other, and ignore the precipitous fall I was convinced I was going to take. I still think it was crazy. And people take horses on that trail! As we neared the top of the hill, the clouds once again rolled in and up right to us. So much for the view from the top! It rained again, confirming to us that our decision to hike it out that day was the correct one. The final 6 miles were a very welcome downhill.

It might sound like I'm complaining about this trip in this post. Quite the contrary. With the exception of the first day's worth of insane heat and hiking, the trip was awesome! The mosquitoes, the rain, and even the broken stove were laughed off. After all, there's nothing else you can do when you're in the wilderness and miles from home but give in and enjoy yourself. I like to say that even though the hiking was tough, it was a small admission fee to pay to see the views that greeted us around every corner. I would do it again. But not for at least another year. ;-)

LRO Launch (Finally!)

Seriously. I have to keep pinching myself to see if it's really real. This despite a first-person eyewitness of the launch, numerous phone calls from my hubby about how well things are going, and lots and lots of rocket eye candy. This week at Cocoa Beach has been a whirlwind experience. As soon as I landed on Thursday June 11th, I hit the ground running. Lots of organization, making sure speakers were well taken care of, planning, re-planning, and stressing out over making sure that everything went smoothly. Then the news that the Saturday expected launch of STS-127 was scrubbed (the news came at a brutal 3:45 am) due to a hydrogen leak in the tank, and that the window for our launch was being "negotiated." Admittedly, my Type-A self didn't take this news very well. I had been planning for this week for what seemed like forever, and to me it was a no-brainer as to the fact that LRO should clearly get our entire window. Us getting pushed meant that we had to scramble to find people to cover the exhibits and public presentations at the Visitor Center. So I was stressed. A. Lot.

Then we found out that the second attempt for STS-127 was scrubbed, and that we would get our first opportunity to launch on the second day of our window - June 18th. Now we're talking!

Launch day arrived. My stress levels had miraculously decreased. I felt calm, cool, and for the first time in several weeks, actually excited about our launch! We loaded the first bus (well, we hadn't planned on it, but that's the way it worked out) to the Banana Creek viewing site. We're ready for launch! A few hours of hanging out, eating a soft pretzel and ice cream, picking primo seats in the bleachers, and playing the waiting game for launch. While we were waiting, we had news that the weather was looking grave, and there was a better chance of the weather clearing if we pushed forward to our last opportunity at 5:32 pm. I had promised I would call in to the auditorium at Goddard where employees were gathered to give my perspective on the launch. Given the weather situation, I asked everyone in the auditorium to take a deep breath and blow in the southeast direction to clear out the storm clouds. Talk about timing, because right after I said that, a voice came over the speaker and announced that our weather conditions turned to green! We're go for launch!

What a sight. The engines lit, and our little spacecraft that could was carried up into the sky and ahead to its destination - the Moon! I cried. And I cried some more. And I cried so much that the next day my eyelids were swollen. All of that time, energy, stress, excitement, anticipation, and joy were wrapped up in that one moment in time. LRO lifted off at 5:32:00.1 pm EDT - one tenth of one second late. That moment, that singular point in time is forever recorded in my brain as the moment that all of our collective dreams became a reality. I could feel all of the people who have worked on this mission at that moment.

And all of that was just the beginning. LRO is on its way to the Moon!