Megan Griswold: Out and About Video Journal and Blog is Here!

For those of you who don't know me, this is a new way for us to get to know each other better...

Instead of writing about life experiences, I decided to mix it up a bit and integrate a video journal making everything a little more dynamic! This way you get to know me from more than just words.

This is the first of many to come. Comments of my first day in Africa!  I will be putting out one new video blog per week on Wednesdays, so stay tuned!

First Day in Africa

Ok, so now that you have seen my first video blog, what are your thoughts? Any feedback would be greatly appreciated, especially because this is only the beginning!

 

This is Megan Griswold, Out & About!

On Eggs

My grandmother Deany was wild about Easter eggs. Add to that her absentminded ways in the kitchen and you’ve got CHAOS: boiling eggs, dye cups, and 15 grandchildren armed with crayons. Spry despite her bow legs with ankles the size of grapefruits—even speed couldn’t prevent her from forgetting her eggs in the pressure cooker -- exploding a dozen all over the kitchen. From then on, I kept a closer eye on the eggs.

Now, 30 years later, I’ve got an eye on my own. But they’re not so much exploding as approaching their expiration date. The thing is, I’m at a scary age -38—with no baby in sight. With every laugh line or gray hair I picture my eggs withering by the hour - an exaggeration. But hey, that’s how my mind works. So I’ve frozen more than a dozen-- fourteen to be exact. But these eggs aren’t in a crate from Whole Foods. These eggs are mine.

Since I can’t put my eggs in a nest, I opt to pump my body full of hormones, have my eggs surgically extracted and then cryo-preserved. Sounds easy enough right? By freezing, I’ve tried to make up for lost time: being a late bloomer, spending too much time in graduate school, and waiting too long for my “real life” to begin. And while the technology is deemed experimental, with no guarantees--I don’t know of any guarantees in western medicine. DO YOU?

Haven’t I been fertile since I was like TWELVE? I’m mean, REALLY, what have I been DOING? I’m ready to take this womb out onto the open road to see what it can do. But you’re supposed to have all your ducks in a row before having children: the mate, the 401k…And a few of my ducks are stragglers.

Growing a batch of eggs takes about two weeks. People talk to their babies in utero. I talk to my eggs: “Okay ladies, let me go over the particulars. A nice doctor is going to come get you and put you in a freezer where you can take a long nap. If you’re awakened, that means I’m asking you to help make a BABY. But only come if you’re eager for a BIG adventure…”

The truth: I’m hoping not to need these eggs, that I’ll get pregnant naturally when the time is right. These eggs are my back-up plan, but I’m not going to tell THEM that.

In the clinic, the lobby is full of couples with fertility problems or women preserving their eggs before chemotherapy. But here I am, healthy with all my parts in order. It’s just that my life hasn’t lined up perfectly with my body’s abilities. Statistically--by 41-- over ninety percent of my eggs will be toast.

People ask how it feels to have preserved my eggs. I’ll tell you: it’s fantastic, like a weight has lifted. No matter what happens, I feel extraordinarily lucky to avail myself of the most advanced technology. Medicine aims to optimize health. And for me, reproductive longevity is an important part of that picture.

So now I’ve got 14 eggs living in something that looks more like a propane tank for a barbeque, than a home for my children to be. But I think of them like hope - like hope in a petri dish.

While Megan Griswold is on the road with her one-woman show ‘Fix It’ her eggs reside comfortably in Boston, Massachusetts.

Learn to Surf: I need to learn how to have fun. I’m too uptight.

I’ve just logged 1500 clinical intern hours in record speed, have been going to therapy with Majie for four months. Too bad I can’t get frequent flyer miles for either. I’m headed in the right direction though, right? So before my practice gets started I intend to celebrate not just completing my training, but having pushed through this loss and confusion being in marital limbo for three years.

What do I imagine would feel fun, even if I do it alone? I do a little soul searching eyes closed sort of thing and ask. I will learn to surf. I’ll sign up for surf camp. I grew up at the beach, but was too busy acting as some under-aged, unlicensed, self-elected mediator at dinners out with my parents at California Pizza Kitchen rather than get stoned and enter the green room. Most importantly with this camp setup, I’ll meet new friends, have big group meals -- all social, all the time. The package including all meals with the other campers seems over priced, but I decide it’s worth it. I loved camp as a kid. I pack my duffle bag with books so when I’m not surfing or socializing, I’ll read. The change will do me good. 

 I arrive at the tiny airstrip in Costa Rica.  Tyler the camp leader picks me up. Tan, tall and blonde, every part of him screams surfer. He helps carry my stuff to the camp Jeep. I can’t wait to meet my surf buddies. 

“So are we headed to meet up with the other campers, or do we not get together till dinner?”

“Um…” Tyler pauses. “Well…”

Oh no. I look down at my hands as if I’m contemplating a manicure, while I wait for his reply. I’m nervous about meeting everybody.

“You are kind of the only camper.”

Are you kidding? I am the whole camp? Oh Jesus. Of course. I can’t believe I flew all the way down here to eat alone -- again. But I pretend like it’s no big deal. As we drive toward down the dirt road passed cows and rubber trees, all I can think about is what I shelled out for these big “group” meals. If it’s just me, I just as soon have a street taco. Plus, does that mean I’ll be paying Tyler to eat alone with me every night? Not only is this over priced, it’s humiliating.

I’m embarrassed to ask, but my pocketbook urges. I muster the guts to ask before camp actually ‘starts.’ Tyler helps me take my luggage to my room.

“Uh Tyler…about those big group dinners…Could I um…downgrade from the deluxe package?”

God this is embarrassing. I hate that I’m nickel and diming him. But I will not rent a dinner companion for the next seven days. Buck up. This will be great.  But I’m also freaking out about spending all day alone with myself without work. And surfing with the “group” only happens twice a day. That’s right, I’ll read those books. I’ll read the twelve books I brought. But by day three and five books down, my paddle feels stronger. I’m confidant. I mean aside from the little mishap with the stingray -- the gash in my foot from stepping on his tail, and the shooting foot-to-groin pain from his venom – besides that, things are going really well. And surely, the odds of encountering another deadly sea snake like the one I saw the day after Sergeant Stingray, surely the chances of that must be miniscule.

The good news: Tyler thinks I’m ready to paddle to the outside, beyond the whitewash waves you learn on, which today are bigger than I’ve seen it here. But I can do this. I will do this. So I’m paddling out, paddling out, getting absolutely nowhere. The waves feel like they surround me, repeatedly launching my monstrous board into the air. I’m getting hammered. Utterly.

In the distance I hear, “Megaaan!” “Megaaan!” It’s Tyler.  What in the world does he want? Can’t he see I’m busy getting beaten senseless in some cruel oceanic spin cycle?  I ignore him. I’ve got work to do.

“Megaaan!”

Dude, shut up. Seriously, can’t he see I’m working?  I’m busy paddling.

But he won’t stop. “Megaaaaaan!”

Lest I get in trouble, I turn my board around, catch some white wash and reluctantly head in. I scramble to my feet, dragging my behemoth board to him. He looks irritated.

 “Megan, you were stuck in something we call an impact zone – where multiple waves from different directions crash all together. And you were in the center of it. But you were so busy fighting it, you couldn’t see it. You’re a stubborn chick. When you find yourself struggling that hard, you know you are in one. Don’t stay  in an impact zone. Ever.  Paddling harder is not the answer.”

I drop my board and sit down on the sand. “Impact zone?”

“Yes, and often it’s best to head in, stand on the shore, so you can look back out and get a better view, find a smooth line to the outside. So look right now. See?  That sort of passage just ten feet over? The water is much calmer there.”

“Oh goddd…”  Nobody ever told me about an impact zone, let alone that I could opt out. 

“You mean I’m not supposed to get sucked down, chewed up, and spit out with my swimsuit on backwards?”

Tyler shakes his head. “Megan, it doesn’t have to be that difficult. With practice you learn how to exit those clusters in one swift stroke, and eventually you can avoid the trouble entirely. Don’t worry. Today was your first time in those conditions.”

            “Well, Tyler,” I say looking out at the water shaking my head. “I didn’t know I had a choice. You know when I look at the bigger picture of  li…”

            Tyler looks a little befuddled, that I’m choosing right now to get all metaphoric.

             “Look, I don’t know about all that. Just grab your board and get out there. Stay to the right this time.” 

            I grab my long board and put it over my head. The thing is unwieldy. I craved to be skilled enough to ride a short board that I could tuck coolly under my arm. But that was happening no time soon. I start to paddle out again. I’d always thought giving up the struggle would mean I was a quitter. Or would it? I mean, just because I’m capable of treading water to the point of near-drowning, doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. Maybe sometimes, sitting on the shore with a mango iced tea, is the bravest choice you can make.

A little bit about me...

Not to brag (and I’m not sure this is really something one would ever brag about in the first place) but if it’s out there and in English, I’ve probably tried it. And technically speaking I shouldn’t even limit it to English. I’ve tried a few things in Portuguese. What’s the ‘it’ you ask? That remedy, that discipline, that modality, that unexplainable thing it ain’t cool to admit you’ve done at the Ivy League mixer.  So it’s not pretty, but it’s true. I’ve logged some 15,000 hours ‘in search of,’ spanning thirty years and four continents. My search has included but is not limited to:  ways to become less neurotic, to become less of a romantic, to develop my emotional intelligence, get over childhood conditioning, get out of my own way, find my place in the world , be successful in love and relationship, become more evolved, and so on. Malcom Gladwell suggests something nearly alchemical happens right around the 15,000 hour mark – you become an expert of sorts. So I suppose in an unintentional way, I will declare myself one – in the ‘searching department’ that is.

Whether the drive was due to particularly odd/searching parents or my own sensitive nervous system and an anxious mind, I found myself at a young age with an emotional sensitivity that for a good long while felt more liability than asset. And I was trained early– for good and for bad – to look outside myself for something that might help me have a smoother relationship between me and me. At birth my parents assigned me a Christian Science practitioner, by age seven I asked Santa for my first mantra, by 12 I had begun taking weekend workshops on personal growth. By 27 I indoctrinated myself into the traditional halls of Yale. By 32 I was a Classical Acupuncturist. Freak show? Maybe so. Perhaps just an over-the-top-existential curiosity. 

The point: at my darkest hour, if somebody told me the sure fire way out of my predicament was to ditch my clothes and run naked around Balboa Island backwards under the full moon singing ‘God Save the Queen’ in Castilian Spanish, I’d have done it.

And I’m not joking.

Oh, and one last thing you should know about me: I hate, and I do mean hate, the spiritual expert. You know that person. They have a really regal air about them. And from the way they tell it, they know what’s what. Every time I hear somebody start speaking in that ‘wise’ voice and assert their authority about how they know EXACTLY what it is I need, that is the moment I stuff my fingers in my ears, and run screaming in the opposite direction. As in my experience, these puffed-up opinions don’t make for the best of advisors in tough times. So I want to assure you I am not this person.

            Instead I am the person who would rather like a dog splay open every one of my flaws like a belly to be inspected. The only authority I have is that I’ve tried a lot, stared down my dark places, and just want to save a fellow traveler a little (ok more than a little) time, effort and money.

INTRO of SORTS

This is just a way to share myself with you! 

“Sometimes it breaks my heart to watch my mind.

 Sometimes it breaks my mind to watch my heart.” – Stephen Levine

  This is a love letter, a guide, a testimony, a log, a document, meant for anyone who ever got into  a jam, and was curious about resources outside the familiar. Anyone who ever dreamed of growing out of their stuck tight places, and wondered how to get there, anyone who was ever afraid to face loss and faced it anyway, anyone who’s had to take it on the chin and still find it in them to stand back up again. This is for you and its only the beginning!

Megan Griswold

http://www.facebook.com/griswoldmegan

http://megangriswold.com/