Tempering

It is so hard to be me. Not really. I’m just making fun of myself. It’s quite simple really: get up and go to work, do not say what I really think (my personal thoughts are often not interpreted as genuine customer service), do my job, come home, stare at some homework (accomplish the minimum), pet each dog (equal time is a must), feed self, affirm C in some way, and crawl into bed to do it all over again tomorrow. I forgot the sex without consequences part—there is that on special occasions. Yeah, I’m a little bored and burnt out – is it obvious?

This weekend I did our finances. Totally and completely. Everything from 2008 is filed, in chronological order and tabbed, in a gigantic D-ring notebook. Expenses are tallied in a super cool excel spreadsheet (thanks to K for the template I never could have come up with!). It is all supposed to make answering the question of “where is all of this money going?” easier to answer. Unfortunately, this money is going into our mouths. I watched our Eating Out tallies grow and tried not to puke a little in my mouth (it would probably be the Chipotle from night previous and since we already spent that money, it might as well stay down and try to nourish my body). What I mean is that it was sickening that hundreds of dollars a month go towards a pop, McDonald’s (I wouldn’t be caught dead there – they might serve me as a quarter pounder), Chipotle, or a stupid salad (albeit tasty, so very tasty). That is going to stop – as in I refuse to eat out with two exceptions: special night with the husband or the only way I can see a friend. C is going to get an allowance, or if that sounds too juvenile, a weekly or monthly budget – I haven’t decided yet. There are other places to cut back: use less water, electricity, gas. Hundreds of dollars of fuel per month may not be a lifestyle so much as an option that we need to seek an alternative to. I did have an idea that this was coming and have done small things over the last month, namely cut way back on Target trips (never seem to leave there without spending $40-$80) and stop buying books (school is the only exception but they tell me that libraries are a great place to get books). I need to do more – we need to do more. And we will. A few thousand dollars worth of medical bills are going to be coming down the pipes in the next month or three and we need to be prepared to pay them. Can you even imagine how irate I will be if we can’t afford treatment because of too many quarter pounders? Don’t ask. At least my downfall is a good grocery store salad bar. It has the premise of healthy.

I’m in a doubtful place. Currently just waiting for something that I am sure will occur any day now so that we can get this show on the road. So that I can be one of two poster children of IF: either the first shot IUI success or the friend who is on IUI #5 and still hopeful because all the previous attempts failed. You realize that since we introduced an actual procedure and protocol into the try for baby this month that there is no longer a positive or negative pregnancy test at the end (actually, there is no pregnancy test at all because there is a likely occurrence of a false positive due to the HCG shot I will receive to signal the follicles to release an egg(s)). There is only success and failure. And while I am okay with bringing you all along on this journey, you have to be prepared, just like we are, for a failure. Inside of your heads, of course, because I don’t need any more doubts in my doubtful place. Please don’t think me mean or cruel for pointing this out, because I do this for your sake as much as mine. For none of you (I hope to God) will ever know this disappointment as it happens again and again, but I am aware of the sympathy and empathy floating around out there. So, you must be aware.

Despite residing on Doubtful Circle, Front Porch, Alabama, currently, don’t mistake doubt for lack of hope and excitement. I am still very hopeful and excited. Even with a 10-12% success rate with the way we are conducting this cycle, I think that sooner or later (if conception really is a game of odds and not chance) the odds have to be in our favor. Even the intricacies of this cycle’s protocol have me thrilled. Do you realize that I have an actual task from cycle day one to cycle day thirteen? I get to be doing something and occupied. Yeah, the two week wait will be sort of awful, but I don’t have to think about it until it is actually upon us and everything else that will ensure conception has been accomplished. For anyone else who has tried their best to schedule sex around “fertile” times, do you know what a relief this is? The whole process is practically taken out of my hands. Surprisingly, I am grateful and relieved about all of that. And above all else, there is a PLAN. This cycle either succeeds or fails, but then there is next cycle, possibly a third, and then trying something new. This really does constitute a plan for me, for us. About the PLAN alone, I am incredibly happy. About the increased chances of creating life and carrying life to term to get a squishy baby, I am ecstatic. But as a form of self-preservation, I have to remain incrementally doubtful. Otherwise my world shatters when this cycle fails and I know from personal experience how long it takes to pick up those pieces. Believe me; you can’t even hire someone to do it for you. All you are capable of doing is picking up each piece, one by one, letting them stab you and draw blood, while placing them in your basket and hoping that magic elves will come and make them whole again before you slowly bleed to death.

So This is What Being Taken Seriously Feels Like. Wow.

I should begin this by stating that I have a research critique and an art chat due tomorrow and I am still blogging. Yesterday was fantastic. I smile just thinking about it. I got up, went to the doctor’s appointment. They gave me a sheet that confirmed what my insurance company had told me when I called, that diagnostic procedures to diagnose infertility were subject to a $500 deductible, and then covered at 50%, while treatments aren’t covered at all. Some friends have been pretty surprised by this, but it is quite standard and I was delighted that my insurance covers anything at all. Infertility, according to the way insurance companies in the U.S. treat it, is a choice, sort of. As in, they are fine if you are diagnosed with it (because yes, it exists), but they don’t think it is worth treatment because having children is a choice. Did you know that? Having children is a choice and if I am unable to do so the traditional way (SEX!), then I am out of luck, because they sure as hell aren’t going to pay anything to help it happen for me. Although, they pay very well for birth control and elective sterilization (tubes tied, vasectomy, or hysterectomy). Anyway, I am still excited that they are going to pay something.


Nurse takes me back, asks some questions, leaves to brief the doctor. Doctor enters with all information. I filled out at least eight pages detailing what I’ve been through on the reproductive road. He clarifies a couple of things (yes, apparently an infection after a D&C is quite rare). He says that there are three things that they need to make sure are functioning so that conception can happen: 1) ovulation (we’re good as long as I am on meds), 2) sperm quality (doc has a copy of the great SA in his hands since his office conducted it), and 3) tubes and uterus (this is where we are going . . .). He says that first we are going to do a sonogram to look at my uterus and ovaries (haven’t I wanted one?) TODAY; then an HSG. An HSG is when they set you under an x-ray machine and the doctor puts dye in your uterus and it should highlight any blockages or scar tissue when it flows through the fallopian tubes. It is the best way to see if there is anything impeding the meet up of sperm and egg. The sonogram was quick (here in blogland, it is done with what is called a dildocam) and my uterus looked good (as did the endometrium). My ovaries looked okay, but the doctor did make the comment that he wasn’t sure if I ovulated this cycle (without meds) because of the way they looked. We are doing the HSG a few days after the next cycle starts. Which shouldn’t interfere with (cue the music . . .)

An IUI. This next cycle we are doing a medicated IUI cycle. IUI stands for intrauterine insemination. Which means that C leaves a donation at the clinic, they wash it (make sure all the sperm have heads and tails), and they put it in the very top of my uterus via catheter through my cervix. That is the easy part. I have five days of a doubled dose of the magic pills (dear lord, help us all), four days of estrogen, a sonogram midcycle to look at the follicles (to see EGGS!), if there are eggs I get a shot of HCG (the pregnancy hormone to stimulate the follicles to release an egg), and the following day we do the insemination. Simple, right? I am so excited. Let me repeat that: I AM SO EXCITED!


There is the chance that it could work. That we could be pregnant. But we are doing something and there is a plan. If this time doesn’t work, we’ll take a couple of months, regroup, pay this cycle off, and save up some money for the next cycle. Because that is what this doctor does: he gets people pregnant.

Now that I am in the day after, I am a little concerned about money. Who saves up a couple thousand to TRY and get pregnant? Guess I shouldn’t have bought that new bag . . . We have made the decision to go for it this cycle.


The only other thing is that I shared, in my excitement, with a few people about what we are doing. Which is fine, because if they care about me, they will be excited too. But one was making fun of me. Could be my fault because I was referring to the process as a date with a turkey baster, but in my defense, no one knows what an IUI and just look at how many words it took to explain it to you all! Anyway, I decided that if he persists in teasing me, that my response will be “Listen, I shared what I did with you because I was excited and I was looking for fellow excitement and possibly some support and encouragement. If you can’t provide any of these, I invite you to shut the hell up and forget I told you anything.” If that doesn’t work, I’m not above beating anybody up.

Which is my way of saying that there is a reason I am sharing intimate details with you. I could use your support and encouragement. Prayers are also very welcome. I want you to understand (even the science of it) and feel free to ask questions. I want you not to judge me (us) for the decisions we have made or that others like us have made. I want you to understand that I don’t need your sympathy and that I would rather you join me in my excitement and possibly my sadness should this attempt fail. You get my drift? I’m not hosting show and tell to be made fun of. Just to educate and revel in the love and possibly (outside chance) to end up pregnant. Fingers crossed. Everybody.

I HATE Teases!

I have been so tired today, but I'm fairly certain that the excitement from the doctor's appointment this morning has kept me humming (that burns calories, right?). And I am too tired to post. Figure that. Maybe tomorrow. You can consider this the biggest tease of 2008 if you'd like. Or of September, or even this week. More to come. Totally (big YAWN) worth it.

All of the Tomorrows

It is the eve of something I never considered. With the craziness at work and for school this week, tomorrow and the consultation with the RE totally crept up on me. Tomorrow. Seriously. Me. 25 and healthy. Surely just needing a jump start and not a complete overhaul or diagnostic testing. What I mean is that I had a lot more faith than I let on that one of these months (with or without the magic pills) we would just turn up pregnant. We haven’t and I remain puzzled about that. When I did remember that the appointment with the RE was tomorrow, I got really excited because he is going to solve all of our problems and figure out how to get us pregnant. Right? And he’ll surely do it in a clear, honest, empathetic way. But what if he doesn’t figure it out? What if he is a prick that preys on the insecurities and pain that infertile women carry? I’m remembering that I have been taught to never put all of my eggs in one basket, whatever that means. The only realistic solution to this is obvious, to attend my appointment tomorrow. To inform the doctor of my expectations. To be clear and honest. And to hope that he is Dr. Wonderful. I don’t know what to do if he isn’t. All my eggs are in his basket. This infertility thing isn’t disappearing by itself. As evidenced by the need to visit the RE, this infertility thing is real. Not in my head, not in the emotional hormones of the magic pills, not an illusion, just very very real. I refuse to play the how-infertile game. I’m here, I have arrived, and I sure as hell plan on doing something about it.

It's Mine, It Is All Mine

For those of you that read this and don't know, I am funny. For those of you that read this and do know, laugh away. I am most often described as unique and creative and anne (like it was some sort of adjective). I aspire to all three. Sometimes I am down, or sad, or utterly bored or busy, and everything is just blah. It's like viewing the world through a filmy lens and remaining seriously uninterested. This is usually interrupted by some superb new idea that may be feasible and realistic, but just as often, not at all. My life goes by with these inane up and downs and when I come across a stable moment and reflect, I feel trapped on the roller coaster. The thing is, given the opportunity for a consistently mellow existence, I would turn you down in a hot second. There is no way I would give up the highs: perfect days, people that rock my world, orgasms (had to make sure you were still paying attention), even if I am then, by definition required to experience the lows. We all know that hormone manipulating pills do not help the above scenario. So. I can't figure out why I am here. In this funk. This weird not-knowing place.


This past weekend was fun and I needed some fun. Headed home on Friday, went out to the bars with Sister B, her bf, and her friend. I went to meet S and the boys who were already, um, drunk. Fun night was had. No details necessary. What gets me is the relationship with S. I can't explain it to you because I can't explain it to his friends, my friends, our families, or C (who has never really asked, him being entirely non jealous). I could delve into the history and I usually do. I could start telling stories. But I can't explain it to you. I can't even explain it to me. I love the boy. And he is nothing and everything, as in, nothing you should worry your pretty little head about, and everything to me. Somehow I am still unsatisfied with that explanation. Kind of like how I don't want to refer to him either as my friend or my ex, neither captures what he is to me and it bothers me. So I guess that S, you are mine, until the time a super cool girl comes along and claims you. I promise not to pee on you in order to establish ownership. Unless we visit the beach. Because there are jellyfish there. I could tell people that you are my jellyfish.

In/Fertility updates:
*Actually, you'd think at 25, I might not be upfront about all this trouble, and you would be wrong. It was so strange, when all the boys were drunk on Friday, S's boys were hanging out and asked to hear the story of how he broke my heart (yes, they really asked!). I told them the breakup story and S reminded me that I forgot the interesting part, that he dumped me because I never wanted to have children (at age 18). I mentioned to the boys that the irony there was that it was currently proving difficult to get pregnant at all. N, one of the boys, said “I'm sorry.” That's all. And even though he was incredibly drunk, it still meant a lot to me.
*S's sister, pregnant with her second, told me a story of friends that had trouble getting pregnant, finally did with the help of the magic white pills, miscarried, and were now pregnant with twin girls. She mentioned how hard it was to see them miscarry after all they had gone through getting pregnant. And she said that she had faith it would work out for me.
*A long lost hs classmate found me on FB (that's what it is for, right?) and was A. surprised to find me married, B. surprised to find me married to a man (I was known as a bit of a man hater), C. asking me if I knew of any babies because he and his wife are looking to adopt. I said that we were consulting doctors in that department, but if we hit the jackpot and had six or seven babies, he could have two. One or two more are promised to S.
*Had a conversation with Mom as we were headed back here. I told her that my response to anyone asking about when we are planning on having kids is that we would like them and there are doctors involved. I figure that is the best way to either shut them up (TMI), but it also opens a very small door if they would like to ask questions. It seems like the easiest way right now to both invite and close any discussion. Mom mentioned that twins would be fine with her because then there would be one for her to hold and one for my MIL (that tells you how often they are in the same place). Sweet dreams.
*Coworker came into work with her little one today and I got to hold her. To the fates, God, whoever is listening, I promise that I could do it – the mom thing. She was so precious. I sometimes need that reminder because I disassociate babies from pregnancy and pregnancy from babies. It's because of this strange duality of our problem: am I infertile or do I get pregnant and miscarry? Or, both? Because I'm not getting pregnant right now, but I did. I am assuming that we won't know the answer until I am pregnant again. There isn't a fear of getting pregnant, I am afraid that I won't be able to get pregnant, or that when I do, I'll miscarry again. A giant fear is wrapped up in the time it has taken us to get pregnant since the first miscarriage. You know?


Drat, it got way too deep. Was not my intention. Will conclude with the image (be creative in your minds) of me: brown hair, brown eyes, pale with freckles, in a black cotton/silk floaty poofy dress. I feel much better, you?

In the Waiting Times

I haven't been thinking about it - do I get some sort of award for that? I donated blood today because I am O+ and I know they need that and because I finally meet the weight requirement. You can be jealous over that last statement or you can just accept that these are the genes that I was born with. Little sister is turning 23 on Saturday and still hasn't met the minimum weight to donate blood. Anyway, I am dumb and thought that the donation would take oh, fifteen minutes. Yeah, or an hour and a half. Which is okay because the place was flooded (no, not with blood - with donors). Pretty cool. It's not like you get anything. Except a rad tee shirt, a sticker, some Oreos and apple juice, and a coupon for a free cup of coffee. Maybe the perks are awesome. I did it because I was physically able and I am betting that my blood is decent (cue the tune "How to Save a Life"). Anyway, I am tired. Exhausted. Wiped.

As in not doing homework. Except that I have been networking for a project due next week. Death and Dying includes an interview with someone involved with hospice and then a paper or a presentation. I chose a perinatal hospice because I get the feeling that some don't know that there are other options when carrying a terminal child. The whole thing makes me sad, but awareness is my middle name and here I am to bring attention to something wonderful, respectful, and full of both honor and grace. So, I'm solidifying details with the hospice to conduct a phone interview early next week with the director, an MD, and a sonographer. Possibly life changing. I chose this specific perinatal hospice because they set up camp right across the way from an abortion clinic known for late term abortions. I will not judge those who walk through the door of either office, but I am glad that there are options. Specifically, choices. Should be interesting.

That's about it. Called the insurance company to see what they might cover from the RE visit. A little excited because they do cover diagnostic procedures that lead to an IF diagnosis; they just don't cover treatment. We'll cross that bridge when we get there. I've been trying to be nicer to C, calm down, and focus on how lucky I am in so many ways. Perhaps, I'm even trying a little bit of joyful out. This weekend, I get to see Sister B, S is back in town for one night only, staying with the parents, and attending my third ever collegiate football game in the town I was born in, grew up in, and graduated from college. I'm not much of an athletic supporter, but perhaps there will be pictures . . .