"Doom on you. Doom on you."

My title is from the animated movie, Ice Age. It's the scene where a flock (?) of Do Dos are converging on our intrepid heros who have stolen the flock's watermelon, just in case you were dying to know....

I've got the MondayMorningAfterAnExtendedHolidayWeekend Blues.

I'm sitting at work, trying to focus on the projects that need to be completed by the end of the year and instead I have been blogging. And that has led me to feel a little in the funk. First, I'm bummed that I won't be able to meet up with the Midwestern Bloggers this coming Saturday because it's Max's 4th Birthday. I then start to feel guilty because I sound like I'm not looking forward to Max's Birthday, which of course I am. I have invited some other kids his age for cake and icecream, which he is excited about. However, I did not invite the grandparents, aunts, uncles, Godparents, etc., because I think he's at an age where he would rather play with his peers than be kitchy-kitchy-cood by his old relatives. So I feel guilty about not inviting them.

I feel a little left out as I found I am not on the famous blogroll, even though I sent an email as instructed when I first started blogging in August. I'm trying to tell myself it's not because I suck or my blog is boring, but even I know that I can't compare myself to the Masters. I don't have the education or the experience to back it up.

I'm irratated with FedAss who supposedly came by Friday a.m. to drop off my rx from Schrafts, but since I wasn't there to sign, they didn't leave my package. I didn't know they had come by until today when I called customer service and they tracked the package as there was no notice on my door. I couldn't use the email-notification with my work's email being down and I was unable to look up the stupid tracking #. Now I have to go to the one location in town to pick it up - but only between the times of 5:30-6:15. I hate you, FedAss!

I don't want to be at work. There's a blizzard going on outside, but it's 85 degrees in my office. Why? Because the area I work has one thermostat for multiple offices. Said thermostat is controlled by a manic-depressive schizoid in the office next to me, which she keeps herself locked in. Her determination to keep the temperature balmy reinforces my belief that she is a snake, lizard, or some other cold-blooded reptilian in disguise. We have nicknamed her Psycho Suzy; which indicates her presence of mind, not her name.

One bright note: a little dog showed up in my yard yesterday while I was putting up xmas lights. After some meager attempts to contact neighbors to see if they recognized the dog (he had a collar but no tags) I called the city police, who act as animal control. I felt terrible having to turn him over to the pound, but I just couldn't house the little Papillion with my 2 crazy cats and 4 year old son. I just now called the city and the owner was located this morning. If I hadn't kept the pooch with me to turn over to the city, he would've surely perished in the storm last night.

I'll get over this funk. These are minor bumps in the road considering what's coming up. I don't know if I have enough presence of mind or time to prepare myself for the worst.

See? I am definitely feeling gloomy, aren't I?

From Cooter to Clacker

Thank you for humouring my blatant request (begging) for comments. As I've been able to kick the HPT Piss compulsion over time, I hope that plugging for comments will also become a thing of the past.

OvaGirl had yet another wonderfully comical post about her FET Eve jitters and while reading over her post and the subsequent comments it occurred to me how confusing cross-cultural descriptions can be. So I have provided for you below a "key" to some of the more, shall we say, colorful terminologies we IF bloggers encounter.

COOTER

Obviously, for any of us who have read at least one IF blog this term has been mentioned in more than just passing. This is obviously what it refers to:

However, some Hollywood moron thought that this would be a clever name for a certain character from a certain redneck series but this is NOT what we are refering to in IF blogs:

Can I just say, ick, for the record?

Well, that brings us to...

CLACKER

I love this term! Thanks OG. Even if you are not the originator of this somewhat obvious reference, you have epitomized it...well not *you*, but you know, your Clacker has.


If you are a first time reader of her blog, please do not confuse it with the item at the left...



PESSARY

Now, really? If you could even manage to wrap THIS in protective foil, do you think it would really fit inside your Cooter or Clacker? You could probably feed it to the Cooter in the 2nd picture or maybe recreate it's mating call with the Clacker in the above picture...BTW, this is a cassawary. A Pessary is sometimes refered to as a SUPPOSITORY, which is usually some form of pharmaceutical item in a oil/cream base that is inserted UP into the Cooter/Clacker and even sometimes UP another place that I refuse to provide an image of. I will however provide the image below of one of the most famous types of US suppositories that even though is hard to find, is generally very unpopular and quite useless for almost all but the most minor of ailments.

And so begins and ends what will probably be my only political statement I will ever publicly share in my blog.

I hope this little lesson has helped you all and that you have gained some insight in how different the English Language can be from continent to continent.

I think I will have a follow-up post on acronyms most commonly used as it took me f-o-r-e-v-e-r to get NBHHY. If you don't happen to know that one, you'll have to tune in for the details at a later date.

Oh, I have another shameless plug: I have added a Guest Map (see right side of screen). I would be thrilled to pieces if you give a "shout out" from your neck of the woods.

ECHO, ECho, echo...

Heeellllooooooo, looooo, loooo. Anybody oouuutt theeerrrree, ouut theeerre, out theere?

Yeesh!

I've been racking my brain to come up with something Brilliant, Enlightening, Snarky, etc., that might inspire a little more action that what I've been seeing from you out there, but sorry, I got nuttin'.

Well, I got this little update which is no more than a blip on the screen... Remember in my last post how I said my hormones seem to be on hiatus? Within an hour of me posting that I was getting some cramping and that reminded me that I had forgotten to take my pill the night before. Since I couldn't get away from work, I figured I may end up with some breakthroughbleeding (btb) before the end of the day, no biggie. But that's not what happened. It was during a bathroom break that I realized that my btb was like the beginning of a full-on period and the cramping had gotten significantly worse. I called my RE's office and I was advised by Dr. M.'s nurse that based on my description of the symptoms I was experiencing I should take a HPT to rule out pregnancy, then take 2 pills that night and 2 more the next night.

I didn't take the HPT. I did take the pills as instructed and last night I had a beaut of a migraine coming on which I'm associating with the honking of the hormones. The bleeding has stopped, but I'm surprised with how much "old blood" I am still seeing when I go to the bathroom. Weird, huh?

On a related note my PIO script showed up and so did something else via USPS but I wasn't here to sign for it so I'll have to trek to the Post Office (a.ka. HELL) tomorrow to pick it up. BTW, it was just yesterday that I had an *aha* moment and figured out what the acronym PIO meant while reading another blog. For any newbies out there, PIO = Progesterone in Oil, an injectible version of progesterone - a step up from the progesterone suppositories, which I will sorely miss - HA!

So things are gearing up for our IVF cycle. My subsequent posts should become a little more intersting as I start my injectible schedule and the visits to the RE pick up in frequency. Heck! I might even finally come up with a catchy nick-name for her (so what if it's already been 5 months?). Then again, they may not as one cannot truly apreciate my bitter sarcasm without the contorted facial expressions and crazy, jerky body/arm movements that are my trademarks.

Giving Thanks

As things quiet down around here, which is due more than likely to the impending holiday of Thanksgiving, I myself have been measurable less stressed out and the hormones are on reprieve for a couple of more weeks.

*Thankfully*, I have completed all the scripts I need for the IVF cycle. I ended up going through 3 different pharmacies: ivfmeds.com across the pond; Schrafts and Freedom Drug. I had to do some price comparisons so that’s why the varied selection.

Over the next couple of days, I’m sure the theme for many of us in Blogtopia, state-side anyway, will be based upon reflection of what we are thankful for. It’s remarkable how the positive aspects require so much quiet meditation before a semi-comprehensive list can be created in comparison to topics, ideas, people, etc. that bring our blood to a boil that can be rattled off without forethought. I for one wish the reverse was true.

Let me begin then by listing the things in my life. Some of which I take for granted daily, and others that can bring me to my knees in gratitude.

My bed. I have a soft-side waterbed that feels like a gentle hug when I crawl into it, whether it is to take a nap, doze off too much wine, catch up on some reading, wrestle with Max or share my love with Jerry.

My house. Jerry and I moved into the house we now live in within 3 months of being married. This is my daily “honeymoon” as we were unable to afford to go anywhere with the expectation of buying a home together. Max was conceived here. He first rolled over in his room; he first crawled on the newly installed laminate living-room floor; he took his first steps right there in the kitchen. I will miss this house when we move into the new one still being built.

My town. Sure the town I live in is no booming metropolis. I’ve lived in several different cities before moving back home with my tail between my legs to become one of the many “rubber-band children” in the early 90’s moving back in with their parents. This town has welcomed me back and I have made a home here; created a career here; started a family here.

My health. Sure I have asthma, allergies, and now share the uncomfortable burden of high-risk pregnancy and infertility. As much heartbreak the IF has brought to Jerry and I, it has also made us infinitely more aware of how precious a child’s life is. Every blurb in the news about abused children makes me cry with unfathomable sadness and bewilderment as to how anyone could hurt a completely innocent soul in the ways they do. Treatment for our infertility has also brought me to YOU. So, let me quickly Thank You for being here, waiting, watching, and supporting me go through IF, childrearing, and general female adult activities, which may or may not include bitching, whining, ranting and raving. Thank You.

My son. Max is the light of my body and soul. He can make me shake with fury in one moment and then giggle with joy the next. He’s made me young again. He is the physical proof of his mother and father’s commitment and love for each other, and Jerry and I marvel at times at how *he* is the ultimate combination of two completely different attitudes, personalities, and physical attributes. I would kill for him. I would lay my life down for him. I would surely die if something ever happened to him. I will even step up to the place I rarely like to go and from my heart I say, “Thank you, God, for giving me my son, Max. He is perfection.”

My husband. I would finally like to thank Jerry for being my rock. It may seem so cliché but if you have someone you refer to as your “rock”, you know what I mean. He is solidly committed to us; to his own family; even to my family. He gave me a card for one of our anniversaries several years ago that goes something like this, ”It’s one thing to have a friend, it’s another thing to be in love; but it’s a completely wonderful thing to be in love with your best friend.” I have the card taped to my closet door and it’s been there for almost 5 years. It says it all. He says I’m his best friend. He is mine. Max may be the light of my body and soul, but Jerry is the light of my heart. I am thankful that I found him and that he chose me to be his other half for the rest of our lives. He loves me even when I am at my most unlovable moments.

Thank You, Jerry, and I love you with all my heart and I always will.

Happy Thanksgiving and may the Holiday remind you of what is most important, which we all should try to list out more than once a year.

Pearls of Wisdom

I could never be accused of desribing Jerry as poetic, philosophical or even verbally skilled. He's usually a man of action, not of words. When he has something to say, be prepared for it to be blunt. Yesterday was such a day. We had to make that 2.5 hour drive to the Metro to get the last of the blood work done on us both in time for the IVF. My mother came over to watch Max since he did not want to go with us and we left around 10. It was raining/snowing and Jerry had pulled the car out of the garage in an effort to get an *early* start. I ducked my head and made a dash to the passenger side. I opened the door to get in only to find my seat full of papers and junk making it impossible to sit down. As I muttered and cursed under my breath throwing the lot in the back seat while cold splats of snow hit my head, Jerry asked why was I being such a bitch, and pointed out that I had been one all morning. All morning? it was only 10... I promptly ignored him and as punishment I refused to speak to him for nearly 45 miles. I say punish, but I'm sure he was breathing a sigh of relief.

After I had sufficiently cooled down, the remaining 1.5 hr trip passed nearly uneventful until we reached one of the many small towns on our route. The 2-line highway we were on widened to a 4 lane street, and Jerry had slowed down as part of the city-limit requirements. During our decell, a moron of a man ran across the two lanes of the opposing traffic and stopped in the middle. There was no medium; he was just standing on the double yellow-line. Jerry, aware that a pedestrian has the right-of-way regardless of the stupidity that forces them into the middle of a busy street between crosswalks, quickly braked to let the man pass in front of us and finish his proverbial chicken cross. Instead of the man giving Jerry a grateful wave, he angrily motioned him to "keep moving!" indicating he would wait until there were no cars. As Jerry slowly moved forward and past him, he put the window down and shouted, "Use the fucking crosswalk the next time!" During this time I was staring at the gas station on my side in complete fascination lest the happless pedestrian catch my eye.

It was another hour or so of driving, 15 minutes of wandering aimless in the hospital searching for pathology, 5 minutes each to get our blood drawn and another 15 minute drive to our next stop before he was at it again. We were in the parking lot of Nebr@sk@ Furniture M@rt. On a Saturday afternoon. The weekend before Thanksgiving. What? You have never been to NFM?? YOU do not know what you are missing! Finding a parking spot within 500' of any entrance is a lesson in futility. But wait! There's one and it's only 250'...as soon as that car pulls out...oh, shit. There's already a car waiting for the spot. While we waited for the car to back out since we weren't in any hurry, another one opened up next to us first so we pulled in. The car that was backing out finally was on its way and what do you think happens? Did the other car waiting patiently finally get the spot? Oh no. Instead some brainless-red-neck in a dually (doolie? duallie?) pulled forward from his spot into the now open spot and parked it. His move would allow him to pull forward out of his spot when he got ready to leave instead of trying to back out his "tractor-trailer" of a pick-up. The ladies in the car-a-waiting rolled their windows down and proceeded to cluck at him about what a jerk he was. Jerry and I witnessed the whole production. We were walking by the scene and Jerry caught up to the man right there in the lot and told him that those ladies had been waiting for that spot and he had been a jerk to pull forward like that, to which Bubba answered, "Life's a bitch." In turn, Jerry stopped in his tracks, turned to the man vis-a'-vis and responded, "And some people are cocksuckers."

I was flabbergasted and when the man turned back to his truck I was sure he was going to come at us with his sawed-off double barrel shotgun and blow Jerry's nutsac away, ending messily any chance we may have had of having one more biological child. But that's not what he did. He actually got into his truck and left. The henpecking from the two women and Jerry's "Ballsinhishand" attitude had taken the man right out of the mood to shop for his turkish rug and armoire. I was so proud of Jerry. He's normally so non-confrontational that I was shocked. I'm normally the one who makes the snide comments about how people can be such dicks, even if it's usually under my breath lest someone actually hears me.

It was on our way home from our trip that Jerry made the most interesting comment. We were discussing how one of my friends recently blew me off and that I was hurt by the action. Jerry responded with this, "Everybody's a pearl."

Everybody's a Pearl. Oh, you mean precious yet no two are alike and we should value our difference?

No. Not quite. "Everybody's a pearl.... We all irratate each other once in a while and we just have to add a little more coating to smooth things over."

After all that, I'm amazed that he doesn't like to argue with me more, which he doesn't because he thinks I usually try to make him feel stupid with my all my double-talk and mumbo-jumbo list of facts. If he just went with his guts, like he had all day on Saturday, he would never lose.

"Freaky Mother"

As a teenager in angst, I loved taking the quizzes in Seventeen, Cosmo, Cover Girl, etc. Here's a grown-up version that is just as fun and surprisingly, rather accurate (for me anyway) considering the few questions you have to answer. 25% of those polled are *Punk Mamas*! Rock on, sista's!

You may have already seen and/or taken the test as it seems to be floating around the popular blogs, so feel free to jump on the bandwagon!


You're a punk rock mommy! DIY is probably your
motto, because you're a punk mama at heart.
Your kids are getting your independent spirit
and guts, and learning to solve problems
themselves. You love it when they show their
independence, even when it's breaking your
heart.


What kind of a freaky mother are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

First Hit of Blog

I was going to post how I finally started ordering my drugs for the upcoming IVF cycle, but I figure I’ve got a few weeks before I start getting myself into a lather about that. Instead, April hit on something in her comment to my last post that piqued my curiosity. And...BTW, all of the websites you recommended were great. They have been added to Max's Favorites.

That First Hit of Blog. You know you’ve done it, or else you wouldn’t be here. You can try to hide how your hands and wrists always seem to be in the proper typing form, but you’re not fooling anyone.

I’ll start for I have no shame. Yeah, yeah. You don’t have to point out the fact that if I have no shame, which I politely refer to as “modesty”, why do I not share my whole name, address, phone number, etc., but hey! a gal's got to have a little mystery. It’s kinda’ like a girly magazine: if I was buck naked, well that would just be slutty; however if I had on a little nighty with just the right amount of coverage, that would be enough to keep one coming back for more…not that any one of you probably want to or should see me in a nighty…

I digress. The first Blog I read was Within the Woods. It was back in early August of this year while I was g00gling on the Follistim pen, which I was going to be using for my IUIs. And lo! I was hooked because she was such an honest and funny writer. In fact, her recent post on Mr. Diddles is drink-snort-out-through-the-nose HILARIOUS!

So now it’s your turn. What I want to know is when and where did you get your First Hit of Blog? What were you looking for? Of course, if your first Hit was here because you g00gled buck+naked+slutty+nighty, well you can just go take a flyin’ fuck - you pervo.

Cultivating the Next AppleIBMMicrosoft Magnate

Not counting the two cats who reside in our house, there are 3 other life forms who have the ability to open a laptop due to the gift of the opposable thumb. Those beings of course are Jerry, Dawn and Max.

Jerry's use of the computer is limited to Eebaay, hobby car forums, and solitare. I'm guessing he puts in about 2 hours - tops - a day, including any time work-related. I recently asked him why he doesn't do something "useful" on the computer, like research which appliances we should get for the house or figure out what to get his parents for Christmas. My suggestions fell on deaf ears.

I, on the other hand, use to spend a lot of time online-window shopping. My favorites consisted of shopping sites, split between clothes for Max and clothes for me. This was during my free-time, and I use the term verrryy looosssely. I also spend all my day at work on a computer. That changed a few months ago when I took my first hit of blog. My free time (and sometimes not so free time) has been divvied up between blogging and doing my own appliance shopping. BTW: blogging is a little more enjoyable and infinitely more useful mentally. Who needs a stove anyway except for those ambitious people who actually...COOK! *gasp*

But let us not forget Max. All babies take an interest in adult activities, whether its the cooking, vacuuming, folding clothes, etc., and computer use appears to be no exception. Max has taken to it like a duck to water. I do worry sometimes that he may be on it for too long, but I make sure that the activities are appropriate for his age. His faves are Disney Playhouse, Sesame Workshop, and Peep and the Big Wide World. And knowing that even in his preschool class they use a computer, I am comfortable that proper exposure will be - and is - an asset. He handles the mouse like a pro and he even knows how to end his programs and hibernate the laptop.


Does anyone have their favorite toddler-friendly websites that they would like to recommend? He might look bored in the pix, but believe me if I were to shut down the computer without the 5 minute warning, WWIII would break out in my very own home... and I'd probably lose.

Spring Cleaning

First, let me say Thank You to all of you who left your comments in response to the Memoriam. I am humbled and most appreciative.

So now that I now have figuratively finished the spring cleaning of my heart, other areas of neglect are also due for some attention.

Last week I was told my the RE's clinic that I couldn't start the pill until I had my period. If my period did not arrive on said date, even though I was already on day 36 of my cycle, they would prescribe me provera. I would have to wait until my period started and that I had a good, heavy flow to make sure "things got cleaned out really good."

Uh...'scuse me?

I didn't realize that my uterus was in need of a dusting, otherwise I would have looked into getting a Woomba a little earlier as they are on back-order due to the holidays. Now I have to find one of those spider vacs or settle for a Swif.fer. I know that the old ute hasn't experienced much activity lately, but how much damage can a few dust bunnies and spider webs really cause anyway?

So on Nov. 9 I started the Provera and even though I was told it could take anywhere from 3 - 10 days to get my period, I was in full flow-mode by the next day. Today I get to start taking the Pill, and have already been instructed to take it through December 3, which ironically is Max's 4 th Birthday. In the days following, I will start my schedule of the fine IVF drugs in prep for our ICSI. I'm psyched. Scared. Excited. Nervous. Scared some more. Etc.

And just for fun, please feel free to finish this sentence, "My uterus is so clean..." For example, "My uterus is so clean...I could see my reflection if I was flexible enough," because we could always use a little levity in our lives - that is if you weren't able to enjoy the video on the Woomba.

In Memoriam, Part II - Conclusion

...continued from yesterday's post...

It was the day of the scheduled D&C, November 11, 2004, and OB had instructed me about the no-food-and-drink and to come to his office in the a.m. to review what would be happening. I was given the order-form and sent over to the hospital. I checked in with the receptionist who requested to see my order and told her I was scheduled for ambulatory surgery. She looked it over and then snidely said, “Well, what procedure are you here for?” Like it’s any of your fucking business, I thought and then without a word, I curtly tapped on the order with my finger where it said, “Dilation & Curettage” while I glared at her. “Ooops, sorry about that. [insincere apologetic smile] Go ahead and have a seat and we will get you checked in.” I walked over to a chair and started crying…again. What made that whole experience more horrible than it should have been? I work at the hospital. She knows me. Just about everyone knows who I am, and she was a bitch to me and I have never spoken to her again.

Once I was sent to ambulatory, the nurse came in to go over standard procedures which included asking if I wanted to see anyone in Spiritual Care. No, absolutely not, I answered. What about social services about grief counseling? Not today, but they have permission to at a later date.

Jerry did not accompany me, but would be there as I was coming out of anesthesia. We had nothing left to say at that point and every time I saw him, I would apologize for losing the baby, as if it was my fault. He apologized for not being able to take my pain away. We were tired of saying sorry to each other and thought maybe it was G*d’s turn to apologize. Sometimes I think I am still waiting.

I don’t remember much after that except being asked to wake up post-procedure. I remember thinking what if they were wrong? What if Baby May had been alive and the tech read the US wrong? I fought against the reality and tried to stay asleep, dreamless, just for a while longer. Jerry called my name and I began to cry some more.

That was a Thursday. I didn’t come back to work until Monday, and I didn’t know how I was going to be able to get anything done without breaking down and I dreaded the questions, comments, polite sympathies and dreaded platitudes. Instead, my co-workers avoided me as if I carried the plague, and I grew angry. I found out that no one knew what to do so they were instructed not to mention it, as if it had never happened. I spoke to the co-worker I consider the closest to me and I explained that I HAVE to talk about it or else my heart will explode. And so slowly they stopped avoiding my office and made eye contact and I told them about my pain. I felt minutely better…that was until V. from social services called me.

The conversation started innocuously enough.
V: I would like to send you some pamphlets that we send to our patients who have experienced this type of loss, yada, yada, yada, and I also have the baby’s footprints.

Stunned silence.

DD: What do you mean you have the baby’s footprints? You mean like a poem called The Baby’s Footprints, right?

V: Oh, no. The pathologist who was there always tries to get footprints for the parents and during the D&C she was not only able to get footprints but some handprints as well of your baby.

DD: I can’t talk right now.

And I hung up on her and started bawling all over again. I was shocked and angry that she had the complete brain-fuck to not deliver that surprise to me in person so I could have ripped off her head and vomited down her neck. They took MY UNBORN BABY’S FOOTPRINTS AT 15WKS GESTATION!!!!!
……

Even OB was upset that he was not notified of this supposed “courtesy” that the pathologist was providing. To him, that info should be sent to the OB who would then discuss with HIS patient whether or not she would like to be provided that type of “memento.” He would talk to the path and get things squared away.

V. then showed up at my office all apologetic about dropping that bomb on me over the phone. She left a packet of info with me and told me that the envelope with the baby’s footprints were inside.

I had to have my friend S. with me when I opened the envelope with “Baby Lastname” written on it. I pulled out a card, the kind they use in the maternity ward to take the newborn’s foot- and handprints. Right there were 3 very tiny handprints and 2 miniature footprints. Blurry, but without a doubt handprints and footprints, all no bigger than the bed of your pinkie-nail. I handed the card to S. We both started to cry.

Several weeks later it was confirmed that Baby May had a chromosomal anomaly. Jerry and I have both tested negative for the corresponding gene, so Baby May’s death was a “fluke”. It wasn’t because I wasn’t taking my pre-natal vitamin regularly; or drinking cola and not enough water; or that I ate a hot dog. OB was right. This loss was not my fault.
……

The reality is I am now the mother of 2 children. One is now days from turning 4. The other is buried in a small plot the hospital owns, which I have been to only once. I will go again today. OB said that I can find out the sex of Baby May when I am ready. I had planned on finding out when we got pg again, except I didn’t know that we wouldn’t as easily as we had hoped. I then thought on the one-year anniversary of the D&C, I should know if I was having a boy or a girl and give Baby May an official name. I can’t. The wound is still too fresh and bleeds with every touch, every reminder of what I don’t have.

For those of who have suffered through a loss, you eventually do stop crying every day, but it can take weeks, if not months. Even now a year later, EVERY night when I lay my head on the pillow, I think about Baby May. My ass-vice? Don’t push those thoughts away. Keep the memories, even if think you will never be able to look at them again, including the HPT with the faint 2nd pink line, the US, the cards of congrats, the cards of sympathy, and the pressed flowers, all in a special keepsake box. I will now share my most precious memory of Baby May:

In Memoriam, Part I

I have started this post in my mind almost everyday since I started my own blog back in August. I want to share the moments of that day exactly a year ago, November 10, 2004, for two reasons: 1) I want the baby, who I will refer to as Baby May (which refers to the month due) to be memorialized both honorably and honestly; and 2) I am hoping this helps me move beyond this soul-obliterating grief I have been feeling for so long that has been perpetuated by our failure to conceive again and brings some resolution.

Please take this as an opportunity to delurk as yes, I am looking for validation. Today I have no shame, no pride in asking for such, as it will only inhibit the emotions, which in written form is problematic in itself.

And with a deep breath, I begin:

November 10, 2004 Jerry picked me up from work so we could go to lunch together. I didn’t realize until much later that I was finally starting to not feel so wretchedly tired and the awful, dirty-sock-in-the-mouth taste was not as overwhelming. We did a quick lunch, just 30 minutes as I had been missing quite a bit of work, sometimes not coming in until 9:30-10:00 a.m. due to morning sickness.

After Jerry dropped me off back at my office, I visited the ladies room for a quick break. It was when I wiped that I saw the spotting. Tiny, bright red spots on the paper. There was nothing in my underwear to indicate that the spotting was anything but very recent. I called by OB immediately as my pregnancy had been uneventful to this point; and my pregnancy with Max was just as uneventful. It was only 12:30 and OB wouldn’t be back into the office until 1:00, they could see me then. With only a few words to a fellow co-worker about where I was going, and her reassuring words echoing in my head, I left my office noting I should be back by 2:00pm.

Once at OB’s, I appeared to be patiently waiting, but on the inside I was vibrating with nervous tension. I had called Jerry to let him know where I was. “Do you want me to meet you?” he asked, but I told him I would give him a call later once I had seen OB as it was probably my paranoia taking over. I was escorted to the exam room, and I gave the nurse the details of the spotting. It sounded so innocuous even to me, that I wondered why I was even there, but she assured me that they would make sure everything was OK so I could get back to work. More waiting ensued. OB finally came in, along with a nurse in training. He got out the Doppler and I tried to relax on the exam table. The Doppler seemed strangely cold for having been pulled out of his coat pocket, and I heard the familiar static as the wand moved over my just swelling belly. It was only 9 days earlier that we had done this for the first time following a normal US. I remember he remarked at that time how easy it was to find the heartbeat. He did not say it this time. As he tried again and again to maneuver the Doppler in a way to find the little *bump, bump* of Baby May’s heartbeat, he tried to joke about how my digestive system was covering up the sound of the baby’s heart. That went on for several minutes, until he shut off the Doppler to tell me that we should just do an US. He also tried to reassure me that everything was probably fine, and it was just my guts’ loud rumbling that prevented him from picking up the heartbeat with the same ease he had several days ago. But, in that moment, I knew something was wrong. As OB exited the room I started sobbing and the nursing student squeezed my hand quickly before following.

I still did not call Jerry. To get him to the OB’s office just in time for me to find me looking a little sheepish over nothing was not going to help get his work done. I waited alone for over 25 minutes. The one US machine was in use, but I would be next said the nurse who popped her head in after 20 minutes to inform me of the delay. It was then I called Jerry, and asked him to meet me for the US. I hadn’t stopped crying the whole time.

When I was finally escorted to the US room, I advised the receptionist to send Jerry in when he came. I was prepped with the cold slime on my stomach and the machine was turned on. Just as the wand touched by skin, Jerry came in to stand beside me. I found it odd that the tech did not have the screen facing me as she always had in the past, but instead it was turned just enough away from me at an angle that allowed me to see only the distorted blackness of the screen. She moved the wand slowly and Jerry held my hand while watching me. I will never, ever forget what the tech then said to us following those horrible moments of silence “I don’t see a heartbeat, either.”

My heart broke into a hundred-thousand shards of pain and I wailed. Jerry almost fell upon me in his own stunned grief and we clung to each other. Painful waves of anguish washed over us again and again. I briefly remember in that haze the tech rubbing my knee in sympathy before excusing herself to get OB to look at the images. I was sobbing loudly and uncontrollably and I felt like retching. OB and the tech came back in and quietly looked at the now frozen image on the screen while they measured. “12 wks gestational age” was the size of my little baby, who had already stopped growing when I had come in 1.5 weeks ago.

OB quietly and professionally explained to us what are options would be, which was to let the MC naturally take its course or a D&C and all that each entailed. He told us to call him later that night with our decision if was to be a D&C as he would have to schedule the OR room. They left Jerry and I alone again and told us we could take as much time as we needed there and showed us the rear exit of the clinic if we wanted to avoid the waiting room full of still-expecting patients.

When we finally left, my car stayed in the parking lot as I was physically incapable of driving. Jerry took me home, put me into bed and hugged and held my hand, until no more tears would come. He went back to work, and I took a deep breath bracing myself for the immediate phone calls I knew I had to make. Each phone call started off calm but before I could finish the sentence, “we lost the baby” I was again wracked by sobbing. I called my mother, my best friend, and a fellow co-worker who were left in shock by the abrupt news. The platitudes started even then, and now, a year later such statements like, “It’s part of G*d’s plan,” “You can try again,” and finally, “At least you still have Max,” still sound like nails on a chalkboard.

By 5:00pm, I had called OB to let him know that we would move forward with the D&C. He was obviously affected by this as well and told us that he would make sure to have the baby sent for analysis since we were as far along as we were, but that the results may come back inconclusive. He said not to blame myself, as he was sure it was nothing I had done to cause this. The D&C, scheduled for the following day, was when I would have been exactly 15 weeks pregnant.

When Jerry came home after picking up Max from daycare, I remember them both coming into the bedroom and Max, who was just weeks away from turning 3, stood next to the bed and said, “Mommy, are you going to be OK? Daddy said you were sick.” I lied and said, “Yes, I’m going to be OK.”.

…to be continued…

Max's Early Education

I've been on a roll lately of posting nothing but bitchy, snarky and mildly (?) depressing notable recent moments of my life, and I think I need a turn-a-round, even if briefly, to remind myself that not all is crappy here in the Great Plains. However, let me give an early notice that this will not last as I have been trying to draft a post in memorium for Nov. 10...

Anyhoo...

Max turns 4 in December. He is brilliant. Yes, a future Rhodes scholar if there was one. Why? Well, because he's MY son of course. You need proof, you say? He's so smart that when I ask him if he wants to be a doctor when he grows up so he can help people who are sick and make them feel better, he quickly and confidently tells me that no, he is going to be a race car driver.

Harumph, you say? This is not a NASCAR-bred child, as that sort of drivel is not allowed in my home (not while I'm in the house, anyway!).

Cars are Max's life-blood. His first Hot Wheels Car was a police cruiser when he was just over a year old. Jerry and I would scramble when it drew close to ny-ny time to make sure that damn thing was in his crib. And, please no one comment about the small object issue. He is nearly 4 and I've never had to remove anything from any orifice besides boogers and the too-big-of-bite-of-hot-dog (knock-on-wood). Max would cuddle with that little car and every nite we would sneak back into his room and remove it from his little fist and put it on the floor next to the crib so it was one of the first things he saw in the a.m.

As he grew, so did his collection. He immediately knew the diff between Hot Wheels cars and other "substandard" knockoffs. Then came the model recognition, which did NOT originate from his father, but from me. Remember, I am a closet gear-head and no son (or daughter if I am to be so lucky) will ever not know their BMW from their Mercedes. So a little over a year ago, I showed him something on one of his cars. It was this:

Now I know that it may be pretty hard to tell what is going on with such a little picture, so let me help you out. On the hood of this particular car, right smack dab in the middle is a teeny-tiny rectangle. In the middle of this teeny-tiny rectangle is a silhouette of a rearing horse pawing in the air. I told Max that THIS is a Ferrari, and any of the cars he has in his collection that have this horse is a Ferrari.

Let me tell you folks, that he is an expert now on Ferraris...that is until he got this as a gift:

Yes, a John Deere tractor. Remember? I live in Nebraska.

Now as you can clearly see there is an animal on the front, in silhouette, much like the theory behind the Ferrari emblem. Max noticed. He came to me and asked why THIS Ferrari had so many tires. I found the this particularly funny and both Jerry and I love sharing the story with family and friends.

Max has also been schooled on the Dodge (a sheep's head); the Ford (a blue oval), which is not to be confused with the Culver's restaurant logo; and of course The Best Brand of Car on the Road - Bar None - The Toyota, of which we currently own three.

So as you can see, I can actually post about something besides IF Doom & Gloom. I AM very grateful that Max is in my life. We have realized with all the recent development of *Male Factor*, that he is nothing short of a miracle...but, you know what? We knew that the moment he was born.

Four Days Late...and Counting!

My dear friends I am about to bust with hysterical laughter! I am 4 days late, no period and now in a 2-day limbo before I can do ANYTHING about it! Dr. M. wants me to wait 2 more agonizing days, take another HPT and if still no spotting and a negative result, I have to start taking a script that will make my period start, which could take anywhere for 4 to 10 days after I start taking it. *giggle* THEN, I have to wait until Day 3 to start the Pill for the next 21 days. Bwa-ha-ha-ha!

It gets better: *best* case scenario (I use the term v-e-r-y loosely), we are looking somewhere around Xmas Eve for a transfer (the only day of the year the clinic is closed is Xmas); and *worst* case scenario, we push this into the beginning of 2006 making 2005 THE Shittiest Year Ever! Yeah! (applause, cheers, confetti falling!) Ha-Ha, Ha-Ha. Oooooh, my stomach hurts from laughing…or is that sobbing??

Wait, wait! Let me catch my breath! It gets even better!

S., my friend who quite efficiently read what I thought was a positive pg test as negative? She is now 2 days late for her own period. I had to confess to her that it would hurt if she was pg before me, BUT that once I got over that initial stab, I would be very happy for her. This doesn’t read convincingly, but she knows what I mean.

I won’t bother railing my fists against the sky, crying out, “WHY!!?” as it appears to be falling on deaf ears. I feel so broken and defeated, yet I am trying to see that glimmer of Hope with the ICSI, if it should ever take place.

Wow. Just when I thought I wouldn’t have any drama to post once this pre-ICSI cycle started. I didn’t realize the drama would be just getting the bloody thing to start (more knee-slapping in response to the unintentional pun)!

Does the merriment ever end?

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Edited by adding the following on 11/8/05: About my rantings above, let me just say I don't draft and then post, but post on the fly which can give everyone the impression I am quite crazy...I'm only kinda' crazy, but quite harmless...

Three Days Late

OK...now AF is 3 days late and nary a phone call to let me know where she is and why the hell she is late. If I find out it's because Men O'Pause is delaying her, I don't know what I'll do besides crawl into bed and cry all day.

I have also gone through 3 more HPT since using the leftover in my car. THIS time, I read through the instructions and am quite sure that they all were a big fat negative.

It only figures that when I really want this thing to start so I can begin the regimine for the ICSI that it would elude me like a wisp of vapor. Ironic that a month ago I was running the bathroom dreading what I would find and now I look in anticipation for some, ANY, spotting, isn't it?

I don't know what kind of cruel joke Youknowwho upstairs is playing, but this really isn't the time to be fucking with my head. I thought it was bad enough to have to go through my period on the year anniversary of my miscarriage, but this is...well...indescribable.

I'm Pregnant! . . . . . . Just Kidding!

My period is a day late.

Good news, right?

Unfortunately...not so much.

I'm on day 30 of my cycle, which has been thrown completely out of loop by the past three or so cycles on FSH. I'm guessing that my normally dependable and uneventful cycle has gone slightly beserk, but I have not been wanting to admit that...until, of course, this afternoon.

I'm sitting in my office thinking about how I am now a day late and am showing all the signs of PMS: crabby, bitchy and an attitude that reaks of barely contained fuckoffs for anyone who dares to look at me cross-wise. However, I am also thinking, what if? Maybe I'm pg and I'm not showing the typical signs. I am atypical, you know.

I realize then that I still have one of the clinic's HPT in my car, never used on the suggested date as AF always beat me to the punch. I run out to the parking lot at work, dig the little brown bag out of the center console and head back to my office stopping for a potty-break, glancing left and right to make sure no one has noticed my secret booty. Enclosed with the HPT is all the makings necessary to test "on the fly", as it were: a plastic specimen cup, a teeny-tiny plastic dropper and one HPT.

I do my thing and start the test. I couldn't find a web pix of the product the clinic gave me so I will try to describe it: it's about the size of a credit card and on the front are two square windows. One is large and contains the control line running horizontal. The other square is much smaller and is blank. As the pee moves across the litmus paper, it passes through the big box first and then the little one. I'm watching and notice that a faint, verticle blue line is appearing in the little box. I hold my breath. Could it be? Oh. my. god! Yes!

I dash out of the bathroom, go back outside and quickly called Jerry, hiding the test in the palm of my hand. "Hello?"

"Hey..." my voice cracks.

"What's the matter?" Jerry says in a tone that's more like, "What's the matter, now?" as I have been prone lately to jags of crying.

"Uh, nothing...I'm pregnant."

"You're kidding. How do you know? Are you sure?"

"I was late so I took the test that was in the car."

"You have been kinda' crabby lately..." he speculates more to himself than me.

"I'm so happy, Jerry! I need to call the clinic! They will probably want to see me right away in the a.m., don't you think?" I'm babbling.

"OK, but let's not tell anyone else right now."

"I've got to tell someone. Is it OK if I tell S.? I have to tell someone or I'll BUST!"

"Fine," he caves, "just S."

I run back inside the building and go right into S.'s office. I smugly toss the test onto her desk and wait for her response as she was on the phone. What's this? she mouths to me. It's a positive pregnancy test, I mouth back. "Hey, can I call you back?" she says to whoever was on the line and hangs up so quickly I'm sure they didn't have a chance to answer. I give her the update and she stares at the test.

"Isn't there supposed to be a plus sign?"

"Huh? No. Of course not. The little box with the vertical line? That's a positive...

...I think..."

*crickets chirping*

My little balloon of happiness is starting to deflate.

She asks me for the instructions, which I had thrown away in the bathroom trash-can, so I go to get them. I read them on the way back to her desk, prepared to tell her she's just trying to mess with my head.

FUCK!

I'm sure you had that figured out by now, right? That I was so wanting to be pregnant that I actually read a negative test as positive. What a knee-slapper! Oh, I kill me with the hysterics! Hahahahahaha. Ha. Ha. Jokes on me. I call Jerry again. He has caller ID.

"April Fools?" he asks, jokingly.

"How did you guess?"

I then apologize profusely, feeling stupid and childish for not being able to pull my head out of my ass and simply read a HPT. He doesn't say much, but I know he is crestfallen.

What did I learn from this? No, not how to read an HPT accurately. For those few precious minutes of joy...delirious and giddy joy...I knew that any thoughts I had been having about not going through with the ICSI because of the potential financial burden of paying for the procedure all up front would impose on us just doesn't matter. WE want to have another baby.

The next person who says to me, "You should be happy you have the one you have,"(what the hell does *the one you have* mean, anyway?) will be kicked squarely in the shins, PMS or no.

Testing...check,check...testing...

.
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They say building a house is a test on a marriage.
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They say going through infertility treatment is a test on a marriage.
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What do They say building a house AND going through infertility treatment is?

K.I.S.S.

I have been reviewing the list of yummy drugs that I will be required to obtain in prep for the ICSI. Yes, I know, it's a little early in the game to get myself worked up as I am still waiting for AF to visit sometime this week, which begins the one cycle of The Pill.

What I am confused about is why do you give yourself BOTH the Lupron AND FSH? Why the different drugs if the protocol follows IUI, for which we went through 2? I've tried to G00gle it, but I have neither the time or the patience to figure it out. However, I know that you, my little lurker, may have just the right answer. But please, for my sake, K.I.S.S. (Keep It Simple, Stupid), and by the way... that last "S" refers to me.