No. 143 - ...And We're Off Like a Herd of Turtles

Question from Cricket: She wanted to know where else I’ve lived since being born and currently working in the same building leads one to believe I don’t get out much. I don’t, sad to say, but during the ballroom dancing stint I lived in Lincoln, Omaha, and Wichita, KS. Born in the Midwest, destined to die in the Midwest.

Question from Leggy: She asked where my best vacation was and where would my dream vacation be. I think the summer we went to one of my SIL’s beach house in S. Caroline in 2004 was the best, even though it was wrought with In-Law Politics and Bullshit (a semi-family reunion). Mr. DD, X and myself spent our time either at the beach or in the pool. X hadn’t yet turned 3 but that boy still talks about going to the beach. We really would like to go back this year -WITHOUT the family circus this time. My dream vacation? It would be anywhere that had a pool with a view of the ocean (no sandy crack for me, please), cabana boys, cheap shopping and no husband or child. Anyone know where that is?

...And it's time for the IVF # 2 BlahBlah!

My period started Wednesday night. I called the RE Thursday to let them know that it was CD1. I had my baseline ultrasound and lab work this morning. It sucks that I have to be there between 7 – 9:30 a.m. Today, I cut it close by leaving SmallTown a little after 7:00 a.m. and made it to the Metro just after 9:00. If the traffic had been crappy, I would’ve been screwed. I think I’ll leave a little earlier next time, because the last thing I need to do is end up in a fender bender or playing a little urban chicken during my IVF cycle.

I’ve been cleared for take off. I didn’t mention Nurse Robbi or any of the other crappy staff as I didn’t have to deal with any of them today. Dr. Blinksalot did my ultrasound. I took that opportunity to ask her what she thought about transferring all the embryos. Needless to say, she didn’t think much of it, but made a “compromise” and said we could look at transferring 4 instead of 3. Pfffffft. I tried to explain that it seemed like a waste to save any embryos for a FET. If they are going to make it, their best chance is fresh; plus why should I go through the expense of thawing them and then not being able to transfer them. Sure, they didn’t make it as embicycles before so they probably wouldn’t have made it fresh, but nothing sucks more than getting your hopes up only to have them float off like burning embers: all aglow in the night only cool off and crumble to soot.

We’ve changed our protocol just a little. Instead of taking 450IU of repronex 1x/daily, we are going to try 225 in the morning and 225 in the evening to see if a more evenly distribution will get me some more eggs. For those of you who didn’t keep track the last time (like, who would?), 10 were retrieved; 9 fertilized; 3 transferred; and 3 qualified for freezing.

My goal this time is not necessarily getting more eggs, and not even a positive beta. I’ve had that and apparently it actually doesn’t mean shit. This time I want a positive beta that I can completely stress about for 16 weeks, since that gets me past the stage I lost Baby May, and hope by that time any baby would figure they may as well stick around for at least another 16. That’s a lot of toilet paper to be compulsively checking…

Personal (by association) factoid: Mr. DD was born in Baltimore.

No. 142 - Finger Pointing

Mr. DD and I had a little brouhaha last night. It neither involved Brew and most certainly no Ha-Ha. It started when he made some snippy remark about how much time I spend blogging. I responded with “as much time you spend sitting on your ass watching TV” and it didn’t get better from there.

After X was put to bed and I had calmed down, I asked him if he understood why I blog and what exactly does he think it means to “blog”. He got the first part right, which was to get emotional support, but I had to explain that blogging is more than creating a post and publishing. It’s reading other blogs. It’s supporting others with comments. I explained that not all the blogs I read are infertility related. Blogging satisfies my guilty pleasure of just reading. I don’t have time to get absorbed in a novel.

I then elaborated on the support, which is a HUGE deal to me. Here’s the example I gave him: earlier this week I told Mr. DD that a co-worker announced her pregnancy. I relayed the news in a most matter-of-fact manner. He berated me for sounding “vanilla” about the news. I told him that if I had posted that on my blog, I would be consoled by my Blogtopia friends who would say, “That sucks,” “I’m so sorry, that must really be hard,” or “I’m sure it will be your time soon.” No one is going to tell me, “Gee, you sound so ‘vanilla’. Why can’t you be happy for that person?” but that’s what he did.

When a pregnancy is announced, whether it’s IRL or via a blog post, I AM happy for that person. What a miracle, whether it was hard-won or easily obtained. But…here’s the “But”: I am UNhappy for me. Admittedly, this is a selfish aspect, but let’s just be clear here: I’m not trying to get pregnant to please my boss, my neighbor, my SIL, my church, etc. I’m trying to get pregnant to please ME* and MY* needs and wants. I want 9 months to be selfish. I have years to be altruistic. And seriously, I haven’t gone through two IUIs and soon two IVFs; the related bloodletting and cootercams; and put over 4,400 RE-related miles on my car this winter because I’m trying to improve my state’s economy.

I then went on a tear-filled rant: how guilty I feel for losing the baby; how every night for that first year I thought of Baby May; why do we have to go through all this treatment shit when it was so easy with X; why I’m expected to be happy for everyone and not have a moment to feel sorry for myself; and finally I asked him doesn’t he ever feel guilty that we’re not pregnant.

“Why would I feel guilty?” he asks.

You could’ve knocked me over with the breeze from a blink.

“Because of your sperm,” I answered without trying to sound accusatory or hysterical.

“I haven’t seen any proof that it’s me.”

How could he say that when with each IUI, Dr. Samelastnameasme would tell me, “Oooh, DD, Mr. DD’s sample’s not looking so hot.” Oh, that’s right. She was just telling me. Relaying that little bit of conversation to Mr. DD did not qualify as a tentative diagnosis. Not even when we met with Dr. Blinksalot prior to our first IVF who explained that the sperm samples had been so poor that we would have to do ICSI. No open-swim in the Petri dish for his little guys. To him, that was just small talk.

I was beyond livid. “Do you think all of this has been because of ME?” I asked. No, that’s not it at all. He just feels that if we have done everything we could and the RE has done everything she could, and the end result is a pile of shit, then no one is to blame.

“Well I think…” *blink blink*

“That’s just…” *blink blink*

I was speechless, spent. Because he’s right. No one is to blame, so there is nothing to feel guilty about. It’s not like I missed a stim dose one night, or he missed the cup, or the RE was drunk. We ALL did what we thought was best at that time.

He then went on to tell me that I am not the only one hurting through all this. The other day he had to go into the attic and he said there were all these little reminders of what was…and what could be: plastic tubs full of baby clothes, the changing table, bassinet, diaper pail, etc. He aches each time he walks into the new house and has to go by that front bedroom, recalling our plans. He catches himself each time I seemingly casually mention the “baby’s room.” He’s hurting, too, but he says sometimes I’m just so wrapped up in being sad and – ultimately – angry, that he just tries to get through the day without a confrontation.

Lastly, he pointed something out that I’ve always known in the back of my head. For all of us who are trying for that pregnancy and rooting each other on, it’s statistically impossible that it will happen for every single blogger who’s trying…and WE could very well be the ones it just doesn’t happen for.

If so, I will have to try really hard to remember no one is to blame.

*ME and MY also means US or OUR.

Personal factoid: X was conceived March 21, 2001.

No. 141 - Nurse Robbi

Well, I called my clinic and spoke to a Nurse Robbi. Never have talked to her. Not sure I want to again.

I explained I took my last BCP Saturday p.m. and still no spotting/bleeding.

"We usually give it 4-5 days. If it hasn't started by Friday, you should probably come in."

'Scuze me? By tomorrow’s end it will have been 4 days. If it doesn't start tomorrow, I will be coming IN Friday, whether they want me to or not (I'd come in Thursday, but I have a ton of meetings that I can't miss).

Job requirement for any RE clinic’s staff is that they should have had to struggle with infertility at one time or another in their lives. The current staff acts as if we women are all a bunch of whiney ninnies and I will be sure to say so the next time I see Dr. Blinksalot. A little respect for my raw, frazzled, and fucked up nerves, thank you. That will keep me from spontaneously kicking you in the mouth at my next ultrasound or screaming uncontrollably while you try to draw my blood.

Bitch.

Personal factoid: I am petrified of crickets (no offense, Cricket). The big, black, crunchy crickets.

No. 140 - Nutshell

Since I don't have anything terrribly interesting to write, I thought I would answer some of your questions, (which in many cases were related to my "Personal Factoids" and not the actual post linked) even if you thought you were asking them hypothetically. Plus, I asked for your help and assvice in some matters and nothing makes me crazier than someone who asks for your opinion and then never lets you know what was decided...

These are in no particular order:

I still have not found a replacement for the discontinued eye concealer. Clinique still makes the product, they just don't make that particular color any more. I'm still scraping what I can out of my little compact, but during a trip to the Metro I picked up a concealer from Darphin. The jury's still out.

The pumps I bought? I haven't had the occassion to wear them, with all the recent snow and everything, so they have sat in the box this past week. Just for shits and giggles I checked out B.R.'s website and the damn things are now on sale. Guess who is going to return them and get the difference credited back to my card? If they don't want to do that, I'll just return them for a full refund.

I never wore anything close to formal when playing pool. League and competitive pool is nothing like what you see at the pubs. It's call-pocket (aka gentleman's pool) and lots of potential for penalty shots: one being if anything other than the cue's tip touches any ball on the table it is a foul. Loose clothing, long sleeves, shirt tails, bracelets, long hair, etc., that could potentially touch the ball was a no-no. I stuck to bodysuits. Remember those? We're talking the 80's here, people.

I asked Mr. DD about what he thought about transferring any and all viable embryos fresh. I thought he might have a panic attack since he really thought we were going to have triplets when we transferred three the first time, but once I explained the "what's the point to freezing" theory to him, he was surprisingly receptive and quite agreeable. Now to convince Dr. Blinksalot.

It has been a full 48 hours since my last BCP. No bleeding. Not even a spot.

My grandmother's demise to ether poisoning was during a appendectomy. However, since that was 71 years ago, having that type of surgery was extremely dangerous (even now, general anesthesia is some serious shit). My mother became the proverbial step-child when her father (my grandfather) remarried. She is bitter about the loss of her mother and the addition of step-siblings to this day even though she doesn't have any tangible memories of her mother.

Thank you for easing my concerns over X's personality type. He is not Highly Sensitive per the web-test. It appears it really is due to him being 4. I now have to convince Mr. DD that his son is normal and counseling or assessment is not necessary...unless he's talking about for himself as he really can be quite impatient with X. He's an excellent father, don't get me wrong, but Mr. DD needs to realize that the way his father disciplined him is not going to cut it in this house. He's figuring this out, slowly but surely.

So...that's it in a nutshell. If there's something I missed, let me know right away because as soon as my period starts, you are going to have to deal with CD #blahblah and retrieval blahblah and transfer blahblah and beta blahblah for the next four weeks.

Personal Factoid: I was born in the very building I where I currently work almost 39 years ago.

No. 139 - Eggshells

There are these moments - sometimes they flicker through my head like lightning bugs; other times they can last all weekend weighing me down like lead socks - where I worry about X and how his future will play out because of his disposition.

He was a great baby. Sure there was the colic during weeks 3-8 that would "inspire" me to call Mr. DD who was on a pool league during that time and demand that he play all his games and COME HOME AT ONCE! I cringe when I think how the other guys must have thought how terribly henpecked Mr. DD was as I'm sure he didn't give them the impression he was pussywhipped. Other than those few weeks, X was mellow, calm, observant - a perfect foil for two high-strung and worrisome first-time parents. I attributed this blooming personality to his father.

But as X went through his third year and most recently his 4th birthday, I began to worry. He is of "delicate nature," which is how I describe his particularly foul moods. We find ourselves tiptoeing around him when he is noticeably on edge, tired, crabby...I believe the technical term to describe this particular personality is "A Pill." For example, getting him a glass of milk is not as simple as getting a glass and pouring in milk. It has to be THE Glass. And, THE Glass may not be THE Glass that it was yesterday. Plus, there may be more than one of the same exact glass and so it became a crap shoot in which we must either guess which one is THE Glass or to not let X see where the glass was pulled from.

Now we have THE Glass. It's time to get out the milk. If for some reason we had purchased 1/2 gallon cartons of milk because of a sale, instead of selecting from only 2 1-gallon milk cartons, there may be 4 1/2-gallons in the fridge. Gd forbid you pick the wrong one. Again, the key was to not let him see which one he is getting.

Ok, now we have 1 glass? Check.
We have milk? Check.
We fill up the glass, right? Nope. There is a certain level that the milk must reach in THE Glass before it meets muster. And let's not even talk about what color or how many straws there must be for that particular glass of milk.

I think I have made my point.

I tell Mr. DD that this display is normal. It's part of being a 4 year old. It's him wanting to establish his autonomy, but in my heart I silently worry. It's exhausting. It's frustrating. I wonder what I did, what we did, to find our mellow baby replaced with a high-strung, high-maintenance preschooler. My initial assessment that he had acquired his father's temperament has been replaced by the concern he has taken after mine.

Personal factoid: My maternal Grandmother died of ether poisoning when my Mom was 3 years old.

No. 138 - Oh. My. G*d

I am speechless.

I am repulsed.

“The ‘ideal’ model for Pro-Life”?

“…her decision of placing family before career.”?

“…’water retentive’ hands.”?

The figure has reference to her pole-dancing?

This has got to be your finest hour, Pro-Lifers. I think you are on to something here. In fact, I have a brilliant suggestion: instead of having 2 or 3 year old children lining the sides of busy streets and highways holding placards of dead fetuses, you should create several replicas of this and have those children straddle her back and parade this up and down the street.

Yes, it’s fucking brilliant…and I guess I wasn’t completed speechless, but am still greatly repulsed.

No. 137 - This Post Has Nothing To Do With Weight

Hey! Guess what? Did ya'll know that I'm doing a 2nd IVF? Yep. No kidding. So I thought I'd give you an update.

I have TWO more BCP to take. It's nice not having PMS symptoms so my body doesn't know I'm planning a covert operation that will leave my uterus rocking in my upcoming period's wake.

I suddenly realized earlier this week that the hair cut and color I was putting off until sometime next month HAD TO BE DONE NOW! Ack! And my hairstylist is never available last minute. Double Ack! Minor miracle, she has an opening next Tuesday. I'll probably be on CD1 or 2 and not yet starting my stims.

I'm not on Lupron. My RE is into the Antagon, which is taken on approximately CD9 through 11.

My next acupuncture appointment is this Saturday. I'm hoping for some type of reaction to the treatment other than "eh".

At the earliest, we could do a transfer on April 8th, which happens to be Mr. DD's birthday. Of course there are some mixed feelings there. I've lost 6 unrelated months to miscarriages; due dates that never happened; and ART failure anniversaries. I really don't want his birthday to be trumped by The Transfer That Turned to Shit, II.

I've also been seriously contemplating transferring any and all viable embryos in lieu of just the 3 or 4 best and freezing any remaining. Based on our last IVF and subsequent (almost) FET, if there's one good embryo, why not give it the best chance and place it fresh? On the flip side, we miraculously get 5 good embryos that all decide to implant (oh, stop, you're killing me!), I am fully prepared to not only consider, but follow through with selective reduction. Think what you may because the likelihood of that happening is next to nil.

So, there you go. The crib notes for IVF #2. Nothing really exciting. In fact, I'm still waiting for the adrenaline to kick in. I occasionally catch myself fantasizing about this one not only working, which the last one "technically" did, but actually resulting in me bitching about how much it sucks to be pregnant for 8 more months. I'm hoping it's not just crazy talk this time.

Personal factoid: I have one brother and four sisters. I'm the 5th child.

No. 136 - Blog Housekeeping

Oh, Blogger, you Royal Piece of Crap. Free that you are, you are causing me undo gray hairs and wrinkles. If only you could use your power for good instead of evil...*sigh*.

I had a nice (I can say "nice" as I am the only one who has seen it and therefore I really am entitled to my own opinion) post, but it is sitting in Draft form. The pictures I wanted to post with it just wouldn't load. *grumble, grumble, pieceofbloggercrap, grumble*

So, I set up one of those Fluckr accounts, just to see how much more computer jargon I can totally confuse my little self with. It's over there on the right, you just have to scroll down since this is a short post.

Any advice from anyone who has one of these accounts would be appreciated. And BTW, for you girls who visit often (or even those guys who just stumbled through by googling "DD Boobs" or "where does term knocked up come from") should go stick a pin in my map while you're perusing my Fo-Toes.

Personal factoid: I graduated with a BS without incurring any student loans or debt by going to a state college, getting scholarships and enrolling into work study programs.

No. 135 - Order Up!

I have issues with food. No, not the kind that inspires one to feed their face and then expel the contents into the nearest toilet; nor that other thing that makes some not eat anything and exercise like a crazed fiend. Seriously, if you knew me really well, you would know that exercise is a dirty, dirty word and vomiting on purpose? I mean, really? Ugh.

My Mom told me that everyday before I went to Kindergarten (when kids actually only went half a day in the afternoons), I would have a hot dog for lunch. A hot dog! Everyday during the school year! Now, on the very rare occasion when nothing else is to be found in the house, I will stoop to eating a hot dog with X. I try not to think about it.

I also will not eat Jell-O. You know what is in Jell-O, don’t you? Gelatin. If you love Jell-O, don’t google this. To me, that’s worse than a hot dog.

I struggle with bacon. I will eat it at home if Mr. DD makes it because he knows that it has to be fried for so long that if he was to drop a slice on the floor, it would shatter like Waterford crystal. At restaurants, they don’t seem to understand that when I instruct that I would like my bacon to be crispy, that I really mean “burnt beyond recognition.”

Cheese is a tough one. I will never understand why anyone thinks shredded cheddar on a tossed salad is a good idea. Yes, I do love pizza, but not CHEESE pizza. If I can’t successfully pull a slice of melted cheese off a cheeseburger, I will still eat it, but begrudgingly. But, ooh! how I love queso dip with chips. And spinach or artichoke is only tolerable when encased in cheese. But, when X wants just a slice of that pre-wrapped cheese? I shudder with revulsion with first the cold sensation in my hands, then the smell? It’s nearly too much. I will hand over the slice to X’s outstretched and eager hands as if handing over a rat’s carcass.

Here’s a biggie: Nuts. Any kind of nut. They are a bane, and anyone who is willing to ruin a good pan of brownies, carrot cake, fudge, or any desert and sweet by adding nuts to the mix is…well…nuts. Why? A nut is just a tiny chunk of fat and protein. So is hamburger. You wouldn’t add browned hamburger to your brownies, now would you? Exactly. This aversion goes all the way back to my childhood. My Mom would have to create two batches for every type of Christmas candy she made: one with nuts; one without. And if I am particularly desperate for some chocolate, say for example a Hershey’s bar and the only kind left in the vending machine is the one with almonds? I pick out the almonds. I feel a little shorted as those almond pieces take up maybe 15% of the total bar, but for chocolate, I’d do just about anything.

It wasn’t until I met Mr. DD that I ever had steak. Sure, I grew up on a farm, but it was too expensive to have what was last week my pet steer now become our evening meal for the next few weeks. I don’t know at what point after meeting Mr. DD that I started eating steak (his family is a rabid bunch of beef-eaters: the bloodier the better), but I would have to have it so well done, that you could tell when our order had been turned in when you heard, “What the fuck is this!” come out of the kitchen. I’ve graduated to medium-well over the years.

I find some irony in my attitude towards beef when you take a look at the chicken. Innocuous little thing, eh? We raised chickens, too, on our farm. It was a family event to go out to the coop where Dad would wring the heads off 4 chickens, and the three youngest girls, which included me, would pluck the feathers off the headless bodies after Mom gave them a dipping in boiling water – to help loosen the quills, while the dogs would crunch away on the heads. Later that night, there would be a fight for the fourth heart with Mom usually trumping us all and popping it into her mouth with a smug look on her face. Today, my chicken has to be skinless, boneless and almost indistinguishable from which part it is in order for me to eat it. And don’t even think about including any “bits” or “pieces.”

My tastes have “matured” over the years as far as variety. As for the ability to not poke or grimace as I inspect every plate of food ever to be placed in front of me to determine its edibility? That’s pretty immature, don’t you think?

It’s your turn: now’s the time to share some of your food oddities.

Personal factoid: My Zodiac sign is Cancer.

No. 134 - Joie

Some questionable symptoms have turned into crappy news over at Joie's. If you haven't been by, please take a moment to do so.

Personal factoid: I hate the events that lead to this kind of post. Not really a "factoid", but who would dispute it?

No. 133 - It Was a Good Day

I don't get many "good" days. And I mean "good" in that the day stands out in contrast to my otherwise uneventful days, which may or may not be peppered with moments of shitiness. I was out of the house on time and my two hour drive literally became a blink as I spent an hour and a half of that on the phone speaking with a very lovely friend. We're very different, but have so much in common. You know the kind of friend I'm talking about, right?

I was only a couple minutes late for my acupuncture appt due to my unwillingness to get off the phone and call the clinic to get more specific directions. Thankfully, I only needed to be across the street from the parking lot I was circling. The appt itself was rather uneventful: she (Annod, her "name" for future reference) reviewed the paperwork I had miraculously remembered to bring with me; she asked detailed questions about my upcoming cycle; and then Annod asked me to take off my socks and shoes and get on the table, face up.

I have to admit, I had no idea what to expect. I assumed that I would have to strip down to my skivvies and be scrutinized mercilessly and then get turned into a human pincushion. Thankfully, no. Once on the table, she wanted to me to slip my jeans down past my hips so that there was access to my abdomen and then she cuffed my jeans to access my shins. Then, without any warning, one needle was popped into the area between my eyebrows (I'm hoping that was to prevent future unibrows). One to the very top of my head to which every facial movement was felt through; a needle in each hand, and several in the abdomen and feet. After placing a heat lamp over my stomach, "to help with blood flow" and one over my feet to keep from getting cold, she turned out the lights and said she would be back in about 25 minutes. Within a few minutes I had actually dozed off and woke up about 15 minutes later. A little after that she came back, removed the needles and basically sent me on my way.

Now I don't know what I expected to feel after my appt, but to feel...well...nothing, was not it. I guess since I didn't feel worse that everything was OK. I'll be back next Saturday.

I met up with another friend for lunch...a THREE HOUR lunch! We're both going through our 2nd IVF treatments and at the same clinic. We freely cut the bitchy nurses; rolled our eyes at the sometime conflicting info our REs would give us; and talked about babies' names. Unfortunately, we both had errands/shopping to get done so we went our separate ways.

I hit a couple of my fave shopping areas and I bought 4 pairs of shoes. ...Goodness, I heard your collective gasps from here! Give me some credit. 2 pair were mine, 2 were for X. I'll tell you that there is a huge advantage to having a boy over a girl, and that is the requisite shopping for clothing. In the winter he gets by on a pair of tennies and snow boots; in the summer, a new pair of tennies and sandals. What sucks is that to help balance out his big, honkin' melon head, he acquired very wide and high-arched feet. No PayLess shoes will be in his future, and we finally were able to graduate from Stride Rites to New Balance.

I was in such a good mood that I even screwed up the courage to go visit Mr. DD's niece and their new baby and bring a welcome-baby gift over. I was rather impressed with myself. When I held the baby to introduce myself, I didn't feel at all weepy and melancholy. That's when I realized it was her pregnancy that I was envious of. It's anyone's pregnancy I am envious of and I feel the saddest when I see a woman in an obvious state of being knocked up.

So my day was good. I learned something about myself, and it wasn't necessarily a bad thing. I got to laugh with some friends. And the snow that they had threatened? It didn't start until early this morning so the drive home was pleasantly uneventful. I'm just a little bummed that I've either gotten shorter or jeans have gotten longer. Damn, I hate trying on clothes.

Personal factoid: I never wear a watch.

No. 132 - Wrapping up the Week

Just some points of interest in our current endeavors (because I know you were all just dieing to know!):

Project A: New House

Install porch and deck railing
Pick out shelf rock for façade
Order new plumbing fixtures (because stupid plumber allowed for the cheapest shit I have ever seen in my life)
Pick out and order lighting (without husband whining about every nickel and dime)
Pick exterior color (without offending X who desperately wants us to paint it purple AND green)
Install interior trim and doors
Install flooring
Install lighting
Install cabinets/counters
Install plumbing fixtures
Paint exterior
Install rock
Pour patio
Complete lane
Hold back urge to kill husband (who would install a round-a-bout, if I let him)

Project B: Old House

Move all crap out of garage to new shop building
Move all crap from basement to new shop building
Move all remaining miscellaneous crap to new shop building
Hire professional cleaners to clean the house as it’s never been cleaned before
Get house listed on market
Hold back urge to kill husband (who thinks he needs to paint the garage floor)

Project C: Baby

Order PIO
Open box of drugs that arrived two days ago to make sure it is indeed the Antagon and HCG
Enjoy acupuncture appointment Saturday (and hope that the 22” of snow that has been predicted doesn’t show until I get home from The Metro)
Wait patiently for Repronex to show from London
Take last BCP a week from Saturday
Remain mentally positive (and stop daydreaming about this IVF working and getting pregnant with a boy AND a girl)
Hold back urge to kill husband (who AGAIN asked me if I was sure I want to have another baby after a particularly nasty row with X)

Personal Factoid: My middle name is Lynn.

No. 131 - The Bottom Line

I heard about this website this morning on my way to work. The average woman is worth $1.6M. I am worth a little over $1.4M. My diminished value appears to be due to my age; having a cup size less than DD; and being no more than “average” in most of the categories.

I can’t complain too much as it was through another website that I found out my blog is worth…well, it’s literally worth-LESS. Boo-hoo. I’m guessing it’s because I don’t have all the advertisements and what not. It appears the old adage “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure” applies to more than just estate auctions and garage sales, eh?

So fess up. What are YOU worth?

Factoid #3 – I grew up on a small, family-owned dairy farm.

No. 130 - Musical Taste...or Lack Thereof

Should I be worried that there is something wrong with me when every time I hear James Blunt sing “You’re Beautiful”, I desperately wish to gouge out my eardrums with an ice pick?

And if you don’t think that makes me a freak, what if I told you I really am digging Prince’s new single off his 3121 album, “Black Sweat”?

***************************

As for the “glorious poops” from yesterday’s post, I was paraphrasing. It’s just that there were a ton of questions about bowel movements, menstrual flow, and other bodily functions. Because really, how would one define “stupid people” in the other question? On any given day, everyone around me fits that definition. No, I’m not that smart. I’m just that easily agitated.

Factoid #2 - I was State Champion in the Nebraska State Games for Women's Billiards in 1993.

No. 129 - Unintentional References to B.M.

As I was placing my drug order for the Repronex (which is the stim we use since Gonal F and Follistim are cost-prohibitive) for the upcoming IVF#2, I realized I didn’t seem to be feeling the same mix of excitement and dread that I did back in December. I even went back to my archived posts and re-read all of December’s and January’s. Besides nearly passing out from boredom as I went through them, I got such a weird detached feeling from all of it…as if it happened years ago and to someone I barely knew. That girl was so ignorant. She really seemed to think that IVF#1 was going to be IT didn’t she?

My first appointment with the acupuncturist is Saturday. She sent me all the prelimary paperwork to complete and bring with me. It consisted of several pages of statements that you answered with to what degree you would agree or disagree. “I have wondrous and glorious poops.” (Strongly disagree) “I am easily irritated by stupid people” (strongly agree). I really don’t care about the paperwork, just please, lord, make her someone I can tolerate.

I’m feeling like a bad blogger. Not the posting part, necessarily, as I know there’s a whole set of issues there. It’s the commenting. I don’t know what to say anymore that I haven’t said before. It sucks that so many are feeling defeated or in a schlump. And for those who are excited that they are on a new cycle with new possibilities, I have to squelch my first instinct to post a turd-in-a-punchbowl comment, and I have to admit I don’t think I’ve been very successful. Let me say I’m sorry…you know who you are.

Speaking of Turds In A Punchbowl: Mr. DD’s niece had her baby. A girl. That’s not the “turd” part. I think SIL is now pissed because in trying to find out what they are going to call her for short, I used the wrong name. I told Mr. DD that I swear that was the name he told me. Long story, short, I used the name of his other sister’s daughter that she lost in infancy. Yep, feel free to cringe on my behalf.

I’m going to start something new, for me anyway, with my posts. As you saw from the title, I am now going to number them since somewhere along the way I posted #100 and didn’t even know it. Plus, to close, I will post some piece of trivia about me:

Factoid No. 1 – I’m 5’ 6 ½” tall, but I always tell people I’m 5’ 7”.

Walkies*

Not by any stretch of the imagination would I ever be considered for Mother of the Year (or Month, Day, Hour, ad nauseum), nor would I want to. I mean, think of the pressure to outperform yourself the next time if you were considered the Wonderful now! I just don't have that kind of drive.

Aside from the times I like to either threaten X that I will nail his shoes to his feet if he "takes them off one.more.time" when we go on errands; or asking if he wants to take a Ho-Ho/Pepsi break with me at 10 minutes to bedtime, I think I'm doing an O-K job. And let's not consider the ten month period after he started walking where he was rarely seen in public without one, if not two, prominent bruises on his forehead due to the propensity he had in letting his big ole' melon head capsize him into the nearest solid surface, as I consider that my "gimme".

So when I saw this type of thing on a child during today's trip to a museum, I really had to wonder at the parenting competency level around me. I fervently wanted to give the care-giver the benefit of the doubt as my sister had to use one when she traveled Internationally with her 6 month and 2 year old...alone...with layovers in London, New York and Chicago. I made fun of her, but realized that she had to not only juggle her two children, but the carry-on luggage for herself and the kids (3 months stay in the States = lots of luggage), and an infant carrier.

When I first saw the girl wearing the harness, it appeared grandma was the one holding the leash. OK, so grandma is one of those overly protective type and the kid's mom figures what-the-heck since no one will know it was her kid on the leash. Wrong. Apparently, it was a family outing: grandma, mommy, and girl. OK...so maybe it's because bringing a stroller can be rather cumbersome and she doesn't want her traipsing off into Indian Artifact exhibit and tearing apart a head-dress or eating moon rocks. Oops. Nope. Museum lends out strollers...for free. And then get this! Along comes grandpa, pushing a double-stroller and holding a baby. So, now you're telling me that three physically-able adults (grandparents weren't much into their 50's) do not have the attention span and necessary coordination to take care of two small children, one of which could only escape by either rolling or even possibly army-crawling her way out of sight and the other just barely tottling? Can you imagine the chaos that ensues when just ONE of these people has to go to take a piss?

X did not seem to take much notice of the dog show (sans *Barbara Woodhouse). He was too busy trying to stick his finger in the pencil sharpener in the activity center or slurping the water that had pooled in the drinking fountain because the drain was clogged with sunflower seed husks...swear.to.god.

Heartache

You know how you want so badly for someone to have a positive beta after an IVF that you obsessively check their website, just in case Bloglines (or whatever referral system you use), is defunk? And then when you see there is indeed a new post, your heart beats really hard and fast in anticipation (or even dread), and then you read that someone else heart’s been broken…again? It’s happened. Mary Scarlet’s 3rd IVF’s beta was negative.

I hate this. I hate how IVF, the ultimate in reproductive scientific technology, can crush us, our hearts, our hopes, our dreams, into dust. I hate that it makes me selfishly doubt my own chances. I hate how it makes my heart thump in my chest with dread.

I hate this.

My Eyes Have Not Seen The Glory

I want to thank Clinique personally for discontinuing my fave undereye concealer, City Cover, Compact Concealer, SPF 15, 03 City Light Pink. I'd also like to thank Hereditary, Father Time, Mother Nature, and Insomnia (and a nod to poor skin-care regimen in my 20's) for taking the "dark, smoky eye" look just a little too far on me.

You bastards.

I am literally scraping out the last vestiges of creamy gold from the compact. My dear friend who lives up by St. Paul, MN even went to the outlet there and *gasp*, not even the stock taken from the department stores has been delegated to this last venue.

I would spend my last IVF nickel on finding a suitable replacement product that successfully covers the dark pigment under my eyes, but doesn't make me look like a raccoon in the negative. Any suggestions?

Support

I’m taking some liberties here, but I would like you to all stop by Demeter’s Loss and wish her support on her decision, which has got to be as heartbreaking as hell, but no one ever needs to be harmed in anger – regardless of the severity. I just don't want her to feel alone in this situation. We all know the Power of Positive Comments.

“Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent.”
Isaac Asimov, Salvor Hardin in "Foundation"US science fiction novelist & scholar (1920 - 1992)

Don't Hate Me Because I'm Bitchy

I have turned into a stark raving lunatic bitch (more so than usual). Case(s) in point? I very nearly took X’s head off Sunday when trying to get him to get dressed for church. At 4 years old, he still gives us that, “I can’t do it…” whine when getting dressed that I, when in my Good Mom mood, try to turn into a game to how fast can we get dressed. Instead, X must have only noticed how my eyes had rolled into my head which may or may not have been spinning. In short, I think I freaked him out a bit.

My SIL’s 18 year old cat died this past weekend. When neither she nor her husband could bear the emotional toll to dispose of said kitty with the vet, my husband was made honorary coroner and had to keep said carcass in the back of his truck overnight. I was pissed because SIL and her husband did not have someone come in over the weekend while they were gone with their precious Golden Lab (a pussy if ever there was one in a dog) to give Dead Cat his thyroid medicine. If anything, the Lab should be taken out, Soprano style, for being no more than a waste of a good fur coat.

I have thrush. Only babies get thrush, you say? Oh no. Adults who use corticosteroids (Adv@ir) also get thrush if they are not diligent in rinsing. For those of you lucky enough not to know what thrush is, it’s a yeast infection of the mouth. Oh yeah, pucker up baby.

Then the icing on the cake is the prednis0ne that I had to start taking on Saturday for the URI. Only for 5 days mind you, but it has finalized the transformation that is the Mr. Hyde in me. I’m not sleeping due to the nervousness and restlessness. The thrush prevents me from getting that bitter pill washed down with the first swallow of water so I’m left with such a taste in my mouth I nearly gag.

So for the next week or so, make sure you lock up your puppies or kitties to ensure I don’t use them for Punt, Pass and Kick practice.

How I Measure Time

There's always a certain amount of introspection that comes from being faced with life's little curveballs, which in my immediate case is infertility. We frequently find ourselves living with personal deadlines and anniversaries, whether it's from week to week, cycle to cycle, month to month and unfortunately, year to year. I myself have found myself at a different kind of "milestone," if you will, that signifies the time and emotion that we have poured out and into getting pregnant, (preferably for a whole 9 months this next time, please).

As most of us know, Suz courageously gave birth to two very special and healthy boys. While I couldn't be happier for her and George, for they went through Hell with almost every step: the defective HPTs; the shared placenta; the mandatory bed rest; and finally the Drop Foot, I can't help but feel some melancholy as well. You see I specifically remember this post, which was before I ever started my own blog. I was there when Suz got knocked up and I was there when she delivered the twins (obviously in a virtual sense in both events). Realizing the time that has passed for me as measured by someone's conception to birth, it forces me to face up to the fact I am in this for the long haul. I didn't want to be. I certainly never imagined I would be here, still not pregnant more than a year after losing Baby May, and certainly no closer to our goal in the time it took for a fellow well-deserving, and beautiful blogger to go through a (near) term pregnancy.

I am supposed to start my BCP tomorrow. Today I made sure that this is what Mr. DD really wanted to do as opposed to adoption. I figured since he had originally dreamed of having three children that maybe an international adoption of a sibling set would meet - and exceed - all of our dreams. We would have a full house. We could possibly not only have a baby, but a toddler as well that could neatly fit into the age-gap between X and a baby. I wouldn't have to feel little bits of my heart chip away like I do now when X sadly tells me that he has no one to play with when we pick him up from day care. But that's a fantasy that will never come to light. Mr. DD's male ego, and understandably so, is firmly entrenched into any children we have would be biological. There is no negotiation in this matter and I believe I can accept this.

We also discussed what would happen if IVF#2 failed. My gut response was that I would keep going until we had another baby, but I know that I could not mentally go more then 3 fresh-cycle tries. I told myself a year ago that I couldn't justify continuing to try after I turned 40, which will be next July. I can only hope, pray, beg that the whole issue of a third IVF will be moot.

To that end, I will make sure that I do what I can to improve our chances. I finally obtained some steroids and antibiotics so I can shake the pesky upper respiratory infection that wore out its welcome a week ago. I've scheduled some sessions with an acupuncturist, who will insure that I have the recommended sessions immediately before and after the transfer, regardless of any crazy-ass time that we get scheduled for. If I could, I would postpone the preparation our house needs to get listed for sale by the end of March, but that's not possible. Even though the contractor has not given us anything definite, I am guessing that we will have a move in date as soon as May. These particular details cannot be conducive to relieving outside stressors, but knowing they're there is half the battle.

I guess Time will indeed tell.

False Start

I don't know why, but I don't know if I would be more disturbed seeing this on a baby or this on a pregnant woman.

Maybe I'm just jealous because right now I have no reason to buy either one. *sigh*

Remember how I thought Monday was CD1? Nope, TODAY is CD1. Yesterday I was beginning to think that maybe the spotting was implantation! G*d, I'm delusional. Since today has confirmed that indeed I am on a new cycle, I called my RE and requested our calendar for the next several weeks. Oh joy. Oh rapture. Oh shit...?

Besides, the Funnel Cakes are stale; I've got a Beer buzz; and Mr. DD was getting tired of not winning any of the Carnival's other booby prizes, so we will get back on our little Merry-Go-Round and take another stab at the Brass Ring...and cross our fingers that Hope won't screw up and throw us a set of Brass Knuckles instead.

Forward, sl-HO?

I am home from work today due to sleep deprivation and an unrelenting migraine. I am still suffering through the bronchitis and have even taken several nebulizer treatments. The coughing gets so bad that I'm sure that my frontal lobe will shoot out my eyes. Never mind my abs and chest. They are now as taut as a 17 yr old volleyball player's. Plus X woke at 10:45pm from a nightmare and so I ended up with a sleeping mate whose movements could only be compared to a 40lb beached minnow.

I told Mr. DD last night that I wanted to talk about our plans. He replied he had something to tell me as well. "This does not bode well," I think to myself (as maestro starts playing the minor key off-stage...).

As most of you know, Mr. DD has a niece, J, who is about to give birth anyday to her first baby. This is the same niece whose Baby Shower's date coincided with the end of our IVF chemical pregnancy so I excused myself from attending. Side note: I never did receive a thank-you card for the gifts. I mentioned it to Mr. DD's sister, J's mother, to which she appropriately oozed dismay at the quality of our mail system. Yeah. Right.

It appears that Mr. DD's oldest niece, M, in her early 30's, has formally announced her pregnancy. I have more empathy for M and her husband's plight, as we had talked about getting pregnant after our beachhouse trip to S. Carolina August 2004. I was the one who got pregnant...with Baby May, so we all know how that went. They in turn did not. Based on my last conversation with her a couple months ago, it was also Male Factor. The one big "HOWEVER" in this bit of news is that they are due late summer. It appears I was good enough to provide a shoulder to cry on, but not good enough to relay the wonderful news to sooner, and not even directly to. Instead, I was informed by Mr. DD who had to hear it from his sister, M's aunt. Fan-fucking-tastic.

I did put on my happy face when Mr. DD relayed this news as I knew any other response from me would kill any chance for us to logically discuss our own options in the coming weeks. I only expresed my disappointment that his extended family now thinks I will go postal with every Baby-Related Event since the news had to be filtered through three other people. However, I must have made a good impression as he was almost near tears when I told him that I was so thrilled and happy for M.

Later, I approached The Subject regarding our baby pursuits. Using the advice from earlier's post, I addressed the time concern. I tried to stay calm. I tried not to cry. I tried not to argue why this "trying on our own" bullshit was for the birds. Even though I wasn't 100% successful with all of those intentions, he has agreed to move forward with IVF#2. I learned something very surprising and important from our conversation last night, and you may think I am a complete idiot when I tell you what they were as I had asked him something I have never asked before: does he want another baby.

How crazy is that?! I guess I have been the one pushing for this Baby from day 1. I didn't even know if he was truly part of that dream or if he had the desire. Sure he went to the appointments...when he HAD to. He gave me the shots, because he HAD to. But did he WANT to? It appears the answer is "yes". Not only does Mr. DD want to have another baby, but he was really hoping before our Fertility took a flying leap off the Empire State Building, that we would have TWO more babies.

You will have to imagine how happy, but then how deeply saddened I was by that confession. To know that having a second, healthy child will be difficult. But to have two more healthy children will be impossible (barring the chance of multiples, which is definitely what he does NOT want).

So we move forward. Slowly, because the spotting has stopped. Just...stopped. Sadly, because I now know that we cannot Hope to fulfill all of our dreams, but we are cautiously optimistic that we can at least have one more baby and appreciate that not every dream can come true.