No. 197 - Garbage Defined

Tonite I was going through some a bag that had been stuffed in one of the dark corners of our garage. It was some clothes that my Mom had been holding onto since I had moved back to Nebraska in '91. Why she held onto all those clothes, I have no idea. But even more mind-boggling is my desire to take some of those items home with me 15 years later.

One of the items was a fringed, white leather jacket. I was some serious hot shit back in the '80's with my mall bangs and fringed jacket that I use to love wearing even when it was hot outside just because I loved the smell of leather. Admittedly, I was a freak.

The first time I met Mr. DD's family, I wore that jacket. I didn't remember that, but Mr. DD's sister (Nutbag) did. She also remembered me wearing it with black hot pants (never had any, but I think she meant the black knit "biker" shorts that were the thing back in the late '80's) with a pair of thigh-high boots (again, I had boots, but they only came up to the knee and they were flat heeled - NUTBAG!). Obviously I made an impression. I wondered what the rest of the family thought as the occasion that Mr. DD decided to take me to after only a couple weeks of dating was his father's surprise 70th birthday party to which Mr. DD's entire family, including his father's brothers flew in from the east coast to attend.

They probably weren't overly surprised. At the time Mr. DD had a look that was entirely outside of the Small Town, Nebraska norm consisting of very long rocker-hair. I probably seemed just his type to them.

After I pulled the jacket from the bag, ruined with mildew, I knew it was time to let it go. I mean, what the hell am I going to do with a musty old coat that is so ridiculous, even in it's own day, that it couldn't possibly come back into vogue? I pitched it into the trash can as Mr. DD watched. Are you sure you want to let it go, he asked. Yeah, I'm sure.

He cut off his hair a year or so after we got married, and I just recently threw the ponytail into the garbage as well during some spring cleaning. I've realized that our impending move will be very cathartic. It's time to get rid of a lot of things I haven't thought about or even seen in years. Even the not-so-far-in-the-distant-past items have met their fate at the bottom of the garbage can: my follistim case and extra needles (which I actually thought I threw out months ago) bit the dust, but not before I opened the case to look inside and noted that there was still a little bit of the drug still inside the delivery pen. After I threw it away, I cried.

I didn't cry when I threw away my coat. I didn't cry when I threw away Mr. DD's ponytail. I cried when I threw away the follistim. The former objects represented memories of the past. I still have those memories, though faded. But the follistim represented a potential future and throwing that away made me wonder if I was throwing away the hope of what I had envisioned my future to include.

No. 195 - Trial Separation

I've been on the fence about my current relationship, and I think it's time for a trial separation. It's not that I'm terribly unhappy, but I just think I could do a little better. You've seen the writing on the wall, so there shouldn't be any mouths agape out there. Maybe I won't be happy and I will want to come back to what I'm accustomed to, but right now I need to know if there's something better. In fact, I've had something in the wings now for the past week and I have been dying to tell you all about it.

I told Mr. DD this weekend. He just shrugged his shoulders and went back to watching TV.

Oh, and I want you all to be a part of it. Really! I want to thank Beth at Prop Your Hips Up who really inspired me to take the leap.

...and in case you were worried, it's not my husband I'm leaving; it's Blogger. I have set up a fun-factory over at typepad and will see what I think at the end of the trial month. Now, for your viewing and reading pleasure (I use the word "pleasure" loosely), stop by my new site and let me know what you think. I'm already digging the much shorter URL address! And be honest, dammit. I'm not going to spend what I can on mochas in a month for a site you think sucks. I need my caffeine!

No. 194 - Fertiles Say the Darndest Things!

We attended a BBQ Friday nite at the house of a couple Mr. DD and I met a couple years ago and became friends with. They are sickeningly sweet and wholesomely Christian: he is a podiatrist (Dr. SSWC) and she is a substitute teacher (Mrs. SSWC) and they have 4 children, with their youngest (Ooopsie) the age Vivienne would be (I remember going to a fund raiser in October 2004 where we both talked about how miserable we were in our pregnancies) and their 2nd youngest is a year younger than X.

Mr. DD and I have been quite frank to those who ask, including the SSWCs why we don’t have more children: his guys are lazy and my eggs are rotten and we’re seeking professional assistance. They also knew about our miscarriage fairly soon after it happened.

I wasn’t too surprised then when Mrs. SSWC asked me about how things were going. I gave her the synopsis of the past several months and said we were done with the RE in The Metro. She then of course asked the inevitable haveyouthoughtofadoption question, to which I explained Mr. DD’s concerns with adoption, which include potential medical conditions that wouldn’t become evident until later in life. She responded the same way I had to this concern and that is no baby comes with a guarantee, even if it’s biological. For example, if Vivienne had been born alive, she would have been severely handicapped and it would’ve not been because of something we had passed on, but due to a completely random genetic flaw. Does that make a difference in how one loves a child? It shouldn’t…and to me, it wouldn’t.

She then told me how before they had Ooopsie, they had also considered international adoption, preferably “oriental, because…oh, my god, those eyes are so cute!” She then went on to say how expensive it all is and that Dr. SSWC expressed that they shouldn’t then have to travel overseas for weeks at a time and that they should deliver the child to their home for that kind of money.

Yep. That’s what she said. To which I replied:

“This isn’t Pizza Hut!”

“Oh, (ha-ha) I know! And I guess it doesn’t matter since we got pregnant about that time with Ooopsie. (ha-ha).”

And, yes, I kept listening to her. I’ve heard of Fertiles saying stupid things, but I’ve never actually heard one saying it. It was like hearing the call of a legendary and extinct Do-Do bird.

Then she talked about her sister, who at the age of 32 gave birth to identical twin boys who have Downs and are currently 9 mos. old. Mrs. SSWC asked her sister if she was going to have more children. The sister explained that her doctor told her that her eggs were old and proceeded to educate her sister, Mrs. SSWC (the wife of a man who went to medical school) that you are born with all the eggs you have in your lifetime and that you cannot make more. Mrs. SSWC asked if had known that, and isn’t that crazy?!

Another woman, who was invited to the BBQ scoffed at the announcement and said if she’s only 32, her eggs should not be “old”. I injected with a brief explanation of FSH and atypical elevations can and do occur with women in their 30’s and even their 20’s (using my experience and powers of Google for Good, not Evil!).

Eventually the topic was changed and the words evaporated into the night air. I still very much like Mrs. SSWC and will foster the friendship. Do I think less of her? No, not really. She said some pretty ignorant things, but there was no malice in her comments. They were said under the illusion of how she thought things were. I’m glad she said something because if she goes away with just a little more understanding then I know that something good will come of it

No. 193 - Wordless Wednesday, 2nd Installation

Evolution of Dance

(requires audio)

No. 192 - Adjusting

Ever since X was able to talk he has known the word penis. It was one of the very first times I remember him asking “wa's dat” during one of his baths. I’m thankful that I was the one he asked. If it had been his Dad, I’m sure he would be calling his penis anything but (Johnson, Pee-Pee, Boy-Bits, Tallywacker, Junk, etc. all come to mind with a shudder). I’ve also never given X any reason to think of his penis just like he does with any other part of his body.

Up until recently, that is.

He seems to have developed the habit of adjusting his “Junk” during rather inopportune time. During the “graduation” ceremony from pre-school, I have recorded for all posterity the video image of him with his hands in his pants in front of his peers’ parents and family; in church – which isn’t so bad until he notices me giving him a dirty look to which he announces in his very un-church-like voice, “I’m fixing my penis!”; and more commonly, sitting on the sofa during an episode of Sponge Bob emanating this other TV character.

Now I’m trying to get him to understand that it’s OK for him to make adjustments, but to temper the procedure with discretion.

“X, that’s something you should do in privacy.”

“What’s Privacy?”

“You know how Mommy locks the door to the bathroom when I’m going potty? It’s because I want privacy.”

“But I don’t have to go potty. I have to fix my penis.”

“I mean that I want you to keep it to yourself.”

“But I do keep it to myself because I can’t share my penis. It doesn’t come off.”

Mr. DD jumps in with this: “We don’t want you to stick your hands in your pants. It’s dirty,” to which I nail him in the ribs with my elbow. I don’t want to attach a shame factor to this, but on the other hand, the moment his finger goes up his nose, I tap it away with a hushed and terse, “Dirty!” Will he now be embarrassed to show his nose in the future? Will he have issues with future girlfriends or even his wife who lean in and admire the faint freckling of his nose? Will he be unable to "smell" upon demand?

So, I have a dilemma. I don’t know what to tell him that will convey that it is OK to make the adjustments, but that they must be done in private. I mean, how do you reason with a child who when told it will take 30 minutes to get to Grandma’s house, responds with “Why?”

No. 191 - Where There Is Strength; There Can Be Solace

Most of us have been there. You know, in the place where we feel all has been lost or is about to be. I was just there 25 days ago. I hate feeling lost; feeling hopeless. But I am scrambling up and brushing the dust off my ass and applying betadine to my scraped and bruised knees.

It's much harder now to read pregnancy blogs without feeling both happy and envious at the same time. Especially when some of the pregnancy blogs were started around our first IVF as they are now describing the wonders of feeling their baby move. I wish I had known of blogging when I had X so I could have written about that miracle. But I was ignorant and made assumptions. New mothers blogging about their baby's newest development catches at my heart and even as I smile in that "yep, been there, done that", I still am saddened that it all is part of the past.

However, it's been much harder for me to read the posts announcing BFNs and eminent losses. I don't know how many times I've said "I'm so sorry", but I know it's been many more times than "Congratulations!" especially in the past several months.

Beagle at Fortune Cookies Follies' second IVF resulted in a negative.
Dino D at Frozen Not Fossilized is going through her fifth loss.
Linda at I've Got Bad Plumbing second IVF resulted in a negative.
Soralis's beta is today, but her EPT was negative yesterday.
and Sunnie at The.Sunnie.Side.Up. also received a negative**Updated: See this post about surprising turn of events!

I know sometimes we just don't know what to say, but let me be honest here. Nothing you say will give these people the Miracle. That's not the point. Instead, when you offer words of strength or solace, you give strength and solace. That's what these women did for me when I posted our second IVF was over.

If you haven't yet, please stop by each of these beautiful women's sites and let them know that they are in your thoughts, even if you don't know what more to say than "I'm here thinking of you." I know there were infinitely more cycles that have recently failed that have not been mentioned. I hope they have someone they can lean on during this time as well.

No. 190 - In Homage...

...to two of my favorite, non-girlybits blogs: The Peevery and M.I.L.D.E.W.:

SmallTown aired a “how to” on local television regarding our new traffic round-abouts. Go get a taped copy and watch it every day until you figure it out! And here’s a tip: YIELD does not mean STOP. That’s why Yield signs are yellow and not red just in case you are illiterate as well, dumbass.

Putting down the window of your car 3” while you smoke does NOT qualify as trying to be a good parent to your two small children sitting in the backseat.

See those lighted signs in the hallway with the letters E. X. I. T.? They indicate where the stairwells are…so stop bothering me while I am trying to work (blog) by asking me where the stupid stairs are.

In the same vein: my open window to the hallway is an imposition to me and not meant for your convenience as this was the only office space available to me. It is not for you to look into every time you go by; it’s not a drive-up window for supplies that belong to me; and if I ever see you look through and down to my desk again I will report you to the Compliance Officer for a HIPAA violation. Nosy bastard.

There really should be a warning on laxatives against combining a dose of said laxatives with 16 oz of white-chocolate mocha the following morning.

Your speech at the catholic school “mandatory” meeting (aka We Want Your Money) about how kindergarten enrollment is down and stating humorously to the crowd “you need to have more kids” was, unfortunately for you and your A/R department, the only part that burned itself into my memory.

I don't care if you are my son's grandfather and my husband's father. Using derogatory language because you are a close-minded, insensitve, loud-mouthed bigot in front of my son will be your problem until you go to your grave (and probably in the therinafter). It will never be my son's.

When you tried to throw this Mommy bear off your scent by saying, “We’ll be fine” after I called you at 8:30 at your friend’s house where you took X two hours earlier (who still hadn’t had supper), you really should have known better. But hopefully I made it abundantly clear when I responded with “It’s not YOU I’m worried about,” and won’t make that mistake again.

It’s no wonder it takes 6-10 hours for me to get my Blogger comments to finally show in my yahoo email account – but only seconds to go to my gmail account – as Blogger is a Google product. Blogger, your days are numbered, and this time I mean it. Suggestions for a new webserver are welcome.

Never have wiser words been spoken (compliments of The Peevery): Suck it.

No. 188 - Wordless Wednesday

No. 189 - Ah, Hell

Who wants the possibility of getting some good karma? You do? Well, then, it's your lucky day, my friend.

Guess who was the only one who did not get to watch the season ending of Grey's Anatomy?

Yep.

Me.

AAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaggggggggggghhhhhhhhh!

And I swear I couldn't sleep last night because I was letting Sunday's episode bounce around in my head trying to figure out how everyone's story's ended and dammit, I know that each character had their cliche' ending, but I GOTTA know!

So I would like to ask (no, BEG!) each of you to post about ONE of the characters and what happened on the final episode because I know that trying to cram two hours, even in summary, about the whole show would be rather tedious.

And no. I can't ask my office-mates. They don't watch. Savages.

And. AND! Regarding my last post? Stacy herself has worn those friggin' skinny jeans on Oprah's show when they did Jean Intervention. I still like watching What Not To Wear, but Stacy's credibility needs some work.

No. 187 - It's Square to be Hip

I’ve always been a bit of a fashion victim. By that I mean I’m usually trying to keep up with the new trendy styles, but fall short due to funds; access to said trends (Nebraska has never been know for setting any trends unless you count the rage from a couple years ago for women to wear bandannas; a trend set by my mother 30+ years ago to cover her curlers when out milking cows); and thighs that don’t seem to want to fit into the latest and greatest slim-fitting jeans – tell me – is anyone wearing these? And loving it?

Then the news hit that it was fashionable to adopt Chinese babies. Or for that matter, international adoption, with China being a popular destination for the “rich and famous”. The pashmina’s seemingly casual appearance with strapless gowns was finally ousted by the Ultimate Baby Wrap, designed in fabrics reminiscent of the baby’s home country. Again, short of funds; access to said babies; and a husband who moaned that I had too many wraps already, put me at the short end of the fashion stick.

Then lo! What should be in Sunday’s paper from The Metro? An article about how being pregnant has usurped Manolo Blahnik with its fashion statement value (and may even be cheaper than a closet-full of Blahniks). Unfortunately, this is only a blip from the article, but the picture speaks a thousand words, doesn’t it? But I have a way around this one, and it doesn’t include me having to borrow my Asian neighbor’s baby for nights out on the town. Nope. I can actually create my own sympathy belly at home out of the now passé’ bandanas and pashminas. AND, best of all, inclement weather will no longer catch me off guard as I can always reduce my appearance to, say, 6 months gestation, if the wind picks up. I can’t wait to show off my new look tomorrow at work!

No. 186 - Freddy Kruger Lives Via Infertility

You know the typical horror movie ending? The Good Guys kill off the Creepy Bad Guy...or so they think...only to find Creepy Bad Guy either has disappeared from where they left his bloody and mangled body or Creepy Bad Guy picks off one last victim (usually some ditz who should've been picked off an hour earlier) before he is finally vanquished...or IS he?

My point? My current focus on a baby is the Creepy Bad Guy (I say focus/you say obsession. And no, Tracy, I am not taking offense because you're right, and I want you to send me your email, purty-please?). I keep thinking that I have finally shaken the nightmare, but I can't wake up. A new vision appears and just as I think this time it's going to turn out, things turn black and ugly again. Maybe it's because I've been letting the emotional baggage pile up for so long that I feel like I can't dig out; but I have to believe that even if I sound as if I'm taking two steps forward and one step back, I'm making progress.

And yes, I am at times sabotaging my own progress. Some of you are still probably dumbfounded by my decision to find out the sex of the baby, but when I knew that because of the karyotyping done on the baby I could get that information, I made a promise long ago and I kept it. Do I regret it? I did yesterday. I don't today. Will I tomorrow? I don't know. But because it is done, I have to accept it and hope that it helps me to accept that my family will probably stay as it is. Right now I resent it because by having a miscarriage without being able to follow it with a successful pregnancy feels like I have something left undone. I finish what I start. It's part of my personality. In this context, what many consider an admirable trait becomes a flaw.

My appointment yesterday took me back to that horrible time. It was as fresh in my memory as if it had happened yesterday, especially after I reread my memoriam, which I haven't done since I wrote it. It became my one step back. I'm sure that I can now take the two steps forward. Part of that progression comes in the relief I feel knowing that Mr. DD has agreed to do another SA. We have talked and I realize my announcement sent him into shellshock. I was so blinded by my grief, I did not see his. I cannot express my gratitude enough to those of you who saw what I didn't.

No. 185 - Dante's Second Level of Hell

You have come to a place mute of all light, where the wind bellows as the sea does in a tempest. This is the realm where the lustful spend eternity. Here, sinners are blown around endlessly by the unforgiving winds of unquenchable desire as punishment for their transgressions. The infernal hurricane that never rests hurtles the spirits onward in its rapine, whirling them round, and smiting, it molests them. You have betrayed reason at the behest of your appetite for pleasure, and so here you are doomed to remain. Cleopatra and Helen of Troy are two that share in your fate. Visions of 8-month pregnant crack-whores will be your company.

So as you might have guessed, I visited my OB/GYN yesterday. Above was how I felt as I sat in the waiting room knowing that if there was a hell and that I would be going, this is how it would be, based on the stupid quiz below. I am still questioning my sanity by asking what the sex of our baby was from 2004. I was only 37. My god, that seems like so long ago, but the pain is still unbelievably sharp as I had picked off the scab that was just starting to heal.

I had never invisiond that I would be asking during my pap appt, but when I was say, 7 or 8 months pregnant, instead. That was my initial plan. Realizing that will probably never happen prompted me to take the drastic action of asking yesterday. I imagined I would be heartbroken, but if my original plan had come to fruition, I would've had a new life to focus that energy to. I don't now.

Harder still was finding out it was a girl. I had always, always wanted a daughter.

I didn't tell Mr. DD until after X went to bed. I asked for his full attention and told him our baby was a girl. For a brief moment, tears welled up...and then they were gone. He said nothing. When it became apparent he was going to continue to say nothing, I walked away and went to bed.

How can strangers who don't know me except through their computer offer more compassion and understanding than the man I married; the man who also lost a daughter? I am thunderstruck. When he came to bed about a half hour later, he wished me goodnite, but I didn't respond. When he asked what was wrong, I said, "I can appreciate that you show your emotions differently than I do, but I wasn't expecting you to show no emotion." Those words hung in the air between us the rest of the night.

I am sure that my expectations from him over the news are too high. I fantasized that he would say we should do anything within our power to make this better, even if it means donor options or adoption. I don't know why I thought the news of finding out the fetus I lost a year and a half ago, was female, would open up the gates that are tightly locked up around his pride.

I love Mr. DD with all my heart. I have learn to accept that he and I are completely opposite when it comes to emotions. I probably have become less emotive since we married. Now with my heart bruised and broken, I need him to give a little on his end to me to help heal again.

Please, I ask that you not flame him. His heart was molded from the rock: chipped and hardened by a father whose only emotions stem from anger and disappointment. My heart is unfired clay: hardened now from exposure. Both of our hearts can be softened by tears. We just need to find the time to do that together.



The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Second Level of Hell!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:

Level	Score
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)	Very Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)	Very Low
Level 2 (Lustful)	Very High
Level 3 (Gluttonous)	High
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)	Moderate
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)	Moderate
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)	Low
Level 7 (Violent)	Moderate
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)	High
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)	Low

Take the Dante's" Divine Comedy Inferno Test

No. 184 - It's a Girl

I had a daughter. I have a daughter.

A Daughter.

My little girl died November 2004. She would’ve just celebrated her 1st Birthday as her due date was Mother’s Day 2005.

Her name is Vivienne Elise.

I miss her with all my heart.

No. 183 - The Male Facts and Factors

How many of you ladies categorize/define yourself as infertile when your conception woes are due to male factor (MFI)? How can a medical diagnosis for one individual spill out and entwine a second who on their own, or with a different partner, could be free of the heartache - and stigma - of infertility?

It was a couple of comments from my last post that reminded me that I should not be carrying this burden on my own, especially when so little of the initial load is mine. It wasn't my bloodwork or ultrasounds that sent us down the path of IVF, it was Mr. DD's SA. I don't have his exact numbers but his initial SA last summer was borderline on all counts, but above the levels that made both my GYN and RE feel that IUI was enough to get us pregnant. When the first IUI failed, I was informed that the sperm quality was not good. On the 2nd IUI, it was even worse. That's when we were told we should do IVF.

I actually didn't want to go to IVF. I thought it was overkill for what the problem was. When Mr. DD and I had our first consult with the RE, Mr. DD was not opposed to donor sperm, however he honestly thought it would never come to that. When it did, he backpedalled on me. No sperm donor and no adoption. Ironically it is the fact that we have X that solidifies Mr. DD's stand that there is hope and he will only consider another child that is 100% biologically ours. If we didn't have X, he would not take a 5% chance of getting pregnant on our own and consider that enough (I'm pulling that percentage out of my ass, as I don't know if it wouldn't even be that high).

So I subjected myself to the injectables; the mental torture of time; and the feelings of failure when my ovaries didn't respond as hoped while on the stims. But I did it because it was the only way I was going to have another baby and that's why I wasn't really surprised when IVF # 1 resulted in a positive. As far as we knew, the problem was never mine. The loss of Baby May was due to a genetic fluke for which we have both tested negative for, so if we could get a fertilized egg in my uterus, I figured the rest was a no-brainer.

The first nail in the ART coffin came when we ended up with a chemical pregnancy. Our RE told us that it was probably because something was wrong with the egg/embryo. And when none of the frozen embryos could get past blast stage, it became apparent that the problem did not solely lie in Mr. DD's sperm. The proof was in the pudding with IVF #2.

Why did we decide that the 2nd would be the last? I was very lucky to even get that far, as Mr. DD hated watching me go through the anguish and pain of another miscarriage as it left him powerless to change it. We really had convinced ourselves that IVF #1 was just a warm up and that # 2 would be proof that practice does make perfect. I would go again for # 3, but Mr. DD won't. He has joined the chorus of family and friends that unnecessarily remind me that I "should be happy that I have X," ...as if I'm not. X is probably the biggest reason I have for wanting another. He's a thorn in my side one moment and he is why I remind myself to keep breathing the next.

So I have decided before my next cycle starts he will definitely be getting another SA done. He needs to face the reality of what the odds really are and we can then discuss what his expectations are. Hell, right now maybe he's just trying to con me into more sex and dammit, he might just get his way for a while.

There is also the money issue. All of this has been out of pocket. Roughly $20,000 has been been literally pissed and bled away in 6 months. On my last beta day, I broke down in front of my carpet rep (who we barely know socially) and told her what hell we had been through. When I mentioned that the money should have been spent on X, do you know what she said? "You did. You did spend that money on X, just not in the traditional sense." And she's right. If X asks why he doesn't have a baby sister or brother, we will never have to look away and shuffle our feet in the dirt or try to change the subject to hide our guilt. We will honestly be able to tell him we really, really tried but it just didn't happen.

Right now I am trying hard not to be angry and disappointed about Mr. DD's stubbornness and pride especially when I think that the money we spent on IVF would've paid for 4 more IUI attempts with donor sperm and I can't help but think that it probably would've worked even if my eggs were borderline crap. But that's a "what if" question that will never be answered, much less ever asked.

No. 182 - I Married a Vulcan

I have been reluctant over these past few days to discuss what lies ahead with Mr. DD. He is giving me breathing space, but almost too much. Yesterday after I got off work, I had to go see him where he worked to pick up the checkbook. I was mopey and had just finished crying and he wanted to know if I was OK. Of course, I answered no, but he let me get back into the car and drive away without asking why.

Not only is Mr. DD a Man and has all the faults and defects that men normally do; he is a man of Vulcan logic. There are no answers to "what if" or "what would you do" as they usually preface something fantasmic: what would you do if you won a million dollars. Until that happens, he would never think to try to answer as it doesn't exist; it doesn't matter what he says; and it's a waste of breath.

Last night I finally dared to say to him, "It upsets me that you have already accepted that we will have no more children. And if it's not acceptance I am reading, it is ambivalence." He replied that he has accepted that we will not have more children...through the RE clinic's assistance, but he said that there is nothing preventing us from trying on our own.

Then it was my turn to plunge into that logic and figure the odds of us conceiving without medical intervention are tragically and pathetically low, which I did not say aloud. We are dealing with unexplained infertility on my part and male factor on his. You may or may not remember that we tried to go down this road after the FET That Never Happened and I had really wanted him to get a physical and another SA. He has done neither. However, he has time to do this before we start entertaining the idea again as my ovaries shut down after a cycle of stims. The idea of charting and peeing on sticks makes me surprisingly angry.

But...I don't want to give up the fight either. Not yet.

So, I am giving myself more time to digest what to do next. I have an appointment with my GYN on Wednesday for my PAP. I will undoubtedly bawl my eyes out as I relay the past 10 months of hell, which he initially sent me to, and see what he recommends, if anything.

To me, it would seem the easiest to just stop worrying about it; stop trying; stop grieving over what wasn't meant to be and move on rather than try to be hopeful and worry that if by some strange and freakish act of nature I get pregnant, I then have to stress about the fact I hadn't been on prenatal vitamins or progesterone or miscarrying again.

For Mr. DD those thoughts are irrelevant. They are the what-ifs and what-would-you-dos that can't be answered.

No. 181 - Grey Street

I'm not a DMB fan, but I heard this tonite on my way home and the lyrics struck me hard. I know I'm in this funk right now and I'm sorry it hasn't been much fun coming to play at my house. I promise that eventually, even though not soon enough for you and I, it will pass.

DAVE MATTHEWS BAND - Grey Street Lyrics

Oh look at how she listens
She says nothing of what she thinks
She just goes stumbling through her memories
Staring out on to Grey Street.
She thinks, "Hey, how did I come to this?"
I dream myself a thousand times around the world
But I can't get out of this place.
There's an emptiness inside her
And she'll do anything to fill it in
But all the colors mix together - to grey
And it breaks her heart

How she wishes it was different
She prays to God most every night
And though she swears it doesn't listen
There's still a hope in her it might
She says "I pray
But they fall on deaf ears, am I supposed to take it on myself?
To get out of this place?
"There's lonliness inside her
And she'll do anything to fill it in
And though it's red blood bleeding from her now
It feels like cold blue ice in her heart
When all the colors mix together - to grey
And it breaks her heart

There's a stranger speaks outside her door
Says take what you can from your dreams
Make them as real as anything
It'd take the work out of courage
But she says "Please
There's a crazy man that's creeping outside my door,
I live on the corner of Grey Street
And the end of the world."
There's an emptiness inside her
And she'll do anything to fill it in
And though it's red blood bleeding from her now
It's more like cold blue ice in her heart
She feels like kicking out all the windows
And setting fire to this life
She could change everything about her
Using colors bold and bright
But all the colors mix together - to grey
And it breaks her heart
It breaks her heart
To Grey

No. 180 - What Doesn't Kill You Just Makes You Bitter

It’s been a week of ups and lots of downs. Evident by my recent posts. Let me just share a few ironies that I've noticed over these past few days with you. Some you may nod your head emphatically along with; and others that may leave you scratching it in confusion.

It was “Administrative Professional’s Day” last Wednesday. Even though my primary job and title have nothing to do with that, I have been on the receiving end of more requests to retrieve files, order supplies, and create folder tab labels in the past week than I had in the two years I WAS an Admin Pro. And I didn’t get any fucking flowers.

My body is getting a good laugh at its own expense. Apparently I don’t have the hormonal balance to create good quality eggs, but enough hormones to reenact fond experiences from high school by presenting me a beautiful case of “pizza face”.

Recent bumper sticker: “American by Birth; Biker by Choice”. Said sticker was on the back of a piece of shit car.

Recent car window sign: “I don’t need kids, I have a husband.” Fuck you, you bitch.

I saw my GP on Wednesday, who after hearing my ART fiasco, try to console me with how he and his wife went through several miscarriages and “only God knows what’s in your heart and what his plans are for you.” Later I found out that his wife just gave birth to baby no. 4 just two weeks ago. He also gave me a couple sample packs of antidepressants, but I haven’t taken any yet. I’m scared to.

I work in a healthcare setting. Yes, ironic in itself. Thankfully, I don’t have much interaction with the clinical or patient side. However, on rare occasions I have to field calls from peopel with stories like this: “It’s just been hell lately. I had a baby, then I got pregnant again right away, this time with twins, blah, blah, blah, woe is me,” and I force myself to smile into the phone and keep it civil until I can hang up and cry.

There’s this religious based children’s fund where 80 cents a day will sponsor a child. I figured over 18 years, that’s only $5,256. I’m trying to figure out how I can cut them a deal where they get the money, but I get to bring the child home and take care of him/her from here. This will then free up that $5,300 for a different child. They get two children taken care of with one sponsorship; and I get a 75% discount off the “legal” adoption fees.

In the building next to mine, there’s a clinic that provides free pregnancy tests to girls “in trouble”. I told Mr. DD that I was going to park in front one of these days and wait for some girl to come out, sobbing in despondency, and promise her a life of luxury while she waits out the pregnancy if she gives me her baby. Yes, I’m a Lifetime Movie story just waiting to happen.

No. 179 - The Tides a'Shiftin'

It's officially been one week since our last attempt conceiving via clinical means, which explains in part my last post. Why did I torture myself by looking through X's baby clothes? I don't know. Probably to test the waters, as it were. Unfortunately, the water was not fine and Mr. DD found me in X's closet, wracked by sobs. I was able to make it through 2 of the 6 bins of clothes before he drug me out of the closet to lead me, loose-limbed and dazed, into the bedroom to lay down for a few minutes. I secretly wish he would say let's try again; let's go for the adoption; let's not give up. But I know he won't. That's why he's the rock. I'm the jellyfish throwing myself onto the rock. Guess who's going to win that skirmish.

I've noticed the slightest changes in my Bloglines. I watch a total of 97 feeds, which break down as follows:

4 adopting blogs
9 miscellaneous writers
10 secondary infertiles trying for baby No. ?
22 pregnancy blogs
26 infertiles trying for baby No. 1
26 Mom's - whether through ART, adoption or luck (which I recently threw myself into, so the total is really 27)

As Wavery noted, she also has me listed under Parenting, which I would loosely term what I'm currently doing with X, since planting his little butt on the couch to watch the same movie over and over again while Mommy sucks down a few concoctions (and make sure he doesn't sneak a sip from since it looks suspiciously like chocolate milk), is not going to win me brownie points with social services. I've got to come to the realization that my focus has to be on X and not Baby May (or Baby September; or Baby Whenever).

In fact, I found Tertia's recent posts on "spoiling" IF children rather intriguing. I want to hitchhike on her post, but I'm going to save that for another time as I'm waiting for all the comments to come in. Maybe the point will be made and I won't have to go there; maybe not.


Personal factoid: I love the beach, but am terrified of going in the ocean, especially when it gets so deep I can't see the bottom.

No. 178 - I drink I'm thunk...

Hey, you.

Yeah, you.

If you have received a comment from me anytime after 8:30 pm CST, please bear with whatever the fuck I said as I am drinking.

Colorado Bulldog(s), in case you were wondering: equal mix vodka, baileys w/some Pepsi and milk ('cause there's no cream in this fridge or half and half or whatever).

Mr. DD has gone shopping and X is watching Robotz for the 3rd time today. It's after his bedtime (X's, not Mr. DD's) and I don't give a shit.

I had to go through some of X's clothes earlier today in prep to either put them on the garage sale or give them away to friends. And guess what? That kinda' sucked.

And I noticed I have a bunch of people who have added me to their bloglines. Oh, honey. You know that this is no longer an "infertility" blog, don't you? Sorry if you feel like you got a little bit of the ole' bait-n-switch there. I'm just a bitter old hag who won't have any more stories about "2WW" or "cootercams" or "my fertile friends and relatives suck". OK, probably more stories about the fertile friends and family sucking.


Personal factoid: I'm drunk, but I think everything looks like it's properly spelled and grammer appears to be within average. Everything's A-fucking-OK!

No. 177 - Myth Buster

For several months, I have had the above tagline: Former Super Model, Mother to Boy-Genius, and Married to One of the 50 Sexiest Men Alive, just trying to live a normal life in spite of being beaten to the mat by Secondary Infertility.

Recently, I've received a rash of emails wanting to know if I really am a former super model. As much I wish I could say I was a former super model, I am not. I was once propositioned about 10 years ago to become a lingerie model by some guy hanging out at a hair show for which I had volunteered (it was the only way I could afford to get my hair to no longer be green from home-coloring kits). I even took his card and drove to The Metro to check out his "studio". Needless to say, it all turned out to be a little sketchy. Plus, no model - super or not - is going to locate her butt to Small Town, Nebraska.

And while I'm at it, my son is no boy-genius. At nearly 4 1/2 he refuses to try to read, but he can fool me each time I pull out a book as he usually has the story memorized so I believe he actually may be "reading". However, I am quite impressed with his ability to associate things into his memory. When he sees a Cola delivery truck, he can tell by the logo what kind it is. Same with beer. It could be a B*d, M1ller, He1n1ken, etc. and he will point and say, "Look, Mommy, that says 'Beer'. I don't like Beer." I should state for the record that we are not beer-drinkers. Our neighbors who have two girls that X goes and plays with? Well, their Mommy drinks enough beer for the whole neighborhood...but who am I to judge.

Lastly, Mr. DD is not by any stretch of the imagination one of the 50 sexiest men alive. Unless, you find Jay Len0 sexy, because he has been told he looks like him a dozen times. He was even stopped by some lady in a Vegas casino because in her drunken state, she was sure Mr. DD was Jay. However, I use to tease Mr. DD in his younger days that he looked like this guy. He didn't find that funny for two reasons: 1) the nature of his notoriaty; and 2) somewhere along the bloodline, they are related. And as I look at that picture, it's still rather uncanny the resemblance.

The myth has been busted. Ladies (and gentlemen?), you have nothing to be envious of. The only part of that tagline that's true is I'm just trying to live a normal life after being beaten to the mat by secondary infertility. Anyone got some smelling salts?

No. 176 - A.R.T.?! Bah! Who Needs It?

As the reality of my fertile-now-infertile status soaks into my head (and heart), I have been struggling with finding the “bright side” of it all. I have actually found a few things to list:

1) No more deer-dodging on my early morning drives to The Metro for 10 minute dildocam dates.

2) I no longer pick up a Pepsi and have to convince myself I should have water instead.

3) We are considering trading our V8, enviro-unfriendly, soccer-mom SUV, which we bought in preparation of the Brood-That-Never-Will-Be a couple years ago, for something a little more practical for a modest family of three.

4) No more prenatal vitamins! Oh, but how my nails will suffer. *sigh*

5) We can finally plan a vacation without having to worry about flying while pregnant or being in the throes of a stimulated cycle.

6) The other medical attention I want no longer needs to be put off, which includes, but is not limited to:
--> Mild depression for which my GP suggested an AD for two years ago but I opted out since it wasn’t recommended “if you are pregnant, or intend to become pregnant”.
--> Lasix. Again, due to the all the changes that occur in pregnancy, my optometrist said to wait at least six months after a pregnancy.
--> As a last hurrah in the stirrups for the year, I have scheduled a PAP for next Wednesday. Thank you, RE Clinic, for reminding me I should get one scheduled.
--> Accutane. Ah, sweet accutane. I did a four month treatment the year I got married and was thrilled with the results. Eight years later and after riding great hormonal tidal waves, another round would be wholly appreciated. I still find it slightly ironic that my insurance will cover treatment of zits, depression and a routine screening, but not infertility.

7) And finally, some odd miscellanea like dropping acid and weekend hits from a home-made bong can be penciled back into my palm pilot.

Feel free to add your own ideas or suggestions, because quite frankly, this list doesn’t really make me feel much better.