Baby Pics

As promised, here is my favorite ultrasound picture. Imagine that you are standing near his feet and, well, looking up his nose from below. The part I find so endearing is the little chubby cheek.




*I am not sure what that is in the background. Hands maybe?*

Home Again. (Again.)

So that nausea thing got worse. And became vomiting. And then my BP was up. And I started getting some tenderness in the infamous right upper quadrant, a.k.a. Liver Land. So I stalled a bit thinking I had an appointment with my OB Thursday, but apparently I didn't. I saw the Nurse Practitioner and had a couple of increasingly panicky conversations with the on-call OB, via the NP. Then they stalled for a while with another Non Stress Test while they tried to decide what to do with me. And then another three way conversation with OB Number 3 (if anyone's counting), before they finally decided to admit me to rule out the horrid HELLP syndrome.

Whew. That was exhausting.

I am pleased to report that liver tests were all normal, platelets normal, all HELLP-related testing normal except that I am persistently anemic. Big deal, right? Protein is up a bit from last week and BP is "funky" and will "probably get funkier." The new guesstimate is maybe a couple more weeks of baking before it all goes to shit?

And now for the obligatory closing whine; I apologize in advance:

I thought I was over this a month ago. And then I thought I was REALLY over it. And I was sure I couldn't take another minute. And yet I'm still here. I have become totally antisocial because I either don't feel well or, increasingly, I just don't have anything good to say. People who haven't talked to me in several weeks or months will call and I just don't have the energy to pretend like everything is ok and chat about this and that. But, if no one calls, then I feel like everyone has forgotten about me in this arctic wasteland of bedrest. Ack! Ack! Ack! I am horrified at the thought of this dragging into 2006. I can't even tell you. It has been 13 weeks now. And three hospitalizations so far. There has got to be an end!!!!!!

I did finally get a cute ultrasound picture of BNN from the perinatologist, who has a bizarre propensity to take pictures of knees and elbows and other non-cuddly parts. If you're all very very good, I will try to remember to scan it for you. He has my nose.

92 Days Down

Lips swelling.

BP edging up again.

COBRA elected (thanks to all for the help).

Nausea?? At 31 weeks??

Marital relationship a tad, ummm, strained.

The Baby Incubator is fed the fuck up.

I just don't know how much longer I can do this.

Worn Down and Out

I think this has become a medical update blog. Not very interesting, but I don't seem to have the energy for much else. I am not, despite my OB's dire predictions at my last appointment, on hospital bedrest yet. Hopefully, we can put that off at least another week. BP is still ridiculous but not as much as it was. (What an odd thing to type.) I dunno yet about this week's protein, but I am not expecting major changes either way.

BNN was not as stellar on yesterday's tests as he has been so far. The amniotic fluid level has dropped from 13 to 9 (it needs to be above 8) and the non-stress test was not as reassuring as they would have liked. We shall repeat Friday and see the peri for the full work up on Monday.

The financial fronts have also taken a steep downturn since we last spoke. I am now out of paid leave (which was my maternity leave) and likewise out of company-provided health insurance. We can continue the insurance, for a pretty hefty monthly price. I shouldn't say "can continue;"of course, we must continue it, no matter what the price.

I am just fucking exhausted. So tired I can't think straight anymore. K. has decided that we need to aim to make it to 34 weeks and I just can't even begin to contemplate another 4 weeks of this. Honestly. Even the thought makes me want to sob hysterically. I can barely deal with the idea of 2 more weeks (which is what the OB is going for). 32 weeks will be 12 weeks of bedrest. 84 days of it. (See--I can't even write a complete sentence without my train of thought breaking down!)

I am trying to come up with a snappy closer here but I've got nothing. Sorry.

Crappity Crap Crap

I don't know anymore what to tell you about what's going on. Some days it seems like things are a little better, others it seems like we're on a fast train to Crapville. Today I feel more like the Mayor of Crapville, so please take all this with a grain of salt.

Since we last spoke, the BP drama has continued, spiking up into crazy levels on Monday that ended up earning me a hospital stay due to a "severe hypertensive event." When I was hitting pressures over 170/110 for several hours, I thought it was all over. But, thank God, they got it to come down again and we're trying to maintain on just shy the max dose of BP med #2. BNN remains his sassy self in there, apparently none the worse for wear. Protein is still holding pretty steady at "mild" levels and scary bloodwork is still all ok. I have managed to pick up bronchitis somewhere--isn't that a big cosmic joke?

On the non-medical front, my friends threw me a wonderful shower this past weekend.* I got to see many people that I haven't seen in months and everyone was incredibly generous with their gifts and friendship. Lurvely and such a nice highlight for me.

Meanwhile, I am really starting to feel a sense of foreboding, like the Crap Train is gathering steam. I don't know quite what to attribute this to, since by all objective levels (except the BP), things are holding fairly steady. Bronchitis? Fatigue? Depression? I'm sure it must be true psychic abilities, right? Ha. In any case, I am hoping that once I feel a little better and can breathe again, the feeling of doom will also subside. At least for a few more weeks.

For those of you keeping score, BNN still does not have a name, despite all my efforts. I found it very upsetting to have hospital nurses refer to him as "Baby X" while they checked his heartbeat. But he does have two rounds of steroid shots coursing through his little lungs and he's kicking around like crazy. 29 weeks Monday.

*Yes, I know the timing of the shower vs. the hospitalization is a bit too close to be entirely coincidence. I am still glad I went.

Dragging A*% Into the Third Trimester

Seriously. Today I am 27 weeks, 2 days and (at least in some books) I have now begun the third trimester. I am relieved and a little surprised and getting so very very tired. I am beginning to realize that all of these doctor visits and shots and blood draws and Jug O' Pee tests and worry and drama really take a lot out of you. Ten more weeks--if we can physically make it that far--seems mentally impossible right now. But I will certainly take it if I can get it.

As far as the protein goes, it's just been a rollercoaster. Every week is up and down a little--there hasn't been a sustained trend either way so far. It's still in mild pre-eclampsia range (at least for right now). It's frustrating because when it goes down a little, all the medical professionals get all excited and act like I'm magically fine. Then it goes back up a little and it's a STAT emergency!! Get back in the office right now!!

If you were wondering, I am most certainly not complaining about being closely monitored. After nearly 8 weeks, I am just getting tired. Did I mention that I'm tired?

What else? Oh, still on bedrest. Always and forever. Blood pressure is mind numbingly uncooperative, so I'm still on vast quantities of medication. They have lately been phasing out the Aldomet in favor of more "modern" medications with theoretically fewer side effects; this has been of mixed success in my humble opinion. Bloodwork is still ok, which is a very very good thing. I got a steroid injection today to mature Baby No Name's lungs faster, "just in case." If that should ever come up for you, be forewarned: it hurts.

On the good side, K. and I are edging ever closer to an actual name choice. I can't tell you for fear of jinxing, but I'm hopeful that BNN will have a name sometime in 2005.

I had better drag myself back to the couch. As always, thank you thank you thank you for the comments and emails--both are forwarded to my Blackberry and are welcome little nuggets to spice up my days. I especially appreciate the techy advice about posting from the B-berry, but haven't worked up the energy to figure that out quite yet.

A Study in Bedrest Dementia

26 weeks, 1 day: I am still here. Not in the hospital, not any other terrible place. I am sorry that I have not updated before now--I need to figure out how to do posts from a Blackberry or something?

The lowdown on the medical situation: still on bedrest (REALLY REALLY BAD), total protein numbers have bounced around without any significant increase or decrease so far (REALLY REALLY GOOD), BP still too high and still increasing medication every week (REALLY REALLY ANNOYING--KIND OF LIKE THE ALL CAPS, EH?).

Baby No Name is hanging in there like a trooper. We have our second Level II ultrasound this Thursday to check on his growth and the placenta situation. I am hoping that he will be well over 2 pounds by then.

My OB (did I call her Dr. Thorough before?) is somewhat perplexed by my collection of problems, as it is apparently worse than chronic hypertension usually is but it's not (yet) progressing like pre-eclampsia usually does. So, it looks like we won't have a firm diagnosis until we look back at it from the other side. If you're wondering, the reason we care about the diagnosis is that it gives some indication of what might happen in the next weeks/months. But I don't think we're going to get that luxury.

The basic plan at this point is to try to keep me out of the hospital for as long as possible. Dr. Thorough guesstimates that hospitalized bedrest will likely be needed by 30 weeks. We are hoping to keep BNN cooking in there until at least 32 weeks, which will be around Thanksgiving. A 32 weeker will be in NICU for a while, but hopefully not more than a month and without major prematurity problems. I can still barely think about what all this may mean for the baby.

Ack.

I'm not going to lie to you--spirits are on the low side. I have been throwing myself pity parties with distressing frequency. I have started doing therapy sessions again by phone and that has helped some, although my therapist pointed out that I must have been a dictator in a former life to have all these hard lessons to learn about control.

No kidding. I get it already. I am really trying to stave off wallowing as it does no one any good, least of all me. I have not yet had much success finding peace with all of this, but I am still trying. I've got to figure out how to move past the anger and sadness and fear that my longed for, idealized, probably one and only pregnancy is turning out like this. That is really old news at this point but it is still so hard to let go of the bitterness about all the experiences we have been cheated out of. I can hardly bear the thought that my baby's precious first weeks will be spent in a plastic tub with tubes and needles and monitors sticking out all over. And I know that he will most likely be ok. But still........so hard to come to terms with that.

Anyway, I am still here, making like a bump on a log and trying to keep this baby cooking. And gladly accepting all calming thoughts that you can spare.

No One Said It Would Be Easy, Right?

If anyone is taking bets out there, we have officially crossed the magic protein line into pre-eclampsia. It is mild pre-e* but pre-e. So..........more testing and more waiting. There is not much to be done except try to keep it from getting worse for as long as possible. Which means strict, only-get-up-to-pee, bedrest.

This is much harder than it sounds. Much MUCH harder. Especially when your DH is essentially somewhat mistrustful of the medical profession and is not all convinced of the need for bedrest of this magnitude. And frankly, I wonder myself if Dr. Earnest is not going a bit overboard? It's hard to say. My Google M.D. says that bedrest is somewhat controversial in treating hyptertensive disorders in pregnancy, as the clinical studies only support a better outcome for the baby, not the mother. On the other hand, there is anecdotal evidence that it has helped some women prolong the progression of the disease. I think there really isn't a choice when it comes down to it--I have to know that I did everything I could, however futile it ends up to be. We don't have the luxury of a do-over if it turns out to be the wrong thing.

So.......the big challenge now, as seems to be so often the case, is to try to shoulder the load with some kind of dignity. I am finding this much easier said than done. Ha! Understatement of the year! It is so very hard for me--maybe not for everyone, but for me--to keep up with the emotional fallout of all this. I feel angry that this hell has to follow the hell of infertility, I feel abandoned by some of my friends and family, misunderstood by my husband, lonely, pitiful, eager to just DO something. For added drama, most of these emotions come in 10 minute revolving cycles throughout the day. And I thought Clomid was bad.

In any case, we will get through it. And--God willing and the creek don't rise--we'll have a healthy baby boy to show for it. That's a good goal, I think.


*If you're following along at home, the protein number went from 218 mg last week to 337 mg this week. Translation: 300 and up is mild, home bedrest pre-e; 1000 and up is hospitalized bedrest pre-e; 4000 and up is severe, delivery of baby now pre-e. The complicated part is that you can go from "mild" to "delivery" levels over months, or within days or even hours.

Tales from the Couch

First, thanks to all of you who have commented and emailed in recent weeks. I don't have to tell you how much it means to have that support from some of my favorite people.

To recap events since we last spoke, we had the perinatologist/maternal-fetal medicine specialist appointment last week. The good news is that the fancy ultrasound revealed Baby No Name to be wriggling away and in apparently fine health. We had the u/s at 22w3d and he measured an average of 23w2d--so the high BP hasn't caused any intrauterine growth restriction (IUGR) so far. IUGR is one of the main risks to the baby from my BP so they will be keeping a close eye on him by repeating the u/s every few weeks. It was such a tremendous relief to hear him described as "vigorous." Even more than hearing the heartbeat for the very first time. Little stinker seems to be a fighter. And, as of last week's Jug O' Pee protein test, I am still dodging pre-eclampsia. Hallelujah!

The bad news is--surprise!--my BP. We have tweaked the meds twice since I updated last and nothing seems to hold it down for more than a few days. This situation is driving me mad, as I just can't fathom why modern medicine can't get a handle on it. I have just finished my fourth week of bedrest with medication six times a day and I'm still spiking into the 170s/90s, with consistent pressures greater than 150/85. It makes me shudder to think what would happen if I was working?

Oh, and as of Friday's hospital visit, I have been diagnosed with something called "irritable uterus." Apparently, hypertension increases the risk of pre-term labor and, if I understood the nurse correctly, IU is some variety of pre-term labor. In any case, I have been having 5-8 contractions an hour, but they are not changing my cervix. They are tolerable as long as I don't move around much. So I'm on strict bedrest until told otherwise by the OB. I really have no idea what this new development means to the overall picture.

This is probably all way too much information, but I am not sure what pieces to leave out? Things have gotten a bit complicated and interconnected here in Mudland. I would like to put together a post about the emotional/homefront aspect of all of this, but that will have to wait. Headed back to the couch, with gratitude again for the lovely internets.

24 weeks on Monday.

No News Is....No News

Since we last spoke, things looked worse again with a bad protein result then better again with a new meds dosage and now we are once again back to worse. Look out for the whiplash! I am upset because my BP is heading back up again. We had 3 glorious days on 1500 mg aldomet, and it was really staying stable at around 140-145/80-85. Now it's been around 155/85 all day today and it won't go down. This is exactly what happened the last forty times we upped the dosage--it would be better for a few days and then start going up again to new highs.

The rollercoaster is really starting to get to me emotionally. I've really been trying to stay upbeat and positive but every time we get another "bad" result on a test or something it throws me for a loop and various terrible outcomes start feeling inevitable. And then I start berating myself for being a worrywart and for taking each individual clinical result as the end all, be all. It's just so hard to get perspective from the couch.

Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop

OB visit yesterday went well--BP was slightly down from previous visits and no protein in the dip test. We are redoing the 24 hour urine test--at home this time, thankfully. I was hoping that she would have a more visceral reaction to my incarcaration story, but thems the breaks, right? She upped my meds again and I'm still on bedrest. Lather, rinse, repeat.

It appears that things are quiet on the pre-eclampsia front and that is very very good. The upshot of all this, as best as I can understand, is that I am some level of high risk because of the hypertension and also more likely than your average bear to develop pre-eclampsia. So, we are going to keep on with the weekly visits and tests and such until the baby is born or something worse happens. Whichever comes first.

I have my first consult with the Maternal Fetal Medicine specialist on my 32nd birthday--next Thursday, the 29th. I hear that I'll get a stellar ultrasound from him, so I'm kind of looking forward to it, baby pic junkie that I am.

Home Again

I'm finally sprung from the hospital after a 48 hour stay, but without the protein test results that I was originally incarcarated to produce. I won't bore you with all the details, but hospital lab staff incompetence + on call OB = a big fat waste of time. I am headed to my regular OB tomorrow morning to see what to do now--I suspect we will be repeating the joy because we need those protein numbers.

Thanks for the emails and well wishes. I'll update tomorrow.

We Are Headed In the Wrong Direction

My BP started taking a turn for the worse yesterday, and despite all our best efforts, is now getting close to pre-medication, pre-bedrest levels again. In case you're wondering, that means it's basically always higher than 140/85, is often around 150/90, with spikes into the 165/95 range just to pep things up. Can you believe this shit?

I have now been sternly instructed to head directly for L&D if it gets over 160/mid-90s again. I feel pretty confident that the Traitorous Body (T.B.) that I inhabit will get us up there today, come hell or high water. No one would really explain what exactly would happen if I do to the hospital, although I have a sneaking suspicion that they will make me stay there.

You can probably guess that I am feeling increasingly discouraged as that stupid pressure inches up and up. I have learned in the last few days that a 24-hour pity party is not especially helpful to my overall mood or my marriage. I really want to throw something but that doesn't seem heart-rate-friendly.

Anyone have suggestions on a) a helpful frame of mind; and b) ways to distract myself from T.B.?

P.S. I don't have a laptop so internet surfing/blogging/etc. is fairly limited.

And Wait, One More Thing...

So, now I'm on bedrest. Hopefully just for the short term to get the BP "under control." The primary issue at this point is that we have to get it down because it will only go up from here. And over the long term, hypertension does bad bad things to the wee babe. And maybe to me, but not right now and I don't really care about that.

I am feeling pretty down about my body's spectacularly consistent ability to screw me over. I mean really. In the last 6-7 years (not so coincidentally, since I started law school), I have had three fairly major surgeries, one of which required a month of in-bed recovery, anaphylactic shock to some unknown substance that very nearly killed me in the middle of O'Hare airport on a business trip, tachycardia, chronic sinusitis, fucking infertility drama, assorted lesser evils, and now this. I am a seemingly "healthy" normal woman in her early 30s.

No one has an explanation for what I consider to be a truly ridiculous number of health problems. The best I have come up with: a) I have some bizarre syndrome that will be eventually diagnosed and treated by a genius doctor like those you read about in Good Housekeeping; b) I have the fastest, most reliable stress-to-physical-manifestation-response modern medicine has ever seen; or c) my body just hates me. Maybe all three?

In any case, I never have been able to figure out what to do about this. I have gotten the slow down message and, in comparison to where I once was, I really have toned it down. Maybe not enough? Not in the right way? Facing east at the proper second just as the sun is 32 degrees from its zenith over Madagascar?

This has been an ongoing problem that seriously pisses me off, as you can see. But now my evil fucking body is letting this tiny baby down, the one it tried so hard to keep me from getting in the first place. If my traitorous body successfully destroys the placenta and starves this child. . .

I don't know how to finish that sentence.

A Long Overdue Update

1. I am now 19 weeks and 3 days and noticeably pregnant. Can you freaking believe that?

2. It's a boy! Here's the latest photo opportunity:

3. As of last week, I have suddenly developed high blood pressure and assorted related worries. My BP was 120/70 last month, and was in the high 150s/90s unmedicated, with spikes up into the 170s/100s. I started Aldomet Tuesday, and is now hovering at around 140/80s medicated. I think it needs to be lower still.

Pregnancy Induced Hypertension (PIH) is not a good thing, but it's much much better than pre-eclampsia, which is looming on the horizon. As I understand it, a diagnosis of pre-e is appropriate with consistent BP readings of 150/90, plus 300 uu* of protein in a 24 hour urine sample. My protein is currently 169.

I am freaked about this, despite the lowering of the BP with medication, because it's such a rollercoaster of unknown quantities. It could easily get much much better and never develop into pre-e and just cruise along until full term. It could also easily get much much worse and quickly, anytime between now and January 30. Many PIH and pre-e babies are significantly premature. But, we have no idea at all what will happen. Other than a higher level of medical vigilance from here on out.

No, apparently it never ends. And I was just starting to get kind of comfy in that pregnancy bubble too.

*unknown unit

The Great Gasoline Incident: An Interlude

So I went to visit my mother. Pretty uneventful, although she did try to pawn off a Michelle Duggar, screams-Penecostal maternity dress on me.* On the way home, I stopped to get gas. The gas pump was overtaken by some sort of demon and didn't shut off when the tank was full. That gas had to go somewhere and about two gallons of it ended up on me. Dripping from my shirt, soaking my bra, eating away my elastic waistband. Woe is me. I drove home like a bat out of hell, skin burning all the while, got lost along the way (which I blame on fumes), and finally, blissfully washed that crap off about 45 minutes later. I have never been so happy to take a shower.

The good news is that I cadged another illicit low-tech ultrasound out of Grandma after this little adventure. Baby Peach was wiggling like a maniac and silently berating me for the stinky environment she was forced to endure. It was worth it. Almost.

*Complete with enlarged Peter Pan collar and breast bow.

Perhaps It's Time for an Update?

I have recently discovered (due to T's sharp eyes) that the invisible ink trick doesn't work on Bloglines. Ahem. So, screw it. I am having enough trouble talking about this without losing the blog haven too.

I am now 13 weeks, 4 days and I seem to be having a weird reaction to this pregnancy thing. I can't talk about it with pretty much anyone. I have been planning to tell people at work--and actively trying to do it--for several weeks now with very very little success. You may remember when I couldn't say the words, "I want a baby," on command to my therapist? It's a very similar feeling. I cannot seem to get the words out of my mouth. And so day after day after day passes and very few people know.

What in the hell is this about? I know that some of it is that I don't really want the oohing and aahing that seem to be inevitable and I especially don't want the suddenly intimate questions about bodily functions, etc. But I don't know about the rest of it. I don't feel especially paralyzed with fear these days--we've made it to the second trimester with basically no problems past the early days and I have no reason to think we won't end up with a baby at the end of this. So, that's not really it. I'm honestly somewhat baffled.

But the baby which A. has named Baby Peach (her size a couple of weeks ago) is doing just fine and waved to Grandma during an illicit u/s at Grandma's hospital last week.

There are most certainly no words for that.

Good News, for a Change

This has turned out to be a banner week in Blogland. Three IVFs, two positive betas so far. If you haven't already, please stop by the front porch of the lovely and talented Suz and the brilliant and gorgeous Bugs to give them your congratulations. I think I am more excited than I was with my very own positive beta, if that is possible.

And Jen darling, it's your turn next. Good things come in threes you know.

Akimbo

To my dearest Bugs, and Jen, and Suz, the internets and I are anxiously waiting with you for The Day to come, and we'll be here the day after, no matter what.

Meet the Stephanies

[photos edited due to excessive google interest]

Do you remember when you were 5? Did you have a partner in crime, fellow pirate and best friend forever? A. has one. His name is R. And together, they are the Stephanies.

No, that's what they call themselves. Really. They are twin brothers and they are both named Stephanie.

Aren't you jealous? I know I am.

Invisible Ink Is Pretty Techno-Geek, No?

I am still uneasy talking about my pregnancy, on this blog and IRL. So, in attempt number 4,027 to find some middle ground, I am going to outright steal this idea from T. at Good Times, Good Times and use some invisible ink for the most egregiously pregnancy-related stuff. Or at least I'm going to try it and see how it goes. Highlight the space below if you want to read such things:

My anxiety-ridden belief in all things bad (again, see T.'s most recent post for elaboration) led me to shell out hard-earned cash to rent a home doppler machine a couple of weeks ago. Not surprisingly, this led to even more anxiety because I couldn't find the freaking heartbeat! Everywhere I looked I found only mine. Stupid and plodding and slow and why in the hell do I have so many blood vessels in my pelvis? I mean, shouldn't two or three do the job? Sheesh.

Last night, in a fit of optimism, I tried again. No dice. K., sweet man that he is, tried to convince me that the machine was defective, not the baby. My belief in technology remains strangely unshaken so I argued with him (as I am wont to do these days), and in mid-sentence, THERE IT WAS! I found it! Eureka!

Baby G. is alive and well in there. What an overwhelming relief. I will admit to crying a little.

Fair Warning: Irritability Ahead

I should explain at the outset of this post that since becoming a stepmother who is deeply involved in raising a 5 year old, I have discovered myself to be much more traditionalist about discipline than I would have expected. Not quite a Victorian sensibility but firmly in the I am the adult and I make the rules kind of parenting category. Another way of saying it: I think it is our job as parents to teach children how to control themselves (to the extent possible depending on age, maturity, etc) so that they can use their emotions constructively rather than destructively. There is probably a fancy name for a parenting theory attached to this, but I am speaking strictly from the gut here.

So, on with the post. Before I became a stepmother, I had passing contact with other people's children. A day with the nieces here, a barbeque there, all very infrequent. I generally spent my time with other childless adults. But, since A. has entered my life, I have begun my initiation into the sticky wicket that is Hanging Out With Other People With Children. I think this happens because it makes having a social life with a child easier, not just because the kids mostly entertain each other.

Fast forward to present day. What does one do when you are viscerally irritated by your friends' offspring and/or their handling of said child? Irritated is perhaps not quite the word. Hmmm. Perhaps it's better described as a situation in which your friends' child is engaging in behavior that would get your child verbally corrected, at the least, or chucked into heavy duty time out, at worst. And this Other Child's behavior usually nets a very very gentle, "don't hit mommy," if anything from the friends. And this behavior is not occasional.

I could say that the major problem here is that A. will pick up the bad behavior. And, to some extent, that is an issue. But I think if we're being honest here, it's more about K. and I. What do you do when other people's parenting choices (and I do believe that's exactly what this is) drive you batty? We don't want to stop being friends with these people, as the adults in this circle are pretty close and have been for some time. And I certainly have no illusions that our opinions about anything involving their child would or should matter a whit to them. I'm even willing to go so far as to say that perhaps they are doing the best thing for their family. But, I will never ever be converted to thinking that misbehavior is charming and cute. I love my friends dearly but we have found ourselves shrinking back a bit from what once was a frequent social relationship. This has not been improved by hormone-induced crankiness.

Thoughts? Suggestions? Smack across the face?

A. Gets a Pony Ride

[edited due to excessive google interest]

Tell me that isn't the cutest cowboy you've ever seen.

Assorted Baby-Related Updates

Thank you for all of the kind and thoughtful responses to my last post. I feel sheepish for being so melodramatic but I did really mean what I said and it was lovely to get your support. I mean, it was lurvely.

On with the blog-confined baby update show then. I am now 10weeks 3days. Baby G is theoretically about two inches long and at last count had a heartbeat of 172 beats per minute. I am most definitely larger, although some of my nice friends deny it. I am freaked out by the fact that my left breast has inflated to be noticeably larger than my right. I can't help but think that this is unusual and it is certainly throwing off bra purchases.

Here are the ultrasounds that you have missed so far:

5w2d



7w0d



9w1d--you can see the little head on the right side of the blob if you look closely

A Different Sort of Longing

I know posts along these lines have caused a lot of controversy in the Blog World in the past and I have no wish to stir up any of that crap. But I want to talk about this, so if you want to read it, buckle your seat belts.

* * *

FertilityFriend.com popped up with this helpful tip today: "You may be surprised that other moms and older women now accept you as a full adult and a grown-up woman in a new way." A "full adult"? What kind of rank bullshit is that? And coming from a website that plays host to teeming throngs of infertiles? Apparently, once you're pregnant, that kind of stuff is not supposed to piss you off anymore. You're supposed to be excited about being "accepted in a new way" and move on with your life.

But that's bullshit. I can't just *poof* make this transition from an Infertile Heather to an apparently normal pregnant person. I am not normal. I don't know who those "normal" people are.

One of the greatest joys over the last year was my discovery of the Heathers and, though them, all of you. After feeling so alone and so apart from everyone I knew in real life, it was an overwhelming relief to come online and talk to my friends who understood all too well where I was and why I felt that way.

That is different now, and I don't know where to go next. Of course I know exactly how painful it is to read or see something about someone else's pregnancy when you fear that you'll never have one of your own. I don't want to cause anyone that pain. But I feel that sometimes my online presence alone, as a pregnant person, causes pain. That if I post anything at all it will scream, "She's pregnant and you're not!"

So, I feel that I should stop posting comments on your blogs and posts in the Heathers group. But I don't want to. I lurve you people. Many of you are real-er to me than my real life friends and I follow your trials and tribulations just as avidly. And I've come to depend on your support and friendship. And beginning to lose it has made me realize just how important it is.

I've read more than one post from a pregnant infertile along these same lines. Talking about how lonely it is over here. I am thrilled to be pregnant and I am so very nervously holding my breath for second trimester. I wish I could talk to you about that. I wish I could share it. You are thinking, well can't she just find some new pregnant friends and get on with it? The answer is no. The Easily Pregnant are everywhere and they are different on a cellular level. They don't know what a beta is. They don't know what a dildocam is. They don't know what it's like to want so desperately you think you won't live through it.

Yes, I know. Bitch bitch bitch. Whine whine whine. Easy for me to say and all that. I can't help it. I don't want them. I want you.

All of this just to tell you, I'm not going to disappear from IF land. I don't want to and I couldn't even if I did. And I am going to talk about pregnancy on this blog as long as I am pregnant, but I will keep it under wraps as much as possible elsewhere. I just thought you should know why I might sometimes cross the comfort line, trying to stay in your life and keep you in mine.

The Good News

is that K. and I seem to have reached a detente in our war. At least for now. And thank God.

So today we'll be taking a survey--how do you choose an OB? Here's the situation: The only OB/Gyn I have seen in years was one visit with Dr. Quiet before running to the RE. She seems pretty nice but her staff is semi-bitchy and she can't see me until July 15. I will be nearly 12 weeks. I don't like this.

Choice #2 is Dr. Hands Off, who is highly recommended by my mother the L&D nurse as a non-interventionist doctor. He can see me at the end of June at 9 weeks. This is much much much better. However, he was the OB when K and Ex were expecting A, five years ago. He did not deliver, but he was the official OB. This creeps me out a little. Particularly since it bugs me that K has already had his first baby experience--and it turns out it was with this Doctor. Of course.

Plan C was to try to find someone else entirely. It seems that all the Drs. people like and recommend are either so very popular you can't get an appointment or else they have gotten so popular they don't deliver anymore. And the rest just seem to suck. Midwives are not a real option because they can only do home births here and I don't think that's a good idea with a first timer.

Any thoughts? I think I may just have to get over it. I mean, I need to actually find an OB, right?

It Is Official

I just can't believe it. We had the repeat ultrasound today and all is well. I told Dr. All Business to double check, since I'm not used to hearing good news from him. He swore on his stethoscope that the little pea is growing as it should be. We are 7 weeks today and we saw the heartbeat winking away in there at 127 beats per minute. Can you imagine? From a single cell to a heartbeat in just 5 weeks. It is truly overwhelming.

Meanwhile, back at the Mud Ranch, me and K have been fighting like the world depends on it. We have maintained the high level of fighting discussed below from the beta testing daysand now we have even stepped it up to a whole new category. We fight about what to have for dinner and what to do with the grass clippings and what kind of detergent to use on the clothes. (I wish I was kidding). I know that my part in this drama is fueled mostly by the constant draining fatigue that I can't seem to shake. Have you ever felt so tired that you just want to cry like a little girl? That's me. Pretty much every day. I think K is beset by massive masculine insecurities now that the Pea appears to be around for the long haul. You know, how to feed and clothe this extra mouth we expect come January. You combine these two things and it seems to be combustible. Whoosh!

Would it be ungrateful to wish for a little break in here somewhere?

A Little Light Music While You Wait......

The Interview

For a little change of pace, Lindy has "interviewed" me. The Q & A:

1. What kinds of misperceptions, if any, do you think people have about you?

I think the most common misperception about me is that people think I am a lot stronger and tougher and harsher than I really am. I find this tremendously irritating, because I think it means that I am not allowed to be upset. Ever. K. thinks it's really really cool and doesn't understand why would I ever think "strength" is bad. Thus, the close-up and personal view you've had of my whining on this blog.

2. Did you have a happy childhood?

I thought it was pretty happy while I was in the midst of it and it's only as an adult that I realized some of the more fucked-up aspects. Overall, not too shabby.

3. Who's more of a catch, you or your husband?

If you like control freaks who are wound too tight but keep the lights on and the higher education degrees dusted, you would like me. If you like fun, barbeque, silly jokes, kindness or pasta, you would like my husband.

4. What's the last dream or nightmare you remember having? Care to indulge in a little self-analysis?

Lord no. I've already started with the pregnancy nightmare dreams and I don't particularly want to relive them. Other than that, I have the standard, feeling-inadequate-at-work dreams. Which I also don't want to relive.

5. Since you're good and knocked up now, where do you fall: attachment parenting or Ferberizing. If you aren't familiar with the two-party system of parenting, study up and let us know what you think. While we're at it, breastfeeding or bottlefeeding? Solids at 3 months or 6 months? Have you read the latest research on the effect of overuse of exersaucers on the development of your baby's back and legs? Just kidding. I'll let you leave some of those questions til at least the second trimester.

My first instinctual answer would be Ferberizing, since I believe that most kids are waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too spoiled and rotten. But then again, after reading your links, I'm torn. I guess I think that there is a time for tough discipline, but that time is not at 3 months old. So, I'm somewhere in the middle.

Definitely breastfeeding, provided I can do it. My mother, the former La Leche League leader, will see to that.

The other two questions are going to have to wait because I have no idea a'tall.

* * *

If you want to participate in the interviews, leave a comment below saying "interview me." I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Houston, We Have a Yolk Sac

All normal. Not only normal, a little ahead of schedule even--we measured nearly 6 weeks at only 5w2d. We not only have a perfectly normal gestational sac, we also have a beautifully normal yolk sac. All in the right places and the right shapes and sizes. I even obsessively insisted on writing down all measurements for later googling and, by golly, it was all good news!

I am stunned. You could knock me over with a feather. I may even plotz. Since when does good news come from the RE's office? I am not sure what to do now, but I am daring to dream a little here.

I could just kiss all of you. Really. I mean that.

"We Are Going to Stop the Doom and Gloom,"

said Smart Nurse as her opening greeting. Apparently, my high level of panic got through to even Nurse Nasty and prompted Smart Nurse and Dr. All Business to actually take a moment to review my chart. Wonder of wonders. SN says that they are "moderately concerned" at my 14dpo level of 54 because, in their experience with IVF patients at this clinic, a level of at least 100 at 14dpo is strongly associated with a good outcome. To which I respond, yes, but you know exactly how many days an IVF embryo has been growing and we don't know that in my case, right? She agreed and agreed that my relatively low hCG level could be caused by perfectly normal and legitimate reasons.

The new (or maybe old but just misrepresented by NN) spin on the numbers is that the news is generally happy but still tinged with moderate worry for now, since they don't know definitively why my overall number is low. We are still doing an ultrasound at 5w2d to look for a gestational sac, although I'm unconvinced that we'll be able to see anything at all. But we shall see, I guess. I must do more early ultrasound Google searches to prepare myself in case they try to screw me again.

I hate them with the fire of a thousand suns for fucking with my head like this. But I am grateful for the small break in the crap slinging. Now, if things can just be something approaching normal for a few days in a row, I may even be able to keep my job.

IF Irony Number 371

If you had told me that IF would have the biggest effect on my marriage after the pink line finally showed, I would have pshawed you. Not possible, I would have said. How could the glorious and long-awaited moment of a BFP possibly lead to a bad place? I am here to tell you that it is in fact possible. And happening. To me.

Nurse Nasty called yesterday with an eerie repeat of Monday's conversation, spiced up with additional confusion, inability to explain herself and sheer panic on my end of the line. The 16dpo number is 118.6--not doubling as quickly as the last test but still a perfectly respectable 42 hour time. Not surprisingly, N.N. again expresses doubt and regret about the numbers. Still too low, they say. They cannot explain to me what number they would find acceptable, the source of that number and the freaking dpo of this fabled pregnancy. I have a strong suspicion that they are looking at a 5wk pregnancy or something but this cannot be confirmed until the one nurse who controls all comments on betas is available for questioning. Theoretically, this will happen today.

So, this is freaking me out. I mean, wouldn't it freak you out? I think, in my heart of hearts, that everything is probably okay but it's hard to hold on to that when the medical professionals I write big checks to don't agree. Bitches. I am a bit of a wreck. Well, it goes back and forth depending on how recently I've had a totally unsatisfying conversation with Nurse Nasty.

Meanwhile, DH and I have argued and fought more in the last week than we have in our entire marriage. Exponentially more than we ever clashed during the diagnosis, consultation, and treatment aspects of this. It appears that the combination my state of precarious wreckage after this last month of huge emotional ups and downs, the essentially unknowable, unpredictable purgatorial nature of the situation, and DH's anger at not being able to fix it adds up to one disconnect after another. One conversation after another when I need comfort and he needs to pretend it's not happening. This is explosive stuff and we don't know how to get past it.

For god's sakes, I hope Smart Nurse calls me today.

Another Dispatch from Anxiety Central

The second beta was 54.7 at 14dpo. I was very happy with this--a doubling time of 28 hours (I've learned a lot about HCG in the last few days). But Dr. HeeHee and Co. remain skeptical. They talk about things like a "slow rise" and "close eye on it" and "kid gloves." All because of the 5.1 at 10dpo. From what I can tell with frantic googling and a quick consult with my friend the Dr. (no, not an RE, but he still has the textbooks!), doubling doubling doubling is the key. 5 is a perfectly normal number that early in the game and so is 54. And, again, the doubling rate was good. So, either they are being overly cautious or I don't know as much as I think I do. It must must must be the former, right?

In my mind, I am now at 15dpo with nary a spot, hardly a twinge, umpteen positive HPTs, two positive betas, and a tummy that is getting just a tad sensitive. None--I repeat none--of these things have ever happened to me before. So, I think I am okay with normal, even slightly "special" results. Dr. HeeHee can find someone else to be in his overacheiver club.

It's Raining but the Sun is Out

I am nearly paralyzed with fear as I wait for the results of beta #2 at 14dpo a.k.a. 4w0d. I guess I didn't really think that all this crap we've been continually dealing with might actually work one of these months. And on top of that, to get to avoid all the shit Dr. HeeHee has lined up for us next cycle? I couldn't possibly be that lucky. Sometime soon, the cosmos will realize that I belong on the Fucked list and scoot me right back over there. Will it be a chemical and gone as quick as it came? Will I make it to 5 weeks before ~poof~ it disappears? Get to hear a heartbeat before the bottom falls out?

Deep breaths. Beta result at 3 p.m. CST. Until then, I'll be the one in the corner obsessively comparing the lines on four days worth of pee sticks.

I May Forgive Clomid After All

I have news. Still not sure how to characterize this news, but news nevertheless.

Beta today at 10dpo after a bizarre FRER experience I will tell you about later.

Hcg: 5.1

Progesterone: 25.59

Repeat Monday.

Holy shit.

I'm not doing well; have I mentioned this?

So, my paternal grandmother committed suicide. And my dad, and my aunt, and my uncle have spent a lifetime battling serious depression. Don't think that this is unrelated to the current state of affairs.

I myself, my own precious self, have suffered through three pretty serious depressive episodes. The most intense was by far when I had just graduated from law school and I was attempting to study for the bar. The psychological effort involved in this undertaking just about did me in. But I did it. And I thought (naively) that I had conquered this crap, with the help of drugs and therapy and sheer fucking willpower.

But now, one divorce and three job changes later, fertility drugs (yes, just Clomid and Prometrium) are about to put me under. At first I thought perhaps it would quickly pass, as it seems to for others, but it has become clear that this is not so much the case. My current theory is that you need a certain baseline level before you start this evil, fucked up crap, or else it just puts you down in the nasty stinky pit. And, as previously mentioned, I am really not in the mental state, biologically and historically speaking, where I can afford much crap.

I am not quite sure what to do here, but I most certainly need some help. I have learned to ask for help when I need it, see? Anyone have some words of wisdom to spare?

The Fourteenth Circle of IF Hell

My dear K., while being supportive throughout this little adventure, has never been one for the details. I would explain what was happening and why (courtesy of my Google M.D.) and he would nod and smile and say something optimistic. Irritating, no?

Suddenly, some kind of switch has been flipped on. Now, he's researching fibroids and FSH and progesterone issues. He's reminding me that we need to head for the bedroom. And he--get this--discussed all of this, including his emotions about the situation, with a male friend yesterday. I am floored. Honestly.

I am thrilled that he has become a more active partner in the minutiae and planning required by IF. And I am also grateful that he's begun to acknowledge his own grief and struggles with this and even seek some support from empathetic friends. (Now, if he'd just start reading some blogs).

But,

I cringe for him, knowing just how hard the blows are, how far the fall can be when you've let Hope in the door. When you begin to consciously, actively think about what may be happening in each cycle, on each day, that's when the pain of IF really starts to settle in and spread across the rest of your life. After you've digested the initial disappointment of not getting pregnant easily, I think you naturally move to the state where you believe that you can exert some control over it, that something you do or think or believe can make a difference to the outcome. But it doesn't. Not predictably at least and certainly not enough to count on. But then it's too late. You've opened yourself up to the larger pain of realizing that IF has become the primary organizing principle of each day that everything else has to fit in and around. In a very real and overwhelming sense, it is your life. I haven't found a good way out of that hole and I'm not sure that there is one.

While I could use the company, I hate that now he will be there with me. I wish one of us could have been spared.

Tagging and Such

Now JJ is spreading the tag love. I get to pick 5 from the following list and get another excuse to talk about mememe:

If I could be a scientist . . .
If I could be a farmer . . .
If I could be a musician . . .
If I could be a doctor . . .
If I could be a painter . . .
If I could be a gardener . . .
If I could be a missionary . . .
If I could be a chef . . .
If I could be an architect . . .
If I could be a linguist . . .
If I could be a psychologist . . .
If I could be a librarian . . .
If I could be an athlete . . .
If I could be a lawyer . . .
If I could be an inn-keeper . . .
If I could be a professor . . .
If I could be a writer . . .
If I could be a llama-rider . . .
If I could be a bonnie pirate . . .
If I could be an astronaut . . .
If I could be a world famous blogger . . .
If I could be a justice on any one court in the world . . .
If I could be married to any current famous political figure . . .

My answers:

If I could be a farmer . . .I would have a big organic operation that sold fresh produce, flowers and such. And my children (!) would run free and climb trees and make mud pies. With goats, and goat cheese, and any other cheese I can manage. Because cheese is proof God loves us and wants us to be happy.

If I could be an architect . . .I would design houses with many many windows that just make you happy to be in them. There is not enough of that, I don't think.

If I could be a gardener . . .I would be living my current lawyer-escape-fantasy. My roses and I would have morning communion and then I would putter about in the garden for the rest of day, finishing with a nice nap in the hammock. And people would come for miles to admire my arbor. Ahhhhhhh.

If I could be a writer . . .I would write my mystery series set in small Southern towns. The sleuth is a young lawyer who gets accidentally sucked into murders and such while working on cases in the various towns. The first one is set in a swampy Delta town and the mayor and police chief are key players. Shinny!

If I could be a lawyer . . .ummmmmm, I'd be blogging instead of billing? Ahem.

Heathers? You out there?

Does an IF Decision Tree Make Me a Geek?

Clomid has finally let me out of jail, but (we all know by now there's always a but), no IUI this month, due to big fat 23mm follie on the wrong (right) side and weenie teeny tiny follie on the right (left) side. Got that? Great lining, great mucus, great spermies in the great mucus, bad uncooperative ovaries. They are going in the Naughty Chair as soon as I get home.

And, in the grand tradition of Suz's Patty the Polyp, we have discovered Frankie the Fibroid hanging out in there darned near the uterine wall. He was not there ever before, but he sure is there now. Dr. HeeHee says Frankie could be "acting as an IUD" because of the position, so we can't ignore him like the party crasher he is. And we still don't know about the true state of my right tube. Or the FSH situation. Or the SA for that matter (don't ask).

So, without further ado, I present to you, Plan # 457! I worked it up decision tree-style, because it was confusing even me:

.

Yes, I know you can't read that. Blogger is evil and I can't seem to make it bigger. So, in English, we will be doing a sonosalpingogram (forget it--it had a bunch of syllables and it was that thing with the balloon in the uterus????) with more evil Clomid (shudder) next cycle. And then, if Frankie is not too too near the uterine wall, we can move on to deciding whether the tube is really blocked (don't ask me how--no more HSGs for me!). If the tube is blocked, then more Clomid and IUIs on the months when follie is on the left. If the tube is not blocked, injectable IUIs for three cycles. Then IVF. Or something. Maybe.

I'll be back when I catch my breath.

I Am the Crazy Lady in the Spooky House

I am losing my ever-lovin' mind, folks. Does this happen to everyone or I am just blessed with special susceptibility to crazy pills? Seriously. The mood swings are about to snap my neck in two and I can't keep mascara on for longer than 30 seconds.

Promise me that this will stop? That I will feel normal again? That I will want to eat something other than Fritos and Hershey's Kisses?

Me and Dr. HeeHee

I hate clomid. It makes me feel like balling up in the bottom of the bathtub and crying all day while I read Star Magazine and obsess about my thighs. As if I needed more incentive to do that!

But, I'm hanging in there. I started the dildo cam ride today and saw the other RE in the Dr. All Business practice. I shall call him Dr. HeeHee--he has the most bizarrely inappropriate nervous laugh I have ever run across. It sounds like he is competing in a turkey calling contest or something. Despite that less than flattering description, it is actually sort of soothing. Perhaps because it's so unexpected and antisocial that it makes me feel more at ease? I'll have to secretly record it so you can hear it for yourself.

The Wonder Duo dreamed up a new Plan Next while I was absent without medical leave. We are heading straight into IUIs kids, do not pass go, do not bother with timed intercourse. I have two 12mm follies on the maybe-blocked right side and one smaller one on the left. We're going to do a post-coital, IUI, and maybe a trigger for dessert. Dr. HeeHee is pumped. I left and immediately went looking for chocolate.

This is going to be a long summer.

Break Schmeak

So, in the end, I sucked it up kids. Marched my shaking, nervous, chickenshit little tattooed self into Dr All Business's office this very morning and presented my arm for a blood offering. I prayed to the Gods of Tattoo Mojo all the way. And, I'm happy to say, something must have clicked. FSH is normal. Normal they say. How about that?

Now, somewhere in the back of mind, I'm remembering that it doesn't really help much if your FSH is lower some other time--the key is the highest it has been. I don't know where this information came from, and I don't know if it's true. Nice Nurse said she'd never heard it before. I choose to believe that I made it up. (I am cringing here knowing that I probably didn't and one of you nice people can tell me exactly where it came from. Notice the uncharacteristic lack of Googling, eh? But I digress.)

So, in the end, I decided that I was as ready as I'm ever going to be and there is nothing to be done but go on. Head on up JJ's mountain and see what's on the other side.

Dildocam rides start up again Monday. I'm selling tickets to pay for it.

La La La La La (I can't hear you.......)

Well, getting the tattoo did not magically resolve my treatment avoidance issues, unfortunately. It is high time I got back on the train, especially since Dr All Business told me not to take more than two months off and it's now been FOUR already. I have to decide in the next 24 hours whether or not I am going to start temping, OPK-ing, Clomid-ing etc etc this month or I am going to take another month off. I am on the fence, but I don't have much time to dither.

It doesn't help that K is now starting to feel some urgency with all this. I think he sees his longed-for daughter beginning to slip away from him.

MUST. GET. IT. TOGETHER.

As Promised, the Proof

Up close and personal



It really wasn't bad. It hurt, yes. But it was strangely freely to mark myself with an emblem of this journey. It felt like I was taking my life back from the Fates, like I was showing Them in the fiercest way I could that they will not win. I will not be beaten.

Or maybe it's just a tattoo.

I Did It!

I know you can't believe it (and neither can I, honestly) but I did it! My very own Good Mojo symbol is now a part of my very own personal body. And it wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. Pictures to come......

Take That!

First, let me say thank you thank you thank you to all of you who went out of your way to send me a little hope and encouragement. It was overwhelming, especially considering that I've never met any of you. Thank you for picking me up when I really needed it.

On another note (I swear this is actually related), I am getting my very first tattoo tomorrow, at the ripe old age of 31. Why? you say. Why in the world would I make it unmarked through the teens and twenties to start this crap now? This is an idea that I've been kicking around for a month or two, fostered by the notion that I need some kind of amulet to protect me from the evil Infertility Bad Luck Trolls that seem to attack with frightening regularity. And hey, if something you wear could give you good juju, wouldn't a symbol that is actually part of you be even better?

So, about a month ago, I decided on the design that I felt would give me the highest possible resistance to Bad Luck Vibes--a celtic tree of life. I made two different appointment to get it done, but cancelled both. I just could not take the step unless and until I was in the "right" emotional place. As in, getting the tattoo when I was overwhelmed with negativity and sadness and failure and guilt would be worse than not having at all. It would be a talisman of meltdown rather than mojo.

And, thanks in no small part to all of you, I am now ready to get on with it. Well, with the tattoo, at least.

The Ugly Truth

I thought it was time I explained what I've been doing since I dropped off the face of the earth. After the 1-2-3 Smackdown of chemical pregnancies, a hideous HSG and surprisingly bad FSH results, I went into an infertility tailspin. I consciously recognized this and acknowledged it somewhere close to the beginning of the spin, and I figured that it was a necessary process. In other words, that it was just a matter of time until I got over it and moved on to the next step, as instructed.

But it didn't happen. After the FSH news, I said I'd take two months off to settle into the New Old Job and give my emotions a break, etc. etc. It's been nearly four cycles now and I still can't quite bring myself to start it up again. This, I knew.

But, what surprised me a little was my recent realization of just how much fear I've got bound up in this. After reading Bugs's typically beautiful post about not pushing for the results of her IVF cycle, to keep hope alive a little longer, I started thinking about my utter cowardice in facing up to this. I have been saying that I can't emotionally handle the ups and downs of treatments--the "daily death of hope" that some of us have talked about--but that's not really it. It is, but not the main part of it.

The real fear is more insidious, I think. It's that I don't know what to do with the emotions that will inevitably overwhelm me at the thought of going through this treatment and being unsuccessful at the end of it. All that pain and nothing to show for it except, theoretically, personal growth. What do you do with that? How can I start the process with the knowledge that it will likely fail? How can I let myself be that vulnerable?

I talked to my therapist about this today (infertility has driven you to therapy too, right?) and, in the course of our discussion, she wanted me to say aloud the sentence, "I want a baby," to see what kind of emotions were brought up by it. I couldn't do it. Literally, I could not. It was like my throat seized up and refused to let the words out. Like it would open a huge and hideous door to a whole roomful of emotional crap that I am just unable to process.

And, if you haven't noticed yet, I feel guilty about this. I feel like a chicken coward loser. Because so so many of you out there have taken on infertility challenges more akin to Mt. Everest than this little molehill I'm hiding from, and you're still standing. I can't even seem to get started. It's hard not to fault myself for this and say maybe I don't deserve to come out the other side with my very own baby, if I can't get up the gumption to even try.

So, enough already. I hope you will all forgive me for disappearing on you and hiding out from TTC-ing with my thousand excuses. Lord knows, I have a million of 'em. But, I'm trying to rejoin you, full steam ahead. I'm trying very hard. And all encouragement is much appreciated......

You Won't Believe This

I lost my Blogger password. I couldn't log into the damn thing. And thus, no posts. Although I haven't been feeling too very post-y here lately either. In fact, I'm struggling just to get through the day.

I'm Here

My last day on the job, officially, was Friday. But I'm still not quite done with it. I have a million little details to finish up and errands to run and calls to make--and I start the new job Thursday. I planned to take three days off before New Old Job, but it's not turning out to be much of a break. I wanted to work in my yard and prune my roses and try to get my head together before plunging into the morass that is sure to be waiting for me at NOJ. So far, I've read one magazine. Whoo hoo for days off.

This winding up of the old job and preparing for the new is taking up all my mental space these days. I want all my ducks in a row--bills paid, clothes dry cleaned, garden weeded--before I plunge in. I think this is some kind of miserable attempt at appearing to be On Top of Things. Ha. Oh, and there are babies babies everywhere. Everyone is pregnant, or getting pregnant, or even planning to "get pregnant out of spite." (Trust me, you don't want to know what that's about). I am over it. Well, not really, but I just can't deal with the whole mess right now and so I'm pretending that it doesn't exist.

This is a terrible terrible blog post. Self-indulgent and whiny and deadly dull. I am sorry, my friends. I needed to get something up here and this is all I've got right now. I promise to do better next time.

'Maters, Anyone?

So this high-FSH thing is kind of getting to me, in truth. But I don't really want to talk about that. Or the job thing. Or any other thing that's even approaching an ickiness factor over, say about 1.2 on the Ickter Scale. What's a girl to do? Talk tomatoes of course!

I adore tomatoes. I love eating them, smelling them, planting them, staking them, picking out new varieties from the catalog, imagining the summer's first tomato sandwich. Oh my. A few years ago, I was enticed by some lovely lovely heirloom varieties and lost my head. That year I ended up with 30 (yes, you read that right) tomato plants in a small to middling size urban backyard. It was tomato heaven. I had Cherokee Purple, Pink and Red Brandywines, lots of Arkansas Travelers, Marzano, German Striped, Bradley Pinks......it goes on and on. Veritable forests of tomatoes.

And then the fungus came. Calamity mid-season, just as it was really getting good. Despite hours on the internet looking at disease keys, various fungicides and pesticides and fertilizers and grandma's remedies, the decline was swift and total. Stupid stinkin' Southern humidity.

Those of you who have been there will understand that this was a tragedy of epic proportions, and I have been too afraid to get back up there in the plant double digits again. I have had small scale success with some plain vanilla hybrids that are more resistant to the ever-present fungal funk circulating around these parts. But that's just so boring. I am jonesing for the extravaganza, jittery for a forest fix--feeling the call to acid, so to speak.

Thanks to Soper's beneficence, I am in love with Southern Exposure's lineup. I just couldn't resist the vegetable porn, and we're off to the races.

Stay tuned. And send me your address if you want some.

New Doin's

Since we spoke last, there have been many new doin's in my little patch of the world. The summary: new job, new car, new hair, friend's new pregnancy, newly-bad FSH levels and new attitude. I shall elaborate:

As I mentioned in the last post, I will be switching back to the New Old Job in a couple of weeks. The reaction of Current Boss and Co-workers has been, to put it mildly, less than stellar. Shades of the Spanish Inquisition. No matter--I'm still leaving. And I am counting the milliseconds.

Leaving Current Job means also that Company Car and I must part ways. This is sad. But, I did get to blow three whole days at various dealerships test driving every vehicle I could get my hot little hands on. And I even drove one home. So, yay for driving fun! Boo to family finances!

And, in the midst of all this, I decided to whack off my hair. Lost about 8 inches actually, which felt surprisingly good. Light and easy and, dare I say it, SASSY. I love it. K. is not so easily convinced but he didn't have to blowdry the mass every day so he doesn't really get to vote.

That about sums up the good stuff. Onto the bad-----

K and I went to see Dr. All Business to discuss the Hideously Awful HSG. I was mentally prepared for all kinds of tube talk and attempts to get me back on that x-ray table (not bloody likely!). I was not prepared for a little sit down talk about my FSH levels. For the uninitiated (as I was until so very recently), FSH stands for Follicle Stimulating Hormone and the idea is that the higher your FSH is, the harder your body is having to work to make your ovaries cooperate. Apparently, this indicates possible trouble with egg quality and/or quality. AND, the kicker is that all my moaning and angst-y groaning about taking a break from TTC due to New Old Job was for naught. Dr. All Business says, in no uncertain terms, that the aforementioned crappy FSH means we are not to take a break of more than a month or two. Then, the New Plan is to do 2-3 clomid/prometrium cycles, then a diagnostic Lap/Tube Blow-out, then injectable IUIs. The fun begins in May. I am literally on the edge of my seat with excitement. (I know, I know--a bit heavy on the sarcasm. Sorry).

Then, that very same day, a good friend takes me to lunch to tell me that she is pregnant. And that it's amazing because they started trying LAST MONTH. Why oh why oh why did she feel the need to share that little tidbit? She knows what has been going on in my little TTC hell. She also knows what kind of hell our Third Friend--infertile also--has been living with for the last 18 months. She should have kept her damn trap shut and pretended like it at least took 6 months or something. I felt like I had a sign plastered to my forehead reading, "Broken".

I said at the beginning that I had a new attitude, didn't I? Well, it comes and goes. The old one is very tenacious.

Angst of a Slightly Different Flavor

Hey kids. Big doings to report. I have gotten an offer from Old Job and I am so out of here. This is a good thing, I promise.

But.

(You knew there was a but, right?)

What in the world am I going to do now about this baby thing? We going to see Dr. All Business this week to get the New Post-HSG Plan and, presumably, start on it. We skipped the Clomid/Prometrium this month because I was expecting The Offer to come, as it did. And, if we pretend like the C/P might have actually worked then I would be conceiving on one insurance and delivering on another. That sounds very messy. Not to mention the joy and elation that will no doubt ring through the halls at Old/New Job if I announce a pregnancy a month after starting there.

But then again, is it really wise to intentionally put off proceeding with the Plan? I mean, there is no guarantee that any of this will be successful (and that is the understatement of the year) and what will additional delay cost me?

Any words of advice out there? I could use them.

Important Things That I Remembered That I Forgot

1. A lot of coffee and no food is bad.
2. So are maxipads.
3. My husband is an absolute gem of a man.
4. That doesn't make his snoring any less annoying.
5. Big dramatic crying jags actually do help.
6. They also make your eyes really really puffy.
7. People don't notice new suits but they do notice puffy eyes.
8. You people are the best thing to happen to me in recent memory.

My Tubes Are Plotting Against Me

I was very reluctant to actually go through with the Tube Blowout. I almost cancelled it 42 separate times. I should have gone with instinct on this one.

I won't dwell on the details, which were of course, gorier and more drawn out than Dr. All Business had promised. Suffice it to say approximately a gallon of dye was shot up my nether regions, all because my right tube had a panic attack and absolutely refused to show up. Nothing there a'tall, despite the very determined efforts of a man and his catheter.

So, it's either totally blocked or "spasming" in reaction to the dye. Which of course means I'll have to do this again.

Bollocks.

Here There Be Dragons

I am mixed up, turned about, inside out and backwards. I don't know how I feel anymore about TTC-ing and I don't know how to talk about that. I don't know when I will feel "normal" again, will feel hopeful again. That is assuming that I will again ever.

I am burned out, I think, from the supreme effort of keeping this crap going for a year. There is only so many times to can be beat over the head by Hope in her seemingly infinite variations on that theme. The loss after loss after loss, in whatever form it takes that time, gets you feeling all strung out and wrung out and mildewy-dishrag-l.i.m.p.

I don't want to temp, I don't want to check CM, I don't want to take Clomid or Prometrium or various herbal combinations. I don't even want to have sex, for chrissakes. I just don't think any of it is going to work. I think the real problem here is some sort of mind-body death spiral that I just can't quite put my finger on yet. Something in there thinks that if I could just define the problem appropriately, it would vanish--poof--like a cloud of fairy dust. The rest of me just thinks the whole thing is an elaborate mind fuck.

And the kicker? I don't know where to go with this. I don't know who to talk to, who to vent to (grammar rules bedamned). My DH? Fuggedaboutit. He is the very soul of optimism and will brook no dissent. It feels like the worst kind of whining to vent to my online TTC friends, who are at their own difficult forks in the IF road. And, as we know, the "real life" friends are fortunate enough to have been spared this path and so have nothing but well-intentioned good wishes to add.

So, beyond the deep and wide blackness that is this hell, I am saddened that the very fact of being here isolates me from everyone. As the process drags on and on and on, I have found myself retreating to ever-more-tiny groups of people who "get it." Is this self-protection? Bitchiness? Both? I can't decide. I do know that many other of my fellow IF sloggers feel this pressure to both reach out to like-minded others and to constantly redefine who has the chops to be called "like-minded." I understand this and feel it myself and I think it's necessary and it makes me so very very sad.

Did I mention I get to have my tubes blown out today? There should be a warning label. Really.

Phlegm Phlegm Phlegm

I must have caught it from JJ. I have got the C-R-U-D and I have got it bad. I feel like I have wallpaper paste packed into my sinuses and cream gravy oozing in my lungs. I am off to medicate with whatever I can find and pray for mercy. Yuck.

When Perfect Charts Attack!!!!

So, I'm on CD2. Big surprise there, eh? The good news: a normal LP for once and ordinary spotting levels. I am, of course, glad about that new development, but my self-diagnosing inner nurse is concerned. If low progesterone is not in fact the problem, then what in the hell is it? I don't have any other ideas and, incidentally, neither did Dr. All Business.

On to Plan 47 then. I'm doing the big CD3 bloodwork tomorrow, then the fantabulous HSG, then Clomid extravangza and Prometrium up the hoo-ha. I guess I had better dig out the Mucinex.

It is amazing to me how the emotional roller coaster manages to seem fresh and new every cycle. Even though it is the same process each and every time--despondency with AF, then single-minded eye on the prize, then creeping Hope and renewed chart stalking--the memories of all the failed cycles that have gone before layer one atop the other to make it something different. As this goes on and on and on, the actual process of TTC'ing takes up less of my conscious mind even while the emotional toll grows under the surface. I don't want to talk about it, don't want to think about it, I just want to wallow.

Predictably, I'll feel better in a few days. And I'll again forget all about getting kicked in the stomach by that perfect, perfect chart.

What New Fresh Hell Is This?

After bitching and moaning and whining about my terrible progesterone levels and spotting and short luteal phase, ad nauseaum, suddenly my progesterone is normal and my luteal phase is, gasp, up to 12dpo with no spotting? On a totally unmedicated cycle? How odd.

After last cycle's traumatic conclusion, I found myself actually avoiding my DH in fear and trepidation of the consequences. But I miscalculated. And it is actually possible.

I thought I had outfoxed Hope this time, but she was just hiding. Only to sneak up and whomp me a good one upside the head.

I just don't have anything else to say.

Score: Fertiles 547 Infertiles 0

JJ over at Jellybelly linked to an interesting newspaper article about surrogacy in this blog post. I'll cut to the chase on the article for you: single mom agrees to act as surrogate for Japanese couple, using man's sperm and a third woman's egg in an IVF procedure; the parties agree to implant two embryos; surrogate discovers she's pregnant with twins.

The reaction? The surrogacy agency tells her not to tell the couple that she is having twins. And why, you ask? So that she will be free to selectively abort one fetus if she decides she doesn't want to deal with a twin pregnancy. This made my skin crawl.

But wait, it gets better. I am casually discussing this situation with a Fertile Friend, secure in the knowledge that she would understand how truly horrible this would be for the hopeful parents in Japan, who may not get a chance for a second child and, even worse, wouldn't even know about it. But, Dear Reader, I am sure you see where this is going. FF was uncomfortably silent. She hemmed, she hawed. She finally said, "Well, I suppose it depends on how you feel about abortion rights."

WHAT? The surrogate's absolutely unfettered ability to abort a child she has no genetic part in but agreed to carry is an abortion rights issue?

Infertiles get no love.

Stepmonster

My stepson is driving me absolutely bananas. This is a bad thing.

A little background: I first met A when he was barely two years old. He was, to put it charitably, a hellion. He is now almost 5 and generally speaking, a really good kid. Smart, funny, well-behaved, etc etc etc. His mother is a whole different story, but we'll leave that for another time. A lives with us 50% and his mother 50% of the time. This is not an ideal arrangement but he seems to be okay with it, so that's what we do.

So now, suddenly, he has turned into sullen, pouty, won't-get-dressed-for-school child. He has gone from sunny and cheerful to dramatic acts of Gandhi-esque passive resistance each and every stinkin' morning. To make it even more fun and exciting for me, he now greets each attempted conversation with "I want my daddy." Knife to the heart, that one.

I have so many emotions swirling around this boy. When K and I first started dating, children were not yet really on my mind. I had only been out of law school a year or so and I was still intent on establishing my career. Not to mention that I was freshly divorced and not looking. So, obviously that all changed and A. was a big reason why. We had a very rocky relationship in the beginning but we came to understand and appreciate each other. And he made me realize how much I really did want a child of my own.

Enter TTC drama and "chemical pregnancies" (or whatever you want to call them). I have realized in their wake that one of my big fears is that I will never have a child of my own, but instead spend my life raising the child of another woman. A woman I don't like. A child who never stops talking about Mommy and, in moments of stress, seems to relish shutting me out.

I hasten to add, this is not his fault and I know this. He can and should talk about his Mommy as much as he wants to and DH and I are very careful never to disparage her or his feelings for her. But the net effect of this situation serves to constantly remind me that I am not his mother, I am not anyone's mother. I don't get a vote on where he goes to school, I don't get Mommy-I-love-you hugs, I don't get homemade Mother's Day cards. I just get to make the lunches and get him dressed and buy him toothpaste and give him baths and.........

And when he's "going through a phase" and acting like a little shit, this is all so much more deeply felt. Because the precarious affection that is between us in ordinary times goes missing. So I am left feeling like the unappreciated childless spinster maid.

I know I should be grateful to have a child in my life and mostly, I am. But not today.

I Wish I Were a Circus Clown

I am really seriously hating my job. Let me be more specific--I actually like what I do in my job, but I intensely dislike my colleagues. I want to leave but I don't know how to mesh that with the whole infertility treatment situation. If I move to a different job in the next few months and (hold your breath) miraculous things result from the aforementioned treatment, that would be quite sticky. But then again, I can't just put my whole life on hold for a pregnancy that may or may not occur. Right?

You're Going to Put That Where?

We have begun the truly humiliating portion of our infertility adventures. I had heard tell of the Dildo Cam (thanks CF'ers!) and its joys but--Oh. My. God. Imagining reclining uncomfortably while you pretend not to notice that four--count 'em FOUR--total strangers are assessing the relative suitability of your naughty parts. The whole experience was a teeny tiny step up the evolutionary scale from being a birthing cow up for auction and about to be thrown on the shoe leather heap because your left udder is not plump. I felt like my worthiness to even call myself a female was in question.

So dear K, ever-supportive, stayed there with me during the exam (yes, by the head, not the feet!) and now we both wish he hadn't. While I was trying not to notice the DC, he was trying not to notice the physical manipulation of his wife's body by some strange man. With strange male witnesses. This, apparently, is just too too much for a Southern man to take in stride. He was shaking by the time it was over and done with and as emotionally thrown as I've ever seen him. Not surprisingly, I was not sympathetic. After all, it's not as if the experience was a joyful one from this end. (Yes, bad joke acknowledged, but I'm leaving it). I just couldn't, and still can't, worry too much about whether K is uncomfortable. I mean, Jesus H. Christ--who is the one to get poked and prodded and weighed and judged? Well, you know the answer to that one.

Anyway, the upshot is that we are ramping up the appointments and tests and meds to a cruising altitude, i.e. much more than we were doing, but still a good deal less than many are forced to endure. And my guess is that we'll both be spending more time trying to navigate this emotional thicket too.

In Which I Ponder the RE Visit and Criminally Overuse the Word "Crap"

Is it time to talk about the baby thing? Sigh.

Some background: we've been trying since March 2004, which translates into ten cycles of failure. This, in and of itself, is not so very bad. Especially because I am one of the lucky ones who ovulate on my own on a pretty regular schedule. The bad part comes in the form of crap-ass progesterone levels. Anyway, long story short, in October and then again in December (on my first happy shiny Clomid cycle), I made it just far enough in the process to have faint positive tests, complete with a crappy ick feeling I have now come to associate with early pregnancy, and then came the horrific bleeding like a stuck pig.

Yes yes, very early on and all that. I've heard that and tell myself that. Guess what? It doesn't help. This is the death of Hope here kids, not just the loss of a little tissue.

So, I'm conflicted. I have spent almost a year thinking about this on a daily basis and, all too often, an every-other-second basis. And now, dead stop. I haven't returned to CM checking, CP checking, temp taking, BD logging, etc etc etc. The list of TTC activity is endless, no? Lord knows we all needed a break from that crap. The part that worries me a little is that once I realized I was likely edging up on O, my first thought was "stay away from the man." WTF? I am now pregnancy avoiding? Where did this come from?

Part of me thinks that this must be that fabled grieving process working its way out. Part of me wonders if I can even bring myself to go back to it. I mean, I am going to see the RE tomorrow, so I obviously haven't run totally in the other direction. But the utter lack of enthusiasm at the thought of TTC'ing again is really unnerving. I am afraid to try to get pregnant but I still want a baby. What do you do with that?

Would You Like to Meet My Stepson?

Old Pics 082
Originally uploaded by Mudbug.

Well, here he is. In all his four-year-old glory.

(Those are napkin rings on his ears.)

Whereupon I Discover the Web

I am the only one secretly tracking the trials of Ashlee Simpson, the patron saint of lame excuses? I could almost understand the SNL snafu, although acid reflux was a bit much. But then, getting flat booed off the stage by an entire stadium full of people at the Orange Bowl.

Quickly followed by this explanation:

"I was facing the Oklahoma Sooners [which had a bigger crowd on hand], and I was rooting for USC, and they played a clip of it, so maybe it was that those people didn't like me."

This is a brilliant beginning to a promising Pathetic Publicity meltdown. I just can't turn away.

But fortunately, I can always be washed clean of the celebrity goo by the cool clear web waters of itunes. Oh yes, "Sweet Thing" by Rufus & Chaka Khan, off Stompin' at the Savoy. Then a whole hour rooting around in Blaxploitation essentials and 70s soul mix lists. You just can't feel bad listening to that badassss bass line on Stevie Wonder's "Superstition," Ibrahim Ferrer crooning Cuban love songs and the Cowboy Junkies circling John Prine.

I love DSL. Can I get an amen?

Muddy Friday

In the Arkansas Mississippi River Delta, there is a peculiar type of mud they call "gumbo." Gumbo is incredibly thick and sticky and viscous and goopy and dark deep black and will suck your boots right off. Yet, that very same slop makes for very fertile ground.

In this inaugural blog, then, I will take this mud as my mascot. And hope that there is perhaps a point to the current nasty boot-sucking, soul-sucking goop patch we're going through.

I am hiding out again after yet another flurry of adrenaline-fueled work crap. These past few months have taken such a toll on me that I feel just flat knocked out, but most definitely NOT knocked up. More driving, more flying, more coming home late to messy house and sleeping husband and pets flying all akimbo. Is it any wonder that no little one wants to come roost in that? I don't think so.

The long stretch of TTC-fueled emotions running on warp drive has been replaced by......well, nothing. Dead air. This is actually a welcome break even though I know good and well it's a really big blaring warning sign. It's not for nothing that K. thinks I'm a good stroke candidate. When the alarm bells go silent, I probably ought to listen.

And I am, but the turnaround is slow and hard-coming. I feel like I should have one of those signs you see on semi trucks: WARNING: This Vehicle Makes Wide Right Turns.

Let's see if we can bring 'er on around.