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?