Disorganizational Skills

Continuing my gratitude list (five each day during my 2ww)…

• I have food to eat every day.  Food, in fact, spoils in my house sometimes.
• I have wonderful friends who support me even when I’m being ugly.  And go with me in public despite bad hair.
• My parents are still alive and happen to live in good vacation spots.
• I’m tall enough to reach most things I need, and strong enough to carry a stool for the things I can’t.
• I’ve found the online infertility community through blogging and message boards, and I love you guys!

 

(Test Tube Containers, Photo Courtesy Link)

 

On to the topic at hand today…

I was brainstorming a topic for today when I got side-tracked calling in my prescription refills on my fertilicious meds.  That’s what I’m going to start calling them.  I always interchange the terms ‘infertility’ meds with ‘fertility’ meds anyway, because I’m not sure if you’re supposed to call them what you want them to DO or what you’re trying to FIGHT.  Like, I call my asthma meds, my ‘asthma’ meds, not my ‘breathe normal but have a crazy racing heartbeat afterward’ meds.  Anyway, it’s much easier to call them fertilcious.

Gosh, I think I have blog-ADHD.  Have you guys noticed that?  Despite that fact that I’m never quite sure what’s going to come out of my fingers, blog-ADHD makes it nearly impossible to keep my posts short.  I wonder if there is some sort of blog-RITALIN to treat it?  Maybe an editor?  Anyone up for the job?

However off-track I’ve gotten in the post, it only goes to prove the point that I was originally going to make in the first place when I said I ordered my fertilicous meds.  And that point is this: 

TTC with infertility challenges the basic essence of my being in that I am organizationally challenged.  Dealing with all the treatments, temping, timing, appointments, injections, blood-draws, etc takes organizational skills. 

Mad skills.

And it’s not easy for a just-winging-it girl like myself.  I need a PIA, a ’personal infertility assistant’.

That would be awesome, wouldn’t it?  Someone who keeps track of when you’re supposed to be on the baby aspirin, and haggles with the specialty pharmacy who, despite sending you the EXACT same stuff last month, pretends like they’ve never heard of you before.  Someone who can call the RE’s office twenty times in one day to remind them they haven’t contacted you about your test results yet and can drive you to your appointments, or better yet, fill in at work for you when you have to be late due to all those stinkin’ follie checks.  Someone to hound the insurance company about coverage of your upcoming surgery and who will bring you a coffee or green tea at your say-s0.  Oh, yeah, and the PIA could take your place at difficult events like a co-worker’s baby shower.

And if in fact you can’t get pregnant, the PIA could donate her eggs to you, or better yet, be a surrogate so you don’t get stretch marks.  And the PIA would be paid for by your gratitude and their philanthropic heart to help another organizationally challenged infertile.  Oh yeah, and insurance would cover their services being that it’s a ‘quality of life’ issue.

Sigh.  I need one.

I guess I’ll just do my best with what I’ve got…a marked-up pocket calendar,  the crumpled monthly instructions sheet they give you at the beginning of your cycle so you feel less mad at how much the baseline ultrasound cost, and a manilla envelope with all our ‘health care costs’ receipts in it stashed in my bedroom.   

It’s a darn good thing my hubby isn’t in charge of this.  As difficult as this is for me, he would’ve been down for the count YEARS ago.  And that instruction sheet would be smashed in the backseat of his car somewhere beneath an empty soda bottle and containers of fertilcious meds that needed refilling.

Yeah, guess it’s better that it’s me, or else…

Anyone want to be my PIA?

It’s Not That Easy Being Green

Yeah.

Love me some Kermit the Frog and classic Sesame Street.

That song came to mind as I was analyzing my recent greeness after church today.    And I suppose it this could be interpreted in one of two ways…

1. That by virtue of the infertility bug, I’m different than 90% of the general population (like Kermit, who wants to be a ‘better’ color).   OR…
2. That by virtue of the infertility bug, I’m (at times anyway) a sour grape GREEN with envy.

Maybe it’s both. 

I know this is might be a touchy subject, so I will only convict my own thoughts and actions on this topic.  But it’s fair to say that I’m sometimes INSANELY jealous of the FPs (fertile people) that cross my path, either in RL or in the media.  It clomisses me to no end when stupid young pop princesses get knocked up (not that I’m naming names Spears sisters, ahem).   And I’ll  admit it:  I’ve been known to have pangs of jealously even when a fellow IFer announces a beautiful BFP. 

Selfish and shallow?  Why yes, thank you.

So what was it at church that had me green?  Well, first of all we sat behind the most lovely couple.  Picture J Crew come to life, or maybe better.  He’s got fun and funky glasses.  And she’s…seriously, she’s Audrey Hepburn reincarnate.  And they have three boys.  And they seem like really nice people. 

And I’m envious.

On the way out, we see another devastatingly cute couple who is a somewhat friend/acquaintance.  She confronts me on declining her Facebook request and I tell her I’m in Facebook hiding, no harm meant.  She corrals her four (count them FOUR) gorgeous stair-step boys around her long legs and svelt tummy.  And she’s nice too.  Really nice.  Like, she offers to be a surrogate for me, nice.  And she’s a good singer, darn it. 

And I’m even more jealous.

Meet Eve Green, everyone, an even more loathing character than Eve White or Eve Black.  A spoiled brat.  A Nelly Olsen.  A Blair Warner.  A (dare I say) Tori Spelling.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to tell you all out in IF-land that you aren’t supposed feel upset when others seem to come by something ON ACCIDENT that you’ve studied up for, worked for and PAID for.  I’m merely calling myself the biggest hypocrite there ever was.

Why is that?

Because Eve Green breezes by her multitude of blessings in order to pick out the misfortune.  Sort of like the discerning parents who, upon looking at their child’s grade card, ask, “So what’s with the B+ in Advanced Chemistry?”, while failing to acknowledge the other 6 A’s on the card.

I once read that a cure for the narcissictic practice of picking our bodies and faces apart (you know, “I HATE my nose, my butt has dimples, my arms flap in the breeze”, etc…) is to give equal time in the mirror and in our thoughts on the parts of our body we actually like.

Sounds eerily similar to starting a gratitude journal.  My only problem with gratitude journals is that I remember Oprah preaching (that what she does, right?  Preach?) about them on her show several years ago.  And for some reason, I have this beef with Oprah.  Apparently, so did the Texans (Do you get it?  Beef?  Hmmm, that was mean).  Maybe it’s my anti-establishment personality.  No that’s not it.  I don’t actually have an anti-establishment personality.  

It might definitely have to do with her long-standing forum that ‘motherhood is the hardest job in the world’.  I disagree.  Any idiot can be a mother.  All it takes (I’ve heard) is a few beers and the backseat of a car.   Motherhood is challenging, absolutely.  But as someone who’s done other extremely stressful, unrewarding and undesirable jobs, motherhood is a piece of cake.  And I love me some cake as much as some Kermit the Frog.  NOT being a mother when you want to is infinitely harder than being one.  I also take up issue with how she treated a woman with infertility who was on the program a few years ago.  When she started in on the ‘maybe you’re too stressed for your body to get pregnant’ mantra, I had to swear her off forever.   But…I concede that taking time to be grateful maybe isn’t such a bad idea after-all. 

So, I think I’m going to start a 2 week wait gratitude list…5 each day.  How does that sound, Oprah?  Maybe it’s not enough, but I’m a beginner here, and hey…it’s a start.  So here goes…

• I have a vibrant, stubborn, funny, challenging, and precocious 2 1/2 year old son from my first round of IF several years ago.  He is my greatest joy despite the sleep deprivation he causes.
• I was able to carry a pregnancy and know what that feels like, even when it didn’t feel too spiffy.
• I have a wonderful husband who is devoted to me and a terrific father to my son.
• I have a great job that I love.
• I have a small but nice house in a small but nice neighborhood.

I have  a lot more in my brain right now, but my challenge to myself isn’t to have a marathon gratitude spew but to look in the mirror at the good stuff regularly each day of this dang-on 2 ww.  And you might be proud to know that I don’t even know what day I’m ON in the 2ww.

Now what was I saying about jealously? 

I can’t hardly remember.

I’m sure I’ll think of it again,

if it was really important.

Cheers.

Today, I Resolve To… Show & Tell 3.28.09

Hi friends!  Crazy week here for me.  Hmmm…let me summarize:  ready to bust out my big IUI this week only to be shut down at the starting gate due to an overachiever ovary and crap luck.  Four ‘almost’ mature follies and one slow learner crashed our IUI party plans.  After much debate (well for me, my hubby debated for, oh, 2 seconds) we decided to go ahead and trigger and just have fun.  Not regretting my decision here in the least.

I’m so proud to announce that Evan’s Story (I’m sure if you’ve been on here this week you couldn’t have missed it) has received almost 2, 000 hits.  And the fact that so many mothers or mothers-in-waiting are learning about the potential dangers of cough medicine fills me with, hmmm, I guess the right word is gratitude.

In other news we’re supposed to get snow tonight.  That stinks.  I have the most beautiful blossoming tulip trees in my backyard that won’t make it through the night.  I’m at least hoping for a good enough amount of snow to go trouncing around in it tomorrow.  I mean, if it’s going to ruin all the flowers, we should at least get ’snow perks’, right? 

You hear me, Mother Nature?

Snow.  Perks.  That means sledding, snow angels, snowball fights, and snowmen.  Don’t make me hunt you down.

OMgoodness, “What in the heck is the point of this post?”, I hear you crying out.  Well, let’s see.  I’m going to officialize (I know that’s not a word…whatever) a statement my friend made to me last weekend, that I have discussed during LAST WEEK’s show & tell.   So I’ve made a button based on it for your viewing pleasure.  Feel free to steal the button if you would like.  Really.  I won’t call the internet police.  Honestly, aren’t they busy working with Dateline on ‘To Catch a Predator’ specials anyway?  And on that subject, do these guys watch tv?  Wouldn’t they start to catch on at some point?

Sorry.

 

So, in response to that  line of thinking, I have some things up my sleeve that I’m committing to do.  I’m sharing them for Show & Tell:

1)  We are going to give my son a ‘big boy’ room and not stress, ponder, and fret over whether we should keep it a nursery for an imaginary baby.

2)  We’re going to purchase tickets to fly to Florida this summer to see our families despite being told I’m not allowed to travel when pregnant, due to my previous pregnancy complications.   But I AM getting travel insurance…just in case we cancel – hey, a girl can’t be reformed all in one week.

3)  I’m taking on more hours at work despite the fact I will have to cut them back if we would get pregnant due to my pregnancy complications.

I hope that I completely jinx myself here and that these plans globally screw everything up should I get pregnant.  That would be the best screw-up ever.  But if not…

hey, I’m going to Disney World!

How do like me now, Infertility?

*      *      *      *       *      *

Any resolutions of your own?

Don’t forget to visit what the other kids in the class are showing.  Link here.

True Friendship (death of child mentioned)

Well, I’m in awe at the number of people who have come to check out Evan’s story.  Please continue to forward the link to anyone you think should know about this issue.  I’ve gotten a lot of private messages asking me more information, and sadly enough I don’t know much about the actual deficiency.  But I do know, from the responses Daven has given to others, that Evan did have very small amounts of cough medicine in the past with no problems and that the dose he took the night he passed was exactly the dosage recommended for his age.  I think most parents believe those cough med warnings are because parents were overdosing their kids.  I’m sure some do, but this was not the case with Evan.

So, I’m finding it hard to get my blog together today (which I have to say, is a term I may have to adopt in non-blogging situations).  It seems sort of shallow and cruddy to laundry list my usual complaints about bloating, needles, hotflashes, and the like while framing this entry around Evan’s Story.  This is an issue that I’ve been struggling with since last year.  Daven knows that I’ve often felt like the ‘insensitive friend of the year’ bemoaning about my infertility while she mourned her son.

One particularly cruddy day last year, not terribly long after Evan’s loss, I had a bad ‘just relax/it’s all in God’s timing/it’s God’s will/try acupuncture/take a vacation’ conversation with some women that left me retreating to the bathroom to lick my wounds.  Who was it that came to comfort me?  Daven of course, and I told her how I felt so incredibly guilty for feeling upset for my OWN issues that seemed to small in comparison to her loss.

But she argued that I had the right to feel sad about my infertility and that she did not feel that I was being selfish or minimizing her own grief by dealing with my own.  Daven’s grief is different than the grief of infertility.  I would never compare them side by side.  My grief is of a child that never was, of a dream for my life that hasn’t turned out the way I thought it would.  It’s in the abstract.  Daven’s grief is for a child that actually was, with a sensitive, adventurous and independent personality, who could never again give his mother a kiss.

If you haven’t figured it out, I think the world of Daven.  She is kind, caring, passionate, and despite Evan’s loss, she has not hid herself away from the world.  I don’t mean to minimize her grief, but the way she has challenged herself for the sake of Evan’s memory and for the well-being of her younger son is awe-inspiring.

I have to tell this story about Daven, because it shows the kind of person she is.  When I was pregnant with my son, I was put on bedrest due to pre-term labor at 24 weeks pregnant.  I spent 12 1/2 weeks at home, usually alone, entertaining myself with sudoku puzzles, crosswords, and the Discovery Health channel.  But Daven would visit sometimes, and she would unload my dishwasher, bring me a meal, and just keep me company.  We weren’t extremely close friends at the time, we had just been involved in some church things together.  One day, I was complaining about how my hair was falling out all over the bathroom floor and it was killing me just to look at it laying there.  Next thing I know, she’s on her hands and knees scrubbing my nasty bathroom floor with a washcloth!

That’s the kind of friend she is:  a hair-off-the-floor-on-her-hands-and-knees kinda friend.  You can’t get friends like that easily.

And it hurts me so badly to watch her have to go through the grief of losing Evan.  I just wish I could make it better for her…but I can’t.  I’m hoping that posting Evan’s story and getting the word out is ONE thing I might be able to do.

…Or else this:  Daven, want me to clean your bathroom floors?

Girl, you know I would.

Evan’s Story (death of child mentioned)

I’m keeping this post front and center again today.  Thanks you, thank you to all who have left kind words for Daven and shared the link here.  You are such a wonderful and supportive community of women! 

My wonderful friend, Daven, graciously agreed to tell the story of her precious son, Evan.  It was not much more than a year ago that I sat in her living room in complete shock along with other friends while we tried our best to comfort Daven and her husband.  How do you comfort someone who has lost their child forever?  You don’t.  You can’t.  You can only just be there, I guess, to help them stand and eat and wade through the swamp of unexpected death.

Daven and her husband truly believe that they will find a purpose out of Evan’s death, and that will keep his spirit alive forever through the telling of their story.  As someone who knew Evan, I will tell you he was the sweetest child, with the most amazing smile and sense of gentleness, and loved to dress up in super-hero costumes.   At his funeral, his family released balloons to Buzz Lightyear’s famous quote…

“To infinity and beyond!”

Here’s Daven…

Evan’s Story

 

I just wanted to share our story about our 6-year old son, Evan. On May 31, 2008 our precious little boy passed away. I went into his room to wake him, and he was already with the angels. There was nothing anyone could do. Our lives were shattered!

The evening before he passed, Evan had a low grade fever (99.4) and a “croup-like cough”. Nothing to really be concerned about. I gave him cough medicine and Motrin. After all, children get these little bugs all the time.

 

The autopsy report showed he had a viral infectionin his lungs, but they were unsure as to the specific cause of death. Evan has been classified as SUDC (Sudden Unexplained Death in Childhood). My husband and I decided to have further genetic testing done on Evan. There has to be a reason why my 6-year old just died in his bed.

 

In October, 2008, we saw a news report discussing the controversy over the use of cough medicine in children. We called the CDC(Center For Disease Control) to find out what is “really” happening with the medicine. They reported that there is now a link between cough medicine and sudden death in children. We were referred to Dr. David Flockhart at Wishard Hospital at Indiana University. We then had Evan’s blood sent for testing.

 

In the first week of January we got a call from Dr. Flockhart regarding Evan’s testing. He stated to us that Evan’s liver was lacking the proper enzymes that would normally allow your body to break down certain medicine. Therefore, the cough medicine containing “dextromethorphan” contributed his death. His liver was not capable of metabolizing the medicine. Read the back of the labels and you will find this chemical in most all cough medicines. The doctors told us that 7-10% of all children have these missing or inactive enzymes. In medical terms, this is referred to as Cytochrome P450/2D6. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/CYP2D6

 

How could something that suppose to help your child take his life??? There is much debate over the use of cough and cold medicine for children. What they don’t tell you is the risk of sudden death, Evan now being one of them. My mission now is to save the lives of children everywhere. If someone had informed me of this, I would have NEVER given this medicine to Evan. Now, I get to spend the rest of my life without my precious little boy…

 

While this journey have proven to be very difficult, God has truly been by our side through it all. While we know that Evan is okay up in heaven, God has given us little signs to let us know he is with us. I continue to count the blessings we have each and every day. Everyday that our other son, Noah, wakes up is another day to be thankful that we still have him. I know that God has a plan for Evan and for us!

*  *  *  *  *

Eve here again…

Please tell your friends about Evan’s story and feel free to visit Daven at her blog, Missing Evan.

There are many safe alternatives to treat a cold in a young child, including steam baths, saline nasal sprays, salt water gargles, humidifiers, vick’s vapor rub, and even a teaspoon of honey (for children over 12 months).

We love you, Daven.  Thank you for sharing your grief so that others may benefit.

You are my hero!

Clomissed at Somebody

Hi everyone!  I’m definitely enjoying ICLW again this month.  It’s so fun to get to know more of you in the ALI (adoption, loss, infertility) community.

Yesterday did not turn out to be a stellar day.  I was on CD 13 and had my super fun follie check after my 7 day clomid marathon and injection fun.  I knew something was unusual when my the tech kept clicking and clicking while I pressed on my right side.  See my right ovary has historically been sort of ‘ornamental’  the past few months…sure it’s nice to look at, but none doing in that thing.  Well, lo and behold!  Good ol’ righty grew me 4 good-sized follies this month (a 20mm, 17, 16 and a puny 13).  Who knew she had it in her?  Lefty did her part too, making me another one at 18mm. 

The nurse showed me a little nifty chart with a bunch of numbers that closely resemble a baseball manager’s stats chart.  She told me I have a 15% chance of getting pregnant in the first place.  Whoopee.  But wait there’s more…I have a 25% chance of twins if I proceed, a 4% chance of triplets (oh dear), and a .0000something chance of more than three (oh dear, oh dear).  So what does this mean?  Well, it means my back-to-back IUIs are cancelled due to my RE’s acute awareness of public attitude toward reproductive endos with a penchant for creating litters.  

Ugh!  No fair to finally get a good crack at a cycle only to have too much of a good thing.   

I’m clomissed!

I’m telling this all very straightforward since it’s today already.  Yesterday, I cried and acted quite clomissy about the whole thing.  I wasn’t sure if I was clomissed at the doctor, my dang right ovary, the fact that I find it hard to believe that I could actually be pregnant with one…let alone an entire brood, or maybe I was just clomissed at the world in general. 

So I talked it over with my hubby, who’s just about as sick of dealing with a clomissy wife as I am with actually BEING clomissy, and he said we should just try anyway.  So I triggered myself without my REs permission (eeeek, I’m a people-pleaser, so I felt like I might be grounded  or something), and my hubby and I are doing things the old fashioned way, we’re earning it (remember those old financial commercials with the super old guy?).

This may be the dumbest thing we’ve ever done, but dang-it, all my RE wants to talk about is my percentage decrease chance of getting preggo due to my endo + pcos + pof+ advancing maternal age + crap luck, so I just don’t believe that I might be the new owner a 4% set of triplets or a .0000something litter.  Do you think that we’re dumb?  I soooooooo don’t want to be Jon and Kate plus 8 or the Octomom…I just want to be pregnant.

In trying to find a picture to ‘go’ with my post, I ran across a site selling merchandise for families of multiples, see link , and found this fun graphic for a tee-shirt for dads.

I find this graphic quite unrealistic because I can’t imagine that it would be safe to heft three babies up like that, oh yeah…and that they would all be smililng.  I tried to find an equivalent tee-shirt for mom’s but only found one with three babies on it, no mom to be found.  Good gracious, even an illustrator knows the mother of triplets would be too passed out from exhaustion to heft three babies up on her shoulders.  I can’t, even in my wildest dreams, picture myself here.

It’s pretty cruel for a girl like me trying to be as pessimistic as humanly possible about a cycle to throw in the possibility of not just one eggo getting preggo, but several.   In order to truly anticipate the consequences of my actions these next few days, I have to open myself up to the possibility that things could work.  And I don’t like to think that way. 

It hurts more that way…like pulling a band-aid off my heart for two slow weeks straight. 

Ugh.

*   *   *   *   *

What would you do if you were me?

Ready, Set, Go!!!!

Cycle day 13 here sports fans, and we’re coming to the two week mark of the Procreation Olympics.   Today, we’re bringing you the event finals of the Sub-Q Injection Speedround.  As you know, Procreation Olympics are a drugged ONLY sporting event.  Our next athlete to perform, Eve, has been thoroughly drugged with Metformin, prescription strength folic acid, and 7 days of clomid, and now she is warming up to give herself a 75 iu sub-cutaneous injection of Bravelle.

She’s prepped and looking good, all her equipment is ready, her hands are washed…she gives the thumbs up to start the clock.   Eve has a distinct disadvantage in this event, since she has to mix her own injection.  This will definitely slow her time down.  She’s a very experienced pre-mixed injector and won the gold medal last monthfor her astounding 10 second prep and Ovidrel injection.

Well folks, this is not good.  She’s looking a little uncertain since she’s not an experienced injection mixologist.  Uh-oh, she’s rereading the instructions again.  That means she has to re-wash her hands and reset.  Here she goes…she’s pulling out the big needle.  Now don’t be worried folks, this needle is just for getting exactly 1 cc of saline out of the that small vile there…excellent, she quickly injected the 1 cc into her Bravelle and is going for the tricky needle swap.

Oh no!  Eve’s made a costly mistake here.  She changed her big needle to the sub-Q needle, BEFORE drawing the injection back in.  This is really going to cost her precious seconds.  OK, she’s finally got the needle on and is drawing the injection into her syringe.  It looks like she got it all, she doesn’t want any penalty points deducted.  Oops, she almost forgot to flick out the bubbles and push the injection to the top.  That could’ve been a disaster!  Now she’s swabbing her stomach and preparing for the stick.  Luckily, Eve has an ample supply of belly fat to pinch, which should make the injection part so much easier.  I’m not sure if she’s gonna make it under the 10 minute injection time-limit.  No wait, she’s got the needle in her hand, skin pinched in her other hand, and now it’s in!

But wait, she’s forgotten the sharps container!  She only has seconds left to retrieve it before time runs out.  If she finishes without disposing of her needles properly, she’ll be automatically disqualified.  Thirty seconds and she sprints to the bathroom…ten seconds to go and she’s got the container…

Five, four, three…she’s loading the needles in folks!  Just in time!   She’s got to be so pleased with her performance.  She’s up against some very talented injection athletes this month. 

Announcer (A):  Eve, you had some tense moments out there.  How did you regain your focus and make it under the time limit?

Eve:  Well, I just tried to regain my focus and make it under the time limit.

A:  Are you concerned your performance might not be enough to get a gold medal this month?

Eve:  Well, I just tried my best to focus and make it under the time limit.

A:  Yes you’ve covered that.  Anything else you want to say to any fans out there?

Eve:  Procreation Olympics ROCK!!!!

*   *   *   *   *

A big shout out to my hubby who photographed my injection fun…except that my son had to go potty during the actual process, so he got kind of side-tracked…which was good because I really did mess up multiple steps in the process.  Honestly, I don’t think I should be trusted with sharp objects.

Show & Tell, 3-21-09…is it that time again already?

Welcome to Show & Tell, my favorite part of the school day!  To visit what the other kids in the class are showing, follow this link HERE to Stirrups Queens.

Well, I’m not sure what I’m going to do for a picture for today, but I want to show and tell my night out last night!  I guess you’ll just have to picture my bad hair and the fact that I’m so bloated from clomid that I had to wear a skirt.  It wasn’t a pretty picture, I assure you.  Anyway, my hubby and I went with three other couples to a ‘progressive dinner’ last night to several local restaurants.  Do you know what I mean?  Appetizers one place, salads another, and so on.  Yes, the addition of this progressive dinner experience coupled with my Bunko club has caused me to OFFICIALLY be a suburban housewife headed on the way to card clubs, bowling leagues, PTA meetings, and soccer games.  Only problem is that I work still and STINK at bowling.  Seriously, I’ve never even broken 100.  Shut up.  I’m leisure-activity challenged.

So here was our regimented agenda, set by my good friend A (hi A!) who is the activities planner for my friends.  It’s so good to have a friend like A, since I have a very poor ability to plan ahead or think up fun and interesting things to do.  Someone like me NEEDS someone like A to do the fun-planning for them.  If you’re not an A yourself, I highly recommend getting one!

Sidetracked…sorry…  PROGRESSIVE DINNER

1. Nice Italian Restaurant:  Appetizers
2. Funky Neighborhood Bistro:  Salad and/or soup
3. Local BBQ Place:  Main course
4. Neighborhood Frozen Custard Stand:  Dessert

So we started at 5pm and finally took our desserts back to one the couple’s houses around 9:30pm.  We didn’t pick up my son until 11pm.  Gosh, we were out so late (for us anyway) that I almost turned into a pumpkin!  Well, maybe it wasn’t that I was turning into a pumpkin, it was just that I was pretty darn full by about, oh, the salad course.  So, one of the things we all learned by this type of dinner approach:  you definitely eat less when you spread your eating out…but you definitely pay more.

But what I will take away from my wild and crazy night out with the other surbananites, is what my friend S said to me when I was discussing the room situation for my son and waiting to see if I got pregnant before switching him to a ‘big boy’ room.  She said,

“Stop putting stuff off.  Just do what you would do anyway.”

Smile.

Words to live by.

Maybe FPs (fertile people) aren’t always so dumb.

IComLeavWe! Welcome, welcome, one and all!

 

Welcome, welcome ICLWers!  (and welcome as always to my loyal regulars!)…

If you are new to Infertility Rocks, welcome aboard!  If you want to know what the heck ICLW is, click the purple icon on my side bar for a link explaining the whole gig.  I’m Eve, my body age is 33, and my ovary age might be nearer to 50 according to my doom & gloom RE.  But that’s OK, because my mental age is about 15, so I figure it all evens out in the long run.

You can get the longer version of my IF journey here:  http://infertilityrocks.wordpress.com/about/, but if you’re lazy like me and just want to be coddled, I’ll give you the quick one sentence run-down.  (Deep breath in…) My dh and I TTC for #1 for 3 1/2 years during which I was diagnosed with stage III endo, had a lap, saw an RE, got pegged with PCOS too and finally got preggers and had my son, and two years later decided to submit ourselves to similar IF protocol torture and try for #2, which I’ve been doing for 1 year now and am currently battling stubborns cysts and POF (premature ovarian failure) .

Current status:  My antral follie count was 9 this month (up from 6 last month), and my is FSH 10.5.  I am currently mid-cycle waiting to O with the help of clomid, bravelle, metformin and lots and lots of milk (I figure all those hormones might help me or something…I’m just kidding, milk makes me gag).  I plan to have an IUI this month due to the fact that the real deal just doesn’t seem to be cutting it, and heck, what else would I do with that extra $600?  Pay bills? LMBOAM!  (pssst…the AM means ‘at myself’…clever?)

I’m in a particularly clomissy state right now (that means I’m clomid-induced pissy), partly because I’m on day 6 of the a 7-day clomid stint that has me sleep deprived, also I got a total whack-job for a haircut earlier today.  What makes me even more clomissed is that I should’ve known better than to go back to this quack of a hairstylist since she gave me a crap cut 7 weeks ago!  But dang it, I’m a frickin’ co-dependent hair client.  I don’t want her to feel bad (because I found out AFTER I booked this new girl…I know her…ugh!  This is the kiss of death to any promising beauty treatment relationship).

I need an intervention.

Glad to have you here, first timers!  Please come again and join my insane approach to dealing with IF!   It mostly has to do with refusing to feel bad when FPs (that’s my name for fertile people) say dumb things to make you feel better about your ‘infliction’ and refusing to apologize for fertility-medication-induced tantrums.   I strive to accept no responsibility for my behavior whatsoever.  Maybe that’s ‘immature’, but we already covered that in my opening paragraph.

Motivation Zero

(photo courtesy link here)

 

I’ll try to keep myself brief today.  I’m still feeling very foggish, like I keep having to remind myself I’m in the middle of a frickin’ cycle right now!  There was a time, in my TTC life, where earthquakes, tornadoes, fires or even free french fries couldn’t have peeled me away from my memorized protocol mantra. 

Not this time.  I keep having to refer to the RE paper-calendar-schedule-thingy (you know what I mean?) stuck to my fridge.  I got my meds in the mail the other day.  Used to be that I would open every  little package and inspect every label.  Now they’re just sitting unopened on my kitchen counter next to the bananas.

Like I said yesterday, I’m not sad, not tearful, not even clomissy.  I’m sort of…nothing.  Numbed out I guess.  And I think this is why…

I’ve had a lot of jobs in my day.  And inevitably, when it’s time to do the ol’  job-change-shuffle, I give notice of leaving my job.  And darn it if I always give too much notice, because by the last day of that job I can hardly muster up the strength to get my car in the parking lot and drag myself in.  That last day, it’s like torture to watch the clock slowly tick off the hours of my past life so I can move on to my new life.

And I find myself clock-watching these days.

So I’m wondering if I’m doing the job-change-shuffle in my life again.  Wondering if I’ve already given my two week notice to TTC.   Yes, I think I have.  Not two weeks though, maybe more like 2-3 months.  I don’t remember actually logically reasoning with myself about this.  I just sort of woke up the other day feeling this way.  I think it was a pre-emptive strike.

See, I meet with Dr. RE next month to get my pink slip on TTC.  Sound pessimistic?  Well, my gut tells me I’m close anyway, and by emotionally quitting, I save myself the pain of being let-go.  Right?  Sort of like breaking up with your 9th grade boyfriend because you think he’s going to break up with you.

So I’m in pre-breaking up with TTC right now.

I’ll take these meds and give myself shots and go to my appointments like a good little IFer should.  But I’m protecting my heart full-metal right now.

And that’s the best I can do for today.

Fogland

Warning:  amateur philosophical pondering ahead…

enter at your own risk.

(photo courtesy of  Free digital photos.net)

I’m tired.

Not just clomissy tired, not just sleep-deprived due to hotflashes tired.

I’m SOUL tired.

For the past 7 years, I’ve been riding the family “wishing-planning-trying-failing-treatment-failing-treatment-baby!-planning-trying-failing-treatment-failing” merry-go-round.  And I’m hoping the ride stops soon.  I’m just tired.  I’m not even sure I care where it stops anymore, I just want it to stop.  Soon.

I don’t know if this is my unconscious mind going into self-protection mode right now or what.  If you’ve been following me for awhile you may know that I’ve been diagonsed with POF (pre-mature ovarian failure).  I’m not completely out of the game yet, but I think it’s safe to say I’m in the 4th quarter.  I’m not sad today, not depressed.  Just weary of living in ‘The Land of IF’ as Mel has coined it (see link for a sneakpeak of her book, btw). 

I’ll start working more hours IF I don’t get pregnant this summer.

We’ll convert the guest room to a nursery IF I get pregnant.

We’ll fly to Florida this summer IF I’m not pregnant.

I’ll cut back my coffee drinking IF I get pregnant.

To think of the myriad of things I’ve put-off waiting in the this what-IF fog!

How can one live reasonably in fogland with zero visibility?  Maybe not zero, but the way ahead so unclear that it just looks like random shadows and forms until you’re right on top of it.  By then you may have missed your turn and headed the wrong way.  And even as the road emerges ahead and you think you see a clearing, you end up right in the middle of a landed-cloud again.

I came to the realization (at least for a time), when my son was born, that I better start enjoying the ups and downs of my life instead of falling into the trap of  “things will be good when…” or “I’ll really be happy when…”.  There’s never a perfect ‘when’…each time has its own light and shadow. 

And yet here I am.

So maybe fog is not such a bad place to be, since all you can do is live in the moment.  But I think I’ve lived in the fog a different way, not appreciating the moment, but staring ahead at the unknown, making myself crazy wondering what was to come and fretting over the worst that could be.  And I’m rendered ineffective to do anything different it seems.  I guess, in the long run, I just want to have certainty back in my life again.

I’m sorry ladies, I seriously hate being philosophical because I never come up with anything of merit.  I just spin my thoughts like a cotton candy machine…all air, a little sugar, and no substance.  Blech.

You know the guy in The Matrix who wants to be plugged back into being a human battery so he doesn’t have to live in the ‘real world’ with all it’s strife?

Yep, that’s me right now.  See, I know there’s never a life without uncertainty.

But I still wish I could just plug myself back in…

and pretend for awhile at least.

Clomissy, say what?

Infertility Brain.

Tired, sluggish, and extremely grouchy.

Mental fog thicker than the murkiest day at Scotland Yard.

And extremely clomissy.

Clomissy, by the way, is my new word (that I just created, oh, 5 seconds ago) that is a marriage between clomid and pissy.  I do not really like using the word ‘pissy’ because, well, I think it sounds rude.   In real life, I would generally say I’m ticked-off instead of being pissed-off.  But being ticked just doesn’t translate well to the ’y’ state.  Like, it doesn’t really encompass the true feeling of my irritability to call myself ticky.  That just makes me sound like I have a neurological condition. 

So clomissy it is.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaall aboard!  7 day train to Clomissy!  Stop service in Hotflash City, Crankyville, CryForNoReasonTown, and SayThingsYou’llRegret Cove!  Aaaaaaaaaaaaaall aboard!!!!!

Total stream of consciousness post here by the way.  If you were taking Clomid, too, it would make complete sense to you.  Just like I can’t really appreciate Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band since I’m not on LSD.  Anyhoo…

7 days of clomid!  Yes, you heard it here:  the 5 regular days plus two bonus days to really bring out any underlying sliver of sanity left.  And that means…7 nights of hotflashes.  And really, this is where most of my clomissiness comes in:  a combination of sleep deprivation peppered to taste with night sweats that would make any tuberculosis patient seem healthy.  To read more about my take on clomid itself, go here…clomid made me do it.   But I wanted to review my last month’s description of a hotflash for reader convenience…

“I HATE Clomid hot-flashes.  If you’ve never had one, this is the best way to explain it:  picture yourself about 6 years old, and it’s really cold outside and you’re going to play in the snow, so your mom (being a good and wonderful mother) bundles every stinking exposed part of your body with multiple layers of scarves, mittens, snow pants, hats, hoods, etc.  And you’re standing there about to go outside to the white winter glory awaiting you, when your mom gets a phone call…from your needy grandma.  And you’re standing there, completely unable to move freely or even untangle yourself from the well-built shield of winter-wear, and you start to get hot.  “Mom!” you say, “Let’s go!”  But she doesn’t hear you because your voice is so incredibly muffled by the many layers of scarves coiled around your neck and mouth.  And she’s disappeared completely now into the kitchen, and all you can think about is how your insides are about to cook  and your mom is going to find you dead on the floor, a giant cooked winter sausage.  And so you throw yourself on the floor and bawl out of sheer desperation and will to live.

Yep, that’s a hot flash.”

What makes my hotflashes worse is the fact that my dog thinks that I’m a littermate of his and prefers to snuggle up to me in the most uncomfortable ways.  And he’s a flippin’ space heater!  So, I finally took control of the situation and decided to sleep on the basement couch and ride out the clomid train down there.  Here’s my reasons for bailing on the bedroom:

1. It’s always a good 10 degrees cooler down there for starters. 
2. There’s no dog or husband to unnecessarily heat up the bed. 
3. I can watch whatever tv shows I choose, not that we have that many options at 2 am, but hey, that’s something. 
4. When I get even the slightest bit too warm, I kick off all my covers and avoid serious hotflashiness a good percentage of the time.
5. And the secret reason that I can put on here because my hubby’s too lazy to read my blog these days…when I’m not there, hubby gets to do the nighttime pee-pee run for the child by default.  Woot!

Alright, that’s probably enough randomness for now.  I started enjoying myself on here so much that my clomissy attitude almost wore off. 

And my hubby will be home soon.

And we can’t have me smiling now, can we?

Are Head Injuries Genetic?

(Note before reading, I talk about my son in my post today.  Feel free to opt out and visit me tomorrow if you’re not wanting to read today!)

So, my shiner I got from toilet-fainting has finally faded into a smallish eyelid bruise that can be easily covered up by make-up.  Thank goodness.  So I guess it was just time for yet-another injury to occur in the family, and my son readily complied.  Last Thursday night, my hubby called me at work and asked me when I was coming home.  Why?  Well because he wanted me to check my son to make sure it was ‘ok’ to put him to bed.  Why?  Well because my son tripped as he was coming up our brick steps to the front door, and fell full force into the brick steps.   Head first.  Ugh.

So I drove home like a crazy person, even though this reportedly happened 3 hours before.

Got home and assuredly see my son running around in his pj’s like an equally crazy person (but a happy one instead of a dreading-the-worst one).  I finally got him to sit still enough for me to see this baseball-sized knob that had taken over his forehead making him closely resemble some humanoid creature from Strer Trek.  And in the middle of the knob was a shallow cut, that by all accounts, should’ve split into a gushing, head-cracking-open fury, but defying all laws of physics, did not.

It was my job (by default I should mention) to give my son the ol’  ’he’s ok’ stamp of approval before sending him off to bed.  Why was it MY decision?  It’s not like my hubby and I ever drew straws for who would be making such decisions.  I guess it’s because I’m the mom, and it’s part of the job.   So I had a few choices:

1. Play it cool and remind myself he’s acting completely normal and this happened HOURS ago. I mean, children are resilient right?   Do I really need to freak out over every silly little injury that this kid gets?  Kids bump their heads all the time.
2. Play it safe and head straight for the ER.  Head injuries are nothing to mess with.  Don’t you remember those cautionary tales you’ve heard about someone going to sleep after hitting their head never to wake up again?
3. Play it smart and call the pediatrician’s after-hours number which sends you to a nurse answer-line at a nearby children’s hospital.  Ding-ding-ding!  We have a winner!  (By the way, any accident or illness of merit will inevitably occur during the night or on the weekend, requiring the mandatory after-hours call.)

Now I’ve only called the after-hours number three times in my son’s life.  Numero uno was when he was about 3-4 months old, and we came home from a Christmas party only to find that he was running a 102.5 (.5’s are very important when you’re a new parent, by the way) fever.  Picture two semi-intelligent, generally-capable and well-educated adults examining a thermometer for traces of I’m not sure what and fretting over this child like he had purple spots and green stripes. 

I guess it just never dawned on us before:  they get sick?  Ugh.

Second after-hours call was the morning after my son fell while running with a plastic tube from a tee-ball stand in his mouth (this was not a mother-approved activity, if you were wondering).  I won’t go into the details of this injury, as it was extremely graphic and not for the faint of heart.  The fact that we didn’t take  him to the ER that night still haunts me, but never underestimate a child with a high pain tolerance coupled with parents trying their best not to be knee-jerk-freak-out-over-everything type parents. 

But a hard lesson was learned:  they get hurt.  Sometimes really hurt.

So this Thursday’s head into the steps was call number three.  And it was an oddly reassuring and yet potentially alarming call.  Can you have those two feelings at once?  I think I did.  Anyway, the nurse read her comprehensive WebMD (or whatever script they use) print-out and asked all sorts of questions about the injury, the bump, the child, etc.  By then, we had already put him to bed, so I did get the stamp of approval to let him stay in bed, thank goodness.   But, what I guess I maybe sort of knew but never really needed to know until last Thursday was that head injuries can often be brain injuries that evolve over time.  So she gave me signs to watch out for:

• Vomiting more than 3 times.
• Confusion.
• Excessive sleepiness.
• Inability to walk or keep balance.
• Visual disturbance.
• Loss of memory of the accident.
• Black eyes within 12 hours.
• Fluid draining from the ears.
• UGH.

So this is what I had to do, wake my son up after two hours of sleeping and get him completely oriented to me.  Get him to walk, answer questions, and visually focus on something.  Repeat after another four hours.  My husband fell asleep before we hit the two hour mark.  That sort of irks me, and I’ve not really had a thorough conversation on how he could fall asleep so easily in the face of such responsibility.  But I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the fact that he knew I would do it. 

Luckily, my son did fine all night.  Though I’ll tell you that he was none too happy to be awakened multiple times.  I decided it was just a tiny bit of payback for the multitude of times that this kid has woken me up in the middle of the night.  But, it reminded me how fleeting the assumption of ‘all is well’ really is.  That one simple trip on a stoop can lead to serious injury and forever change lives.

And it also reminded me of my ultimate responsibility for my son’s life. 

That I’m the mom.

And sometimes that scares me more than just about anything.

*      *      *      *      *

Here’s my little dinglebean a few days past impact.

Show & Tell 3.14.09

Welcome to show & tell!  Don’t forget to visit the rest of the class here:  http://stirrup-queens.blogspot.com/.

I brought my biggest aquisition of the year (cue trumpets:  dun, dunna, na!):  my shiny new PROTOCOL to either get me a BFP or bankrupt me trying!  In going with the hunch that my RE uses the magic 8 ball method to choose his treatments, I created a some pictures of what he must’ve been seeing when he gave the ball the ol’ shake-up before my appointment.

Happy Show & Tell to all, and to all a good night!

Why I Hate Answering Machines…

Well, it’s always something, isn’t it?  So I  had my visit with my RE today (Fri), and I didn’t even have to hold my breath.  A few hours ago, I was high as a kite about the appointment, but I crashed as I noticed a message on my machine when I got home after running some errands.

Beeeeeeep:  Eve, this is so-and-so from Dr. RE’s office. He wanted to talk to you about some bloodwork we ran on you today.  So, of course, we’re calling when you’re not home and at the absolute last minute before the office closes so you won’t have any chance of actually catching us here, and you’ll have to wonder what the heck we’re talking about until Monday morning.  Have a good weekend!  Beeeeeeeep.

Uggggggggggggh!

So, I leave a frantic message at exactly 5:00pm begging them to have mercy on my soul and not make me wait to find out what the heck is going on.  And you know what?  I actually got a call back.  Wow.  And nurse Michelle says that my FSH level was elevated to a 10.5 on the richter scale, and that coupled with an antral follicle count of only 9 means I’m definitely in POF-ville (for non-IF readers, that means I’m going into early menopause…yippee).   So, the nurse says, it’s a good thing that I pushed to be more aggressive at my appointment, and we may have to even be more aggressive than the planned protocol. 

Be (clap) aggressive! (clap)  Be, be aggresive !(clap) 

Those were my internal cheerleaders today, by the way, who pushed me to ask for more treatment at the doctor like a junkie begging for morphine.  I always wanted to be a cheerleader.  I even tried out for my squad in the 6th grade, but I didn’t make it because I couldn’t do the splits…oh yeah, and I kinda stunk too.  But I made up for it.  I was on the pom-pom squad in high school (aptly renamed the ‘dance team’), and we had this completely mature rivalry with the cheerleaders.  They called us ’sluts’ because of the tight dance outfits we wore, and we called them ’sluts’ because they were.  (Picture me smiling my meekest don’t be offended smile right now)

Anyway, that’s the deal…that apparently I slept through my biological alarm clock 15 years ago.  Silly me, I was just so busy being that I was in HIGH SCHOOL…

what with the dance team practices and all. 

*    *    *    *    *

I have a fun little ’second post’ for later today with my new protocol.  So, come back for Show & Tell!

Bouncing Back Friday

Hiya girls.

Is that insulting to be called girls?  Hmmm…I’m at an age where I find it a wonderful compliment to be referred to in any type of a youngerish state.   I’m turning 34 in July….tick, tick, tick.  Oh, I’m sorry, did my biological clock interrupt my blogging?  I really don’t think of 33 (or 34 for that matter) as being ‘old’, but as far as babymaking goes…well ‘advanced maternal age is a knock-knock-knocking on my door.  I even got an AARP card addressed to my ovaries in the mail this week.  Just kidding…it was actually addressed to my eggs.

I’m in a better place today with my BFN.  I mean, I’m not in a ‘Hawaiian Tropical Vacation’ place, but I’m also not in a ‘holding my breath ’til I pass out and die’ kind of place either.  Of course, that method of dying is really quite ineffective anyhow, since you just start breathing again once you’ve passed out.  Not that I know this by experience.  But a kid in my 2nd grade class once did this when he refused to do his school-work.  He held his breath til he turned blue, passed out, fell on the floor and got a bloody nose.  Come to think of it, he got sent home and DIDN’T have to do his work that day.  That kid was a friggin’ genius!

So anyway, I go to the RE today for the fun baseline u/s appointment.  It’s a bit of a nerve-racking appointment for me because we check to see how BetterBe (my left ovarian tennent) fared with my last cycle and how my antral follicle count is (that’s how many eggs-in-waiting I have).   It’s also where I find out the new magic plan to get to me my BFP. 

Do you ever wonder just exactly how your RE comes up with these magic plans?  I’d like to think that it’s this extraordinarily complex and technical statistical process involving charts, graphs, and rocket scientists at NASA (hmmm, not quite sure how rocket scientists could help…but they’re wicked smart, so that’s gotta count for something, right?).  What I secretly wonder, however, is if my RE is conjuring up my protocol through a combination of a dartboard, 1-900-psychic hotlines, coin-flipping and the Magic 8 Ball.

“Dr. RE, Eve is coming in for her baseline appointment today.  Should we put her on the same protocol this cycle?”

“Hmmm, let’s see (shake, shake, shake)…my sources say no.”

“What, then, should we change?  The dosage of her Clomid?”

“(Shake, shake, shake)…without a doubt.”

“Up to 100 mg then?”

“(Shake, shake, shake)…outlook good.”

“Thanks Dr. RE, you’re a genius.”

“Don’t forget to bill her for this consult.”

“Absolutely, we’re on it.”

Ahem.

Anyway, I DO plan to get a little, shall we say, assertive about my upcoming protocol.  Dr. RE is the one who seems concerned about my elderly eggos in the first place, seems we should stop twiddling our thumbs in infertility pre-school and graduate to kindergarten at least.

Wish me luck with this!  I plan to ask for a protocol change in meds (moving on to injectibles) and requesting an IUI.  And if they give me any problems…

I’m going to hold my breath until they give in.

Do you think that’ll work? 

*    *    *    *    *

Oh, yeah…I’m always trying to add to my blogroll.  If you want to be added, let me know!

Happy Anniversary

 

It’s my anniversary day today.  And you know what?  I didn’t get a present, or flowers, or even a card.  

Nothing. 

Well, that’s not true actually.  You see, I’m kind of misleading you all here.  It’s not my wedding anniversary.  It’s my trying-to-conceive  anniversary (for #2).  And I’m not sure it’s  even ‘technically’ today, but I know we started last March, so I chose today to celebrate it.  Why today?

Because AF came today. 

And I’m just in a celebratory mood, that’s why.

So I guess you could call AF my present.  What a surprise gift!  Especially considering I’m at the most 12dpo today.  I wasn’t even really expecting any presents until at least Friday, so that makes this all the more special.  I just got off the phone with the RE, making the obligatory “I’m not pregnant” phone call.  Those are fun, aren’t they?  I go in on Friday for my baseline u/s.  More anniversary fun.

I’m not feeling in a particularly reflective mood today.  More like a pissed mood.  My good friend D called, and I burst into tears on the phone with her.  A few minutes later she showed up for an emergency consult and a Starbucks.  Did I mention how much I love D?

Good friends are priceless. 

D lost her 6 year-old little boy last May in what has been called ‘Sudden Unexplained Death in Childhood’.  It has been so devastating for her and her family, and yet here she was, comforting ME today.  She is such a hero to me.  I have asked D to do a guest blog for me by the way, and tell her story…she has graciously agreed to do so next week.  It is such a gripping story, I’ll let you know when to look for it.

So that’s it for now.  I feel better after talking to D and having some medicinal coffee.  It’s hard sometimes to understand why the world works the way it does.  Good things do not always happen to good people.  Bad things do not always happen to bad people.

Happy anniversary. 

Anyone have cake?

Step Away From the Laptop, Ma’am.

A Blogger’s Life

(by Eve)

Blog reading, blog talking

blog surfing, blog walking.

Blog writing, blog thinking

of blogs to be linking.

Blog laughing, blog weeping.

Blog waking, blog sleeping.

Blog sharing, blog giving

the gift of blog living.

Hello, my name is Eve. And I’m a blogaholic. I’m also not a very sophisticated poet.  Think of me as a modern day Emily Dickinson.  No?  To be honest, my all-time favorite poet (and I can say this with some sort of elementary qualification because I took an advanced poetry class in college and had to read mountains of complex, abstract, metaphorical and NON-rhyming poetry.  I think I tend to agree with my hubby these days, if you can get your point across and STILL rhyme, well you’re a genius.  Where was I?)…oh yeah, my all-time favorite poet is Shel Silverstein, author of the great ‘Where the Sidewalk Ends’, ‘A Light in the Attic’, ‘Falling Up’, and ‘The Giving Tree’ among other masterpieces.  Yes, these are supposedly  children’s books, but I know better.  His work has the inherent ability to run the double entandre of both simplistic childhood humor and an underpinning of adult irony. 

Whoa, off-topic.  What I meant to post about is how much I heart  blogworld!  I can’t believe I’ve just found you!  I am bit of late-comer to the internet revolution.  Oh sure, I’ve used the internet in some sort of a utilitarian fashion since its inception.  You know, the basics:  e-mail, internet searches, ebay, amazon, boring.  During my first round of TTC I stumbled upon message boards…gateway to the platonic-female-internet-relationship (well, the message boards I visit anyway) .  I was a lurker, read the obsessive 2 ww posts and pondered my own imaginary responses.  I finally de-lurked late in my pregnancy with my son, when I was on bedrest and hungry for any human interaction I could get (and yes, internet interaction counted).  Since then, I have developed wonderful friendships from women all across this country and even other countries!

And now I’ve found the blogosphere.  A creative and intimate view into the lives of so many great women.  And I’m completely obsessed.  I think blog, I sleep blog.  I find myself composing blogs topics as I go to sleep at night…and if they’re anything of merit, I get up and type out the ideas.  I love to blog surf and find some obscure gem with the most unique perspective.  I love to blog banter. 

This obsession has not been good for the cleanliness of my house, however.  Since I aim to write, comment, surf during my son’s nap time.  That time was previously devoted to house cleaning.  But who am I really kidding?  That time was often spent obsessively internet surfing the multitudes of infertility info on the web.  And the latest Hollywood gossip.  So what?  My house is a little messier, and I don’t know which starlet  just had a facelift.  Oh well.

I’m glad this is where I am.  Blogging is definitely therapeutic for me.  I was never a ‘dear diary’ kind of girl, but the interaction that blogs offer is just what the doctor ordered for me.  So, I’m just feeling all warm and fuzzy today and wanted to thank you out in blogworld for being there…

the voice on the other line that let’s me know someone else is there.

*      *      *     *     *     *

Do you blog or are you a blog lurker?  What other internet connections do you make?

Funny Much?

10 dpo

10 days past ovulation

10 days past oh-my goodness-I-can’t-wait-another-day-to-find-out-if-I’m-preggers

That’s my count today.  I’m doing pretty well, actually compared to past 10dpo’s in my lifetime.  I’ve been trying my bestest to use my 2ww commandments (see ‘The Ten Commandments…” post in the sidebar), and I’m doing better than expected.  No urges to POAS yet.  No due date calculations.  No chart stalking (I’m not even charting anyway…woohoo, freedom!).  No pregnancy googling…well, pretty much.

OK, hear me out.  I wouldn’t technically consider it a pregnancy google.  What I wanted to find out was if clomid was responsible for replacing my breasts with these sacks of painful rocks that go into hyper-painful mode once restrained by underwires.  So I looked up ‘clomid side effects’ (not pregnancy side effects, ok?).  And you know what?  Sore bb’s ARE a side effect of clomid due to the increased progesterone.  Dangit. 

You totally would’ve done it too, you know.  Admit it.

I’ve been really busy, and that’s helped ease my 2 ww obsession some.  I spent all day Friday and Saturday at a conference about kids and teens with mental health issues.  Yep, it’s ‘get my CEU (continuing ed credits) time’, and I’ve procrastinated my way to yet another renewal deadline.  Way to go, Eve.  I think I’ve mentioned this before, but I’m a therapist.  My teens sometimes call me a shrink, which is actually technically amiss, since that would mean that I would be a ‘psychoanalyst’ or ‘psychiatrist’.  But I don’t correct them if they call me that, because really, I’ve been called worse.

Anyway, most of this conference was made up of the normal psycho-babble stuff that makes up my profession.  Fun, fun.  But on the second day during our ’speaker’ lunch, a curious thing happened.  The keynote speaker was introduced, a 23-year old recent graduate of college.  Let me repeat that:  a TWENTY-THREE year old recent grad.  What?  I clearly remember being 23, and I’m not sure I had anything worthy to say, at least that would be featured in a luncheon speech. 

Marc Elliot did.

Marc explained to us that he has been living with Tourette’s Disorder for 20 years, and is now talking to college students, professionals, law enforcement, and anyone who might listen to his own personal take on tolerance and acceptance.  He had a sense of humor about  his condition that would challenge even the most GIFTED stand-up comedian.  I found myself laughing so hard I was close to tears at his candid accounts of his life with Tourette’s and then tearing up with inspiration at this young man.  He said he’s developed a cheesy acronym (his description, not mine) for conquering his disability:  HATS.

1. Humor…laughing at life’s craziest curve balls.
2. Acceptance…knowing that YOU are not your disease, but not denying the reality of the disease.
3. Tolerance…’live and let live’ is how Marc explained it.  On face value, you don’t know anything about another’s life and challenges.  Don’t make knee-jerk judgements of them just as you don’t want people to make them of you.
4. Support…you can never have ‘too much’ support from friends, family and professionals.

I could visually see the threads of association connect between Marc’s discussion of Tourette’s  and infertility.  Not to say that these issues are the same, equal, or worse than one another.  I cannot even fathom how hard things have been for Marc.  But, however egocentric it might be, I see everything through ‘infertility goggles’.  I really liked Marc’s HATS philosophy.  I found him to be a kindred spirit of sorts.  I think it’s similar to my own with infertility.  Once I gave myself permission to laugh at the shear RIDICULOUSNESS of some parts of infertility, I started to feel the leavening effects of humor. 

Admittedly, humor takes time.  Marc has had 20 years to develop his.  My first round of IF started in 2002, so the funnies have been cooking for awhile for me, too.  And come on, some of our trials are just downright hilarious (cervical mucus, anyone?).  By the way, I’ve renamed it ‘cervical delight’, because I think it makes for a potentially fun conversation. 

“Honey, what are you doing in there?”

“Oh, just checking my cervical delight!”

And one can’t DENY the inherant humor of the internal ultrasound (aka:  magic wand) appointment.  Or the constant diarrhea caused by Metformin.  Toilet humor may be Neanderthal-esque, but it is unavoidably funny. 

If you’re not there yet, it’s understandable…and admittedly, some things are never funny.  I totally get that.  I don’t even think it matters if others find your humor, well, humorous.  It’s more about the power that humor gives you.  Sort of like the little kid who keeps giggling and smirking while the parent goes on and on about some seemingly important parental dissertation.  The more the kid laughs, the more ticked the parent gets.  The parent knows who’s in control of that lecture, and it ain’t the parent.

I choose to laugh, as best I can, at the lecture of infertility.  Best I can hope for is to be sent to my room without dinner.   I hate cube steak anyway.

Thanks, Marc, for inspiring an old gal like myself to continue to find the funny in the unfunny and to bravely speak up even when the world tells you shut your trap.

 

What is one thing that is just so utterly ridiculous in your own journey with IF that you can’t help but laugh about? 

To see a small documentary on Marc (although it really doesn’t do his humor justice, but does talk more about tolerance) go here:   http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JOfeW9qsNV8

Show & Tell (3.7.09)

Welcome to Show & Tell!  If you want to see what the other kids in the class brought today, please link here:  http://stirrup-queens.blogspot.com/

My ‘picture’ today comes with a highly potentially embarrassing story, but I’m throwing caution to the wind, because…honestly, what dignity do I really have left at this point anyway?  So, let me set this up.  I woke up in the middle of the night on Thursday night/Friday morning, with severe stomach cramps.  Really, really bad ones.  I knew what they were, since I was the unfortunate sufferer of IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome) several years ago before I had my gallbladder out, had my endo adhesions removed, and quit my ultra-stressful job.

Anyway, I’m writhing in pain and I decide that maybe a trip to the potty might relieve my agony.  So I stumble my way to the porcelain throne and take a seat.  More gripping stomach cramps and I have an epiphany that these are equally as painful as labor contractions or passing a kidney stone.  It was sort of like my mind split in half:  half was in excruciating pain, and the other half was like “whoa, I guess there ARE things that hurt as much as kidney stones”.   The next thing I know I’m dreaming about a voice, which apparently was my hubby’s, and I realize that my cheek is pressed against the bathroom floor.  And I open my eyes and my hubby says, “What are you doing?” 

And this is where I realize that I fainted, fell off the toilet, and am lying on the floor with my undies around my legs. 

And my head is killing me.

So, hubby tries to help me up, and the only thing I’m worried about is pulling up my pants because, seriously, that’s embarrassing whether you’re married to the person or not.   A girl needs a little privacy, you know.  By the way, nothing happened when I was sitting on the toilet before the big fall-out, so at least I didn’t have to deal with THAT.  So my very sweet hubby, gets me an ice-pack and I head back to bed.  He wonders if something is seriously wrong, I know better.

Sadly enough, this is not my first toilet fainting experience.  I am, in fact, a SEASONED toilet fainter.  OK, maybe not seasoned, but I did do this another time about 10 years ago after a huge glass of apple juice before bed (warning for IBS sufferers, this is NOT a good idea).  I woke up on the bathroom floor that time while my hubby was still at work.  I called him and made him come home because I was sort of freaked out about the whole thing.  I guess I’m on some kind of ‘once a decade’ toilet fainting rotation.  I just wish I hadn’t landed on my face this time.  So here’s the result, I guess it doesn’t look that bad…but it definitely hurts!

Maybe you think I’m completely shameless about this whole thing, but that’s not so.  I had to go to a professional conference these past two days, and luckily my hair covers most of the damage.  That’s good, since I’m not sure what would be worse:  colleagues thinking that I’m the victim of some sort of horrible abuse…or a toilet fainter.

Happy Show & Tell!