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I’ve been a bad blogger. Haven’t written a thing since Thursday. Gosh. Shame on me. So, I sent myself to time-out and then gave myself dirty looks and did a lot of accusatory finger pointing.
Now I feel much better.
So I started my BCPs on Saturday. Well, actually I started them on Sunday…but I doubled up and took one in the AM and one before bed. I was supposed to start on Saturday evening after my pre-IVF blood draw that same day. I completely forgot to get them from the pharmacy.
Whoa, how’s that for starting off an IVF cycle with the right tone?
Anyway, now I’m back on track, and so far I haven’t had to deal with any BCP induced migraines yet. Emphasize yet. I’m on day one of my last three days for caffeine before it’s quitsville. I decided to take all your advice and wean down to one a day and then go off rather than cold turkey of the normal two a day. I’m supposed to be hearing from nurse Peggy about scheduling my injection training consult before I leave for Florida next Wednesday.
All systems are almost a…
What? I leave for Florida next Wednesday? You mean, in like almost a week? Holy Crud!
So I was going to take my laptop with me, you know for access to downloading pictures, and editing pictures, and most importantly, for blogging. But I’ve decided not to blog during my trip. Probably seems like a no-brainer to you all out there, but I really did wrestle with this. There was a time, say 5 months ago, when I would’ve stayed up until 4AM just to post while on my trip.
I think I had a puppy love crush on blogging.
Blogging is in a different space for me these days. Don’t get me wrong, I love it still so much. In fact, I can’t really think how I managed my stress with infertility without it. Also, I think I have just about the best group of readers there ever was. You give such funny, insightful, and thoughtful comments that truly make me LOL and get this cool anticipation when I get a new comment.
So, I don’t know. Maybe I don’t have as much to say these days? No, that’s definitely not it. I’m busier? Well, that’s part of it. But I think the other part is that I’ve divorced my infertile self for awhile, and I’m not sure that I want a reconciliation before IVF starts. Probably why I forgot my BCPs. Probably why, though I feel generally excited about IVF, it’s more like the excitement about randomly catching a good movie on TV you haven’t seen for awhile.
I’ve certainly been more excited about purses lately than IVF.
IVF is scary.
It’s expensive.
It’s intensive and intrusive and
completely out of my control.
I think I need to autopilot this cycle. Is that even possible? I want to stay separated from the neurotically hopeful/pessimistic obsessing self this next month and half. I want to be at peace.
Geesh, I can’t even find the words to describe this…resistance. Yes, resistance is probably the correct term. As a therapist, I use that term as pyschobabble about clients who are struggling to stay focused on a particularly painful topic in therapy.
“What are you afraid of by going there?” I might ask them.
What am I afraid of by going down the path of IVF speculation, insights, and blogging?
Ah, this is too easy.
one little dagger of a word:
HOPE.
* * * *
Any tips on keeping sane during this cycle? Any of you BTDTs have this whole emotionless thing going on too?
Well, I got my bag in the mail. My very own khaki Baggalini Messenger. The one I ordered especially for my trip to Disney World. Me likes it. As someone who rarely orders anything on the internet or splurges on accessories for myself, it felt a little like Christmas getting that wonderful package. Is that sad?
Yes.
I can imagine many of you reading this are like, “Who cares about your dumb bag?”, right? I mean, North Korea is amassing a large nuclear arsenal, Iran is going all Tiananmen Square on its people, the economy is in the toilet, and Michael Jackson just died. Aren’t there more important things in life than a freakin’ bag?
Yes.
When I was in the throes of primary infertility, my hubby and I went out to lunch every Sunday after church with very close couple-friend of ours. Well, we had been going out with this couple even before infertility. But, just as we were drowning in at least a few years of monthly BFNs, they decided to build their dream home. Yay. So, the next many months of our Sunday lunches were filled with napkin-scribbled maps of their floor layout, long and arduous debates of the wood choice for their custom-built kitchen cabinets, and extensive conversations about the perfect metal choice for their insane number of bathrooms. Really how many bathrooms do two people actually need?
Should we go with pewter? All the handles on the doors are going to be pewter. But I really like oiled bronze. Do you think that we could do just one bathroom in oiled bronze? I wonder how the finish wears. But maybe that will look too dated. I’m afraid chrome will show too many finger prints, but at least it will coordinate with the pewter more. What do you think, Eve?
I think you should choose the “I don’t give a flying flip what kind of metal you choose kind”. What about that?
Well, OK, I didn’t say that. But I was saying it in my head. Repeatedly. I was also saying, “I’m mourning my baby to be that won’t be, so don’t bother me with your trite decoration dilemmas.” But instead I just played along and gnawed the inside of my cheek raw. It just hurt to be in such a desperate dessert and to be asked to perform any sort of conjecture on such cotton candy topics.
Who cares what your house looks like when you can’t furnish it with children?
But I never said any of that. I mean, this was their special thing. They had worked hard for many years to build this dream house. And building a house IS stressful (one thing I definitely learned from them). It always costs twice as much as you thought at take threes times as long.
One thing that never dawned on me at the time they were building this house and completely self-indulged in irrelevancy, was they actual had multiple REAL stressors occuring in their lives. Things we rarely talked about. Things they might half-mention or bring up just to drop a sentence later with a shake of their head or wave of their hand.
And as I run my fingers across my new khaki Baggalini Messenger bag and admire every well-thought out compartment and double-stitched pocked, I finally get it.
Sometimes, irrelevancy is a choice. It is a distraction amid a world of not-quite-rights and maybe-extremely-wrongs. Did my friends take it to an extreme? Yes, probably. But maybe they needed to. And I wish that maybe I would’ve learned the art of irrelevancy a little earlier in this 7 year infertility journey as well. Not to live in all the time, but at least to land in like an cooling oasis now and then. And I know this…
I certainly would’ve had a nicer bag collection at least.
I’m being stood up right now by a client. Grrrrrrrrr. So, I finished all my work-y type stuff, then I cleared out my e-mail inbox which had (cough) stuff in it from (cough) 07. And then I played two games of Spider Solitaire. And lost. Even on the medium difficulty setting. Shut up.
And then it occurred to me that I should do a blog post. I’m having a harder time fitting blog-writing in these days since my life got-flipped-turned-upside-down (guess that tv show!) when I changed my work schedule and started to exercise. So here I am, and it’s ok that I’m doing this at work, I get paid by CLIENT hour not by the actual hour. Right now, I’m on money-earning hold…I just happen to be in my work building.
Anyway…I got a nice little package from Peggy, my IVF nurse. It included a HUGE informational packet and instructions on all the drugs I will soon be swallowing, injecting, and inserting (progesterone suppositories. yum). Anyway, I read through a little and lost interest. I mean, I don’t even know my protocol yet, and I’m already used to giving myself injections. I digress. It also had some lab requisites for me and hubs to go get prick-a-rood. And some long legalish kind of thing that probably consists of something like this:
You are not allowed to sue us if you die.
And it also had a sample calendar for my upcoming cycle! I start BCPs (that’s birth control pills) on Saturday. And then it looks like I will start doing Lupron injections when I’m in Florida at Disney World. Whoa, the happiest place on earth and stomach shots. Craziness. So, the rest of the stimming stuff is all guessing, but it looks like the plan is to do the egg retrieval around August 7th-ish and a 5 day (I hope) transfer after that.
Wow. That feels super soon.
I still have not actually considered the fact that all these drugs and ‘such’ (and it is the ‘such’ that is going to cost us a MINT) might ACTUALLY get me preggo. I think I need to stay in abstract mode for now. Honestly, I don’t want to start getting the ol’ hopes up right now. It’s bad enough crashing down after a 2-day hope stint, let alone a month and a half one!
So that’s it for now. Not much to do yet except to shop for some loose fitting dresses to get me through the assumed IVF bloat girth from swollen ovaries and a little stress eating on the side.
And play another round of Spider Solitaire.
Yippee!
I got myself an IVF nurse coordinator. I guess that means our downpayment check didn’t bounce. Kidding. So anyway, nurse Peggy, checked in with me to make sure I was doing OK after my hysteroscopy on Friday. As I mentioned last post, except for one enormous black-purple IV track on my right forearm, I’m feeling grrrrrreat.
So, Peggy is going to be my lifevest in this white-water rapids ride of IVF that is quickly approaching. I hope she’s prepared for unparalleled neuroticism. My new office communicates by phone (duh, of course), but also by e-mail. Yes. Why oh why have none of my other docs’ ever considered using this handy little invention? I mean, I have been using e-mail since I was a sophamore in college (which, since I’m old, was like 16 years ago).
(Tangent!) I so clearly rember setting up my first yahoo (or whatever) account and getting so excited when I could so easily send a quick note to my boyfriend who lived an entire state away. It was like the invention of the frickin’ microwave. Who could imagine cooking without one? Come to think of it, my one-state-away boyfriend and I never sent each other another hand-written letter after that. Hm. That’s kind of sad.
Sorry, anyway, I love the fact that she shot me off an e-mail about my upcoming bloodwork and the fact they can’t find my old cystic-fibrosis labwork. Well, then I had to CALL my old doc’s office to request that lab’s records be sent, yada, yada, yada. Every doc’s office should communicate by e-mail.
And give out free chocolate.
And lattes.
Speaking of keeping up with technology (was I? well, somewhere up there I was I think), I re-dug out the father’s day present I got for my hubby last year that has been tucked away, untouched, in my closet since then: an MP3 player. No, not an iPOD, we’re definitely not cool enough for that. Just a plain old MP3….that we didn’t know how to work.
Did I mention that I was old?
So for Father’s Day, I figured I would crack that baby open, actually read the manual, and RE-give that darn thing to my hubby again. I felt so much like my mother fighting to set the complex recorded programming feature on our VCR in 1986 that it gave me shudders. I have become technologically inept.
So I did what any self-respecting technological dolt with maybe just a little bit of inspiration would do: I watched YouTube videos on converting CDs to MP3s, converting YouTube videos to MP3s, and searching for MP3s on the web.
I’m proud to say we are now compiling a bizarre MP3 folder filled with such diverse selections as Green Day’s “Basket Case” (mine), Fine Young Cannibals “She Drives Me Crazy” (hubby’s), Eva Cassidy’s version of “Fields of Gold” (mine) and Britney Spears delightful classic (ahem), “Hit Me Baby One More Time” (who do you think?). An MP3 folder only old people who high-schooled when hair bands ruled and colleged to grunge’s favorite hits could love.
So back to my original thought:
Nurse Peggy was nice. Fitting, since she works for Dr. Nice, who is in fact, nice as well.
* * * * *
Any other technology ineptitude out there? Or am I alone on this one?
Well, I’m sure you are all happy to know that I survived my little ‘procedure’. I’m mean, it was touch and go for awhile, but, you know, I’m like really tough, so I just gutted it through.
OK, I’m totally lying.
I’m actually not tough, so I just hardly made it through.
OK, I’m lying again.
I actually didn’t make it at all.
OK…
So, well, I can’t believe that ICLW is upon us again. Time flies when you’re eggs are geriatric. Anyway, for those of you new to my bloghouse, WELCOME! Feel free to catch up with my TTC history here. Brief synopsis for your reading convenience: I had a hysteroscopy yesterday to remove an endometrial polyp in preparation for my first IVF cycle in August.
I wish that I had a long and adventurous tale of the actual procedure to entertain my blogaudience with. I wish I remembered to stop putting prepositions at the end of my sentences, too. But, this is what I remember from the actual procedure: they wheeled me into the ‘procedure room’ and had me get all out in the open in a very padded form of a stirrup chair. Then I waited while the nurse tested my urine (now get THIS) with a pregnancy test.
Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha, (deep breath), ha-ha-ha-ha!
What makes that part funnier is that, when Dr. Nice entered the room and they told him what we were waiting for, he was like, “Uh, I’m pretty sure we’re in the clear on this one.” This did not insult me in the slightest. Anyway, then he did a preliminary ultrasound, and I guess they slipped me the sleepy cocktail via IV during that, since I don’t remember anything after that. Next thing I know I’m awake in recovery feeling a little groggy but really no worse for the wear. After I proved I could drink soda without hurling, we were on our merry way home. I requested McDonalds on our way to pick up my son from the sitter’s (thanks Amanda!) and that was that. Came home and slept my anesthesia hangover off and felt pretty good last night.
Well, doesn’t make for a very interesting story now, does it? Never fear! I happened to save the BEST part for last. And the BEST part is what happened first. So here we go…got to the outpatient surgery center and waited just a little bit before going back with the nurse. Got dressed into a very modest (NOT!) hospital gown and was feeling so proud of myself for remembering to bring a pair of socks with me. Signed all the important paperwork and went over my health history with one of the nurses.
Pretty standard pre-surgery fair.
Then the nice nurse who first greeted me came in to do my IV. A very nice nurse, young-ish 30s, with a wonderful bedside manner that put me at ease. So as she started to assess the old vein-age situation, I joked, “Well I have stubborn veins, I’m just warning you now.”
See, that statement, is what we call ‘foreshadowing’.
Now I wasn’t kidding, I DO have stubborn veins. And they have given me quite a bit of trouble in the past with both blood draws and IVs. But lately, I’ve found that as long as I guide the vampires where to look, that they get it right pretty easily. I’ve had A LOT of IVs from past kidney stones, random surgeries, and pre-term labor adventures. And some of those IVs were long-lasting, which means that I have several scars marking the ‘good spots’ for blood-tapping.
If any of you are needle squeemish, than you might want to skim to the end here. Just a warning. Anyway, I point her to my best blood-letting vein on the outside crook of my right elbow. And in she digs. And digs. And digs. And digs.
Nothing doing.
Spot number two is a sure-fire winner since there’s a nice little x marks the spot scar pointing out a plump little vein on my left wrist. Big poke, followed by several minutes more of digging, and I’m trying to be tough and make silent grimaces and joke about my poor genetic veinish tendencies. And she’s apologizing the whole time and sort of ‘self-coaching’ as she goes. I’m still feeling fairly congenial, not sure why, might’ve been the endorphins.
IV try number three is square on the back of my right wrist, and by now, I’m wishing I was at an actual hospital, because I gathered by now that she was the ONLY person who did IVs at this place. Same old story, big poke, digging, pain, digging, PAIN. I’m wondering if I’m actually going to be able to get this procedure done at all.
New plan, nurse decides to go and get some Lidocaine to numb up my arm area so that I won’t have to feel the hunting and digging. Good plan. So try number four (on the inside of my right forearm) starts off with two bee sting Lidocaine shots followed by, well, I wasn’t looking so I don’t know since it’s was numb, but I’m thinking it was something like: big poke, digging and digging and MORE digging. Finally, nurse sighs and says, “I think you’re going to have a really big bruise there”.
Ya think?
Earlier the nurse had asked me if I was a medical professional (not sure why really), and I told her, yes, kind of anyway (I’m a mental health therapist). So, out of desperation she asks if my husband is a health care professional as well. No, why? “Well, because if you were a surgeon or something, I would have YOU put this in,” she says.
Not a good sign when you’re nurse is doling out procedures to your husband.
Nurse has to leave to get more Lidocaine, and I’m feeling doubtful, and a bit dizzy. She comes back and we go for lucky number five on the outside crook of my left elbow. She bee-sting numbs the area (which totally didn’t work), and then BIG poke and viola! Houston, we have a vein!!!
So, in retrospect, I’m thinking that they had this whole procedure thing ALL backwards: what I really needed IV sedation for was getting the IV sedation. I can’t imagine that the actual procedure would have been this uncomfortable.
And the best part, today, is that my arms look like I’m an IV drug user. I’m not sure how I can use that to my advantage, but really, there’s got to be a way, right?
Once the IV was decidely in place, I looked at my hubby and said, “Well, at least it’s good fodder for the ol’ blog.” I mean, if it weren’t for my black and blue stained arms right now, this was would be the most boring blog post in history.
Thanks be to incompetent nurses everywhere…
may you continue to provide us with much blogosphere material.
It’s 5:46AM on the day of my hysteroscopy, and I’m awake. I don’t really need to be up for another hour and half. I’ve been awake since 5AM. However, I think I’m doing pretty well since I ACTUALLY did sleep fall asleep last night and stayed asleep (well, until 5AM that is).
I’m having a little bit of pre-procedure jitters. Silly, yes. Manageable, yes. But jitters nonetheless. Currently my biggest fear is that fact that I’m worried AF is going to show this morning, causing me to cancel this darn thing without really moving towards In-Vitro-Land. (Gets up from computer and counts cycle days on the calendar.) OK, I’m on CD 22 today…should be in the clear from my favorite auntie, right?
Second worry is that I haven’t been under for a surgery since my gallbladder/exploratory pelvic lap in 2003. That one was not so fun. Probably for several reasons, but the first of which is that I was put into a ‘general hospital’ room for recovery and observation and encouraged to consider spending the night. Oh I considered, up until the fact that I was rudely awakened by my crazy roommate and her fiance or hubby or whatever arguing. A little curtain divider doesn’t mean a thing in this type of situation.
Here’s the set-up: Roomie was having some sort of undiagnosed abdominal pain, which they believed might’ve been from appendicitis. Now, I never had even one conversation with this chick, but I gathered this from how unbelievably loud and obnoxious her conversations were with hubby. And now that I think about it, I think her son was there too maybe. And there was a whole lot of yelling and cussing and then some more yelling and then, I think, the kid started crying, and then more yelling (this over the course of several hours), and then, finally, the man announced he was leaving.
And then it was quiet.
And then he called dear roomie on the room phone and they started arguing all over again.
And I turned to my own hubby and said, “Get me out of here”. And that meant that I needed to prove to the nurses that I could manage at home, and how could I prove that? Well, by walking the length of the hallway by myself. Now, I was not feeling so fantastic, mind you, since I got both my gallbladder out and also had extensive removal of endo (which I didn’t even know I had) at the same time, but WILD HORSES could not have kept me from walking that frickin’ hallway. I could’ve been bleeding from every orifice and I still would’ve walked that thing just to get some peace.
I’m getting off-track here. Anyway, the second part of why that surgery recovery was NO-FUN was because I had so much gas and swelling in my belly that I seriously looked almost 6 months pregnant. It was NOT pretty. And it did not go away quickly. I had to embrace the late 90′s babydoll fashion trend once again even when I returned to work after being at home for a week.
Frankly, these abs have not been the same since.
So anyway, why does that have me worried today? Well, because I guess you just never know what to expect when you become a patient. I realize I won’t even have a roomie today (at least I’m assuming), but you just never know what you’re in for. During my pregnancy with my son I spent about 4 weeks total in the hospital due to a stuck kidney stone, then pre-term labor, and then recovering from a c-section. The best part about being preggo and being in the hospital is that you usually get your own room. I do not take this for granted now.
When I was only 10 weeks pregnant I ended up with a stubborn kidney stone that felt the need to stay lodged in my ureter. Yay. Originally, I ended up on a regular hospital floor with yet another fun roomie. This girl was no more than 16 years old and had been admitted for a range of problems including an abnormally high heart rate and blood pressure. Once again, this I gathered from the not-so-private conversations that she had with her friends, her parents, and the nurses.
NURSE: What are you on?
ROOMIE: Nothing. Can I take a shower?
NURSE: No, you’re blood pressure is too high. What are you on?
ROOMIE: Nothing. (Proceeds to take a shower once the nurse leaves)
NURSE: Did you just take a shower?
ROOMIE: Yes.
NURSE: What are you on?
Yeah, it was really that fun and entertaining. In the long run, I was hoping that dear roomie would slip me a little of whatever she was on so I could have a heart attack and move units. Luckily, my knight-in-shining-armor OB took pity on me the next morning and moved me to the OB unit.
Peace and quiet and a kidney stone.
Whoa, totally digressing. This is good, it’s given me the opportunity to see that, surely, things will not be anywhere near as bad today for my little snip-snip scope thingy. And heck, even if it IS bad, it will just serve as more material for my bloggy-bloghouse.
* * * *
On a completely different note, you will all be relieved to discover that I have made a decision on the infamous ‘what bag to take to Disney’ debate. Everyone, take a deep sigh of relief. I appreciate all your words of support during this difficult time, even if you were just making fun of me. I promise to show you a picture when it comes. I also promise to do some blog-reading catch-up in next few days, since work is KILLING my free-time for blog surfing. Onto the bag…
I got myself a Baggalini Messenger (the rip-stop nylon in khaki) after several rave reviews on here among a multitude of ravings on that psycho-obsessed-Disney site. For those of you suggesting a backpack, this baby really is a backpack of sorts, but it crosses the body and hooks to one shoulder, though it does sit on the back. I just seems easy to access compared to an actual backpack, plus it has a little exterior drink holder for my son’s sippy cup, which always gets all my stuff wet from condensation right now in my purse.
Anyway, best part was I got it for $31 from HSN.com with free shipping and no tax! Here’s the link if anyone else happens to be interested (I think they’re out of khaki already)!!!!
Wish me luck today!!!
I’m sooooo not in the creative zone right now.
I’m not sure what zone I’m actually in. Not a TTC zone. Not really even an infertility zone. Are they’re other zones? Surely there must be. It’s been raining like mad the past many days, so I’m not in a walkjogging zone. In fact, I’m so zoneless that, when a nurse called me for my ‘presurgery instructions’ for this Friday, I was like, “Whuh?”, because I totally forget that I was, indeed, having surgery this Friday.
Honestly, I don’t really think a hysteroscopy should be called surgery. Well, except for the fact that I have to have anesthesia and can’t eat or drink anything after midnight. And my ‘surgery’ isn’t until 11:30AM, so I’m thinking I’m going to be hypoglycemic (and ultimately grouchy) by the time I’m ‘scoped’.
Well, anyway. I meant to post earlier today, but I got caught in doing something that I’m really quite ashamed to admit (but what the heck, I’m all about self-effacement): I was wandering the DISboards. Ha! You guys don’t even know what DISboards are, now, do you? Well, until yesterday, neither did I, but now I have seen the light…or the dark. Not sure which yet. Yeah, probably the dark.
Anyway, the DISboards are an ENTIRE message board site dedicated to planning, discussing, obsessing, fretting, perseverating, and bragging about your upcoming trip to Disneyworld or Disneyland or EuroDisney, well who am I kidding, like anyone actually goes to EuroDisney.
Totally serious.
And these people are completely NINJA about their Disney vacay plans. They called themselves Disers (well some of them) and have these long detailed lists in their siggies of their past Disney trips including where they went and where they stayed and where they are going to go and planning to stay. Mickey Mouse Ninja.
So, how did I find myself on this site? Well, I was googling ‘perfect bag for Disney World’ and was transported, much like Alice in Wonderland, into a world where there are certain truths that must be accepted:
- Misting fans are a necessity. But don’t buy them at the park, get them at Wal-mart, pretrip.
- Glow-in-the-dark bracelets and lightsticks must be bought at the dollar store and BROUGHT into the park for optimal frugality.
- There is some kind of anti-chafe stick you can rub (and I’m totally NOT KIDDING) on your thighs to keep you optimally comfortable in the Florida heat.
- Ponchos are a must, but don’t skimp on the dollar store ones because they tend to rip and stick if wet.
- And…planning for a Disney vacation is, apparently, a full-time job equivalent with decisions similar to planning a wedding.
So I attempted to read a message thread about the ideal bag choice for a ‘perfect Disney vacation’. The thread was (at least as of today) 62 pages long. Sixty-two! I got through about 12 and started to get bag-information-overstimulation. Many of the posts were much longer than this, but here’s a brief sample:
My husband is shaking his head at me…I just ordered another bag. 
From the description, it looks like it will hold more than my Baggallini mini bag, but it’s not as cumbersome as my Sherpani Vida. Like the VB Hipster, it’s worn across the body. It’s a Sherpani Cres.
I’ll let you know how it feels once it’s here! 
Um, what are these people talking about?
I am not a bag person. I’ve already said that on here. I’m not sure if that makes me, like, a DEFECTIVE woman or something, but I just can’t get into bags. It’s so much pressure. As I read the thread, I too, started to get overly-stressed about if the Baggalini might be too big or if the VB hipster would be OK even if it wasn’t waterproof. What about a backpack? Easy on the back but hard to access for when, I don’t know, you’re arms are hooked up to something and you need to access your wallet with your teeth? And what about the several dated purses hanging in my closet? Well, maybe they’ll pull and chaffe my neck. They’re not meant for heavy-duty purposes like a DISNEY VACATION.
Maybe I just need to get that chaffe-stick stuff and rub it all over my neck to protect it from bag-strap problems.
When I started to drone on about bags yesterday at dinner, btw, my hubby looked and me and said, “Looks like all you need is a 30 gallon Hefty sack from the garage.”
Man. He may be right.
I think I need to stay away from this site, much like I need to stay away from Facebook. I am, apparently, ill-equipped to deal with the decision-making and planning of a Disney trip. Not sophisticated enough. Nor clever enough. Nor penny-pinching enough and yet still willing to toss lots of money at brand-name accessories enough.
I think it’s great to be prepared and all, but I really think that some of these people have WAAAAAAAAY too much time on their hands. Maybe they need a project or something. Or like, a reminder that there is more to life…
(Teehee)
…said the pot to the kettle.
* * * *
Any non-relevant things taking up your time and energy lately?
Hmmm…a lot of things on my mind today. Things that don’t really relate to each other in some sort of circular Seinfeld-like way that makes you chuckle at the end. Sort of a laundry list of thoughts that just keep scrolling down. Blame it on my startuva-migraine, which I woke up with about 15 minutes ago. Nothing like laying there realizing that someone has climbed into your brain with a dentist’s drill and is now making spongecake of your right hemisphere (which btw, I NEED since I happen to be a lefty). However, I took two Excedrin Migraines a few minutes ago…so soon I will be riding a caffeinated high that should last me all morning (Excedrin migraine is some magical combination of aspirin, acetaminophen and caffeine, which practically works as well as most of the ‘heavy hitter meds I’ve taken in the past for my migraines). Speaking of which…
I need to get off caffiene. Dang. You know, I was off caffiene around this time last year because I was still gung-ho with the hopes that I would actually get pregnant by, well, like 2008. Idiot. But, once I realized that caffeine really didn’t seem to be the culprit hindering my fertility, I just couldn’t resist. Well, now that there’s quite a bit more monetary investment going into this babymaking venture, it’s time once again to set myself up for the 3 day migraine that will result from me not having caffeine. You see, it’ll start with a basic caffeine-withdrawal headache, but my migraines are almost always triggered by any sort of run-of-the-mill type headache, so soon it will turn into migraine. And what I WON’T be able to take for that migraine will be…EXCEDRIN MIGRAINE, you know, practically the only thing that actually works for my migraines. And the only other thing that actually works for my migraines is my prescription of Imitrex, but they only give you 9 pills a month. NINE! Sucks once you get to migraine #10! So, this month I only have ONE pill left until it’s refill time in 7 days. Guess I’ll still be drinking coffee for another week. BUT, I don’t want to go on caffeine withdrawal during my trip to Florida. There can be no migraines at the happiest place on earth!
Speaking of which, I’ve become obsessed with figuring out what kind of bag I should bring for my Disney trip. Now I’m not usually a bag/accessory/purse type girl. The only hip bags I have were gifted to me by my embarrassed family and friends. I’ll even admit that I carried ONE diaper bag the entire time my son was in diapers (over two years), and frankly, that is considered a SIN to mommydom or something. My diaper bag started out as a cute Vera Bradley bag (it was a present to me…of course…from a friend so obsessed with Vera Bradley bags that she goes to their annual warehouse sale every year in Indiana). It ended as a faded, rubbed bare, extremely sad version of its former self. Which leads me to wonder, would a (dare I even say it?) diaper bag be the best type bag to get for Disney? You know, one of those diaper bags that sort of fades the boundaries of a purse as it wouldn’t scream “I’m a DIAPER BAG!” through it’s subtle use of Winnie the Pooh or cartoon baby bottles or whatever. But then, would buying a diaper bag be, like, a total jinx?????????
Speaking of which, I stopped taking my Metformin a month ago when I met Dr. Nice. He said he didn’t think it was necessary. I tended to agree, since I didn’t think that daily diarrhea was necessary. So I stopped my Met and replaced it with my wogging (walk-jogs) several times a week. Wogging has not brought the svelt-like body results that I had imagined it would…or at least made my pants fit again. In fact, my pants have seemed TIGHTER this past week. And it suddenly occurred to me that I was actually gaining weight despite exercising by being off the Met. So I did what any woman in their right mind would do, I put myself BACK on the Met two days ago. Seriously, you would totally do the same thing. So, where does the ‘speaking of jinx’ come in? Well, as I sat miserably in my too tight fat pants at work yesterday, I did the most jinxfied thing that I have most likely ever done in my loooooong TTC history: I drove myself to Target on my lunch break and bought what was called a ‘BeBand’ to put around my waist so I could unbutton my pants and actually keep my pants up. BeBands, if you havent’ guessed already, are in the MATERNITY section and meant for newly preggo women who want to still wear their regular pants. Total potential jinx here. Either that or the most brilliant IVF preparation move in the history of artificial reproduction! And if any of you real-life friends/family of mine out there reading this, mention this to anyone, I will go ninja on you. Don’t test me. Seriously.
Speaking of which, I’ve decided that my new catch-phrase for the month is “ninja”. Personally, I like to pair ninja with skills. For example: If you mention the fact that my fat pants are too fat for me again, I will use my feirce ninja skills on you and make you wish you never read this idiotic post! See how it works? I invite you all to adopt your own version of ninja into your vocabulary. Why? I don’t know, just for kicks and grins.
Yeah, I’m totally feeling the effects of my excedrin migraine caffinated-stupor at this point. And I’m quite postive that you are too. Makes me think I should just quit while I’m ahead.
Hmmm…I’m pretty sure I never WAS ahead. I’m also pretty sure I have no idea where the heck this green/blue rectangle that is sitting in my blogpost came from. Very weird.
Like totally ninja weird.
Almost Perfect
by Shel Silverstein, my very first poetry teacher
“Almost perfect… but not quite.”
Those were the words of Mary Hume
At her seventh birthday party,
Looking ’round the ribboned room.
“This tablecloth is pink not white–
Almost perfect… but not quite.”
“Almost perfect… but not quite.”
Those were the words of grown-up Mary
Talking about her handsome beau,
The one she wasn’t gonna marry.
“Squeezes me a bit too tight–
Almost perfect… but not quite.”
“Almost perfect… but not quite.”
Those were the words of ol’ Miss Hume
Teaching in the seventh grade,
Grading papers in the gloom
Late at night up in her room.
“They never cross their t’s just right–
Almost perfect… but not quite.”
Ninety-eight the day she died
Complainin’ ’bout the spotless floor.
People shook their heads and sighed,
“Guess that she’ll like heaven more.”
Up went her soul on feathered wings,
Out the door, up out of sight.
Another voice from heaven came–
“Almost perfect… but not quite.”
* * * * *
A lot of this post is about my son, so feel free to come back another time if you’re not there today.
Hi there my friends!
I’m in an odd infertility-blog-space right now, much because my TTC is on hold until we start all the rigor-moral for our August IVF cycle. Whoa, maybe I haven’t officially announced it on here yet…YES, we’re doing IVF in August, save that all goes well with my hysteroscopy. That, btw, is scheduled for next Friday. And, for those of you that gave me kind words of warning, I will be fully put to sleep for said procedure. And there’s nothing that makes me happier than knowing that I will be happily sleeping away while they put a camera up my who-ha and do some cutting and snipping. And I’m really hoping for some post-op painkiller meds, because, I’m like a total druggie.
I’m supposed to be making strawberry pies right now. Doesn’t that sound delicious? They will be. But they would be even MORE delicious if someone else made them while I sat on my duff and updated my blog. Any takers? Dang. So why, do you ask, am I making strawberry pies? Well, because we have 10 pounds of fresh strawberries taking up a sizable portion of my fridge, that’s why. And why do we have 10 pounds of fresh strawberries taking up a sizable portion of my fridge?
Well, because we went strawberry picking on Saturday!
My hubby (who is really a farmer at heart) had the idea. So we looked up a nearby farm on the web and got ourselves predictably lost on our way there. It was the most beautiful late afternoon on Saturday you could imagine…low 70′s, no humidity, and this delightfully cool breeze that felt more oceanlike than midwestlike. They gave us these large boxes and metal contraptions to carry the boxes and sent us into the fields.
Yes, I did sing ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ on our way there.
No, I didn’t bring my camera.
Dang.
So, my son didn’t quite get the idea that we were trying to pick the RED strawberries at first and happily plucked off green berries and nastily rotten berries into the plats. That was, until he stopped putting the berries in the box and started popping them in his mouth. Then he quickly learned it was the RED berries he wanted. We tried to give the berries a visual OK before he popped them mouthwards, but who know how many clods of dirt, bugs and stems he ate? I guess that which did not kill him, served only to make him fuller.
I discovered quickly that berry picking, though rudimentary, is quite hard on the back and legs. My hubby announced that I would make a very poor migrant farmer. I tended to agree. I finally plopped down on my rear and picked from a sitting position until I felt this warm, wet feeling on the back of my thigh where I had squished the brightest red berry there ever was, and now looked as if I was in dire need of AF supplies.
Meanwhile, my son was attempting to hop the rows to go back and forth between hubby and myself, threatening to trample on all the plants, so our tranquil berry picking experience was peppered with our random shouts to keep him off the plants. And my hands were covered with this thick red stickiness that soon attracted a spackle coating of dirt. And then my son got thirsty but we forgot his cup, and he didn’t want to wear his hat anymore. And I wanted to leave but my hubby didn’t think that we had enough strawberries, because I guess he was going for some sort of Guiness World Record or something.
Yeah, not really the perfect strawberry picking outing that one might imagine.
I’m not sure if it was when my son did a time-out for throwing his hat, or when I shook the dirt clumps out of my sandals, or when I realized that my pants were STILL stained red as we strolled through the grocery store in search of ice cream to go with our bounty…but, instead of feeling frustrated, I felt satisfied. I thought, “such is life.” Such is MY life…
Not Martha Stewart perfect.
Not Norman Rockwell sweet.
Not Oprah Winfrey actualized.
Nor Betty Crocker cooked.
And I felt slightly proud that I didn’t take my camera for the gratuitous ‘messy strawberry face’ shot, imposing my own idea of perfection as I shout out the commands to my son, interrupting his joy.
Smile! Look at Mommy! Pick up the strawberry…No! Keep your hat on! Right at Momma, come on! Stop crying right now…Look like you’re having fun or you’ll have a time-out!
Imagine that: actually having fun compared to APPEARING to have fun.
A good reminder for a recovering perfectionist like myself.
From last year’s SYTYCD 2008 show with Chelsea and Mark. Love it!
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Hi my friends!
Good and happy busyness surrounds me lately. Good because most of the busyness has less to do with infertility and more to do with family time and cleaning time and exercise time and watching So You Think You Can Dance (SYTYCD) on YouTube time. This is my favorite time of the year, you know.
When the days are so long it’s still light out when I get home from work. When the lightening bugs hover over our garden. When it’s still cool enough at night to keep the windows open and listen to the crickets and and cicadas all night. And when SYTYCD delights me each Wednesday and Thursday night with dreams that I, too, could have ever looked so lovely onstage in a funky leotard leaping and stretching to emotionally-laden music.
Dang. I LOOOOOOOOOOVE this show! Can I get a witness?
Once a upon a time, (many, many years ago when the women of this country pulled their hair back in banana clips and wore neon biker shorts and ESPIRIT tee-shirts) I used to dance. Now, I wasn’t really all that good. I don’t have the genes of a dancer. No natural flexibility. No long legs. No solid center of gravity. But I danced nonetheless.
As someone who’s pretty much dipped her toes into most all of the creative arts (singing, acting, drawing, sculpting, writing prose, poetry, painting, photography), I can say without hesitation that DANCING above all else taps into the very soul of oneself. It’s like serving up your inner world in this constantly moving sculpture where the feelings and pictures can ever change and evolve.
Dancing is like poetry for the eyes: abbreviated, distilled, and yet so true to the human experience.
Geesh, I miss dancing.
You know, for an old girl like me, there’s just not a lot of dancing avenues. Not unless you’re like a ninja-serious ballet person (which, as you may have inferred, I am NOT). I took a few dance classes for adults at my local YMCA several years ago. Mostly women who had never danced before looking for an interesting work-out. Not much challenge. My hubby doesn’t dance, so I’m not keen to go take a ballroom class without him. I even experimented with karate, tai chi, and pilates in my quest for a dance-like connection. Those were good for a work-out, not for emotional expression.
So, that is why I get heart palpitations each summer when SYTYCD rolls around. It is through these young and limber dancers that I find myself living vicariously. I find it IMPOSSIBLE to actually sit still while I watch, and often find myself moving my head, feet, arms and rear while I sit watching the dances play out. Luckily, my hubby doesn’t laugh at me. Even more lucky am I that my hubby loves this show as much as I do (meaning that you do not have to have a dance background to enjoy this show…or be a chick).
In my head there is a dance that I’ve created for infertility. I’m not sure it will ever be danced, not sure I could ever bare to dance it. Dancing, at its best, plucks from your heart the very thing that hurts the most, loves the most, yearns the most, and celebrates the most. It is pure feeling.
But I see glimpses of my own experience in these dancers and their supreme choreographers. I am so pleased the ‘real dance’ has finally gotten a foot-hold into popular culture.
So, excuse me for going waaaaaay off-line today. And I’m not getting any kick-backs for my HIGH marks for this little show (although, Nigel, if you’re reading this…help a girl out and get me some Season 5 tour tickets, huh?)…but if you’re looking to fill the gap in a rather empty summer network line-up (and maybe bail on “I’m a Celebrity, and Least That’s What I Told NBC to Get Me On This Show”), check my SYTYCD. They just finished the audition process, so it doesn’t even really start getting good until this week anyway.
Now go forth and watch.
Do it, dang-it.
Or else!
* * * * *
Any fellow SYTYCD fans out there? What are you watching lately????
Well, a little more time to blog today since it’s raining outside and thus ruining my walkjog (I have to call it that because it’s not really jogging, and yet I want it to be more than just walking). OK, I guess if I were totally hard-core, than I would walkjog in the rain, sleet or snow…you know, like a U.S. mail carrier (which used to simply be called a mailman 100 years ago when I was in school, btw).
You know you’re not hard core. (You know you’re not hard core.)
Until you live hard core. (Until you live hard core.)
But the lege-e-end of the rent, was REAL hard core!
Sorry, love me some ‘School of Rock’. OK, so really I’m not going to spend yet another self-congratulatory post patting my back for exercising. Because, patting my own back sort of make my side get this pinching-charlie-horse-like cramp, and really, it just isn’t worth it. So instead I’ll tell you about my visit yesterday to my new RE’s office, Dr. Nice, for my first baseline u/s.
Got to the appointment a wee bit late (oops, 2 year olds are not always easy to corral) and meanwhile my son had fallen asleep on the car-ride there, so that meant that my hubby (who met me on his lunch hour) stayed with my son in the car for the duration of the appoinment. Shucks, I wanted hubby to meet the Dr. Nice.
Sat down just long enough to choose a most interesting magazine when I was promptly called back. A very nice nurse chatted with me on my way to the room and sent me into familiar territory…the room with the big-bad u/s device, a padded stirrup table, and the obligatory paper sheet that is supposed to give you some shred of modesty while someone is putting a device up all in your (ahem) ‘biz’.
Got half-undressed and waited for what seemed like a little too long to be half-undressed in a cold room when Dr. Nice came in and showed me that I have aptly named him (ie: he was, you know, nice). I guess they did a little saline up in there and then the exam began…and I didn’t have to put the dumb thing in myself. AND, they had the screen where I could actually see it. AND, Dr. Nice kept asking me if I was uncomfortable. AND, he told me I don’t actually have a retroverted uterus like what the other u/s techs have told me, he said my uterus is ‘axial’ or something like that, probably due to my c-section and should give me no problems with retrieval or transfer.
He pointed out each ovary and pronounced me cyst free (woo-hoo!) and then did a very thorough antral follicle count (that’s the little baby follies which helps them know what your egg reserve is like). He got 6 on one side and 5-6 on the other. No great but not terrible. He said I should expect to get between 6-8 mature eggs from that count per IVF cycle. So, hopefully I’ve got a fighting chance still.
Then he looked in my uterus and showed me this weird white spot that he said he’s pretty sure is probably a ‘endometrial polyp’. He said that it could possibly interfere with implantation, so it’s gotta go. Sooooooo…he wants to schedule me for a hysteroscopy ASAP to snip that sucker out. Maybe it was the overall niceness of the office, maybe it was the thoroughness of the exam, heck, maybe they pumped laughing gas up there in my (ahem) ‘biz’, but I have never been so thrilled in my life to have a medical procedure done.
Picture me like one of those old Mickey Rooney/Judy Garland movies when they’ve just decided to put on some sort of musical act fundraisor to save their old neighborhood clubhouse or something…
“Let’s do it!” (and then I break into song and dance)
So, that’s the plan. Talk to the financial guru on Friday and schedule myself a supposedly easy-peasy surgery to clip out said polyp. Is it just me, or does anyone else detect a little, how should I say it,
optimism
in my voice?
I feel like I’ve been neglecting my bloghouse lately. It’s a little dusty, a little musty, a little messy even….not unlike my basement. I’m a relatively new blogger – and quite prolific, writing almost daily 1,000 words or more the first few months. I must confess that, after I wrote the word ‘prolific’ out, I looked up the definition again to make sure that I had it correct. And this was the definition I found…(irony alert):
Prolific: Producing offspring or fruit in great abundance; fertile.
Ha! “Fertile” is not a word I often use to describe myself, um like, never. So anyway back to my point of blog-neglection. I think it has to do with two things…
- I’m crazy busy in real-life (working more hours, more family time, playing outside).
- I’m on hold with TTC since I’m awaiting my August IVF cycle.
And being on hold with TTC leads me to realize that there is (now get this) actually more to life than TTC. Crazy? Yes. True? Yes. Impossible to realize when you’re in the middle of TTC? A resounding… YES! So I find myself in a new, good place: no complex cycles and dates to keep track of, no medication side effects (oh yeah, I quit taking my Met after my new RE, Dr. Nice, said he didn’t think it was necessary), no needles to prick into my pinched belly fat. Speaking of which (belly fat that is), I’ve been trying to reduce my supply lately – another reason for my newly discovered good place. My hope is that, by the time August rolls around, it will be, like, a challenge to pinch an inch for all those multitude of injections. Well, I’m sure I’ll still have a bit to pinch. But one can hope.
Anyway, walking several times a week has been extremely good for me physically, and I’ve been thrilled to feel my muscles hardening back up in my thighs and calves. But walking has been MUCH better for me emotionally than I ever realized. Chalk it up to ‘walker’s high’. Chalk it up to an hour of day of friend/chat time. But I think it has more to do with being connected to my body again.
My body and I have not been friends this past year.
Infertility makes me feel separated from my body. I mean, I’m not the one refusing to do what even an misguided 16 year old can do (no not text message while driving, you know, get knocked up!). That’s my body letting me down. So I’ve chosen to let my body down. Refuse to exercise. Eat junk-food. Floss intermittently (gasp, yes it’s true).
And where has that gotten me? Well, an extra ten pounds, panting while walking up stairs, and a recent trip to the dentist. Yeah, it wasn’t really a well-thought out plan to begin with. More of a ‘holding my breath until I pass out and you give me whatever I want kinda plan’. So I’m trying a new plan now. This plan involves actually taking care of my body and treating it the way it deserves. This plan also includes chocolate, so I’m pretty sure I can stick with it. And french fries…once a week only.
I was feeling so good about my new plan that I actually went for a run yesterday after a morning walk with the fam. Once upon a time, I used to run around 5 miles at a time a few days a week. I quit when we starting TTC because I read that too much running can inhibit fertility. So, yesterday I headed off on the trail at a slow jog and really started to feel the old rhythm come back (breath in, step, step,step, breath out, step, step, step). However, this rhythm quickly changed to a new one (breath in step, step, breath out, step, step) and yet again to ANOTHER one (breath in, step, breath out, step, gasp, step, pant, step…starting walking, gasp, pant). You get the idea.
I may be feeling better. But I’m not in running shape yet. I had to jog in short bursts and stop to walk just to catch my breath. It was extremely humbling. And today my legs are ‘killing me softly with their song’. And their song goes something like this “Oh, what were you thinking, you old, out-of-shape woman?”.
But oh well. It’s worth it. I’m worth it. I’m good enough. I’m smart enough.
And gosh-darn it (doing my best Stuart Smalley impression)…
People like me!
* * * * *
How are you guys doing lately? Anything special to take care of yourselves?
