mystery uterus

Look Away, Look Away!

Most recent way someone found my blog.

Ewwwwwwww!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Internet, My NBF

I tried to meditate yesterday, but my cat knocked down a huge metal bowl from a kitchen shelf which, needless to say, distracted me when it landed with an enormous crash. Sorry, but I just wasn't transcendent enough to sit there "ohhmmm"-ing while listening as the bowl slowly rolled across the floor and hit the wall, and my cat went screeching across the room in terror. Nope, that pretty much killed it for me.

Went to the RE yesterday and got my basline sonogram. I already had some big-ish follicles developing (10 mm) on CD 3. Is that weird or normal? I need to do a little internet searching to find out (because the internet is the best source for reliable information. It is, isn't it?).

Anyhoo, she went ahead and started me on the Clomid yesterday. So I'm doing the CD 3-7, rather than the CD 5-9, routine. Which of course sent me on a mad search through my personal medical library (yes, the internet, you're quick ain't ya?) for the pros and cons of each approach. From what I can tell, there is some small indication that prescribing Clomid earlier in the cycle can produce more effective results, but really, nobody knows and there's not a whole lot of difference. I suppose I could have asked my doctor about this -- that is what I'm paying her for after all -- but I prefer to subject myself to massive amounts of untested and unreliable data via the web. What, that's not normal?

And I did write that email to my family. It was very clinical, detailed and matter-of-fact. I just couldn't bear to get into all the emotions wrapped up in this process ... the feelings of shame, embarrassment, exhaustion, loneliness, etc., etc., etc. On this blog, yes, I'll complain and be scared and confess my deepest fears. And I'll welcome with gratitude the comforts and comments of my friends inside the computer. But to those who love me in real life, nope, sorry, I am Miss Fortitude, Gal With A Mission, Princess of Practicality.

So they now know all the miscellany associated with infertility and our tests & treatments so far (I even subjected them to information on my FSH/Estradiol levels, which are normal, and to the definition of "sperm wash"), but they don't know that I'm hurting. I just can't talk about it with them. I don't know why, I just can't. Some times, the only way I can deal with things is to put on a brave face around the people closest to me, because if I see them getting upset for me, then I will crumble.

Chicken Exit

So I have now meditated two, count 'em two days in a row. Do I get a prize or something for being good? Maybe a lollipop? A gold star? A lottery ticket? A glass of champagne? Something? Come on, throw me a bone. I'm trying here.

This is my first Clomid / IUI cycle. Nothing to get too excited about, really, but I do like the fact that my treatment is moving beyond the basic turkey baster + progesterone bullets approach. I go in for a baseline sonogram tomorrow. Then I suppose I'll be put on Clomid a couple days later, the side effects of which should put my progesterone to shame. Or that's what I've heard anyway. I'm bracing myself, just in case.

I'm thinking of telling my family about all the gritty ins-n-outs of our current baby-making escapades. They know we've been trying for a year, and they know we've done a few IUI's. But really, when I say "IUI", I'm pretty sure they hear anything from "I like pie" to "we're having lots of sex." Even though I explained it briefly over the phone a couple of times, the world of RE's and infertility is so completely out of their normal frame of reference, that through the telephone waves, I could clearly see their eyes glazing over. (Yes, I am that clairvoyant. Amazing, isn't it?)

So I've decided to write my family a group email, not to avoid talking to them or to be impersonal, but so all the terminology (the technical procedures, the medical terms, the names of the drugs) is written out for easy reference, should anyone want to remind themselves of what we're actually doing over here in lobster land. Then again, maybe I won't. The thought of explaining all this to people who love me and are overly invested in the outcome makes my palms sweat a bit. Yes, (wiping hands on jeans), and I think I feel some hives coming on. If I write them about all of the intimate details, and use the word infertility, then it all becomes even more real for me, since it will be more real for them. And somehow it will be harder for me, because then it will be harder for them too. Just thinking about it is starting to give me a headache.

Um, okay, maybe I won't write them today. I'll write them tomorrow. In the words of our dear Scarlett, "I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow." {music crescendoes} "After all, tomorrow is another day!"

Careful, This Is Political

I went to see Michael Moore's Fahrenheit 911 this weekend. Even though I had seen Moore interviewed on TV, watched critics both praise and condemn the movie, looked at detailed reviews of its main points, and read Mollie's heartfelt post about how difficult it was to see the suffering depicted in the film, I was completely taken by surprise and wrecked by this movie. I cried pretty much through the whole thing, from the very beginning, where being reminded of the sham 2000 election quickly frayed my nerves, to the end, where the anguish of a military mother was gutwrenching.

How, how, how did this happen?! I am horrified, angry, depressed and appalled at what our President and his administration have managed to do (and undo) in four short years. My husband and I were so upset, we could barely speak as we were leaving the theater. And, as a woman who wants desperately to have a child, I was totally undone by the images of dying children, both Iraqi kids and American soldiers, and their weeping mothers. And for what? It makes me shake with misery and anger. It makes me feel powerless, but I know I can do something about it. I can vote in November. I can donate money to the Democratic party. I can attend rallies for John Kerry.

It was in this mood that I read getupgrrl's searingly smart post today about infertility coverage in the U.S. (or the lack thereof), and decided that I needed to take some action in this political arena as well. Because it is political, dear readers. As getupgrrl so brilliantly argues, the lack of mandatory infertility coverage speaks to some basic and longstanding prejudices against gender equity in our society. When a woman wants to engage in the fundamental life activity of bearing children, cannot do so because of medical problems, and is then denied coverage to treat those problems, then her personal dilemma becomes a political issue. This is feminism, people, and the personal is political. INFERTILITY IS A FEMINIST ISSUE. And getupgrrl has urged us infertiles to take a stand. Hell yeah! it's time for us to make some noise.

Whenever power is exercised badly or unjustly, it is our job to speak up. Feminism teaches us to stay alert for these dynamics, to watch out for the times in which privilege gets the upper hand and justice is left struggling in the dirt. Who will protect it, if we don't? Politics is not just about who will be elected to office come November, though this is an exceedingly important issue. It's also about all of us out here trying to be heard, to not be silenced, to make our choices rather than have them made for us. I'm writing letters to my representatives tonight, urging them to support legislation that will mandate infertility coverage in my state. My actions may or may not have any demonstrable effect, but I'll be damned if I'm going to just sit here and do nothing.

Pratfalls and Perspective

This morning, I hauled my raggedy ass to my acupuncturist's office. I didn't really want to go though. I had managed to climb out of my post-negative-test hole somewhat (with help from all of your lovely and sympathetic messages ... thank you), but I was still feeling pretty fragile and deflated. But I turned on AutoLobsterGirl, managed to pull on some semi-clean clothes, and made the drive to NeedleVille.

My actual treatment is always preceded by a discussion about how I've been feeling, my digestion, how well I'm sleeping, all the fascinating minutiae of my life. This morning, we worked on a tragicomic routine that I'm thinking of pitching to the networks.

Acupuncturist: "How are you doing today?"

Lobster Girl: "Well, I'm not pregnant, if that's what you mean. Big surprise."

A: "Oh, I'm sorry. How are you doing with that?"

LG: "Uh... [looking at the ceiling, scratching nose] what do you mean? Physically?"

A: "No, in your head."

LG: "Well, um, you know, I'm pretty teary." [To prove point, I instantly tear up and look away sheepishly. Now I'm feeling embarrassed.]

A: "I see. And are you having night sweats?"

LG: [thinking to myself, how'd we get from crying to night sweats?] "Well, yeah, I guess I keep throwing the covers off."

[the pitch of my voice rises] "But maybe it's the progesterone that's been making me hot."

[gesturing dramatically, to highlight the progesterone's pernicious effects] "And that's probably what's been making me so emotional too!"

*THWAT!!* [The back of my hand, swinging wildly, hits the wall ... hard.]

At this point, I'm stunned into silence. "Ow," I think. I stare at the wall, amazed at its existence. "How the hell did that get there?" My acupuncturist looks at me quizzically, but rather than snorting with laughter, she looks down at her notes. No doubt, she is laughing hysterically in her head.

I could follow that up by falling off my chair, you know, to prove I meant it. "Ha Ha," she would merrily tell her colleagues, "I have this patient who pulls pratfalls in my office. It's f'ing hilarious." But instead, I sit there in stupid silence, the back of my hand mildly throbbing.

Then it's time to get on the table. Time to get down to business. As she walks around purposefully, sticking needles in precise locations, she tells me she has a patient for whom it took 13 years to get pregnant.

A: "So, you see, she measured her waiting in years, but you're only measuring in months."

LG: "Uh, well, actually," [my voice muffled 'cause I'm talking into a pillow] "it's been a year for us. So, now we're measuring in years too I guess," I say, thinking this will bring a word of sympathy.

A: "Well, that puts it into perspective doesn't it? You haven't been trying that long."

LG: "Oh, shut up," I think, and immediately tears well up in my eyes. Dammit.

Mercifully, I finally get out of there, pin-pricked, hand smarting, still feeling sorry for myself. As I leave the office, I see a woman struggling to walk to her car. She is limping severely, and her arm sways slightly out of control. She is frail, too thin, and too young to endure the pain of not being able to walk a few feet comfortably. Maybe she has muscular dystrophy. I watch as she finally makes it to the passenger seat of her car, manages to get into the seat, and waits for her ride. How goddamn unfair that this is her lot in life. A whole lot more f'ing unfair than the infertile cards that have been dealt to me.

"Shit," I think, "I am way too self-absorbed. I've got to get over myself." I walk to my car, each step filled with gratitude for this most taken-for-granted activity. My hand is feeling better. I turn the wheel, thanking my hands for doing what I ask, and thinking of lunch. Time for a tuna sandwich, one of the small pleasures of not being pregnant.

When I'm Right, I'm Right

Negative. Damn progesterone. Fuck all.

I'm feeling a little numb. I've already cried into my keyboard, and now I'm just ... I don't know ... hollow. I don't know what to do with myself. Think it's too early in the day for a drink?

Why, why, why? When are things going to start working out? Never? Maybe I will never get pregnant. It will just never happen. I'll go through a few more years of treatment, only to find out that it's not in the cards. After a couple rounds of Clomid IUIs, some IUIs with injectibles, maybe an IVF, I'll still have squat. And we'll be so broke and old by then, that adoption will no longer be an option.

Shit. That kind of thinking isn't going to get me anywhere. I think I'm going to have that beer.

Resignation

My body has been taunting me with pregnancy symptoms the last few days. You've seen me muse about the cramping and fatigue. Finally, last night, just before going to bed, I was startled by the blue veins I saw running across my breasts and chest. I ran to the mirror in shock ... and hope... and stared at those much wanted, circadian blue lines.

In the clear light of a new day, I'm now convinced that I was hallucinating. My chest looks fine. Completely normal, slightly translucent, the way it always does. That big blue vein running across my left boob? "It's always there", I chided myself over breakfast. I mean, get a grip girl!

What has sunk in today, into some nether region of my bones, is that I'm not pregnant this time. I can't tell you how I know, I just know. Okay, I don't really know, but it just doesn't feel right. Or, what I mean is, it doesn't feel wrong enough. I don't feel weird enough. I don't feel pregnant. Not that I would know what being pregnant is like, but I don't think it feels like this. When I clear away the brush of the progesterone's side effects, and look my body square in the eye, I just don't think there's anything in there.

Except, of course, a ripe corpus luteum holding its breath until it's allowed to fill its destiny, hurling me into the drama of yet another cycle.

Can't. Talk. Must. Sleep.

Last night, way before I normally hit the sack, I was sooo tired I could hardly keep my eyes open. But, yesterday I had to get up quite a bit earlier than usual, so I figured that was the explanation. Still, I kinda wondered what was up...

A few hours ago I laid down for my daily mid-morning progesterone routine. And then, note this is after a full night's rest, I promptly fell into a drool-inducing sleep-coma for almost an hour and a half. I managed to rouse myself, and am now back at my desk trying to work. But the combination of late 2ww dementia and this dazed lethargy is making it nearly impossible for me to get anything done.

Now I know it's probably the progesterone that is making me this drowsy, but in my addled brain, it's so hard not to see it as a sign. My psyche is seriously not cut out for this crap. Two looong days until I go in for my test. Let's hope I survive 'til then without having to be institutionalized. Then again, I've always thought I'd look fetching in a straitjacket.

Sailing the Seas of Infertility

I love seeing which google searches lead internet surfers to my blog. Usually the search terms are pretty much what you'd expect. But here's one that makes me go "huh?"

Possible explanations:

We infertiles are all in the same boat -- and it's a small one. A leaky, rocky yet very expensive lifeboat.

Infertile people who have sex on a small boat are more likely to conceive. It's a thermodynamic thing.

Some infertility treatments cost as much as a small boat.

Medications used to treat infertility can cause a woman to feel as heavy and water-logged as a small boat.

Shiver me timbers, throw the infertile women into the small boat and away with yee!

An ultrasound of an infertile woman's ovaries looks like a small boat filled with weebles (who wobble but they don't fall down.)

Infertility can make a person want to sail away in a small boat to a far-away island, never to be seen again.

Ode to Progesterone, part deux

My progesterone suppositories have to be kept refrigerated at all times. Over the last few months, because I travel whenever I get the chance, mini-bars across the country have offered a temporary home for my little supps. I usually stash them between the white wine and the champagne, which is my sick way of torturing myself for not being able to have either during the 2ww.

Progesterone suppositories also leak something fierce. I get to take mine twice a day -- once in the morning and once in the evening. Although my pharmacist told me I only have to stay horizontal for ten minutes after inserting the supps, in the morning, I usually lie in bed for a good 30-40 minutes, to thwart the little fuckers from dripping into my undies when I get up. Usually this technique only half works, and I end up running for the bathroom before the leakage gets too bad. The evening dose I administer when I go to bed. That way, by the time I get up in the morning (or to pee in the middle of the night), all the supp juice has hopefully been absorbed. This doesn't work as well as you'd think. All of this means that I spend a lot of my day and night up against my nicely moistened underwear (ahhh, lovely), since I'm too stubborn to wear those stupid little pantyliners.

Progesterone suppositories have lots of annoying side effects. In my case, they make me emotional, bloated, tired and crampy, thus pushing me to my absolute sucker's edge. Sucker cliff, I call it.

But despite all of these things, I love my progesterone suppositories. Because every time I put one in, at least I am DOING something. I hate the feeling of not being able to do anything to affect the outcome of the IUI. So I actually look forward to when it's time for the next progesterone dose, 'cause then I'm contributing to the cause, fighting the good fight, winning one for the gipper. I'm making myself useful in some way, by DOING something rather than NOT DOING something (i.e. not drinking wine, not stressing, not drinking caffeine, not eating tuna, etc., etc.)