mystery uterus

In Technicolor

Greetings from elsewhere. This will be quick. I found an internet café but my family is just across the room. I've mentioned to them several times that I read these amazing blogs, and that it helps me deal with all of this infertility crap. I fear it's only a matter of time before they wonder if I've started my own blog. So this is a stealth operation here.

The night I arrived, I gave my family an infertility update, which included a discussion of my upcoming lap. It was a huge relief to get that out of the way so soon. Because then we really didn't have to talk about it anymore, and that's just what I wanted. So the last few days have been relaxing and smooth (except for a couple of weird conversations with my mother, but that's par for the course), and I actually haven't been thinking about the fact that I don't have a baby all that much. (I said, all THAT much. Meaning, it's been taking up approximately 75% of my mental space, as opposed to the usual 98%.)

In other words, it seemed that I was doing a reasonably good job of distancing myself from my infertility saga. I had a particularly good moment yesterday evening, with a glass of good Pinot Noir in one hand, a trashy novel in the other, and a mesmerizing ocean view before me. I sipped my wine luxuriously while watching the sun start its long descent into the sea, as bands of pink clouds worked their way across the sky.

Last night, I had a very elaborate dream in full color. I rarely dream in color, so this was super cool. In the dream, I lived alone in a major city, in a massive apartment with very high ceilings and lots of old moldings. I was having the apartment renovated -- I wanted the full modern treatment. In my dream, a very sexy interior designer with wavy, black hair and intense eyes [okay, too many trashy novels, clearly] took me through the apartment to show me how he had transformed each room. The whole look was fabulously groovy and chic. Vivid colors had been used to paint the walls, there was lots of slick furniture with clean lines and comfortable cushions, tons of weirdly shaped lighting fixtures hung in choice spots, and the windows seemed to have grown like trees, letting in brilliant mid-day light.

As we walked into the central room, in which a huge old fireplace on one wall had been left intact (so as to contrast interestingly with the contemporary feel of the rest of the room), my suave designer pointed up to the ceiling, showing me the interesting shape that he had created. Parts of the ceiling had been recessed and painted another color, so that a large swooping form traveled across the surface of the ceiling. At first, I thought this shape, which was purple, looked vaguely like those bubbly designs that people used to paint on their walls during the 1970s. As I studied the form, and was about to complement this dashing hunk-of-a-decorator for a job well done, I realized that the ceiling looked like something. Something organic, I thought. What was it? Aha, I had it. Suddenly, I blurted out: "That's a T-shaped uterus!"

I am not kidding you. You can't make this shit up. Yes, my friends, my demented brain wove a beautiful, alluring story into my sleep, tempting me with the apple of a cosmopolitan life in a big city, an apartment fit for a modern sheba, filled with young light and soft fabrics, and then topped the whole thing off by shoving me back into the world of infertility.

Now, I do not have a T-shaped uterus. At least, no one has told me that yet. It makes me wonder why my mind would choose that particular version of a rude awakening. Is it my subconscious worrying and grieving for getup grrl? (I know my conscious mind is.) Or do I have such a problem with my current diagnosis of unexplained infertility, that my subconscious provided the explanation that I still haven't found in real life?

Well, I'm no Freud, (not even Anna), so who knows what it all means. But that was one hell of a weird dream. Now back to my regularly scheduled programming. Where'd I put that margarita?

Beach Break

This is my last post before I plant myself on the beach for the next week. This vacation was originally going to be wedged between ultrasounds, and I would have been popping Clomid pills while gazing at the ocean sunsets. But since we're taking a mandated break before my surgery, what am I going to do with myself? Guess I'll just have to find something else to obsess about.

HAH! *roars with laughter* That's a good one! Something else to obsess about! *honk. snort. giggle. guffaw.* Like that's gonna happen. Ay me, *rubbing tears of laughter out of my eyes*, I kill myself.

Not only will I continue my daily meditative ritual of thinking about nothing BUT trying to conceive, but I will also find an internet connection, no matter what it takes. I couldn't possibly spend an entire week away from my beloved blogosphere and the women who live there. So I'll probably be able to squeeze in a post or two while I'm gone.

But if you don't hear from me, please to not fret, mes amis. I will be thinking of you. Pouring libations to your collective fertility (with a glass or two for myself), as I wriggle my feet in the sand.

Love and Laps

Thank you, thank you, thank you for your comments over the last couple of days. Oh how I love my online friends. I can't tell you how much it means to see your words of encouragement. With the progesterone still ripping through my veins and yet another negative pregnancy test, I was feeling so very very blue. But you were there, ready with kind words to tide me over until my head cleared. You are my heroes.

Much as I adore you all, however, you cannot convince me to do this. I mean, even I have my limits. (Then again, talk to me again in a few months. If we have to raise money for IVF, who knows? Maybe I could be persuaded.)

---

If you've got your scorecards handy, you may recall that we were planning to do two cycles of Clomid with IUI, before moving on to a laparoscopy to check for endometriosis. We've only just finished our first Clomid IUI cycle. When I told my husband the bad news, he got sort of angry and impatient about our progress, or lack thereof. (We all have our ways of dealing with things like this. I cry or hide, some times he barks.) Then he said that he thought we should go directly to the lap. Shouldn't we know if there is any endometriosis, he said, before moving forward?

What he had never realized, however, was that a lap is actually surgery. For reals. He was under the impression that it was no more invasive or uncomfortable than a sonogram. (And, yes, it irks me that my husband cannot remember the details of my treatment, often doesn't seem to know where in my cycle we are, and hasn't done one whiff of research on his own about any of this. But we're working on that.) Once I reminded him that we're talking surgery here, and I'm the one who will have to go through it, work around it, recover from it, etc., he backed off the idea a bit.

But as we talked more about it, I realized that I agreed with him. Dr. Charmin had said, after all (as my husband reminded me) that we could do one or two cycles of Clomid IUI's before getting the lap. Why wait, when the chances of success with another Clomid IUI are not that high? (I think they're 7-10%?) And why not get a clearer picture of the state of my uterus before moving on to whatever the next treatment is? That makes sense to me.

Plus, if I get the lap this cycle, I can easily get a few days off from work to heal. August is slow. But if we go through another unsuccessful Clomid IUI, and I have the lap in September, scheduling the surgery will be much much more complicated. I probably won't be able to rest as long as I'm supposed to, and that will just make the whole thing so much more stressful.

The only downside to having the lap this month is that they can't get me in for surgery until after I ovulate. That means we'll have to take a break this cycle, lest the good doctor inadvertently annihilate the only poor unsuspecting embryo that we've ever managed to produce. (The chances of this happening are absurdly low, but I suppose you never know.) The thought of willingly taking a break for a month makes me practically hyperventilate with anxiety. We have no time to LOSE! We've waited long enough! And now we won't even be trying this cycle? No catheter with my name on it? No sex (without a condom -- which we both hate) until after ovulation? It's unthinkable! It's perverse! It goes against all reason! It ... it ... it ...

It's what we're going to do. I've scheduled the lap. We're taking a break. A goddamn break. And hopefully, I'll be back in the saddle next cycle. The proud owner of some new tummy scars (small, I hope) and ready to take whatever the next step may be.

The Truth

The thing is, I feel like it's all my fault. I can hardly bear it.

It's Negative, Of Course

When I called Dr. Charmin's office today to find out the results of my pregnancy test

(because they never call me)

the staff member who gave me the news said she was very sorry.

She said that my doctor is also very sorry.

When I called my friend, she said she was sorry.

But no one is more sorry than me.

I am the sorriest one of all.

Sad, sorry, barren. I am bored tearless by my sorry sorry state.

In Gratitude

Back in December, when another cycle had delivered the famed big fat negative, and we began making plans to see a specialist, I trolled the internet constantly for information and some measure of comfort. I logged endless hours, learned more than I'd ever wanted to know about getting (and not getting) pregnant, and dallied with the message boards. But nothing felt like what I was looking for. Nothing really helped.

Then I found getup grrl's blog. It felt like a stunning gift. Like I'd been stumbling around in the dark, and somehow managed to get to the door so I could crack it open a bit, let in some light, and breathe. I would sit alone at my computer, guffawing at her wondrously witty stories and comebacks, tearing up at her losses and struggles, and generally thanking the internet gods for loosing this marvelous person onto the blogging world.

Following the links at getup grrl's site, I found more blogs, more wonderful women, more long drinks of water and warm patches of light. Snappy, sassy, sad women, going through versions of the same hell as me, giving voice to the emotions I could scarcely name. Finally, inspired by their example, I started my own blog. Found my own voice. Salvation, thy name is blog.

But getup grrl was the first. The one who opened this world to me, and showed me I was not alone. The one who wrote at moments where words would have failed lesser beings, but somehow she found just the right ones. The one who lit up my eyes with raucous laughter and filled them with biting tears. She has a special place in my blogging heart.

Right now, this most divine of grrls is going through a kind of pain that no one should have to endure. Least of all her. Getup grrl, this post is for you. I am so sorry.

It's Better Not To Leave The House

This weekend my husband and I went to a party filled with friendly, hip people who have no children. And aren't trying to have children. What a concept. I had decided that I would let myself have a glass of wine (lordy, the thrill of one drink during the 2ww) and was generally -- surprisingly -- having a good time. I have been so anti-social these last few months. I really only want to see my close friends, and I've no spirit for going to gatherings populated by mere acquaintances and gabbing about god knows what, when all I really care about is the fact that I'm not pregnant yet.

For some reason, perhaps because of my mysterious equanimity this cycle (otherwise known as pessimistic denial), I was actually looking forward to this party. I managed not only to shower and put clean clothes on, but also jewelry, for god's sake. I entered the party feeling vaguely normal and ready to chit chat with the best of them.

A couple of hours later, drifting from one conversational pocket to the next, I found myself talking to one of my husband's best friends from work. Suddenly this friend, who was nice and toasty, stumbled towards me and began to wax eloquently about how great my husband is. She got more and more emotional, telling me again and again how she just wants him to be happy. How she just wants us to be happy.

"Yes, yes" I said kindly but with a wisp of impatience in my voice, wishing I could have a few more drinks and/or talk to somebody less drunk. "That's very sweet. You're a good friend." Then she looked meaningfully at me and said, "I mean, I know you're having personal problems."

Huh? Is she talking about what I think she's talking about? As far as I knew, my husband had never spoken to her about our struggles to get pregnant, but pretty much everybody he works with knew that we had been trying last year. So by now maybe they were wondering what happened, since the belly I sport is obviously more like Infertile Myrtle's Goodyear Tire than a gestating bundle of joy. I smiled sweetly, tried to adopt a look of innocent confusion, and said nothing. Maybe she's talking about something else, I thought, apprehensively.

Swaying dangerously, she leaned over and said, with great emotion in her voice, "I mean, I know you're having pregnancy problems. Your husband doesn't talk about it. He's very private. But I know."

At that point, I was literally pinned against a wall, and my worst nightmare was happening. Everything in me wanted to flee that house and run until I couldn't run any more. But of course, I just stood there. Speechless. And deeply, deeply annoyed. I did not want to talk about this at a party. I didn't even think she knew. I felt exposed, ashamed, and desperately uncomfortable.

Don't get me wrong. I like this person ... very much. She is cute and clever. She's got a unique personality, and I'm always happy to see her. But I would never discuss our infertility with her. Especially in those circumstances. At that place, at that time, I just could not bear that she was bringing this up. I thought I was some place "safe." Some place with no kids, no pregnant women, no talk of children or trying to conceive, nobody who knew what I was going through. Nothing but a party with idle chatter and no reminders. And here she was, with all good intentions, trying to tell me that she was sad for me, for us, and it just made me feel like I wanted to disappear.

I think I said something like "I can't talk about this right now," and ran for my life. I found my husband, and pretty soon after, we went home. So much for our night on the town. I guess you just can't escape infertility -- even for a few hours.

My Magic Eight Ball Says, Better Luck Next Time

This has been an interesting cycle. Not because it's been eventful, but -- au contraire my friends -- because nothing is happening. And I mean nothing. Usually my backup singers (the Progesterone Suppositories) shower all kinds of hope-inducing symptoms on me. And I, rising to my sucker destiny, believe them. But this cycle, nada. I've got not a twinge nor cramp to report. No numb fingers, noticeable boob veins, nausea. Nothing.

Perhaps for this reason, I have been remarkably calm -- in a sullen 2ww kind of way -- for the last few days. Usually I vacillate wildly between believing I'm pregnant and knowing that I'm not. But this time, I just sort of figure I'm not, and that's that. I realized this when I was trying to plan a trip to the beach in August. For over a year, having to plan trips has sent me into excruciating mental twists. If I'm traveling alone, then making sure hubby and I are in the same place while I'm ovulating is always paramount, but one never knows when ovulation will happen. Ay, there's the rub. Or there are medical rituals to plan around, sonograms, progesterone prescriptions, blood draws. Especially the crucial beta test.

When the trips were supposed to take place during or after the time my period might be arriving, you should have seen my control-freak convulsions. "If I'm not pregnant, then we can do this ... and travel on this day ... and eat such and such freely ... and drink margaritas .. and white-water raft without fear." (Okay, I don't white-water raft, but you get my drift. Hah.) "But if I am pregnant ... then we'll have to a. cut the trip short or b. not go at all ... what will I do if I'm on a plane away from my doctors during those vulnerable first trimester days? ... how will I not drink without giving away the game? ... etc. etc."

So when I made my travel arrangements yesterday with nary a cognitive twitch, I realized that I was simply assuming I wouldn't be pregnant during the trip. The whole "what if I am?"/"what if I'm not?" dilemma had somehow evaporated in my mind, because obviously I won't be, so what's the problem? Instead, I concentrated on sandwiching my vacation in between next cycle's scheduled sonograms, based on when I get my negative test, stop progesterone, start my period, and have to be in for the first sonogram on CD3. Then I have a window until CD11 (I might ovulate early, you never know) and a follow-up sonogram on CD12.

Whew!

Okay, that took some careful scheduling footwork, sure, but see, the whole time, I simply did not factor pregnancy into the planning. And now I don't know how I feel about my blasé attitude. Is it good that I'm not getting my hopes up? So that the inevitable disappointment won't sting so much? (Right, like that works.) Or is it bad, a sign of emotional trouble, that I can't summon even the slightest bit of hopefulness?

Well, whatever. The good news is, when (okay, if) I'm not pregnant this cycle, at least I'll get to drown my sorrows at the beach.

A Whole Lot Of Nothin'

Here I am, in the interest of keeping my blog updated. But I don't really feel like writing.

And there's nothing to report anyway. I'm seven days DPO. It feels like a hundred. The fact that I have a whole week left before getting tested boggles the mind. It seems like a millenium from now. I'm slogging through each day like I'm underwater.

And I'm sure as hell not feeling funny. No funny stories here. Nothing to see. Move on, people, move on. Quickly, now. No crowding.

I can, however, offer you this. Whoever you are, what can I say except, "thanks". It's a real honor. Send me a picture, why don't ya? On second thought, don't.

Idling

I am supposed to be working. I have a lot of work to do. And I don't have unlimited amounts of time to do it in. There are deadlines to be met, contracts to be fulfilled, people to be pleased. The work I should be doing, the work I must do, looms over me like a suffocating haze.

But am I working? Well, what do you think? If you're reading this, then I'm writing it, which means I'm *ahem* not working. Why am I not working, you ask? Why am I jeopardizing my good professional standing by reading as many reviews of Spiderman 2 as I can find, searching for information about invasive breeds of plants, and obsessively getting updates on my friends in the blogosphere? Why do I dilly and dally and fuss my time away, when there are piles and piles of paper on my desk, stacks of books on my floor, and reams of folders that are begging for my attention? Because, you sillies, I'm in the two week wait. And who the hell can get any work done during the two week wait anyway?

There are different stages of the two week wait. There's the stage where every twinge, cramp and burp seems to portend a big belly and a screaming kid in nine months. I'm not at that stage yet (and aren't you looking forward to when I am and you get to read about my every (non)-symptom?). I'm only in the initial stage, 4 days post-ovulation. I just started taking my progesterone, and there's nothing to focus on really except my own melancholy.

That's right, melancholy. I know I said I was going into this with an eternal flame of hope. I lied. I don't feel hopeful. I don't feel much of anything these days except the soft thrum of sadness that is with me always. It's there when I watch TV, when I kiss my husband, when I talk to my family, when I brush my teeth, when I feed the cats, and, of course, when I'm supposed to be working. I am so swaddled in my cloud of sadness that it's pretty hard to see through it. I can't concentrate. Certainly not enough to get any real work done.

This gentle melancholic hum has become the music of my life. I can't shake it. And the volume increases when I read about the losses and disappointments of my fellow infertiles, like Emily and Christine. And then I peer at the screen through my tears, which are always at the ready, shake my head, and sink a little lower in my chair. It makes me feel weak, powerless, small. I am so sorry for what they and others, what all of us, are going through.

I am sort of sleepwalking these days in a fog of quiet sadness. And this scares me, because I haven't even been through that much yet. Certainly not as much as some of you. If I am feeling this fragile now, how will I ever manage IUI's with injectibles, or IVF? or adoption? If it comes to that? Do I have the strength to keep doing this for another six months? a year? two years? You see, you see? How am I supposed to work when there are real issues to worry about?