mystery uterus

P-P-P-Provera

Today I picked up a prescription for Provera. My pregnancy test came back negative (obviously -- anything else would have been a miracle) and my progesterone level indicates that I should be expecting my period. I think it was 6.5? 65? 605? I got the call from J. on my cell phone at work with people buzzing me around me, so I wasn't exactly able to pay close attention or write anything down. But of course my period has only fitfully made an appearance. Such a tease. So Dr. Charmin has put me on Provera to induce menstruation. I'm supposed to take it for 10 days. And, here's where I'm fuzzy: my period will start either during that 10 days, or after that 10 days. I have no idea.

So here's the thing. I'm not only annoyed by this turn of events, but slightly depressed by it as well. The one thing I've been able to count on all these months is regular ovulation followed by regular menstruation. Well, at least predictable menstruation. Not regular, since there was always too much pre-game spotting for it to be considered normal. And now, just when it seemed the lap had taken care of some problems, and we were about to go forth and multiply (maybe), my body decides to be belligerent enough that I have to be put on synthetic progesterone. Why would my period go into hiding now? Was it the surgery? What happened?

Plus, I think I remember hearing somewhere that Provera can have some awful side effects. Didn't Tertia mention this a while back? And isn't there a chance that synthetic hormones can do crazy bad things to one's capacity to ovulate & menstruate regularly? Has anyone else taken Provera? If you have, and you have anything at all good to say about it, please let me know. I'm on the verge of working myself up into a mild tizzy here, so any attempt to set my mind at ease would be appreciated. Of course, if you have bad things to say, I probably need to hear that too.

Where's Miss Marple When You Need Her?

Aaaargh! I'm going bonkers over here! I still can't figure out if my period has actually happened or not.

Warning: more bloody details below. If you find these too gross or too boring to read, by all means, scoot on over to the next blog on your list. No hard feelings.

Alright, so I already told you that on Friday I was told that my lining hadn't broken down yet. Fine.

Saturday morning, I wake up with fairly bad cramps. Go to the bathroom, a decent amount of blood on the toilet paper. What seem to me to be just a bit under "flow." Also, blood in the bowl. And then about an hour later, nice gooey blood on the paper again. Alright then. So I think, here we are, period has arrived. Seems simple, right?

But then, it tapered off by late morning, and I had only the slightest spotting for the rest of the day. I never did put a tampon in. Only needed a pantiliner. So I think, okay, weird, it'll really get going any time now. Maybe Sunday morning.

Sunday morning arrives. Just a tad of spotting. And then nothing. Nothing. Nothing. No spotting of any kind the rest of the day. And I am currently completely and totally blood free. It's just the pee and me.

If Saturday was it, then today is CD3. But what if it wasn't? I'm not completely convinced. I have always had very light periods. They really only last a day and a half. Some times two. But is it possible for a period to last a half a day??!! That seems impossible, right? I don't want to start taking Clomid if my real cycle hasn't really started yet. Who knows how that could fuck up my system?

So, sheepishly, I called Dr. Charmin's office again today, and spoke to my nurse, J. I was feeling frustrated and a bit ridiculous. J. said that the only thing to do was to send me for .... a pregnancy test! I tried to explain that there is no way in hell that I could be pregnant, but there was no getting out of it. Plus at least the test will tell them what my progesterone levels are, which I guess will give them an indication of where exactly I am in my cycle. I thought maybe I should go in for another ultrasound, to see if my lining is still there, but no, they want blood.

She didn't really believe me when I said I couldn't be pregnant. But really, I can't. I had a negative beta, just to be sure, three days before my surgery. And we didn't have sex for a full 10 days before the surgery and a full two weeks after. We've had sex once and only once in the last month, and that was a week ago, when I had already started spotting! If I'm pregnant, then it was an immaculate conception, and people will have to build shrines to me. That would only be fair. If that Mary chic can get all that attention for spawning a kid without real sperm, then so should I, right? But there is NO CHILD. I promise you. Don't anyone out there get their hopes up.

I feel compelled to tell you, in my defense, that I have never had any difficulty recognizing my period before. I mean, I'm not a complete duckhead. This is not amusing. I want to know what the hell is going on. I want to take my Clomid. I want know if I'm in my next cycle. Crap.

Imposter

Most infertile women seem to have that feeling that we can no longer trust our own bodies. This week, my body has been particularly intractable and unwilling to behave properly. Usually, as you already know, when I'm not taking progesterone, I can count on several days of light spotting before my period makes its debut.

So on Saturday, I had my first faint spot. Then on Sunday ... nothing. Monday, faint pink, very demure. Tuesday, bright red blood and not just traces of it. Hmmm. That was weird. I'd never experienced more than just light brown or pink before when I spotted. Like frail echoes of real blood. Shroud of Turin spotting. But Tuesday was different. The spotting was scant but forceful. Embodied. Then on Wednesday evening, on the toilet paper appeared large swathes of fiery red blood. Highly unusual. But still no flow. Finally yesterday, so much blood was on the paper when I wiped that I thought this couldn't possibly be spotting anymore. It wasn't the flow I'm used to -- the geiser rush of blood accompanied by telltale cramps -- but maybe the surgery had changed things? I wasn't sure. And the weekend was approaching. So yesterday I called Dr. Charmin's office and said that I was, or at least I thought I was, on CD 1. They scheduled me for a baseline sonogram today.

So when my uterus appeared on the monitor today, it was somewhat embarrassing when Dr. Charmin looked at me and said, your lining hasn't broken down yet. You haven't started your period. Um, oops. I felt ridiculous. I apologized more than once for getting it wrong and coming in for an unnecessary ultrasound. I felt like the village idiot. "Period, duuuuhhh, what's that?" She was really quite nice about it, and said it was better that I came in early than coming in on a busy Monday, and she went ahead and gave me the prescription for Clomid that I will start on my actual CD3, as opposed to the mythical CD3 that would have been tomorrow. Jeez, I had no idea I could be so easily hoodwinked.

Maybe the spotting was so heavy because they opened my cervix up during the surgery? We talked about the lap today and what she found. She pointed out the bits of endometriosis in the photographs she took while she was in there. (My uterus, a popular tourist site, lots of picturesque views perfect for your Brownie camera. Tickets on sale at the door. Stay in line, no pushing.) And she said she was a little surprised the endo wasn't worse, since my infintesimal cervix could have been causing the blood to backflow.

Although they really didn't find anything all that serious, she seems to think there's a semi-good chance that we could have better luck now. So we're doing at least a couple more Clomid IUI's before moving on to the harder stuff. And, she thinks the IUI's won't be as painful now as they were before. Thank fucking god, because that whole "IUI hurts so much it brings tears to my eyes and leaves me feeling dazed and injured" thing was starting to get pretty old.

So that's about it. My medical update. Now I'm going to sit here staring at my undies waiting for the show to really begin. "Will the real flow please stand up? please stand up? please stand up?" Sounds like a pleasant way to spend a Friday evening, no?

Promises, Promises

So I'm spotting .. and spotting .. and spotting. Waiting (yawn) for my period to start anytime now.

I found my sex drive, by the way. With the help of Ms. Menses. She was hidden in the back of the closet, malnourished, sleepy. When she got out of there, brushed herself off, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, she didn't feel all that bad. I think she's climbing back in the closet for a while though. Last night took a lot out of her. She needs her rest, poor girl. Last time I looked, she had made a nice pile of sweaters to take a Rumplestiltskin nap in. (Sorry, grammarians ... in which to take a nap. My bad.)

Periods and sex. Sex and periods. When I first got my period, I was 11 years old. *the audience gasps* That's right, people, eleven. Not fair, not fair. I had of course read about girls getting their periods. I, like every other girl I knew, had a dog-eared copy of "Are You There God It's Me Margaret?" which had taught me not only about the upcoming flow, but that pumping my arms back and forth while chanting would make my boobs grow bigger. (Still hasn't worked, just so you know.) I had even asked my mom to go out and buy me some pads ... just in case ... so I would be ready when the big moment came.

But you know, that was just all preparation stuff. I didn't really think my time would come until much later. I didn't know any real girls who had gotten their periods yet. So I figured I had a couple of years left to muse about what it would be like to confront all that blood on a monthly basis.

The summer after I turned 11, my family went on vacation. We stayed at a cute, rustic little cabin in the mountains, close to the hiking trails, and a day camp for kids for the afternoons that my parents wanted me and my brother out of their hair. On the first day in the cabin, I went to the bathroom, saw red in the toilet, and screamed bloody murder.

"MOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!!!!" I yelled. All knowledge about periods had completely flown out of my head. I saw blood and panicked. Something was terribly terribly wrong! My mom came rushing into the bathroom. "What is it?!!" she cried. I merely pointed desperately to the red water, and looked at her with pleading eyes.

Her worried look quickly changed to one of relief, and then excitement.
"Oh, honey. It's your period. Now you can have babies!"

Babies?? Whah? I was eleven. E-LEV-EN. The connection between periods and babies had never been made to me before. At least not that I remembered. And anyway, having babies seemed about as real as becoming an astronaut or marrying the prince of England. Who the hell cared about having babies? All I cared about was hiding this affliction (remember when we used to be really really embarrassed about our periods?) from my fellow campers the next day. Oh, the shame! How was I going to wear those huge pads without anyone noticing?

So, yeah. That's what my mom said. I mean, first, what the..?? Is that what you say to an eleven year old girl when she gets her period? And second, well, too bad she was wrong.

The Virgin Queen

Well, the good news is I started spotting today. When I'm not on progesterone, I usually spot for 5, 6, even 7 days before my period actually starts. Obviously, as far as infertility goes, this is a cause for concern, but at least it lets me know what's coming. So, whew! I now know that my next cycle will start in a week or less, and we'll be off to the races again.

The bad news is I'm not pregnant. Oh wait, you already knew that. There was no diplomatic summit scheduled this month between my egg and an army of tadpoles. Getting pregnant wasn't an option. No, what I meant to say was, the bad news is, I am beyond disinterested in sex. I am frankly appalled by the idea. Horny? What's that? That's what I used to feel in an alternate universe, in another life, back when I was Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt. Or was it Queen Elizabeth? But, like the royal Elizabeth, perhaps I will become a Virgin Queen.

I'm not sure when exactly my sex drive went into the witness protection program. Before the surgery, we weren't allowed to have sex without a condom, because we were supposed to not be making a baby. Hah! Good one, eh? We haven't had any luck making one up to now, so it didn't seem like a hard assignment. Still, we do what the doctor says. But we both hate condoms, my husband even more than me, so we just abstained. Then there was the lap, and sex was prohibited for one week after. Which brings us up to this past Monday. I was still fairly sore at the beginning of the week ... some of the tenderness still lingers actually. So there have been obvious physical reasons why there's been no nookie around here lately.

But I don't even want to. It's not like I'm dying for some action and have had to wait it out because of the lap etc. I'm just. not. interested. Not surprisingly, this turn of affairs has not been well received by my husband, who informed me the other day that, and I quote, he "needs coochy". "I'm not a sex service," I retorted. But honestly, he has a point. It's been a long time. We really should get it on. For appearances, if nothing else. Some times, I know, just having sex -- even when you don't really want to -- ends up being not such a bad idea. But at this point, I can barely stand the prospect of even trying. Where did my sex drive go? What the hell has happened to me?

If you see my sex drive in your neighborhood -- rifling through your garbage cans, ding-dong ditching in the dead of night, driving too fast over speed bumps, leaving beer cans in your yard -- could you please tell it to come home?

True Love

My lap happened right after I thought I'd be ovulating. That's what I figure anyway. I didn't use OPK's this month 'cause I thought, well, what's the point? We're taking a break. I'm having surgery. Who cares when I ovulate?

Oh my god, what was I thinking??? Now I don't know when I ovulated! Which means I don't know when to expect my period. Which means I don't know when CD1 will arrive so that I can call my RE to schedule my CD 3 ultrasound. Which means I don't know when I'll be starting my next round of Clomid. Which means I don't have a friggin clue when I might be having my next IUI. Damn it.

I was hoping to take a quick trip to New York in September. (Wish I could go now. I could see the infertility musical, recently insightfully reviewed by Lisa, our resident theater critic.) But with my cycle this much of a mystery, how could I possibly schedule a trip?

I'm sorry OPK's. I made a mistake. I thought I could live without you. But I can't! You're what I need to get by. I think about the good times we had, and how I miss them. How I could always rely on you, even when you were being cagey and inexpressive. And even when you made me pay for dinner and get you drunk before you'd finally give me the information I needed. *gulp* I'll never let you go again, OPK. I promise. You had me at hello.

Crying Over Spilt ... Sound Equipment

I'm feeling much better. I was off the pain meds by Wednesday night, but for the last few days I've still had to pop Tylenol regularly. I'm still kinda sore. And I've been incredibly tired. Overall, the whole process of getting back to normal is taking a bit longer than I thought it would.

Oh, and did I mention that I'm as bloated as an overstuffed pinata? Good god, I'm fat. I mean, before the surgery, on my best days, I could only approximate a flat stomach by sucking in and not breathing. But this is ridiculous. I can barely find anything to wear over this momentous gut. This morning in the shower, my stomach belted out a loud rendition of "FEED ME, SEYMOUR". "Shut up, shut up," I pleaded, hoping my husband didn't hear in the next room. But this little monster gets what it wants. Waffles.

Anyway, last night was a little strange. We were moving some furniture around, and my husband put the stereo, perched on its little cabinet, in the living room. I thought it looked bad there, but instead of just saying so, I slumped dejectedly on the couch, and cried softly. Yes, cried. I had been feeling down anyway, and I just didn't have the energy for even the slightest bump in my day. As my sweet husband pointed out, while I was snuffling into his shoulder, clearly I wasn't crying just over the non-picturesque visage of high-tech gadgetry in my comfy living room. Something else was brewing.

No big mystery what that something else was, of course. Nothing new here. Same old worries. Same old desperation. Same old sadness. It has been exacerbated lately, though, because two of my best friends recently gave birth. To beautiful, adorable, miraculous little babes. I love my friends, and I already love their babies. But the lack in my life is that much more evident. And it weighs somethin' heavy.

Plus work is about to get much more intense and demanding. Usually I approach my work, like pretty much everything else in my life, with gusto and energy. I aim to please, I work hard, I do my best. But I just feel so tired. I don't know how to get my work done and focus on getting pregnant at the same time. I'm just not sure I have the energy to do both. I've heard of women leaving their jobs to focus on fertility treatment, though usually they're at a later stage than I am, dealing with IVF. Quitting my job isn't an option here. My professional life is too important to me. And anyway, if I could actually devote all my time to obsessing about the subject of getting knocked-up ... well ... the extent of my mania just wouldn't be pretty, would it? At least work keeps me loosely tethered to the "real" world, where infertility is not the main thing on everyone's minds. So somehow, I will slog through.

But I felt suddenly so overwhelmed by all of it last night ... my friends' babies, the pressure of work, the post-surgery soreness, the upcoming season of more treatments. That I just broke down.

Needless to say, my husband moved the stereo.

Blameless

To the person who found my blog through this search:

Wherever you are. Whoever you are.
I know how you're feeling, but don't believe the hype!
It is not your fault, dear girl. It's just not.

Three For The Price Of One

So I survived the lap. Aside from making me upchuck whatever I ate the night of the surgery, the anesthesia doesn't seem to have been too hard on me. My incisions are still stinging, though, and I have that weird pain in my shoulders from the carbon dioxide used during the procedure. So I'm on pain meds which are making me sleeeepy. Yaaawwwn. So here is a quick update, before I take another nap.

Right after the surgery, Dr. Charmin told my husband how it went, but I won't have a chance to speak to her myself until my post-op appointment which is in THREE WEEKS. Jebus, that's a long time to wait. But it will give me plenty of time to scour my Google Medical Library to research the following three problems which, as relayed through my husband, were found:

1. one fibroid tumor
2. mild endometriosis (zapped away by lasers during the surgery)
3. the world's narrowest cervix.

The tumor (i.e. cyst?) doesn't sound promising, of course. But it's the last of these which seems to me potentially the most significant. Normally, as the good doctor explained it to my husband, they use a 3 mm instrument to get through the cervix. But mine was so small, they could only get a .5 mm one to work. (Or did they say that even the .5 mm wouldn't work? Hmmm. Can't remember.) They decided to dilate my cervix all the way up to 9 mm, figuring that it will start to close up slowly, and hopefully the end result will be a normal sized cervix. Which I assume will revert to its original size eventually. What does this mean for our past and future chances at pregnancy? I have no idea.

Google, here I come.

My Unruly Subconscious

Last night, I had a dream that during my lap, Dr. Charmin discovered something bad. Very bad. In the dream, my surgery took place in a large old brick school, and afterwards, Dr. Charmin and I sat outside in the grass, leaning against a fence, talking about my results. She broke the news to me gently. I had some genetic disease (in my dream, it had a very scientific sounding name, but I can't remember what it was) that would make it impossible for me to get pregnant and give birth. "You will never give birth to your biological child. I'm sorry."

I was towed under, my whole being succumbed to desperate panic. I looked around me, seeing the sky, the school, the swatch of tar-covered parking lot. I swallowed the enormity of what I'd been told. Never will I have a child genetically related to me, I thought. She will never have my eyes. The genetic line ends here, with me. I grieved.

And then I woke up. And for a moment or two, I still believed what I'd been told in the dream. The sense of loss and fear lingered powerfully. And then I realized it had been a dream. Relief washed over me. "It was a dream!" I felt incredibly grateful for my reality, even if it may not be exactly what I want it to be. In my dreams, I am spinning sad tales of hopelessness. In real life, I still have hope. Some times, anyway.

God only knows what my mind will come up with while I'm coming off the anesthesia. I'm off to see the wizard of laparoscopy. She's going on a treasure hunt for endometriosis in my uterus. Hope she has fun while she's in there. I'm sure it'll be a party. But I'll be out like a rock. See you when I get back.

p.s. If anyone feels like analyzing the dreams I've been having lately, please, have at it. They're kind of freaking me out.