mystery uterus

Calm This, MoFo

So I did in fact have an IUI on Monday. I confessed to Dr. Charmin that I may really have had a surge on Saturday. She looked moderately concerned that we might be turkey basting me too late, but then found nice wads of CM at my cervix, so ... whew! Looks like we may have caught the ovulation window after all.

I have to say that part of me wonders if I really did ovulate and if this cycle isn't just one big lie. It feels like nothing is what it seems this month. Spotting was actually a period. A fainter line on the OPK was actually a surge. I'm still getting cervical mucus ... what's up with that? And I've had zero ovulation pains, which is unusual for me. So at this point I'm just sorta throwing my hands up and thinking, whatever! Maybe that's why I haven't been able to resist having a glass of wine the last couple of nights. But really it's been just a glass. I even measured 5 oz into a glass to make sure I wasn't going over. Yes I am that anal. Shut up.

Tonight I went to the pharmacy to pick up my progesterone supps, which I'll start tomorrow. There was this guy working behind the counter who I've never seen before. He looked like he was probably 45/50, with curly hair, round glasses, and a dippy grin. He handed over the bullets to me in a clear plastic bag, joked that "refrigerate" was misspelled on the label, and then leaned over to tell me sagely that the progesterone would have a calming effect. "Lots of women experience a calming effect from this hormone." A. Calming. Effect.

I burst out laughing, pointing my finger at him while gasping maniacally "Calming effect! Oh my god. He said calming effect!" And snot flew out of my nose I was laughing so hard.

Okay I didn't really do that. Actually I screamed at him, my face turning beet red from fury, "Calming effect?! Do you enJOY blowing smoke up the ass of your customers, drugstore boy? Huh HUH?! Why don't you stick one of these beauties up your cooter and see how calm you feel? Oh wait. You don't HAVE a cooter. So shut your trap. You don't know what the hell you're talking about!" And then I collapsed from outrage.

Okay that didn't really happen. Actually I ripped open the bag eagerly muttering "calming, calming, calming" and the whole store watched as I tried to stick a bullet up my pants without anybody noticing, so desperate was I for the euphoric calm of progesterone. Duuuude.

Nope, that didn't happen either. Okay, seriously, I looked at the guy and said "That's not really true." And he looked at me quizzically, waiting for an explanation. "I've taken these several times and I can tell you that they definitely do not have a calming effect," I offered, a hint of an ironic tone in my voice. And then he gave me this weird, confused, slightly threatened look and backed away slowly. Apparently he's not interested in the actual experiences of actual women on progesterone.

I mean, what the hell? In what universe does progesterone have a calming effect? In my world, it wreaks emotional chaos. Maybe he secretly dosed the bullets with some valium? One can only hope. Guess I'll find out tomorrow.

Can't Live With 'Em, Can't Live Without 'Em

I know you're all on pins and needles waiting for my OPK update. Well you are, aren't you? What is more riveting, really, than my soap opera relationship with Clear Blue OPK sticks? When I see that dark line, it is true love, and my heart swells and violins play as I sing the gift of the Stick.

But when things aren't going well, and the Stick is playing hard to get, I am quick to anger and expletives rain from my mouth like ... well, like pee showering on a stick. Once, I even accused Stick of kidnapping my husband, locking him in a secret room in the back of Stick's suburban home, taking him to South America, and brainwashing him into falling in love with her. Then I remembered that that happened on TV, and I had to apologize.

So the torrid affair continued this morning, when I woke up early to pee on Stick so that I could call the clinic before they closed at 8:00. The control line was so much darker than the test line, that I refused to believe it. 30 minutes later, I went back for more because I can't help myself. Why oh why do I always fall for the wrong kind of Stick? The second time, the control line was lighter (because, hey, how much pee can a girl generate in 30 minutes?) but the test line was almost as dark. But since the control line was light, that's not saying much.

So then what did I do? I called the RE's office and I lied. I told them that the test line was very close to the shade of the control line, and I wanted to schedule my IUI for Monday morning. Why did I lie, do you ask? Good question. My thinking was: since the lines were so similar yesterday, and I had all that eggwhite slipping around, maybe yesterday really was the surge? Maybe the IUI really should have been today? So, the way I figure it, if I did ovulate today, and I have the IUI done tomorrow, at least there's still a gnat's hair size of a chance that we'll catch the tail end of ovulation.

And, if it turns out I was wrong, and the blue surge line appears clearly tomorrow, in all of its Prussian glory, then I can just call and reschedule the IUI for Tuesday. Which is exactly what the nurse told me to do if that happens, since I was at least truthful enough to tell her that today's test showed a line that was almost as dark. (Even though we all know I was exaggerating, but you won't tell will you?)

So the moral of the story is, the Stick you know is better than the Stick you don't know. Or is it, a Stick in the hand is worth two in the bush? And, you'll be happy to know that I actually did have sex last night, just in case. (Joanne, I couldn't remember what it was either, but this helped.) I mean, you never know, right?

Oops

So, um, how can I say this? *aHem* It turns out that I am not, in fact, a medical genius. Au contraire, my friends, I am apparently incapable of recognizing my own period.

That "spotting" I had last week? Yup. That was my period ... or so it seems. Two days ago, I started to get the early signs of that most beloved of substances: cervical mucus. When I saw that dippity-do, I was all "wha?". And then I was all "you've got to be kidding me." And then, because I am really quick on the draw, I was all "wait, maybe that bleeding was actually my period!". So then I peed on a stick, and a faint faint line showed up. I repeated the routine yesterday, at which point I called my doctor.

That was kind of an embarrassing call. I spoke to J, and cringed when I had to say "Um, yeah, so I guess I really did have my period. And it looks like I might ovulate soon." All the while, thinking to myself, "she must think I am such a dumb ass. How can a grown woman not know a period when she sees one?" But actually, J is all sweetness and light. Really, the girl is just too nice for this world. She makes me feel like a complete miscreant. So she promised to leave a note for Dr. Charmin, who was out yesterday but will come in today, and told me to keep using the OPKs. Maybe we can get an IUI in this cycle so it's not a bust, even though I completely blew my chance to take Clomid since ... I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW MY CYCLE HAD STARTED!

This morning, peed on a stick, and damn if that line wasn't almost as dark as the control line. Actually, I just about had an aneurism trying to figure out if it was almost as dark or as dark. (A problem, you may recall, that I've had before.) I decided on almost. Oh, and a huge plop of EWCM slid triumphantly into the toilet somewhere in there too. Yup, guess I'm about to ovulate.

I'm currently wrapped in knots because I think maybe the OPK actually did indicate a surge, but now it's too late to call the clinic. SHIT, I hope I didn't miss the window, making this entire cycle a total loss. Argh. But I suppose there's always sex. There's an idea. Now that Dr. C dilated my strangely narrow cervix, maybe sex could actually work?!

Nah, not possible. I refuse to believe in unfounded myths. Babies do not come from sex, they come from catheters. I'm crossing my fingers that the OPK looks perfect tomorrow, with a midnight blue dark line, and I can get my IUI fix on Monday.

Meanwhile, I think I smell cat pee. Shit, what have those cats done? I may have lost my ability to know full flow when I see it, but I can smell cat pee a mile away. Off I go, to clean up the mess. Please send positive OPK thoughts my way tomorrow, will ya?

I Am A Medical Genius

Sorry for my silence. Work is craaaaazzzy. Office politics, secret meetings, power grabs, oh my! It's been a helluva week. All of this intrigue and negotiating has done a pretty good job of distracting me from the roller coaster of infertility. Instead, I have the rollercoaster of my career, guaranteed to provide thrills and chills at a low low price.

But even this chaos hasn't been able to make me forget that

I STILL HAVEN'T HAD MY PERIOD.

Now, I'm not all that good at science, and all that medical terminology some times leaves me scratching my head in confusion, but I do think I have a few fundamentals figured out. For example, I am fairly certain that in order to get pregnant, I need to ovulate. I'm not overstating the case here am I? No? I didn't think so. Plus, I'm pretty sure that menstruation precedes ovulation, i.e. no egg will drop before full flow. Right? Am I missing something here?

So according to my calculations, no period = no egg. In addition, no egg = no pregnancy. So, let's see. I remember taking my SAT's, lo those many years ago, and according to transitive logic, that means no period = no pregnancy.

So there you have it. What more can I say?

Waiting for G'flow

First, thank you for making me feel better about my envious feelings. Your comments really meant a lot to me.

Second, have any of you seen my period?

I am faithful. I am vigilant. I am ever watchful. And still ... still ... my period does not come. It's been eight days since I took my last Provera pill. I've had five days of spotting. Two days of heavy cramping. Much blood on the toilet paper yesterday yet never enough for a pad or tampon. And today, it's all dwindled to nothing. No cramps. Little to no spotting.

What the fuck?!?!?!

I called Dr. Charmin's office, and J. told me that it can take up to 14 days after stopping Provera for full flow to appear. Full flow, full flow. The words ring in my ears. The melodious refrain reverberates: full flow, full flow. Can you hear it? Yay, the heavenly tones sing a song of menses, harmonious like the voices of angels.

I've been waiting so long for my period now, dreaming of it, wishing for it, wondering what it will be like. I envision the arrival of my period as my very own Rapture:

1 Proverians 4:16–17 states, "For full flow will descend from heaven with a cry of command, with the archangel’s cramping call, and with the sound of the trumpet of ART. And the uterine lining will rise first; then we who are bleeding, who are left, shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the ovaries and the uterus in the air; and so shall the next cycle begin."

I am ready. I am willing. I am prepared. I am rapture ready. How long will I have to wait for ... *sound of bells chiming and the flapping of doves' wings* ... full flow?

Don't Hate Me Because I'm Jealous

Alright, so I apologize in advance for how crass and insensitive I'm probably going to sound in this post. And all you new mothers out there, please don't hate me for what I'm about to say.

*clears throat*

*twitches nervously*

The other night I had dinner at the home of a dear friend of mine and her husband. Let's call her G. She recently gave birth to a lovely, thoughtful, hungry little boy who is about six weeks old now. G. had a remarkably easy conception and a happy, uneventful pregnancy. As far as I could tell, she was never plagued by a moment's doubt about the health of her baby or the chances of miscarriage or any other medical worry, and she and her husband looked forward to their little one's arrival with unfettered anticipation. It was the kind of pregnancy that every woman would like to have, but not all are lucky enough to experience.

I've only seen G. once or twice in the last few weeks, and never long enough to really talk about how things were going. So dinner at her house (take out) offered the first opportunity to really catch up. Of course, her son is still in the eat eat sleep cry sleep eat cry sleep eat eat eat sleep cry eat phase, so he pretty much needs constant attention. G. is visibly exhausted by this routine, and, initially, I really did feel for her. "It must be so much work taking care of a newborn," I thought. I briefly wondered (feared/hoped/worried) when and if I would have the chance to devote this kind of attention, and breast time, to a newborn, but tried to turn my focus back on the new mother and away from my own issues.

As the night went on, however, it became increasingly clear that G. is not just tired, she is irritable and frustrated with her little boy. All evening, she made comments like "It gets pretty boring" and, to her son, "I grew these breasts to double their size for you!" and "Why are you crying? What do you want?", delivered in clearly exasperated tones. In general, she seemed morose and dissatisfied, exhibiting few moments of real pleasure in her progeny. In short, it felt to me like she was pretty fed up with the whole thing, and saw little to be happy about as she had to spend every waking moment (and many sleeping ones too) attending to this needy, voracious, whiny little creature.

So... I know that new mothers must truly be exhausted, and that it really must be a huge challenge taking care of a baby who needs constant attention and feeding and holding and changing. I don't really begrudge G. any of those feelings. They are authentic emotions and she deserves to have them. And I am not by any means suggesting that she is or will be a poor mother.

Yet I have to admit, that I could hardly stand to be there with her when she was in that mood. Here I was, looking at her beautiful child, trying not to think about my own situation and just be happy for her. But when she seemed bitter and plaintive, all I could think was, "Good grief woman, I would give anything to be in your place right now. Anything to just have the chance to hold my baby in my arms, to have my breasts get sore and run out of milk, to pick my baby up when he cries, to watch his little face squirm up as he realizes he's hungry or needs changed!" I wanted her to be grateful, because I so envy what she has, but instead, to me, she didn't seem to appreciate or take any joy in her kid at all.

I'm sure it was just a bad night, and I know that her post-pregnancy weeks have been very hard on her physically. And I should say that usually G. is probably the least self-absorbed woman I know. But on this particular evening, she seemed not to want or enjoy the very thing that I would give anything to have. And I just couldn't take it. I left shortly after dinner. Normally, we can talk for hours. But I thought I might cry, or start shaking, or go weirdly silent, or say something I shouldn't if I stayed. I thought it best if I just made myself scarce, and so I fled.

I feel terrible. I can barely stand to write these thoughts about my close friend, who is a remarkable woman. It feels like I'm maligning her. I don't mean to, really. Her days are filled with mundane and thankless tasks, so who am I to tell her to behave or feel differently? I just needed to write about how difficult it was for me. How I really couldn't put myself in her shoes. How I just couldn't understand how she wasn't endlessly, hopelessly grateful for the immense gift she'd been given.

It made me feel like shit. It made the gaping hole in my life so glaring, so visible, so tender and sore. When I got home, I had a glass of wine, and watched TV lethargically. It's taken me a day or two to come out my funk. So here I am. Shaking off the last of it. 'Cause I do not want to harbor resentful feelings toward my friend, who I love. But I had to acknowledge that that. was. hard.

Notes From The Shower

I took my last Provera pill yesterday. So the flood gates should open up in the next few days, I assume. And this cycle, the longest of my life, will come to a blessed fucking end. Enough already.

So in the shower this morning, I was thinking about how things will start rolling along soon, about how I'll start popping a different set of pills (Clomid), about when in September I might ovulate. And then, ladies and gents, I started figuring out when my due date would be if we conceived in September. Ah hem. You heard me right. My due date. And then, my mathematically clunky mind stumbling along awkwardly, came the early-morning attempt to figure out the due dates for conception in October, November, and so on.

I was deep in the midst of these calculations before I even realized what I was doing. I was thinking optimistically! I froze in the middle of lathering up, realizing that some part of me actually believes that I'll be pregnant in the next six months. At which point I dropped my soap. Which then slid quickly to the drain *wheeeee!* and mischievously flew out my hands every time I tried to pick it up. By the time I was upright again, holding the big bar securely in my confused little paws, I was thoroughly amazed by my, dare I say it, hope.

Now don't get me wrong. There is still a large part of my brain, and heart, that finds it virtually unthinkable that I will ever be plein, as they say in gay Par-ee. At this point, it can seem like such an unattainable dream, such an abstract desire, that a real pregnancy, in this body ... well, it's easier to believe in Santy Claus.

Yet apparently, there is now this other part of myself which has bet its marbles on a miracle. In six months, no less! And since in six months, we'll be celebrating our two year anniversary, well, now, being pregnant by then just wouldn't suck, would it? No siree. That would be just about the best goddamn wedding gift I can possibly imagine.

So who should I listen to? Behind Door Number One: Wild, gambling, hopeful self, willing to throw caution to the wind and believe? Or behind Door Number Two: Cautious, fragile, pessimistic self, unable to conceive of conceiving?

For the moment, my money's on Door Number One. The game's almost afoot. Guess we'll have to wait to see which side wins.

Just Working

Nothing to report over here. Except that work is keeping me very very busy. But not as busy as Karen.

Still taking the Provera. Waiting for my period to start. Ho hum. *looks at watch*

I've been drinking too much. And gaining weight. And eating tons of fish loaded with mercury. I can't seem to throw myself into the heathy living/preparing my eggs thing, since I'm just waiting around for my period to start. I'm in limbo. Limbo is not a good place for me. I need projects, goals, deadlines. I need to cycle.

And did I mention that it sucks every time my blog rolls over into another month? When "September" came up in my archives, I cringed.

Oh, one more thing. I highly recommend HERO. It rocks. Mostly because it is soooo beautiful. The colors are incredible. Luscious, saturated, delirious. Go see it and tell me what you think.

Alright, now back to work. Duty calls.

Behold The Bitch

Thank you everyone for your helpful information about Provera, and your support. For those of you who said Provera made you cranky and hungry. Um, yeah. Not only am I eating everything in sight. I have become a whirling dervish of bitchiness.

I came home from work last night, incredibly tired and feeling sad, dull, and vaguely mean-spirited. I launched into a huge tirade about how my husband hadn't even noticed that we were out of kitty litter, because he doesn't ever bother to deal with things like that, and I had to go buy it, and then clean out the box, which he hadn't done of course.

And then I began the second phase of the seething-wife routine, in which he caught hell for not doing the dishes, even though he'd been sitting around the house for two hours before I got home, and I had to come home to a sinkful of dirty dishes, which I then dealt with after he left for a business party.

Phase three consisted of me berating him for daring to rip up the junk mail he gets, leaving the shreds on the dining room table for me to pick up and throw in the trash.

By the time I was done, he was thoroughly chastened, slightly scared, and desperate to get away from me. Ah yes, fun with Provera. Now, all of these are legitimate gripes, but I didn't have to hurl them at him all at once like a flamethrower making her prey run for cover. I just sent him an email apologizing for being such a crank.

The other thing that's on my mind is how I've lost my normal sense of self. I've become the person people feel sorry for. And I have never been that before. Not necessarily because bad things haven't happened to me. I've had a few dark episodes in my life, including a particularly dicey illness that could have left me either dead or a vegetable. But for some reason, I have always fought -- hard. I've always believed I could beat the odds, in the end. I've never felt like I was a person anyone should feel sorry for. I'm the confident one. The one who is upbeat, focused, positive ... tempered by a sarcastic streak and an overachiever's anxious sense of ambition.

I had lunch with a good friend yesterday, who has a beautiful baby. We were talking about my lap, and my small cervix, and my failure to produce a period, etc. etc. etc. I almost started to cry, and we decided to change the subject. I could tell she felt sorry for me. Of course, she would. She should. She's my friend. But it's just so weird to be the woman people feel sorry for. It's the role of the victim, and I wear it awkwardly. It's ill-fitting and unfamiliar, itchy and embarrassing. I hate it.

I suppose if I behaved differently, or felt differently, or approached our infertility differently, perhaps I wouldn't give off the victim vibe as much. But it's been long enough now, and I'm surrounded by so many friends' children, that it's hard for me to just suck it up and be strong. I don't feel strong. I feel defeated. Even though I know that there are still quite a few options for us -- we're still only at the Clomid/IUI stage after all -- and that there's a decent chance that I will ultimately have a biological child. But it's difficult for me to think in those positive terms. I'm not sure why.

And so my sweet friend, looking at me with care and concern, made me even sadder. And when I got home, and collapsed in a sullen heap on the couch, my husband looked at me and said he was worried about me. Which made me bristle. Since I've become an asshole. And my response was to dig at him for his domestic irresponsibility, which saved me from having to admit... I'm worried about me too.