mystery uterus

Skipping Through My Mind

Egads, I just wrote a whole looong post, and then accidentally closed the window before it was saved. Brilliant. I'll try to recreate some of its meanderings:

First, how incredible is it that Julie has had her Bat? Our beloved Julie, source of all things informative and funny, who has weathered so much with giddy humor and good grace. I'm so happy for her and Paul.

***

I gave myself a trigger shot on Thanksgiving afternoon. It was a slightly harrowing experience. First, mixing drugs in teeny tiny little vials with syringes is nothing like using the nifty Follistim pen. Thank heavens for that pen. I had a hell of a time getting the stuff out of the bottle and into the needle. The process was going so poorly that I was shaking and sweaty by the time I was ready to inject. I had sneaked (snuck?) up to the upstairs bathroom in my brother-in-law's house, because, although my in-laws know that we're seeking medical treatment for infertility, they don't know all the specifics. I was trying to be discreet, and wasn't about to announce shortly before dinner, "Okay, everyone, I'm going to the bathroom to inject myself with chorionic gonadtropin. Wish me luck!" The point is, by the time I had the hCG in the syringe, I'd been there a while, and the pressure of finishing the project before people starting wondering what the hell I was doing in there made me ancy and anxious. So before I thought clearly about it, I stuck the syringe in my thigh, pushed down on the plunger, and breathed a sigh of relief before realizing, "Shit! I forgot to get the bubbles out!" Not only had I not tapped the syringe, I hadn't even really looked at it to see how much air might be in there. It could have been 5 cc's for all I know.

When I got back to the living room, I was in the throes of a full-on panic attack, convinced that I was going to die any second of an embolism, or aneurism, or whatever it is you die from when you inject yourself full of air. So I slunk down in a corner of the sofa, where no one could see me, and cried for many minutes. I think the stress of the whole day was getting to me. It wasn't just that I'd nearly killed myself, but giving myself the shot was a lot more difficult than I thought it was going to be, plus I'd spent the entire day gazing obsessively, stalker-like, at my impossibly beautiful 6 month old niece. I finally managed to pull myself together, even though tears kept leaking out my eyes unexpectedly for the next hour or so, and was properly convivial at the dinner table. Ah yes, a near suicidal encounter with a syringe followed by forced holiday cheer and a cherubic little reminder of the gaping hole in my life. Good times, good times.

***

Friday I had my first IUI, which miraculously didn't hurt. Saturday, my second IUI, performed by the on-call doctor, brought the familiar, searing pain. Jesus gay, there are few physical things I detest more than the hurtful IUIs, with their special quality of torching my tender innards until tears come to my eyes. Ugh. On a good note, however, Saturday's sonogram showed that two follicles had released, and a third may have released later that day.

***

Hubby and I got in an enormous fight last night, the kind that only happens once in a great while. I won't go into details, but it was motivated by a few things, I think. He started the whole brawl, from a stressful anger born of the recent elections, his failure to understand why I get upset when he critiques my cooking rather than just appreciating that I'm putting food on the goddamn table, his blood-pressure raising situation at work, and the fact that he is finally feeling the emotional effects of our infertility. He has tried to be upbeat and positive throughout this process, with occasional flashes of frustration, but has never really doubted that it would work. I think the stress and fear of it all have finally gotten to him, which is pretty sad really. Now we're both a mess.

***

So, I realize that I am only two days past the second IUI, but hope has made an unlikely appearance, whispering in my ear and tugging at my sleeve. At today's acupuncture appointment, when I lay face down onto the table, I was startled to find that my boobs were very tender. Sort of towards the sides and near my armpits. When my chest made contact with the table, it was noticeably uncomfortable. It took me several attempts at repositioning myself to get where I could lay down without it smarting. And, as you well know, sore boobs can make someone like me think wild, irresponsible, hopeful thoughts.

But on top of that, when my acupuncturist took my pulse, she was quiet. I asked her what the pulse told her, and she said it was very different today. "Different how?" I asked. "Well, we'll just have to see, but it's different," she said meaningfully. Okay, okay, I know it's only 2 dpo, I know it's too early for symptoms. I'm not that crazy. But it does make a girl wonder. I'm just sayin', is all.

Follies, Shots, and Pee, Oh My!

the good news

Somehow I managed to not drop my wad early, so to speak. Ultrasound results from this morning: 4 follicles on the right, including the monster (23, 15, 13.5 and 13) and 2 follicles on the left (16 and 11). Apparently these would be good numbers for cd8 if that rogue 23mm follicle weren't hanging around. Show-off.

Fortunately, I still haven't surged, so trigger is tomorrow (cd 9). Still too early, of course, but it's better than ovulating on day 7. Normally they send patients to a clinic here to get the trigger shot intramuscularly, but since we'll be out of town tomorrow, and they didn't seem to want to trust my husband with this butt-clenching task, I'll be giving it to myself subcutaneously. Dr. Charmin said it still works that way, but I'll probably have a big painful lump afterwards. Nice.

IUIs are scheduled for Friday and Saturday. I've never been invited to have two IUIs back to back before. Gee, being on injectables makes me feel so special! I'm not the girl hiding in the corner anymore, I'm the girl who gets to shoot herself up and go for two IUIs in a row! They love me, they really love me!

the bad news

I sat down on my, um, chamber pot today to pee on my 5,467,982nd OPK, muttering to myself quietly "no surge, no surge, no surge." I'd held my pee for a good four hours, so it was a veritable waterfall in there. No, make that a water pistol, no, strike that, a fire hose, the kind that police use, with liquid spewing out with such force that peaceful anti-WTO protesters are conveniently washed away. You know, that kind of power. So as I gazed curiously at the stream raining furiously down on the stick,

*PING!*

something shot into my eye. Startled, I blinked a few times and it took me a sec to realize that, yes, a drop of my pee had bounced off of the stick and shot up into my eye. Ick! And that, my friends, is a new low since after a moment of being grossed out, I shrugged and thought, well, it's something to blog about anyway.

So as you're gathered around the bounteous table tomorrow, why not lift your glasses in thanks and utter the toast: "Here's pee in your eye!"

Premature, Premature, Premature

So today is CD 6, 'kay? I had my blood drawn (mmm, blood, sayeth the phlebotopire, licking her chops) to check my estradiol levels, and then moseyed (mosied?) over to the RE's for my day 6 ultrasound. I've been feeling pretty chipper about the whole injectables thing, rather keen on myself for having mastered the needle, and hopeful that I would produce just the right amount of follicles at just the right sizes.

I should have known better. The dildocam revealed a dominant follicle at 18 mm -- that's right 18 mm -- with a few assorted hangers-on at 11 and 13 and other paltry numbers.

So let's review. On CD6 I have one enormous follicle at 18 mm and a few wanna-be's. That is not good. It seems likely that I will prematurely ovulate. As in, my gynormous egg will probably drop by CD 8, a prospect that makes me laugh -- laugh until I cry that is. How ridiculous.

And it seems, moreover, that nothing good has come of injectables except the fact that I know that I will likely prematurely ovulate. Dr. Charmin told us to have sex tonight, so as to catch the egg when it falls. Prematurely. I reminded her, however, that according to her measurements, my cervix is too small for sex to ever be a viable option for us. There will be no babies from intercourse, lest we fall prey to the fantastic belief that children do in fact come from men and women sleeping together.

"Ah yes," she mused, "how right you are." So we are to have sex anyway (for good luck?) and I am to pee on OPKs today and tomorrow in the hopes of catching my premature surge, so that when I prematurely ovulate, we can do a premature IUI, with a premature egg that has little hope of becoming a baby. Even a premature one.

Yeah. Happy f*cking Thanksgiving.

Creative Genius at Work

Someone found me through these most enticing search terms. I'm sure the poor sap was pretty disappointed when my site popped up first on the list. Nothing too desirable here, and not a whole lot about asses either. (Except asswipes, assvice, and the like, but something tells me that's not what our seeker had in mind.)

But wouldn't that make a good title for a novel? So... remember that game when you'd all sit cross-legged in a circle, and one person would start a story, and then the next person would make up the next part, and so on? Wanna play? I'll go first:

The Mystery of Anal Desire

Anal Desire lived in a small midwestern town, where the only entertainment on the weekend was the high school football game. Poor Anal felt stifled by small town life, and spent many hours daydreaming about when she would finally escape this boring place. "I'm so bored," she would think. And then she would sit and stare at the clouds, twirling her hair in her fingers, thinking about how bored she was. The only time she wasn't bored was when she thought about the beauteous butts of the football players in high school. Because even though she didn't enjoy going to the games, boy did she like ogling those boys' asses. But even anal desire gets boring after a while, and Anal dreamed wistfully of the day she would go to Hollywood and become a star.

Okay, now you go...

Needles Suck (Less Than I Thought)

Just a quick post to let you know that I am about to have my first date with a needle, and I. AM. NERVOUS. After waiting around all day for my meds to show up, and getting increasingly anxious that there had been some kind of mix-up and they weren't going to arrive and this cycle was going to have be cancelled and THEN WE'D BE TOTALLY SCREWED and and and ... *SLAP!*

Right. Almost lost it there. Ah hem. Anyway, my Follistim gift package did arrive on time. The cartridges are now resting comfortably in my fridge, the Follistim pen is nestled in its little case on the kitchen counter, and all is ready and waiting for my arrival. Waiting for me to put the cartridge in the pen, dial the appropriate amount (100 iu), swab my jolly jello belly with alcohol, and then stick myself with a needle!

Good lord, how do you people do this? Seriously all you veterans of injectables and IVF, how do you do it? Wasn't the first time really hard? Maybe I'll end up following in Lisa's first footsteps, and make my husband give me the injection. But first, I will try. I'll give it my best shot. HA! Funny, I'm so funny. Sigh. Alright here I go. Wish me luck.

---

UPDATE: Well, I really worked myself into a frenzy, didn't I? Now I feel kinda sheepish for getting all hysterical. I did my own injection, and I hardly felt it at all! I was even worried that the needle hadn't gone all the way in. It stung a bit afterwards, but really it was no big deal. Well, shucks, all that fuss over a little ol' needle!

Supplement to Saved

Looking at last night's entry, it occurs to me that I may have given the impression that I dislike Christians. That's not exactly true. I should explain ...

I was raised in a Christian household, and I subscribed to these beliefs until my first year in college. In retrospect, I knew quite a few girls in high school like the ones in "Saved." Anyway, when I went to college, I realized there were just too many things that didn't make sense to me anymore about Christianity, and after some painful soul-searching, I decided the Christian life just wasn't for me. How was it possible that some people were going to burn in hell and others would strum harps in heaven for all eternity? Particularly when some of those damned people were, well, damn nice people? I just couldn't tolerate it, and soon became a determined agnostic.

That's the position I maintain today. How can I ever know which god, if any, is the right one? How can I ever know if there even is a god? So I remain neutral, open to spiritual experiences of a general kind, willing to entertain the possibility of a mind/body connection, but otherwise resolutely a-religious.

My comments yesterday had to do with my discomfort with a particular kind of Christian, a type with which I was only too familiar in my younger days. This is the Christian for whom faith becomes an excuse for hatred and bigotry, for judgment and scorn, and this kind of Christian makes me absolutely nuts. I may not know much about the big questions in life, but if there's one thing I do know, it's that our humanity should be embraced. We're all different, and that difference should inspire love and admiration, not disdain and condemnation. Not all Christians are intolerant, of course. I'm very much aware of that. At the same time, I have to wonder why it is that the Christian religion seems to lend itself to exclusion rather than inclusion, a divisive principle that makes me very cranky indeed.

So if I offended anyone with my post, I apologize. Now back to our regularly scheduled programming... (notes on my injection class coming soon...)

Movies

So here I am, about to start my period, and wanting a little entertainment, a nice pop movie to distract me from my obsessions and sadness. So I decide to watch "Saved". As an ex-Christian (and a secret fan of Mandy Moore), this looked like a great choice. See, I am actually an irrepentant fan of schlocky movies, yet I also appreciate a good critique of the exclusionism that defines so much of American culture. But I wasn't in the mood for anything too heavy-handed. I'm feeling much too self-indulgent for that, since I'm not pregnant and all, so I wanted something more light-hearted. Thus ... this 21st century version of a John Hughes film, complete with scary Christian conservatives, multi-cultural love, and nice-to-look-at teenage actors & actresses. Perfect. I popped myself an enormous bowl of popcorn and sat down to a fine night of escapism.

But wait, what's this??? The main character, an actress who I've always liked, finds out that she's ... hold on ... wait for it ... pregnant! Now, I understand that the underlying moral of the movie is about the kind of hateful condemnation which takes the place of a loving acceptance of human diversity. And that is a moral that I am all over, trust me. But for fuck's sake, does the lesson have to appear in the form of an unexpected teenage pregnancy?? Believe me, I loved this character, and I wanted nothing but the best for her. But will I never be spared? I just wanted to watch a teenage flick with vaguely ethical overtones. I had no idea that I would be ending the evening watching the loveable and loving pregnant teenager give birth to her baby in the midst of an affectionate and diverse clan of supporters.

Why can't that be me???

Alright, alright. Obviously, if I had become pregnant at the age of 16, it wouldn't have felt so wonderful. Particularly since I was a Christian believ-ah at the time, and, yeah, that would have been a problem.

But that's not really the point. The point is... I am here and now, and every goddamn movie I watch, or novel I read, or play I see, hits me in the gut because there is always -- and I mean always -- a pregnant woman who gives birth by the end. And all I'm saying is, why can't that be me? Why? Really, I don't understand. Why can't that be me?

Sigh. I'm depressed. And going to bed. So much for my therapeutic, distracting movie night.

Infertility Tears

Negative. Blood test this morning, phone call at 1:45. Results, negative. I wasn't even surprised.

Okay, that's not entirely true. I'm not completely without hope, carefully guarded as it is. I did think I had some strange cervical mucus a few days ago, and I was feeling vaguely queasy after breakfast this morning (but that's probably because I wolfed down two enormous cheese danishes in as many minutes).

Only later did I realize how upset I really was, as I was driving and tears started streaming down my face. And they just wouldn't stop. It's really not wise to drive on the highway at top speed while half-blinded by infertility tears. Yes, infertility tears are a special, different kind of tear, I think. There are so many kinds of tragedies in life, and I think perhaps each has its own tears. Infertility tears are as sweet as they are bitter, because they flow from a heart brimming with love for a child not yet here, and perhaps never to come. Infertility tears are bottomless and slow-stepped, constant companions always just beneath the surface. And when they rise to the surface, it is as if a beloved but frail friend has come to gently say hello, to hold your hand and take a long stroll in the red, melancholic trees of autumn, while you lean toward one another and talk about how sad and lonely life can be.

My husband, in the mean time, had a rare moment of fury at our situation. He got very angry, and was particularly outraged that we don't actually know what the problem is. He blames the doctor. I tried to explain that some times, unexplained infertility is simply the only diagnosis they can come up with.

And anyway, we do know a little bit more than that. We know that I have/had mild endometriosis, for whatever that's worth. More importantly, we know that my cervix is so small, we never had a gnat's ass of a chance of getting pregnant on our own. Beyond that though, our knowledge dries up fast. And thus, my husband's raging incomprehension: what the hell is wrong?!

I don't know. I can't know. I feel tremendously guilty and powerless. But I am glad we're stepping up treatment. We'll move to injectables this month, not that that increases our chances all that much. Part of me wonders whether it doesn't make more sense to move right to IVF. I'll ask Dr. Charmin next time I see her.

In any case, it's now time for me to embrace the granola lifestyle, to trade in my Pinot Noir for Pure as the Driven Snow Spring Water, and my large buckets of Mac & Cheese for Organic Spinach and Whole Grains. But not until my period starts, because, well, fuck it, I'm sad and need my material comforts. But once this new cycle gets rolling, just watch how good I'll be. Hey! I see you over there, snickering in the corner at my healthy living promises. Shut up you. I will do it, I tell you, I will! *stomp*

So I need to attend an injections class this week and, for the first time since we started trying to conceive, I will have to back out of some work commitments in order to make the injection lessons. Strike that, I have missed work before, but nobody noticed. This time, they'll notice. Well, I don't care. If I don't go to Tuesday's lesson, we'll have to wait a whole cycle before starting injectables, and that is not acceptable. And if anybody asks where I am, I will simply tell them that I'm honing my skills with needles, and watch the gossip fly. That should keep them occupied for a while.

And while they gossip, my infertility tears will keep a melancholic watch with me, an isolated vigil, with wary eyes watching for the hopeful things that may lay just around the corner.

Visions

Today I met a woman who I have always admired from afar. I can't go into too many details, for fear of divulging either her or my identity, but suffice it to say that I think she is WAY COOL. She is in the same profession as me, and I really look up to her. She is wicked smart and an inspirational feminist, and I have long wanted to meet her.

So I did have a chance to meet and speak with her today. And gradually, as we chatted, it happened to come up that, three years ago, she adopted a little girl from China. Adopted a girl from China.

I had never thought of this woman as someone with a life, with a family, with an adoption. I just know her professional credentials, which are stellar. Really, like cosmically, I wish I could be her, she's got an amazing mind that will change the way we think about the world, kind of stellar. So at one level, of course, just recognizing the lovely prosaicness of her daily life was a kind of charming revelation. "Oh, she has a husband. And a child. A real life, with love, and fights, and cheerios, and trips to daycare, and reading stories at night, and arguing about who's going to give the kid a bath."

But on another level, when she said she had adopted a girl from China, my heart fluttered and my eyes widened. Whether the adoption was the result of not being able to get pregnant, or whether adoption had been their first priority all along, I have no way of knowing. All I know is that this amazing woman had adopted, and she was in love. It changed everything, she said. It was a remarkable thing, she said. She was so glad to have this experience of motherhood, she said. She wouldn't give it up for anything, she said.

And because I see in her a better, smarter, more ideal version of me, a professional woman who has embarked on intellectual adventures that are an inspiration to me, well, it felt like perhaps she could act as as a model in this way as well. Adopting had brought her happiness, and a family, perhaps it could do the same for me?

I'm not sure I'm articulating what I felt in quite the right way. Maybe I'll try again tomorrow. I just wanted to post something quickly, so that I could remember -- and you could know -- that for me learning of her daughter was not an incidental insight into her private life, but something bigger, something potentially pivotal. And part of this has to do with my growing interest in adoption. I'm not sure why I think about it so much. We've got plenty of treatment options left to us. But somehow, I find myself thinking more and more about adoption.

But that's a topic for another post, I suppose. Just wanted to note that today, just when I least expected it, the possibility of adoption floated unpredictably to the surface. And it was a beautiful sight.

Birthday Gift

So I'm finally starting to collect myself after the election horror that was this week. As far as distraction goes, it doesn't hurt that I have a birthday coming up. I'm one of those people who loves loves loves birthdays. My birthday, in particular, but all birthdays of loved ones are worth some serious celebration. I've always tried to extend my birthday for as long as possible, a week is best. And this doesn't mean making people wait on me for a whole week. Often I just get a lot of pleasure out of doing private silent things for myself during this time. Taking baths, getting massages or manicures, skipping meetings, buying a really nice bottle of wine, whatever. I just like to mark this time of the year in a positive way.

So I'm a Scorpio, for whatever that's worth. I don't really believe in horoscopes, and yet I read them. Virtually everything I've ever seen written about Scorpios describes me to a tee. Intense, stubborn, resourceful, loyal, critical, strong-willed, etc. Passionate always comes up in these astrological profiles too, but I'm not sure if I fit the bill there. I'm too distanced from my emotions to be really passionate. I would say I'm intense without being passionate, if that makes any sense.

Speaking of passion and feelings, I know I said that I was going to start facing my emotional reality. But really I'm not. Fake! So I lied. Sorry. It's just that lately, I'm strangely disconnected from my treatment, my expectations, my fears.

Don't get me wrong. Thinking about getting pregnant, and worrying that I will never get pregnant, now form the bedrock of my psychic make-up. At this point, there's not much I can do about that. And believe me, I am only too aware of the time that has passed between last birthday and this birthday. With no child to show for it.

But the daily mental chores I usually subject myself to, well, I've been shirking my duties. I haven't been obsessing over every little physical symptom during this 2ww. I'm hardly thinking at all about next cycle's protocol change. I only tear up maybe once a day when I see baby pictures or pregnant women, as opposed to my normal 10-15x a day. And I'm not particularly worried about what I'm ingesting at the moment. I had a tuna sandwich today, for pete's sake.

I have never been particularly in touch with my feelings. Infertility has begun to change that. My emotions are more on the surface than they ever have been. And I have to tell you, I don't like this very much. It's just not me, and it's starting to get pretty fucking irritating. So recently my soft sensitive fragile core, for whatever reason, has pretty much gone into hibernation. And I've decided that I don't want to draw it out. Maybe it needs this time in the deep freeze so that it'll be ready to hunt and mate in the spring. And why would I deny my chewy center this much-needed rest?

So here's what I've decided. For my birthday, I'm going to allow myself to be un-infertile for a few days. That's my gift to myself. I don't know what that means exactly. Maybe I'll go ahead and drink some of that wine I've had my eye on. Maybe I'll skip my acupuncturist appointment. Maybe I'll smile sunnily when I see a beautiful mom with her rosy-cheeked kids, rather than painfully averting my eyes. Maybe I'll just be content for a second, damn it. The rest can wait, right? There's plenty of time to be miserable. But for now, for the next few days, to hell with it. I'm going to be happy.