Infertility is inconvenient Thursday, Aug 13 2009 

As you may have noticed, I’ve dropped off in commenting and posting over the past few weeks. I think of you all and wish each and every one of my real life and  imaginary internet friends 110% success in their family building.

In the last week I have been laid off, found out that I am ineligible for IVF at one of the top poor responder clinics in the nation, and handled two stressful personal matters. As an extra suck-tastic bonus, the day I lost my job I gained something in return: a very large traffic ticket. Interestingly, I don’t own a car, hardly ever drive, and was borrowing a friend’s car to attend a party to take my mind off my job loss.

I think it is time for some introspection.

As much strength as I have gained from blogging and reading, I’m going to step away from the computer for a little while as we determine our next steps and the actions necessary to feel like we have given this journey of prescription sex, vaginal scans, abdomen bruising contests, and hormonal hell  our all.

Please forgive my absence, remember that  this community is very valuable  to me, and know that I’ll be back once I feel that I have a better handle on a more well-rounded life that focuses a little more on my strengths and a little less on my ovaries.

Thank you for reading.

Prometri.um and pleather Wednesday, Jul 22 2009 

Long ago I used to derive pleasure from the items that came into contact with my lady parts. Now, I consider it a win if in exchange for dropping my pants and saying hello to the camera dildo I’m able to score an ultrasound showing a follicle for my refrigerator, and I think I deserve applause when I manage to get the prometri.um tucked behind my fem.ring in such a way as to minimize leakage. I feel like my vagina is the no fun zone.  I’m worried I’m becoming the no fun zone.

Instead of thinking about sex, last night I had a dream about a chocolate donut. It started with fantasies of a perfect chocolate cupcake with white icing and baked in chocolate chips. The baked goods ideal evolved as I rested in bed watching the clock tick tock past 11, 12, 1 and too many other numbers. At somepoint during my eventual slumber the cupcake morphed into a Starb.ucks chocolate donut. Apparently even my pastry dreams go slummin’. This morning, unable to concentrate on briefing papers, phone calls, or plans for this evening, I took a donut recess from work and gleefully sauntered off to the ‘buck, sure that this donut would be the answer to my crappy outlook and cranky attitude. I bounced into the store eager to receive the treat.

No chocolate donuts. I asked the surly woman behind the counter. Perhaps there were stacks and piles of donuts secretly tucked in the back cooler just waiting for me?

No secret chocolate donuts.

I almost started crying, ordered a drink, and reversed my route- uphill this time, back to home, work obligations, a difficult boss, no HoneyBee (he’s still out of country), a probably unsuccessful cycle, and the weight of the world on my shoulders. And then I saw it….a non-descript luxury car with tinted windows parked illegally in a loading zone-the kind of vehicle often squiring diplomats or middle-aged CEO’s shuttled from very important meeting to more important meeting. The door opened and out stretched a pleather-clad leg, a pleather so tight it straddled the line between pants and  legging status. The head dipped into view, and the plastic pants creature unfolded to full size: a 6+ foot tall 30something  man who looked like a Brooks Brothers model from the waist up proceeded up the street.

And my mood changed. I may be a barren, childless, hormonal wreck, who misses her partner and is feeling quite sorry for herself today, but at least I didn’t lose the bet that man must have lost in order to require him to march up a busy metropolitan street decked out in skin-tight, shiny,  fake leather.

Cheers to you, Pleather Legging Man. Thanks for the laugh.

This blog is a secret for a reason Friday, Apr 3 2009 

Happy hour gone wrong:

It started with an innocent confession:

Me (tipsy at happy hour this evening) : I saw  an adorable baby on my commute today, and I wanted to steal her. (but I can’t post about it for fear that if a baby ever goes missing in my metro area the FBI will show up at my door asking questions of the infertile-of-a-certain-age-and-her-new-beautiful-child-of-questionable-parentage)

Friend: Do you really want a baby or just like the idea of a baby because they are quite a lot of work (let me be generous and mention that she is 5 years younger than me, and while supportive in theory, is proving to me by the minute that SHE DOESN’T GET IT)

Me: I know how much work a child is, and my interest in having one doesn’t discount the effort involved (it isn’t like you can tell me it’s hard and I will change my mind-Follistim injections, repeated blood draws, and vaginal ultrasounds for two weeks plus are hard, but that isn’t the issue. I feel like  Premature Ovarian Failure pretty much means my minutes are sliding away like a giant hourglass over my fucking head. Even if this isn’t an ideal time to have a child, I can’t ignore the biological reality of my eggs and their GIANT CLOCK.)

Friend: Well , you know if you need my eggs, that would be cool.

What the fuck do I say to this after 3 glasses of wine? The good girl in me wants to say thanks and march her directly to the clinic for  ovarian stimulation and retrieval before she sobers up and realizes the injections, discomfort, medical procedures, and risks  involved (but I’d freeze the embryos because I haven’t come to terms with donor eggs yet-I’m totally struggling, and for those of you who have wrestled with donor eggs, I’d be grateful for advice as I feel like I’m in denial.  A post on this issue is forthcoming-I realize I’m being trite, I don’t mean to trivialize the decision)

The pissed off infertile wants to give her a lecture on the intricacies of being barren. I’ve been through this before with well meaning friends. Sitting here in my happy hour state I can think of 3-4 friends plus my sister that have offered their eggs out-right. I believe my sister. Of the others, I think 1 (of the remaining))/3-4would probably step up, but even she might have regrets. To be honest, it is very possible that I’d be overwhelmed with offers if I let it be known that I needed donor eggs  (my friends are amazing, and I’m probably underestimating them, but I’m totally emotional about this, and I’m most likely underestimating their willingness to consider donation), but that isn’t the issue. Frankly, I’m fucking sick of fucking defending that  I  want children. I know this isn’t a new subject in the infertile blog world, and I think that’s why I’ve tried to avoid it until now, but I’m tipsy from happy hour and done with listening, nodding, and protecting the feelings of my would-be-feel-good-offering-without-thinking-it-through-donor-wannabes.

I want a baby. Why should I have to defend my reasoning? People have babies because they crave  a teeny mini-me through which to live their hopes and dreams. They get pregnant by accident. They have children because they think they are supposed to. Why do we have to justify our reasons? Like most couples that give family building a thought, we have a mix of selfish and altruistic justifications.

Dear Friend: Thank you for you offer, but please don’t make offers of such a personal nature that you can’t live up to. This is a very personal and sensitive situation. I know you mean well, but I’d rather have your true support and genuine comfort than an offer you will regret when sober. I love you, but you don’t get it.  Sometimes a well played, “I’m sorry it is so hard. Is there anything I can do to support you?” Is the best gift.

PS: Congrats  on the baby, Friend M. Your daughter is beautiful. I admit I’m deeply jealous but even more thrilled for you. I can’t wait until I have the chance to spend the afternoon with her and her brothers. I promise not to steal her….I think:)

I don’t go to therapy to find out if I’m a freak Tuesday, Mar 31 2009 

Dar Williams, you have a song for everything.

I fired my therapist. Or we broke up. It feels a little like both. It’s cliche, but she wasn’t meeting my needs, and I think we have different goals in life. It’s been over a month since I’ve seen her, and I think I’m doing pretty well, but I mean that in the way that someone a little nuts means it when she manages to hold it together.

I think we might have spent almost as much time discussing our therapist-client relationship as we did talking about my other relationship complications, and the last thing I need is another relationship to deconstruct in a 50 minute hour.

To be frank, because after all part of what we worked on in therapy was my assertiveness, she was cold and, I suspect, a little judgmental. I spent more time qualifying my statements out of worry that she’d latch on to a small piece of the story rather than understand my whole point than I did spilling my deepest fears and darkest secrets.  I’m sure I’m at fault too, mostly for caring so much what she thinks about me, but isn’t that part of why I was there in the first place-to gain some self-confidence and not care what people think? Instead, she made me feel misunderstood and like more of a mess than I thought I was when I walked in.

I realized that it wasn’t me, it was her when I noticed that I always felt worse on my walk back to the office after therapy than I felt while walking (up hill, no less) to therapy, and after weeks and weeks of this I could no longer blame it on my excitement for the pizza that  I always grabbed to eat on my way there  ( it was a lunch time appointment). It was as if  I said, “My big toe hurts, ”

and she replied, “Wow, your toe looks awful, and actually your foot is kind of oddly shaped, oh…and now that I’m paying attention I should probably point out that your skeleton is deformed.”

and what I really needed was, “Oh, you poor courageous thing! That looks like it’s really sore. I’m so proud of you for finishing the marathon.”

So, I’m at a crossroads of sorts. I need to decide if it’s worth it to try to find a new therapist.

On the pro side of the equation: I’ve got issues, I really appreciate what a good-fit therapist can do to help me, I have been fighting some situational depression, my medical issues are depressing, several areas in my life are not functioning  how I want them to, and I would appreciate a professional’s assistance

Cons: There are few insurance-approved therapists in my area, and I’ve had really bad luck with the ones I tried (part of why I stayed with this one when I wasn’t thrilled was because she was competent unlike a few others), I’m not sure I have the energy to try to find another therapist, I’m even less sure I have the energy required to explain my complicated “issues”, scheduling-I don’t even have time to post and read blogs-time is precious

So, Dear Barren Spontaneous Habitual Aborters and Assorted Other Versions of Infertiles, what are your therapy thoughts? Experiences? Should I coast solo for a while? Get back in the ring? (What’s with all of my sporting analogies?) Is it worth the effort to keep looking for a good fit?

Opposite day Friday, Mar 20 2009 

Have you heard about these women that didn’t know they were pregnant until they went into labor?  Seriously? I didn’t watch the entire special since I’ve got better things to do like Fa.ceb.ook and on demand Big Love episodes, but the part I saw made me want to punch someone.

I suppose it is possible. They claim they didn’t gain weight or gained only a little. Still, I’ve never seen a pregnant woman that wasn’t clearly pregnant by the end. Did they get dressed in the dark? Do they not own a mirror?

Some of them didn’t get their periods very often to begin with or had light bleeding off and on throughout their silent gestating, but COME ON! A few women  didn’t get regular periods and thought that meant they couldn’t get pregnant.  One woman had an ovary surgically removed and assumed this meant she couldn’t get pregnant. Did that particular brainiac   think the other ovary would give up out of grief from the loss of its mate? Is this what years of abstinence only sex ed has  done to our youth?

I know why they are having symptomless pregnancies, because I’m having their pregnancy symptoms while not actually pregnant. It works out to an even amount of pregnancy symptoms and pregnant people in the world, and yet again I get to take one for the team. They get the baby. I get the nausea, huge, sore boobs, fatigue, and emotional distress. What. The. F.uck. My RE suggests that I need to back off my estrogen if I want to cut these symptoms, but then I’ll get hot flashes, insomnia, and other low estrogen side effects. I’m quite the little estrogen Goldilocks.

Something tells me I won’t be symptom free if I ever manage to get knocked up. Only clueless dumb-f.ucks get all the luck.

The Wind Beneath My Wings Sunday, Jan 4 2009 

Thanks to Jendeis at Sell Crazy Someplace Else for the award!

red-cape-award

I’m not going to rely solely on this post, which will soon be buried by more rambling and complaining, to inform all of the internets  of my hero status. No sirree! I’m starting a TROPHY WALL, and I encourage you to do the same.  Your trophy wall on you blog can be a place to list all of your awards, shout outs, and interesting bits. Consider it a little shrine for your web-esteem.

I’m bestowing hero status on:

Birds and Squirrels -I just found her blog, and she, like me, is Highly Inappropriate. I’m a big fan of sarcasm in the face of diversity. I also wish her well in her 2ww

Not a Clown Car – For the name of her blog and also to show support for her next rotation through the stirrups.

::::: Passing along the Red Cape Award :::::

On your blog, copy and paste the award, these rules, a link back to the person who selected you, and a link to this post: Red Cape Award SuperCrew. This is a running list of awardees.

Check in on the SuperCrew post by leaving a link to your blog and a comment to let Kymberli of I’m a Smart One know that you were passed a Red Cape Award so she can add you to the list.

Select as many award recipients as you would like, link to their blogs (if they have one), and explain why you have chosen them.

Let them know that you have selected them for an award by commenting on one of their posts.

If you find that someone you want to nominate has already been selected by someone else, you can still honor them by posting a comment on their award post stating your reasons for wishing to grant them the award.

That Infertile Glow! Sunday, Dec 14 2008 

Infertility seems to really agree with my complexion. Since I can’t get pregnant without shooting up expensive hormones in my stomach, I don’t have to worry about damaging a theoretical fetus with teratogenic creams and potions. Bring on the Retin A! I used  it pretty regularly (every other day, the lowest strength, my skin is sensitive) for a few years before we started the cycles of crack….errr Follistim, but since high doses of vitamin A are very bad for fetuses and Retin A is vitamin A, I dutifully adjusted my skin preservation routine when we decided to try to reproduce. After the miscarriage we thought we’d cycle again soon, but the months have dragged on and the break has become a sabbatical. A few weeks ago I found the tube in the back of the medicine kit. I looked in the mirror at the new fine lines, down at the cream, and back at my reflection as a smile formed across my face. I might not have any control over the age and condition of my ovaries, but I sure as hell plan to do what I can to keep the lines of dissappointment and fatigue off of my face.