Sunday, October 24, 2010

And in today's edition of "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?"

So... I get a call from my friend yesterday who says "Jane (that's a friend of ours who I renamed Jane to protect the 'innocent') has really gotten herself into a pickle this time."  Now as a bit of a back story...  Jane is a VERY single friend who is extremely picky about who she dates... sort of like a Seinfeld episode where she notices something subtly annoying about a potential boyfriend, like when he chews his food his cheeks puff out slightly or he has a small freckle on the tip of his ear.... or something of the sort.  And, as soon as the habit is uncovered, she claims that it is more than she can bear and goes running for the hills.  Before running back to the hills, however, she often engages in some light BD.  Hmmm... Just realized 'it' is probably not called BD unless it is used for the purpose of making babies huh? (ah.. those were the days) So she engages in some heavy ED (enjoyment dancing????)

Anyway - back to the phone call...
Friend:  "Jane has really gotten herself into a pickle this time."
Me:  "She's pregnant" (jokingly......  JOKINGLY.... I was only JOKING...)
Friend:  "Yup.  She is sick about it.  It is just an awful situation for her.  She doesn't know if she is going to keep 'it'.  She thought she didn't ovulate properly so she didn't use protection."
Me: (while simultaneously instructing my brain to refrain from blurting out choice words about my disdain for tales of accidental pregnancy)  "Who's the father?"
Friend:  "Some guy she dated a few times.  They had just decided that their relationship had to end because she wanted to have kids one day and he didn't want any.  Now he is probably going to move in." 

Ironic.   Perhaps.  Or perhaps the conversation was explicitly scripted for another episode of the candid camera show that is my life.   I just keep waiting for the guy with the microphone to pop out from behind the bushes and scream.  "You're on candid camera."

In other episodes from this year...

My hairdresser became 'accidentally' pregnant... AND HERE'S THE KICKER... her husband had a vesectomy!  ARE... YOU... KIDDING.... ME?

And then... in a world where one might assume that it is impossible to hear of two vesectomy stories within two days of each other (ha.).... I visited a friend's house and she told me a "really funny story." Apparently a girl we went to high school with is pregnant with her third child... and... Yup... you guessed it? Her husband was scheduled for a vesectomy later that month AND she was still breastfeeding. ARE... YOU... SERIOUSLY... SERIOUSLY... KIDDING... ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Wake me up when the joke is over!

Don't get me wrong.  I wish my friend all the best.  I know that accidental pregnancies often become beautiful and miraculous blessings.

But what's next? Getting pregnant from a toilet seat? Getting pregnant from passing by a room with sperm in it? Getting pregnant by sitting on the same couch...fully clothed... in the absence of any physical contact? Getting pregnant by breathing in unison? 



Wednesday, October 20, 2010

32 months ttc: chapters 1 through 9

32 months ttc. Not sure why I still count my ttc duration in months. I get annoyed when parents insist on counting their 3 year-old's age in months.  "How old is little Sally?", I ask. And mommy replies, "She is 39 months."  Perhaps I'm just agitated because I am then required to do the month-to-year conversion in my mind.... which is really a lot of work for someone who does not enjoy mental math.   

32 months ttc.  For those of you too agitated to do the month-to-year conversion, I'll help you out.  32 months trying to conceive = hundreds upon hundreds of years!!  At least that is what it feels like most days.  The 'me' that existed before this infertility rollercoaster began seems like a hazy memory from years ago.

32 months ttc.  During those long 32 months I have encountered such hopeful highs and despairing lows.  Each month ia a new chapter from a story that has gone on far too long.

Month 1 - ah... month one.   Such a beautiful time.  The month when my Catholic School upbringing led me to the ironic conclusion that, without a doubt, I would be pregnant the very first time I had unprotected sex.  Ha!  Ha! and double Ha!  I laugh at the untarnished naivity I possessed in month one.   If I didn't laugh I would cry as I remember thinking, "I don't want a Christmas baby so I probably shouldn't have unprotected sex in March" or "I can't buy any new pants.  They won't fit my belly soon."  Ha!   I miss that cute little innocent month one girl.  So hopeful, so idealistic, so optimistic.

Months 2-6 - During these months, I learned so many things....  how to use CSI-type tactics to analyze my bodily fluids and determine whether or not their color and consistency matched the whites of eggs... how to stare at my breasts and wonder whether perhaps, just maybe, the areole looked a little bit bigger or darker than they had the day before....  how to ritualistically and compulsively pee on little white sticks.... and, of course, I learned how two weeks of waiting could feel like a lifetime.

Month 7 - the first time I laid eyes on a pregnancy stick with two lines on it!!  I guess that's not true.  I had probably seen other double-lined sticks as facebook profile pictures on my friend's accounts (gag).  But two lines created by my very own urine.  That was unprecedented.  After developing my disturbing POAS addiction during the  previous 6  months,  I could have filled an Olympic size swimming pool with all of the single-lined sticks I'd peed on.  I thought my eyes were deceiving me as that long-coveted second line magically appeared.  A BFP.  I was shaking with joy and disbelief. 

Month 8 -  I felt exhilarated, scared, uncertain and amazingly blessed all at once.  I couldn't decide what to do first.  I googled the top 100 baby names and subscribed to some website that sent weekly postings about the size and development of your growing baby.  I allowed myself to get excited.  Obviously too excited.  Sadly, these feelings were shortlived. 

Month 9 - miscarriage number one.  I still remember the look on the ultrasound technicians face as she stuck the now-all-too-familiar dildo cam inside of me.  Initially she told me that my DH could come and look at the images of our beautiful growing baby as soon as she had a good view...  but she never invited him in.  Instead, she just looked at me with a hauntingly sympathetic look in her eyes.  She told me that the doctor wasn't available so I should just go home and wait for a call.  I pleaded with her to tell me why the doctor had to call me, but, in my heart, I already knew.  Waiting for the doctor's call were four of the most excrutiating hours of my life.  Even though a small part of that idealistic month-one-girl died that day, the girl from month nine was still pretty strong.  Still had hope.  And faith.  Being pregnant once meant that it could happen again... it couldn't be that hard, right?   Have I mentioned... 'HA!'

Little did I know then...  my story was only beginning.....


Saturday, October 16, 2010

Oh Facebook. Why do you punish me so??

Wow.   People read these bloggy things.  Who knew?  Very cool.  I'm not really a techy sort so I'm not sure how to make my page look pretty as of yet.  But my first seven comments certainly are motivating.  You all seem so warm, empathic, understanding and welcoming. 

A lot different than logging on to my facebook site, which is currently infested with ultrasound pics, pregnancy complaint statuses, excited-to-be-a-mommy-even-though-my-baby-just-vomitted-on-my-shoe statuses or, my personal favorite... the series pictures called 'watch my baby grow' where the infant is leaning precariously on a cutsy sign that declares their age in months.... 'Johnny at '1 month', 'Johnny  at '2 months', 'Johnny at 3 months', etc. etc.  Joyously counting the months as new mommies enjoy their babies and create new memories.... and I do not.  My life continues in this strange holding pattern that has been my reality for years.   In my worst nightmares, I picture myself logging onto facebook after a lifetime that has remained static and unchanged....and there is a white-haired, wrinkly-faced Johnny leaning on his cane and holidng up his sign 'Johnny at 1068 months.'  

As part of my inspire group (nice website, btw), I started a discussion called 'Facebook Statuses that I Couldn't Use On Facebook'.   Here are some samples of what I would love to have written throughout my IVF journey... if only I had the nerve.  It sort of makes me simultaneously giggle and squirm as I imagine what some of my facebook friends would be thinking while reading them.       I use the screen name 'soccer' on the resolve board... the reason for that choice is a story for another blogging day. 

Soccer.... drank too many glasses of wine last night because she couldn't bear another pregnancy facebook status update.

Soccer.. 's frozen embryos turned two months old today. My - they grow up so quickly.

Soccer...'s vajayjay has been seen by 10 people this month... and counting!

Soccer... feels something kicking in her belly. Oh wait. Maybe it is just severe cramping from Ovarian Hyperstimulation syndrome.

Soccer... wishes that you would have told me earlier that 'just relaxing' would unblock both of my fallopian tubes. You could have saved me thousands of dollars!

Soccer... would like to take the opportunity to thank all of her pregnant facebook friends who have kindly shared every last gory detail of their pregnancy symptoms. In doing so, you have allowed me to feel what it is like to be pregnant.... at least the nausea part of it!

Soccer... has already heard the story of the friend of the friend of yours. The miracaulous lady who has gone through menopause, has two blocked tubes and her ovaries stuck to her armpits. But somehow, someway she still gave birth to healthy quintuplets. Only after she stopped trying so hard. But thanks for sharing again!

Soccer... is concerned that some of you did not get my memo outlining my feelings about your swollen ankles, ultrasound pics and morning sickness. And so I will summarize briefly for those of you who missed it............. DON'T CARE! Thanks. And have a great day.

Soccer... hopes that you enjoy looking at her new ultrasound profile pic. Oh no - the little bump you see in the image is not a growing baby... just a massive ovarian cyst. Isn't it precious?

Soccer... would like to send out a big congratulations to her darling husband. Spectacular results on the semen anaylis today honey. XOXO.
Soccer... shot up in the parking lot halfway through the reception at her friend's wedding . Nothing compares to the high of your first HCG trigger shot.... especially when you get to pull down your nylons to find the perfect thigh spot! Ah....

Soccer... does not understand how she has contracted the flu, once again. I agree - it seems strange that it recurs every time she is invited to a baby shower. The doctors are looking into it. They have a few theories... they suspect she may be allergic to the guess-the-size-of-the-mom-to-be's-belly-using-a-ribbon-game....

Soccer.... wrote a Christmas song for the holiday season (sung to the tune of the 12 days of Christmas). On the fifth day of Christmas my infertility gave to me FIIIIIVVVE ovarian cysts, four stages of endo, three fibroids, two blocked tubes and an inability to ah-ah-view-late!!!

Soccer...'s estrogen is amped up to an unnatural level, resulting in random sobbing, anger, rage and possible homicidal tendencies...... so keep you and your progeny away.... far, far away.

Soccer... is currently experiencing the longest two weeks of her existence.... And waiting isn't really her thing....Does anyone know the difference between feelings of constipation and implantation?

Soccer... can't decide what to get her frozen embies for Christmas this year... damn kiddy stores never seem to carry their sizes... thought of hats, scarves and sweaters to keep them warm??..... but... we all know what happened to Frosty the Snowman

Soccer.... rang in the New Year with some pregnancy advice from a dude who was, and I quote, "very proud" of himself for knocking up his wife after only three months of trying.. So... apparently all I have to do is eat well and take vitamins. I was unaware that eating an apple would be more effective than having a pre-made embryo inserted directly into my uterus... All you fertiles should publish books or something!! You'd put the fertility clinics out of business for sure.. Thank you kindly for your continued USELESS advice.

Soccer.... had a little chunk of her uterus removed this week... how many people can say that they have experienced the joy of viewing a little piece of their innards floating in water as the doctor reports, "looks good." oh... the blessings of infertility!

Soccer... just got another BFN... And for all of you fb "friends" out there that don't know what BFN stands for, here is a lesson in acronyms 101... It stands for "DO NOT COME WITHIN A MILE RADIUS OF ME FOR AT LEAST A WEEK... LONGER IF YOU ARE GOING TO COMPLAIN ABOUT PREGNANCY SYMPTOMS"


Sunday, October 10, 2010

I said I would have to blog if one more thing went wrong... so here I am!

Hmmmm.... How to begin?   Is there such thing as first blogger impressions?   Will all you blog browsers flip quickly to the next blog if I don't quickly say something witty or fun?  Or perhaps you prefer the angry and hostile infertile type!  I can do bitter.  I can do fun.  As of late, I am sort of stuck in the bitter mode though. 

But, as the charming fertile crowd often say.... in the infinitely wise ways that make them far superior to those of us with broken uteri (always wondered about the plural of uterus. Of course, I googled it.  Apparently both uteruses and uteri are acceptable plurals.  Uteri is far cooler though.).....  But I digress (as you will see, I do that a lot). 

As the charming perfectly-functioning-uteri fertiles would say...."There is no point in being bitter.  If it is meant to be.  It is meant to be"   Gag.  Barf.  Ugh!  and AHHHHHHH!   Did I mention GAG!  My body physically cringes.  I imagine the fertile's comment as a condescending hand patting my poor little infertile head.  "There.  There."  The condescension screams and echos and bounces off the walls.  My shoulders move forward and my mind frantically combats any inappropriate comments with its well-rehearsed self-talk:  "Put on a happy face.  Be nice.  Smile pretty.  They are trying to help." 

 Please fertiles.  You should set up an advice line for infertiles such as myself.  You could call it "The Unsolicited Obnoxious Advice Line."  Your answering machine should spew horrific comments like, "Hi you cute little inferior infertile beings.  Thanks for calling the all-powerful advice line."

Press one to learn to "Just relax." 

Press two for completely obvious advice about dieting or how to have sex properly. 

Press three for stories about other infertiles success stories that we feel the need to share with you ad nauseam in an attempt to make you feel better.  Like the story of the 60 year old woman with a severely endo-infested uterus who finally got pregnant after 27 years of trying and 13 miscarriages. 

Press four if you want to see our ultra sound pictures posted on facebook or emailed directly to your account. 

Press five if you want to hear pregnant women complain about swollen ankles and being fat. 

Press six if you want to feel better about your infertility with comments such as "you are soooo lucky that you can sleep in every morning and still have your freedom."  or 'You can have my kid!"  

Press seven if you want us to shut up.  7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7...  hmmmm....  the touch tone feature seems to be defunct on that number somehow.

As I said before.  I'm mostly bitter.  Which brings me to this blog.  What better way to rid myself of bitterness than to spread it around for all to enjoy.  After ttc for almost 3 years, 3 failed IVFs, 2 miscarriages and a whole load of medical emergencies from fertility med side effects, blogging seemed as good a therapy as anything anyone has suggested thus far.  When my ttc journey began I never in a million years believed that I would be one of "those people."  The story of the friend of the friend of mine who went to hell and back in her quest to have a baby.  The urban legend-type story about women who have endured years of medical intervention and loss in an attempt to fulfill what original seemed to be a simple and beautiful dream.  But here I am.  Beautiful dreams have slowly turned to ugly endurances.  And hope has slowly turned into mustering up the courage to face each day with my head up.  Admittedly, many people have been through a lot worse than me.  And to those women, I would like to say that I am truly sorry.  You must be amazingly strong and beautiful people.   Thank you for sharing this journey.  It is good to know that I am not alone.  Cheers.