I've decided not to touch the booze for a year. I'm also swearing off most sweets, and coffee.
Boy that sounds just awful, or rather looks just awful in black and white. But actually, it's really not that big a deal. I felt so terrible after my Christmas feeding frenzy, that I'm looking forward to some relative austerity. That, and I've gotten pretty good at fruit and veggie wrangling. When the good stuff tastes really good, it's easy to eat well.
Here's to a less sucky 2008! Yippee!!!
Monday, December 31, 2007
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Acceptance speech
Recently, I've been waking up at 1 or 2 in the morning, wide, wide awake. My brain, to the chagrin of my exhausted body, is rarin' to go, and due to a lack of stimulation in our dark bedroom, begins to latch on to whatever the anxiety du jour is. Recently, it's been my cervix, my gyn's stupid office staff, and IF in general, as you'd likely guess. Last night was no exception.
At first, I tried taking some valerian extract, which usually works like a charm. I lay in bed, relaxed and cozy, but my brain reasserted itself so insistently that I had to get up and pen a letter to the clinic manager at aforementioned obgyn practice. I tried to keep it very factual, as the facts alone clearly point to disorganization and a complete inability to communicate in a timely and appropriate matter with patients. If this shit continues, I'm changing doctors, I decided.
The more I thought about the quasi-scare tactics that riddled all the information I got from my gyn's office (as opposed to PubMed or the CDC), the more pissed off I became. Why not explain to me that my abnormality has a good chance of going away without any treatment? Why make it sound like I most likely have some dreadful near-cancerous lesion lurking in my hooha? I may, but the likelihood is I don't and never will. I'm happy to get it checked out; that's a very good idea. I'm also happy to follow up on the problem for years if need be. Yet the assumption seems to be that unless we're scared shitless, we won't follow up and get adequate care. How ridiculous. Some of us are here are adults, people.
More interestingly, I had a bit of a minor revelation, after I returned to bed from the computer in the other room. I realized that I can let myself go nuts about this, or I can accept it. I think we often associate acceptance with apathy, but that's not really what it's about. It's really about looking reality square in the face and saying, "oh, this is what's here." I can't change the gross outline of my situation. I am the age I am, with the past I have, and dwelling on what I might have done way back when to make my body go out of whack is, actually, insane and unhealthy. Barring the invention of the time machine, I can't change that I drank that vodka, that I traveled to that likely toxic and radioactive corner of the globe, that I slept with that dude, that I never bothered to get knocked up in my late teens.
And would it have made any difference? There's no way of knowing. So many factors can influence the delicate transformations of our female bodies; even folks that dedicate their adult lives to it still have only a vague understanding. So I feel I must accept what is, and move on. Eventually, this, too, will pass. I want to stop trying so hard, and simply do what truly feels good: hiking, raising food, writing books, making music. I want to accept whatever my body gives me, and then take careful, thoughtful action.
Why am I bathed in this fog of fear and anxiety? Why do I feel that I have erred, that that error resulted in some sort of punishment, when in fact it's quite random and not related to being a good person, a potentially excellent parent, or even an overall healthy individual? I hate this aspect of our culture, that we can't accept the random nature of suffering and pain. Instead, we want to blame someone, to find the perp. When there is no perp, we blame ourselves.
So--excuse the rambles--basically acceptance means demystifying this whole process of dealing with IF. It's the endocrine system, stupid. This doesn't discount the ups and downs that go with medical treatment of any serious disorder. But acceptance might allow the heart and soul to speak more freely, without the twisted interference of our delusional, fear-ridden culture.
At first, I tried taking some valerian extract, which usually works like a charm. I lay in bed, relaxed and cozy, but my brain reasserted itself so insistently that I had to get up and pen a letter to the clinic manager at aforementioned obgyn practice. I tried to keep it very factual, as the facts alone clearly point to disorganization and a complete inability to communicate in a timely and appropriate matter with patients. If this shit continues, I'm changing doctors, I decided.
The more I thought about the quasi-scare tactics that riddled all the information I got from my gyn's office (as opposed to PubMed or the CDC), the more pissed off I became. Why not explain to me that my abnormality has a good chance of going away without any treatment? Why make it sound like I most likely have some dreadful near-cancerous lesion lurking in my hooha? I may, but the likelihood is I don't and never will. I'm happy to get it checked out; that's a very good idea. I'm also happy to follow up on the problem for years if need be. Yet the assumption seems to be that unless we're scared shitless, we won't follow up and get adequate care. How ridiculous. Some of us are here are adults, people.
More interestingly, I had a bit of a minor revelation, after I returned to bed from the computer in the other room. I realized that I can let myself go nuts about this, or I can accept it. I think we often associate acceptance with apathy, but that's not really what it's about. It's really about looking reality square in the face and saying, "oh, this is what's here." I can't change the gross outline of my situation. I am the age I am, with the past I have, and dwelling on what I might have done way back when to make my body go out of whack is, actually, insane and unhealthy. Barring the invention of the time machine, I can't change that I drank that vodka, that I traveled to that likely toxic and radioactive corner of the globe, that I slept with that dude, that I never bothered to get knocked up in my late teens.
And would it have made any difference? There's no way of knowing. So many factors can influence the delicate transformations of our female bodies; even folks that dedicate their adult lives to it still have only a vague understanding. So I feel I must accept what is, and move on. Eventually, this, too, will pass. I want to stop trying so hard, and simply do what truly feels good: hiking, raising food, writing books, making music. I want to accept whatever my body gives me, and then take careful, thoughtful action.
Why am I bathed in this fog of fear and anxiety? Why do I feel that I have erred, that that error resulted in some sort of punishment, when in fact it's quite random and not related to being a good person, a potentially excellent parent, or even an overall healthy individual? I hate this aspect of our culture, that we can't accept the random nature of suffering and pain. Instead, we want to blame someone, to find the perp. When there is no perp, we blame ourselves.
So--excuse the rambles--basically acceptance means demystifying this whole process of dealing with IF. It's the endocrine system, stupid. This doesn't discount the ups and downs that go with medical treatment of any serious disorder. But acceptance might allow the heart and soul to speak more freely, without the twisted interference of our delusional, fear-ridden culture.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Please make 2007 stop
I know I'll get my wish soon, but I think this was one of the suckier holiday seasons. Not for what I'd imagine would be the usual holiday-wrecking reasons: family members acting inconsiderately or inappropriately, reminders of childlessness, etc. No, we've just been blessed by a spate of bad news. There was the pre-holiday cervical kickoff, and now tragedy has struck...
We got home from my parents' place on my birthday, only to find out that a close friend had died suddenly and tragically under terrible circumstances. My guy was especially close to this person, but he managed to keep it together enough to go out as planned with our family for a celebratory dinner.
Yesterday, after all the hubbub was over, we went out to a remote unit of a nearby national forest. It was so quiet and peaceful, and we hiked for several hours through the woods. We talked about our friend, how he died. We talked about our parents, the upcoming new leg of our IF journey. We talked about everything so calmly and lovingly that it seemed clear we were going to get through this somehow.
I actually had a minor revelation while we were away at my folks' house. I realized I could be completely fulfilled without a child. My man isn't on the same wavelength, and whenever I mention this aspect of my feelings, he's put off. He's afraid that means I'll "give up," though I don't know what that means. I'm happy to try IF treatment, though I'm dreading its effects on my body (hormonal medications and I don't get along well). But if it fails, somewhere deep inside me is a reserve of other interests and passions sufficient to get me to a different place in life.
We got home from my parents' place on my birthday, only to find out that a close friend had died suddenly and tragically under terrible circumstances. My guy was especially close to this person, but he managed to keep it together enough to go out as planned with our family for a celebratory dinner.
Yesterday, after all the hubbub was over, we went out to a remote unit of a nearby national forest. It was so quiet and peaceful, and we hiked for several hours through the woods. We talked about our friend, how he died. We talked about our parents, the upcoming new leg of our IF journey. We talked about everything so calmly and lovingly that it seemed clear we were going to get through this somehow.
I actually had a minor revelation while we were away at my folks' house. I realized I could be completely fulfilled without a child. My man isn't on the same wavelength, and whenever I mention this aspect of my feelings, he's put off. He's afraid that means I'll "give up," though I don't know what that means. I'm happy to try IF treatment, though I'm dreading its effects on my body (hormonal medications and I don't get along well). But if it fails, somewhere deep inside me is a reserve of other interests and passions sufficient to get me to a different place in life.
Friday, December 21, 2007
What a strange world it is... (Well column from NYT)
I don't even know quite why I bother reading the comments on postings like this one. I think the New York Times' Health columnist Tara Parker-Pope is great: good writer, very fair analyst, clearly nice gal.
But some of the folks who chimed in... Donnerwetter, they were on the daft side. The old social Darwinist approach of reproduction of the fittest (read: the writer, plus other "young," "healthy" people). I wish I knew what to do to be healthy: I'd do it in a heartbeat. I wish my doctors could say what was up. They can't and that's the most depressing thing of all, for me.
Or then there was the old classic, "get over it and adopt." Sure, I'd love to adopt. I've always dreamed of adopting and have actually fantasized about it more than getting pregnant myself for whatever reason. My husband doesn't want to, however, at least not now, though he admires and respects families who do immensely (his mom is in social work and knows all the ins and outs of domestic adoption). So what do I do? Browbeat him into adopting? What a wonderful way to raise a child, with a parent who doesn't really want her/him! And anyway, where are we going to get the tens of thousands of Benjamins to "just get over it and adopt," which only one of us is truly keen on? How's about you, Ms. Helpful Advice, lend it to me and use your dastardly wit to convince my dude? Or why don't you campaign to get additional tax or other incentives for adoptive parents with incomes below the U.S. median?
But more interestingly, about diet, food being one of my favorite subjects. I personally have seen some benefits from the Traditional Chinese Medicine approach to dietary changes appropriate to my condition. At first, I had to avoid warming foods and drinks like coffee, booze, hot spicy curry, etc. I ate a lot of cooling, raw veggies and juices, and man, did they ever taste good. With my other treatments, it did have an impact. I began to have beautiful, spot-free, picture-book cycles for a while.
However, now I'm not seeing as much change. Now that my liver stagnation and heat have cleared, leaving behind a sadly depleted spleen, I'm supposed to be eating foods more warming in nature, as well as things like rice and sweet potatoes and squash and walnuts. All tasty stuff I love to eat anyway (I can't stand fast food, don't like fried shit, and never eat meat). But things seem to be stalling. Sigh. Whatever.
The recommendations attributed to the Harvard book seem pretty silly. I mean, when you have a medical condition, the diet they're advocating is indeed very good for you. At the very least, it will improve your digestion, energy levels, and sense of balance--or at least a whole-foods diet has done that for me. Thanks for the common sense. I wish I could make major press by stating the obvious.
So Harvard smarties, what else you got for me? Or for all the other gals out there with issues not related to ovulatory problems? Or all the guys, who even if they have super SAs, would love to try to boost their fertility, too, if only to keep their gals company?
But some of the folks who chimed in... Donnerwetter, they were on the daft side. The old social Darwinist approach of reproduction of the fittest (read: the writer, plus other "young," "healthy" people). I wish I knew what to do to be healthy: I'd do it in a heartbeat. I wish my doctors could say what was up. They can't and that's the most depressing thing of all, for me.
Or then there was the old classic, "get over it and adopt." Sure, I'd love to adopt. I've always dreamed of adopting and have actually fantasized about it more than getting pregnant myself for whatever reason. My husband doesn't want to, however, at least not now, though he admires and respects families who do immensely (his mom is in social work and knows all the ins and outs of domestic adoption). So what do I do? Browbeat him into adopting? What a wonderful way to raise a child, with a parent who doesn't really want her/him! And anyway, where are we going to get the tens of thousands of Benjamins to "just get over it and adopt," which only one of us is truly keen on? How's about you, Ms. Helpful Advice, lend it to me and use your dastardly wit to convince my dude? Or why don't you campaign to get additional tax or other incentives for adoptive parents with incomes below the U.S. median?
But more interestingly, about diet, food being one of my favorite subjects. I personally have seen some benefits from the Traditional Chinese Medicine approach to dietary changes appropriate to my condition. At first, I had to avoid warming foods and drinks like coffee, booze, hot spicy curry, etc. I ate a lot of cooling, raw veggies and juices, and man, did they ever taste good. With my other treatments, it did have an impact. I began to have beautiful, spot-free, picture-book cycles for a while.
However, now I'm not seeing as much change. Now that my liver stagnation and heat have cleared, leaving behind a sadly depleted spleen, I'm supposed to be eating foods more warming in nature, as well as things like rice and sweet potatoes and squash and walnuts. All tasty stuff I love to eat anyway (I can't stand fast food, don't like fried shit, and never eat meat). But things seem to be stalling. Sigh. Whatever.
The recommendations attributed to the Harvard book seem pretty silly. I mean, when you have a medical condition, the diet they're advocating is indeed very good for you. At the very least, it will improve your digestion, energy levels, and sense of balance--or at least a whole-foods diet has done that for me. Thanks for the common sense. I wish I could make major press by stating the obvious.
So Harvard smarties, what else you got for me? Or for all the other gals out there with issues not related to ovulatory problems? Or all the guys, who even if they have super SAs, would love to try to boost their fertility, too, if only to keep their gals company?
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Back to our regularly scheduled programming
I had a really nice talk with my mom-in-law, a former hippy who's still really liberal and works in social services, yesterday as we were doing some Christmas shopping together. She's had dysplasia many times, and as a former nurse, had a really helpful, kind perspective on my situation.
She also passed along some happy news. One of her friends/colleagues had been trying to get pregnant forever and it had a huge impact on her marriage, but now she's due in May. I was really glad to hear about it. She got pregnant on her 2nd IVF. Good for her. I hope she won't mind talking to me about her experience at some point.
Isn't it funny how some gals' triumphs are so easy to share? How different from the "just relax" people who accidentally get knocked up and then tell you shit like, "It'll happen when it's time." What does that mean? How is that supposed to help me? What if we took that same approach to other bodily functions? Say, "you'll stop puking your guts out when it's time" or "you'll stop running a major fever when it's time" or "you'll recover movement in your legs when it's time." Tell me, why do people separate out reproduction into this unique category, as if some supernatural being like, oh, the flying spaghetti monster created babies and it had nothing to do with our bodies?
She also passed along some happy news. One of her friends/colleagues had been trying to get pregnant forever and it had a huge impact on her marriage, but now she's due in May. I was really glad to hear about it. She got pregnant on her 2nd IVF. Good for her. I hope she won't mind talking to me about her experience at some point.
Isn't it funny how some gals' triumphs are so easy to share? How different from the "just relax" people who accidentally get knocked up and then tell you shit like, "It'll happen when it's time." What does that mean? How is that supposed to help me? What if we took that same approach to other bodily functions? Say, "you'll stop puking your guts out when it's time" or "you'll stop running a major fever when it's time" or "you'll recover movement in your legs when it's time." Tell me, why do people separate out reproduction into this unique category, as if some supernatural being like, oh, the flying spaghetti monster created babies and it had nothing to do with our bodies?
Now for something completely different: Stupid EPA and global warming
I love how EPA chief Stephen Johnson uses this bizarre federal/state contrast to tank California's progressive attempts to limit greenhouse gas emissions. Johnson claims the Bush Administration is already doing something with the ridiculously low new CAFE standards. 35 miles per gallon? Don't make me laugh. That's kid's stuff, and it's not going to do much to keep carbon out of the air. Our 89 Civic gets that mileage. Pah-lees.
Why, in a country filled with many smart, creative, feisty people, should we have to tolerate this obstructionist foot dragging when it comes to the most pressing problem on the horizon? I mean, we either deal with this now, when the fixes, though hard, will be relatively cheap, or we deal with this later, when the shit really hits the fan. "We" being the elderly versions of us 20- and 30-somethings and our children and grandchildren.
But don't take my ranting word for it! See a bit more about this here, for instance
Report this EPA violation to the agency responsible for protecting our future (if there's anyone out there, that is). Probably the person seeing your comment will agree. It's just those idiots cherrypicked for their incompetent loyalty that are trying to keep the US at the back of the innovation pack. Guys, we could totally nail this problem, and make money doing it (for those of you who aren't moved by the ethical argument). So step out of the way, and let Americans with actual insight and leadership take the helm.
Why, in a country filled with many smart, creative, feisty people, should we have to tolerate this obstructionist foot dragging when it comes to the most pressing problem on the horizon? I mean, we either deal with this now, when the fixes, though hard, will be relatively cheap, or we deal with this later, when the shit really hits the fan. "We" being the elderly versions of us 20- and 30-somethings and our children and grandchildren.
But don't take my ranting word for it! See a bit more about this here, for instance
Report this EPA violation to the agency responsible for protecting our future (if there's anyone out there, that is). Probably the person seeing your comment will agree. It's just those idiots cherrypicked for their incompetent loyalty that are trying to keep the US at the back of the innovation pack. Guys, we could totally nail this problem, and make money doing it (for those of you who aren't moved by the ethical argument). So step out of the way, and let Americans with actual insight and leadership take the helm.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Out come the expletives
Damn it if I didn't just get a call from my stupid gyn's ridiculously disorganized and generally less than helpful practice. They are moving my colpo a day due to some conflict (whatever--so I get to see the dentist and the hooha scraper on the same day). I asked, just to be sure, if there was anything I shouldn't do before the procedure. The gal said, "Well, they recommend you not have sex for TWO WEEKS before the exam." Okay, what the fuck, peeps? This is just ludicrous. You're telling a gal who's been unable to get knocked up for more than two years that she can't get it on with her man because you want to play with my cervix? Fuck you. And thanks for not mentioning that when I set the appointment up to begin with.
Give me patience to tolerate this rampant idiocy. There's no way in hell I'll get pregnant this coming cycle--as if-- so stick it where the sun will never, ever shine. Oh, yeah, and thanks for the salient reminder thereof. Much appreciated, dear clinic assclowns.
Ah, that felt good! Tee hee.
By the way, I just checked dear Google and it looks like there is really no good reason for this bizzarro two week imposed abstinence.
Give me patience to tolerate this rampant idiocy. There's no way in hell I'll get pregnant this coming cycle--as if-- so stick it where the sun will never, ever shine. Oh, yeah, and thanks for the salient reminder thereof. Much appreciated, dear clinic assclowns.
Ah, that felt good! Tee hee.
By the way, I just checked dear Google and it looks like there is really no good reason for this bizzarro two week imposed abstinence.
Random consolation
Yesterday was pretty grim, but slowly lightened. I basically begged off any responsibilities I had for the day and retreated to bed and the Muppet Show, which has to be the best way to laugh your ass off. I mean, if Manamana won't do it, nothing will. This was after a lovely hike in the snowy woods not far from our house, where a spring gushes from under a cliff and fills this amazing pond popular with various wild birds. The woods heal me, and my guy and I had a really good, loving talk.
I also got a call from two friends, one who's studying to be a PA in New York and another who's studying the same obscure corner of the world that I am. Both were very comforting and reassuring, and one had even had cryotherapy for abnormal cells years ago and went on to have two full-term pregnancies. If only my acupuncturist were in town! She's out of the country until January.
Most importantly, though, I realized that I can call the shots here, this being my body. I can weigh the risks and benefits and get a second opinion if I'm not comfortable with the treatment plan suggested after we get the colpo results. No one can force me to do anything. If I decide to opt for watchful waiting and if things get worse, then I'll get treatment. But if the lesions seem on the mild side, I can always refuse the knife, at least for now. This sense of control helps me. I really hate the fear that gets hammered into us women about our workings. I mean, people, there's a 0.5% chance of these cells turning into invasive cancer in the next 24 months. Let's not shit ourselves yet. Why aren't we taught and encouraged to make reasonable, careful choices? I think the answer is liability. Doctors sometimes slice first to keep their asses covered.
Probably the most annoying thing at the moment: the thought that after they do the hooha-scope, no sex for a week. Of course, it's right when I'm ovulating. Very funny. Oh, yeah, and the day afterward I have a dentist appointment to get some teeth drilled. Maybe I should do my taxes the day after that, eating only runny oatmeal and worms. I'm really looking forward to early January.
I also got a call from two friends, one who's studying to be a PA in New York and another who's studying the same obscure corner of the world that I am. Both were very comforting and reassuring, and one had even had cryotherapy for abnormal cells years ago and went on to have two full-term pregnancies. If only my acupuncturist were in town! She's out of the country until January.
Most importantly, though, I realized that I can call the shots here, this being my body. I can weigh the risks and benefits and get a second opinion if I'm not comfortable with the treatment plan suggested after we get the colpo results. No one can force me to do anything. If I decide to opt for watchful waiting and if things get worse, then I'll get treatment. But if the lesions seem on the mild side, I can always refuse the knife, at least for now. This sense of control helps me. I really hate the fear that gets hammered into us women about our workings. I mean, people, there's a 0.5% chance of these cells turning into invasive cancer in the next 24 months. Let's not shit ourselves yet. Why aren't we taught and encouraged to make reasonable, careful choices? I think the answer is liability. Doctors sometimes slice first to keep their asses covered.
Probably the most annoying thing at the moment: the thought that after they do the hooha-scope, no sex for a week. Of course, it's right when I'm ovulating. Very funny. Oh, yeah, and the day afterward I have a dentist appointment to get some teeth drilled. Maybe I should do my taxes the day after that, eating only runny oatmeal and worms. I'm really looking forward to early January.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
F**K it
Ah, yes. Eventually we all reach that lovely spot, Fukitallsville, where everything is blissfully irrelevant and no longer worth our energy. I just found out last night, thanks to a message on our machine, that I had an abnormal pap. Not the lowest, gee-what-is-that-there? level, but not in the precancer danger zone. But I still have to get a colposcopy to see what's up. I'm scared. I'm afraid my doctor will want to take the electric loop to me and will fuck up my cervix, adding yet another obstacle--this time a permanent, inescapable one--to my future fertility.
So I spent the night dreaming odd dreams of doctor's offices, great green hills with secret paths, and such, and of course consulting Dr. Google about my chances for being maimed.
So I spent the night dreaming odd dreams of doctor's offices, great green hills with secret paths, and such, and of course consulting Dr. Google about my chances for being maimed.
Monday, December 17, 2007
The deed is done!
After a bit more spotting and a very depressing Friday meltdown, my guy and I decided it was time to take a big step and call up the local specialist. We've got an RE appointment Jan. 2, and I'm actually excited and relieved, eager to know what someone who deals with this problem all the time will see in the strange data I've gathered over the last year or so.
It's a big step for me and my guy. I've been resisting actively the "industrial" approach to fertility treatment (for lack of a better word--not to say that it doesn't work for many women). To go see someone and seriously consider more intense pharmaceutical and medical options is a major move for me. Perhaps I'm coming out of denial, aware that I might indeed need more help than I want to think. But damn it, it has been over two years, and while my periods are improving, facts is facts.
Stupidly, a gal from a wonderful singing group I belong to (a totally awesome woman, but clearly never set foot near IF lalaland) was wondering who would be pregnant for this year's annual spring concert. All the non-mothers in the group flinched and vowed that it would not be them. I cringed, too, but for a different, probably more annoying reason--though you never know what women have gone through--and kept my mouth shut. I thought, "Yeah, right. Like it would be me." I'm laughing typing this, but it was really fucking irritating at the time. I think I'm going to have to gently find a way to alert my singing buddies to my plight, just to prevent them from saying stupid shit without thinking.
It's a big step for me and my guy. I've been resisting actively the "industrial" approach to fertility treatment (for lack of a better word--not to say that it doesn't work for many women). To go see someone and seriously consider more intense pharmaceutical and medical options is a major move for me. Perhaps I'm coming out of denial, aware that I might indeed need more help than I want to think. But damn it, it has been over two years, and while my periods are improving, facts is facts.
Stupidly, a gal from a wonderful singing group I belong to (a totally awesome woman, but clearly never set foot near IF lalaland) was wondering who would be pregnant for this year's annual spring concert. All the non-mothers in the group flinched and vowed that it would not be them. I cringed, too, but for a different, probably more annoying reason--though you never know what women have gone through--and kept my mouth shut. I thought, "Yeah, right. Like it would be me." I'm laughing typing this, but it was really fucking irritating at the time. I think I'm going to have to gently find a way to alert my singing buddies to my plight, just to prevent them from saying stupid shit without thinking.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Wine Whine
I woke up in the middle of the night last night, thinking, "I hate wine."
I never thought the day (or night) would come. I mean, this wasn't the hungover "I'll never drink again" vow after a bender. This was the result of two glasses of good wine with ample food. It simply made me feel off somehow, completely and totally.
Then this morning, yes, the spots. They returned albeit ever so briefly. And like any infertile woman's mind, mine began to race. Oh shit, it was the stupid, stupid wine! Why, oh why did I pretend I could be like other people and have a little Cote-du-Rhone? That I could enjoy some tiramisu and tortellini? Or, the mind races on, was it the little run and weights at the gym this morning? Could that be it? Does alcohol depress the thyroid? What about mascarpone?
I wish, when all is said and done, that I could just trust my body. That I could just say, okay, I'll put the good stuff in. You do whatever is right for you. If you don't want to bear children, fine. I want to give up, but gracefully. Utterly. There are many, many things I'd like to do in my life that are completely independent of motherhood. If my guy wasn't so hooked on the idea... But that's the way he feels and I can't change that.
The spotting made me sad because this was the first cycle in a few months when I had a lovely, lovely midcycle, with lots of FM and plenty of sex. I though this was going to be a good one. Now, I don't know what to think or to do, or if doing something is the answer in the end.
At least I'm feeling a hell of a lot better on a higher dose of 'roid. I have more energy and feel a lot warmer and sharper. I'm making headway on my dis, too, which is fantastic. I've started writing, and I actually like what I've got so far. Two steps forward, one back.
I never thought the day (or night) would come. I mean, this wasn't the hungover "I'll never drink again" vow after a bender. This was the result of two glasses of good wine with ample food. It simply made me feel off somehow, completely and totally.
Then this morning, yes, the spots. They returned albeit ever so briefly. And like any infertile woman's mind, mine began to race. Oh shit, it was the stupid, stupid wine! Why, oh why did I pretend I could be like other people and have a little Cote-du-Rhone? That I could enjoy some tiramisu and tortellini? Or, the mind races on, was it the little run and weights at the gym this morning? Could that be it? Does alcohol depress the thyroid? What about mascarpone?
I wish, when all is said and done, that I could just trust my body. That I could just say, okay, I'll put the good stuff in. You do whatever is right for you. If you don't want to bear children, fine. I want to give up, but gracefully. Utterly. There are many, many things I'd like to do in my life that are completely independent of motherhood. If my guy wasn't so hooked on the idea... But that's the way he feels and I can't change that.
The spotting made me sad because this was the first cycle in a few months when I had a lovely, lovely midcycle, with lots of FM and plenty of sex. I though this was going to be a good one. Now, I don't know what to think or to do, or if doing something is the answer in the end.
At least I'm feeling a hell of a lot better on a higher dose of 'roid. I have more energy and feel a lot warmer and sharper. I'm making headway on my dis, too, which is fantastic. I've started writing, and I actually like what I've got so far. Two steps forward, one back.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Mission Accomplished and Why I Love Acupuncture
Most gals' blogs I read who've tried acupuncture never seem to have the kind of experience I do during most treatments. Basically, it's like legal drugs. I leave even so-so treatments feeling pleasantly relaxed. But the really killer sessions, the ones that have made a believer out of me, are the ones that feel like everything is suddenly being shifted into place, like I've just had the most satisfying meal of my life. I love my acupuncturist. She's very calm and conservative in her treatment approach and she's managed to help me reduce a lot of the anxiety, stress, bad habits, and general unhealthiness I'd slipped into in recent years. Anyway, after hearing my symptoms and listening to my pulse, she decided to use moxa, which is smoldering powered mugwort, to warm certain points on the meridians. I felt like someone had poured warm comfort into my aching muscles and my joints, as I walked to the library from my appointment, moved smoothly and effortlessly. And my spotting has been banished once more, accompanied by a nice upswing in energy and mood.
On the Western front, I saw my gyno, also a delightful woman. She was all for trying my experiment and upping my 'roid dosage, so now I'm up to 100 mcg. It takes a few weeks for the benefits to kick in, and but hopefully, we'll soon get me down below 2 on the TSH scale. I know I'm going to feel great when we get there and we'll see if pregnancy results.
On the Western front, I saw my gyno, also a delightful woman. She was all for trying my experiment and upping my 'roid dosage, so now I'm up to 100 mcg. It takes a few weeks for the benefits to kick in, and but hopefully, we'll soon get me down below 2 on the TSH scale. I know I'm going to feel great when we get there and we'll see if pregnancy results.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Out, out damn spot!
Okay, so real lit experts love to remind us that that's not actually what Shakespeare wrote, but it's definitely what I'm feeling at the moment. After a nice swim this morning, spotting. And in fact, I've been lightly spotting old blood -- see, I told you, all TMI bets are OFF -- since I ovulated. That's somewhat "normal" for me: I've always been a midcycle spotter. Today's was fresh, red, plentiful. Argh.
I can't say I'm all that surprised, though. Earlier this cycle, I was so amazingly exhausted for no clear reason. I was depressed and couldn't focus. I was cold and my digestion was really slow and icky. Now, I have the shoulder and back pain from hell, and the kind of odd aches and pains that make doctors roll their eyes and think crazy lady patient. In short, 'roid rage!!! Except with my thyroid, when it gets angry, it grinds to a halt. And freaky hormonal shit starts happening. My poor, poor thyroid. What made it loose its mind? Perhaps the cold weather?
I've got a gyno appointment this week. I'm planning a campaign to up my meds and see if we can get me down into the good-for-getting-knocked-up zone. The only thing I can think to do is try to take good care of myself, to be gentle, to feed myself tasty healthy food (no, that's not a contradiction in terms, I swear).
I can't say I'm all that surprised, though. Earlier this cycle, I was so amazingly exhausted for no clear reason. I was depressed and couldn't focus. I was cold and my digestion was really slow and icky. Now, I have the shoulder and back pain from hell, and the kind of odd aches and pains that make doctors roll their eyes and think crazy lady patient. In short, 'roid rage!!! Except with my thyroid, when it gets angry, it grinds to a halt. And freaky hormonal shit starts happening. My poor, poor thyroid. What made it loose its mind? Perhaps the cold weather?
I've got a gyno appointment this week. I'm planning a campaign to up my meds and see if we can get me down into the good-for-getting-knocked-up zone. The only thing I can think to do is try to take good care of myself, to be gentle, to feed myself tasty healthy food (no, that's not a contradiction in terms, I swear).
Thursday, November 8, 2007
A swift diagnosis
...in geologic time, and perhaps compared to the long suffering of many women with the wacky symptoms of hypothyroidism. I'm writing about my experiences because I hope some other gal out there who's scared and getting less than helpful information will benefit from my tales. It goes without saying that all TMI bets are off. I like to get detailed and --okay, ladies, don't cringe-- I've come to really love my body in all its gory glory.
My husband and I were old friends when we decided to team up and make a family. I had been longing for a man who would make a good father, and he'd been longing for a woman ready to have children. Perfect, right?
Well, there was this little problem. Hubby's reproductively stellar, but me? I'm not so great. Or so it seemed. I had this disturbing spotting, sometimes as much as a week before my period began to flow. Sometimes it felt like I was just spotting for my entire luteal phase, but in a regular pattern and without pain (thankfully). And no doc in the E. European city I lived in at the time had a clue. I tried antibiotics for three weeks and felt even shittier and spotted more. So I got a second, perhaps even stupider opinion and I tried progesterone, which turned out to be just as useless and made me feel like a blotted, weepy, brainless marshmallow. After my trials, the dodo gyn's helpful summary: "Your ovaries don't work." In frustration, I went into denial until my future husband leaped onto the scene and whisked me back to the U.S.
Fortunately, temps showed I was apparently ovulating regularly, following that charming textbook pattern of dips and rises and falls. Now back in the States with my man, I went to another doctor, a nice crunchy naturopath who said it was either the mysterious luteal phase defect or polyps. Not having health insurance, I had to put my quest for clarity on hold.
For a year. Yeah, I know. But once I finally returned to the fold of the insured, I went to yet another ob/gyn of the more classical medical bent. She, like the others, was a bit baffled, so she tried a few blood tests. Progesterone: very nice, and further confirmed ovulation, as did a mid-cycle ultrasound. The HSG= tubes clear. No anemia or bleeding disorders, but when it came to TSH (thyroid stimulating hormone), I was underachieving at 4.5. This figure, as the educated hypo will tell you, is way above the new normal ranges, some of which put the higher end of healthy at 3 or less. Some docs insist that to get pregnant, the 1-2 range is ideal. My doc was fortunately well read enough to know about the changes in ranges and put me on Synthro*d. Over the next few months, I worked with an acupuncturist/herbalist and slowly increased my 'roid dosage. My cycles improved and the dread pirate Spot retreated. I felt better, ate better, stopped indulging my E. European-inspired love of wine, coffee and sweets, and started being so good to myself, it's ridiculous.
So we shall see. We're getting impatient -- it's been over two years since we started having sex without a net -- and may start on the IF coaster with some festive IUIs or something. Or I may continue to pursue my strict hippy path to parenthood until I can't take it anymore. Either way, the 'roid still needs to pick up the pace, and I'm hoping to convince my ob/gyn next week to up my dose and get me into that blessed promised land of 1-2 TSH.
My husband and I were old friends when we decided to team up and make a family. I had been longing for a man who would make a good father, and he'd been longing for a woman ready to have children. Perfect, right?
Well, there was this little problem. Hubby's reproductively stellar, but me? I'm not so great. Or so it seemed. I had this disturbing spotting, sometimes as much as a week before my period began to flow. Sometimes it felt like I was just spotting for my entire luteal phase, but in a regular pattern and without pain (thankfully). And no doc in the E. European city I lived in at the time had a clue. I tried antibiotics for three weeks and felt even shittier and spotted more. So I got a second, perhaps even stupider opinion and I tried progesterone, which turned out to be just as useless and made me feel like a blotted, weepy, brainless marshmallow. After my trials, the dodo gyn's helpful summary: "Your ovaries don't work." In frustration, I went into denial until my future husband leaped onto the scene and whisked me back to the U.S.
Fortunately, temps showed I was apparently ovulating regularly, following that charming textbook pattern of dips and rises and falls. Now back in the States with my man, I went to another doctor, a nice crunchy naturopath who said it was either the mysterious luteal phase defect or polyps. Not having health insurance, I had to put my quest for clarity on hold.
For a year. Yeah, I know. But once I finally returned to the fold of the insured, I went to yet another ob/gyn of the more classical medical bent. She, like the others, was a bit baffled, so she tried a few blood tests. Progesterone: very nice, and further confirmed ovulation, as did a mid-cycle ultrasound. The HSG= tubes clear. No anemia or bleeding disorders, but when it came to TSH (thyroid stimulating hormone), I was underachieving at 4.5. This figure, as the educated hypo will tell you, is way above the new normal ranges, some of which put the higher end of healthy at 3 or less. Some docs insist that to get pregnant, the 1-2 range is ideal. My doc was fortunately well read enough to know about the changes in ranges and put me on Synthro*d. Over the next few months, I worked with an acupuncturist/herbalist and slowly increased my 'roid dosage. My cycles improved and the dread pirate Spot retreated. I felt better, ate better, stopped indulging my E. European-inspired love of wine, coffee and sweets, and started being so good to myself, it's ridiculous.
So we shall see. We're getting impatient -- it's been over two years since we started having sex without a net -- and may start on the IF coaster with some festive IUIs or something. Or I may continue to pursue my strict hippy path to parenthood until I can't take it anymore. Either way, the 'roid still needs to pick up the pace, and I'm hoping to convince my ob/gyn next week to up my dose and get me into that blessed promised land of 1-2 TSH.
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