Poor Thing

Warning: Morbid thoughts ahead.

We had to put our cat to sleep last (Wednesday) night. After some progress initially, she began to have some serious problems. There were no good outcomes on the horizon. When we went to the vet, it was like she was a different cat compared to yesterday morning. Her eyes were glassy and distant, her breathing labored, and we had already lost her. We knew in a second we were making the right call to let her go. Despite this confidence, I was basically hysterical. I couldn't take it.

After the vet put her out of her misery, we took her body home. Then we drove to our local lake and sat in the car sharing some Belgium beer and crying. My guy, bless him, was so present and loving and sad. We continued to talk a bit more about treatment ideas and approaches, which was, oddly enough, a real relief compared to recalling our poor little cat.

It's eerie how fast a being can move from life to death. I just felt--and feel--so sad that we didn't have more time together. She was a fairly young cat, and so very funny and loving, though with a serious attitude. We adopted her from the shelter almost exactly two years ago, along with a larger, meatier male (also black and fluffy) who's attempting to make himself comfortable on the keyboard at the moment. Amazing how hard it is to type when you're crying and you're fending off cat butt.

So far, 2008 is a bitch. It's just started, and already I'm sick of losing people and creatures I love. What I wouldn't do for something to turn out well.

The Conversation Begins...Again

I'm sure all of you out there have had/are having the Conversation: that dialog that stretches for months and years about "our problem." My husband and I haven't been engaging in it as much lately, thanks to our various distractions. But I've been building up to a crashing new movement in our symphony. It began on a forte note this morning as we drove to visit our sick cat.

I don't know how we got started. It was the worst possible time to get my guy into a serious discussion: He was heading to work, we were first stopping to see the pitiful furry patient, our time was limited. But it just happened. My hopes of hashing things out thoughtfully in the woods were dashed.

Things didn't go very well at first (we're both passionate hotheads). I began to express myself categorically against IVF and discuss some of my concerns that a child will bring just as many problems as s/he will solve, and I got called a coward who doesn't really want to have a baby. Shit, them was fighting words, so I struck back, noting among other things who was likely to be doing the majority of the parenting and housework, and who had the advanced degree and spoke five languages, etc. It got ugly for a few minutes, but then simmered down as I actually started making my emotional point and he begrudgingly listened despite his dismay.

Somehow, we came to enough of a detente that we could go in and spend a half hour with our catheter and tube-bedecked feline. She's improving, though slowly, and I think she'll be home in a week or so. She purred when we petted her little head, the only part of her sticking out from a nest of heating pads and towels. It was messed up, but cute. In a weird, sad way.

After our vet visit, we rode into his work, which isn't far away. But by the time we got there, we were listening to each other and he was trying to figure out what we could do to make this work for both of us. Including delaying the Western medical treatment for a while and sticking to getting my cycles strong with what's been working so far: thyroid treatment and acupuncture. I just haven't gotten pregnant.

I told him that my biggest problem was time: By the time we see if we need IVF, I just won't have the strength or will to go on. I will be certifiable. I can't stand this bloody build-up, and I told him that I feel that Cl0mid is just a big waste of time. Why take a stupid drug that barely works to do what my body already does (ovulate) and then bother to drive hours to get a sperm injection, all for a measly 10% success rate per cycle and hundreds of senselessly spent dollars? How is that sound medicine?

Why not just do what actually has a chance of improving our chances (i.e. injectables) and stick to that for, say, 5 or 6 cycles before calling it a day? Or why not just say fuck it and go straight to IVF for a few rounds, spend the money, and then suck it up if it fails? Why the hell should I waste months of my time and energy on a stupid treatment that has nothing to do with any possible reason what I'm not getting pregnant? He seemed to get that, after I repeated myself a couple times. :)

By the way, if anyone can explain the logic of giving 3 months of C IUIs to a woman who ovulates regularly and has great progesterone, but hasn't gotten pregnant in 2.5 years, I'm all ears. I know the bit about needing less monitoring and being cheaper, but do the savings really add up? How much "better" would my ovulation on C be? When REs have no clue, do they just go through these nonsense steps in treatment for lack of a better idea?

Anyway, I did some things on campus, came back to his work, and he gave me a quick ride home. On the way, he said, "You know, we haven't been talking about this much lately, and I think that either I've been avoiding the issue or maybe you've been reluctant to bring it up because you didn't want to deal with my reaction." I told him that both were true. "We need to discuss this regularly, and keep checking in to see how we feel and what we want to do," he stated. Good job, guy! You got it! At least the main part of it. Yippee! Score one for hubby!

We'll hammer out the details over the next few days. Or weeks. Or months... Meanwhile, I'd appreciate any assvice. Feel free to wantonly put yourself in my shoes. Pretend money is no object, and that you wanted to get the most bang for your time. What would you do?

Parade through Red Square!

Oh boy! The Reds woke me up this morning, not with pain but with a swish that sent me leaping from bed to the bathroom. That means games begin on Thursday.

I'm looking at my categorical line of yesterday, and wondering if it will hold. I realized last night at the gym that I need to set this up as a more flexible partnership with my guy. Meaning we need to talk all this over and see if we can't hash out something that works for both of us. Yesterday, I felt like presenting my feelings as a fait accompli and plopping them in his lap. Now I long to tell him what I feel, the fear, anguish, disgust, where I feel my line is.

And I do feel a real aversion. I know I could tolerate all the drugs and procedures somehow (you're talking to someone who's traveled by herself across Eurasia repeatedly. If I can handle that, I can do IVF), but I just don't want to dedicate several years of my life to this junk. I can't. I mean, getting treatment is basically a part-time (or even full-time) job. Though I may qualify for the position, I don't want it.

Isn't it funny, how people accuse you of being selfish for wanting to pursue treatment, yet now I feel selfish for wanting to do other things with my life, like write, research, teach, farm, travel? You just can't win in this game.

Drawing a Line

I just got home from a helpful talk with my therapist. We talked about my feelings of making great efforts to understand and accommodate my husband's needs (i.e. must have biochild or else), but that I'm struggling to find space for my needs in all this. My needs are easy to articulate: I don't really care if I ever have a biochild. I want a life filled with many things. Motherhood doesn't necessarily have to be part of it, though I'd welcome and savor it. If I were mysteriously on my own in this, I'd make peace with using acupuncture and thyroid management and just let the chips fall where they may.

I realized as I talked with her--or actually ranted about my feelings--how much I hate, and I mean HATE, even the first "easy" stage of this process. Just trying to get my script for Cl0mid and the HCG shot made my skin crawl. I was downright surly when the pharmacy dude said that my insurance wouldn't cover anything. "I know," I replied. "My insurance sucks big, hairy balls." I was surprised that that phrase slipped out, and with such matter-of-fact brusqueness. Of course, they didn't have the shot crap in stock and had to order it, so I pick up the whole mess tomorrow. Though who knows when I'll take it. The Red Army is biding its time in the Lenin Club or something playing checkers. I'm both frustrated and relieved: Judging by my reaction to hormonal meds in the past (horrible, awful, life darkening), I'm going to be feeling wretched soon.

When I detest something, I don't do it. No, I don't mean that if something is hard, I won't do it, but when something is absolutely wrong for me and I know it, I find a way not to do it, even if it means doing something ten times harder. Despite this character flaw? asset? of mine, I was still surprised as I walked home to discover my mind stating firmly, "I am NOT going to do IVF." It was as if my brain finally had the information it needed to make that call. My feelings at the pharmacy, at my therapist's, in general added up to that feeling that IVF was my line, and that that was okay. Perhaps a line in the sand, but I'll draw it nonetheless. I just don't want to invest the requisite time, energy, bodily stamina, financial resourses, etc. into that procedure. I don't care enough for it to seem worth the hardship.

Yes, you're looking at someone who loves spending time with kids, but couldn't care less if she ever has one. I'm different from many women in this regard.

By the way, I have nothing against IVF. I respect the women who go through it the way I respect women who train for and run marathons. But I'm just not up to it, at least not the way I feel now.

But how do you tell your partner that you have limits? Why is it hard for me to imagine that he'll honor my limits, just as I honor his aversion to adoption?

Stupid Hyper Thyroid

I called my RE's office today to find out if they had a problem with my wildly low TSH. They didn't but said I needed to wait to start counting down to Evil C time until I got some actual flow.

This is frustrating: I'm on CD 33, and so far, all I have to show for it is a touch of faint spotting. That's the longest cycle I've ever had, I swear. I'm not pregnant (haven't POAS, just...well, don't make me laugh). My thyroid, friends, is somehow preventing the magic of CD1 from happening. I don't feel PMS-y, crampy, whatever. Just really hungry and sad (about my cat).

Must I be eccentric in everything?

Sorrow, and the Red Army

My poor cat is in the kitty ICU. She had been ill for a while, but seemed to be on the mend when she took a turn for the worse this weekend and refused to eat and then drink. She's severely dehydrated and officially emaciated, and we had to leave her there to get IVs, tube feedings, etc. (Sorry, fellow crazy cat ladies, if this is TMI). As we came home from the vet, I felt this convulsion of grief grab my heart and squeeze it.

I realized that this spasm of sorrow was only a tiny fraction of what parents likely feel. How hard it must be to leave a child behind, in the hospital, without any way to explain why these awful things are happening. I mean, for Christ's sake, if I feel this heartbroken over my admittedly wonderful, fluffy little black cat, how will my heart ever bear more serious trials?

My weepiness is made sharper by the hormonal throes of my period which made an appearance of sorts this morning. It was just the faintest bit of spotting, but my powers of observation, honed over years of spot-watching, are keen enough to pick it up, and I feel that this is the beginning of something period-y. The tension irritating me over the last few days has dispersed (another sign of the impending march of the Reds), though I still feel moody. I need to fill my Cl0m1d script, find out if I can proceed with a manic 'roid, etc. Still, I must congratulate the hardworking organs involved for their stellar luteal phase performance: smooth, long, spot-free. One small victory, though the war is yet to be won.

Nothing to report...except some random thoughts

Comrades, all's quiet on the southern front. The red partisans remain in deep cover, with nary a crampy pot-shot to make their presence known. It's an odd sensation: I'm strangely proud of my ovaries/endocrine system/ etc. I want to issue an organ of the month award or something, for not torturing me with their crazy ways. Somehow, their good behavior is enough positive news to keep me from obsessively hoping or despairing. I avoid the issue.

On that note, I have something to confess. I'm not sure if I've mentioned this before, so forgive me if I'm covering the same, old ground. But I'm doing all this for my husband. Yes, I know I walk and squawk like a feminist, but I've chosen, of my own free will, to pursue treatments that I find repulsive because he wants a biochild.

He has a fantasy, built up in his mind as solace for a childhood family rupture, that a house with lots of kids will make it better. That he has to have a big, nutty family to make up for the family that fell apart. A big brood would certainly be a change of pace and sometimes, I'm sure, would be a lot of fun, but that's not my dream, really. I'm an only child. A big family was never in my fantasies, and now I find myself contemplating more how I would create an exciting and fulfilling life without any children at all, than whether I would be willing to go for three. [cue maniacal cackling]

Silly speculations aside, what I'm sometimes a bit nervous about is that we'll go through all of this, perhaps successfully, and he'll discover that the resultant reality has nothing to do with the fantasy that spurred the quest initially. Will he be disappointed? Will I be able to pick up any pieces or slack in such a situation? I wish he would seek some therapy for the unrealistic expectations I can sense brewing in his heart. He's not opposed to the idea, but not pursuing it, either. I guess he'll do it when he's ready.

Throughout this whole difficult process, I've shared everything with him. Except the above discussed feelings. The second I even begin to approach the issue, he panics, as if I'm somehow betraying the cause--and him. So I keep my growing apathy to myself.

Bored with Hope

No matter how hard I try, a tiny bit of hope is creeping into my heart. I'm not spotting, and that's basically why. I'm likely about to get my period and it's next to impossible that any sperm could have been hardy enough to wait around for my egg which popped out right after colpo time (yes, fate makes yet another funny. Ha ha). My veins are also coursing with enough thyroid hormone for our entire block, which means my monthly visitor may take her time.

But there's always that little, tiny voice that says, "But, but, but odd things happen all the time!" And they do, just not odd pregnancy things. Not to me.

I'm not the kind of gal who POAS regularly. In fact, I've barely done so at all, over all these months and years of TTC. Strangely, I'd rather wait and see the inevitable red than see one pink line. It just seems like a waste to me. I mean, if I'm pregnant, my period won't show. If I'm not, it will. End of story. When an experience has repeated itself so many times that you're inured to it, you just can't imagine it turning out any other way. My experience tells me, "You are never pregnant," so I don't even bother to check.

Even the teensy spasm of hope seems stale. I've been through it before, and can't seem to get myself excited about it, beyond the satisfaction that all seems to be well with my body this cycle.

Memorializing

This was a tough weekend. My guy's good friends from high school who have a fairly successful, fairly avant garde band out in the Bay Area were all in town. These guys are great, but MAN! If there were such a thing as profession drinking, they'd be near the top of their field. Amazing.

The circumstances perhaps warranted some extra imbibing. Their best friend and band mate, also an old friend of my husband's, had just died in a freak accident at the age of 32.

As we sat listening to the music and hilarious reminiscences (the deceased was a very, very funny man), I couldn't help but feel upset that the hundreds of people there hadn't bothered to gather and express their love for him when he was still around to appreciate it. I mean, hell, for all we know, he was there in some odd form, but let's assume that he more or less wasn't able to benefit from the outpouring of love. What a shame! We should have life celebrations of real, breathing human beings, not death remembrances, when the flesh-and-blood person with edges and faults is airbrushed by memory into some saintly stranger. This guy was no saint, but he lived life fully and furiously. He was charismatic as all get out, and he was really just hitting his stride. Damn.

It almost goes without saying that my guy and I are wiped out now. After a weekend of late nights--but no drinking! Someone give me a fucking medal--and messed up sleep patterns due to our avid mouser of a cat, I had to perform at our town MLK celebration with the singing group I'm in. I love the gals in it, and we did a bang-up job last night. But that was the last straw: my mind is now officially down for the count and I can barely focus on the computer screen.

With all this going on, I've had no brainspace for IF. Oh, except I have. I've had no spotting this cycle, once the dust kicked up by the colpo and biopsies cleared. This is a very, very good thing: I'm due to get my period in just a few days, and not a peep from my lady organs. They're quietly doing whatever, maybe enjoying their alone time. Good for you, girls!

Little do they suspect the chemical onslaught the next months will bring.

Unexpected Peace

I didn't think this blog would be about feeling at ease. I thought I would rant and rave and gnash my gnarly teeth and whip myself up into a cathartic frenzy. And perhaps I do. But my anger feels like I'm riding a spirited horse: My heart pounds, but I'm laughing, too.

This is going to sound horribly cheesy, but yesterday I did some yoga and afterward felt so at ease and content that I was surprised. How can I be about to launch on a shit journey, and feel so carefree? Did I drink out of the same cup as our friendly neighborhood rimpoche? Is it the calm before the storm, or have I actually, really learned something? All this in my usually grumpy luteal phase, too!

Even the darkest times of my life seem, well, acceptable to me now. I feel such sadness for the poor confused gal I was, tossed on a sea of poorly conceived attempts to feel something, learn about the world, and of course get some pleasure in the bargain. I got more than I bargained for. But somehow, I don't feel ashamed about who I was when I was at my worst. I quickly lost all notion of myself as a "good person." That's helping me now with IF: I don't have to be nice, polite, friendly, good to the world at large. Why should I feel bound to make nice with those around me, when they can't be bothered to make the slightest effort to understand me?

Let's just claim the luxury of being blunt and self-protective for once, since our coping mechanisms are busy getting us through these rough times. We'll get back to being nice later.

I Like the Hyper Me / Empower This, Hippies!

I don't know what exactly is up, but I've been off Synth@!d for two days and feel great. The dreaded eye twitching has stopped, I have lots of energy, my desire to eat everything in sight has passed, yadda yadda. I bet I'm still hyper, but coming down from my T4 high.

I had an acupuncture session that felt like someone was pumping me full of electric current. In a good way, if you can imagine that. There's a lovely point on the outer calf related to the stomach (the spleen's hollow buddy) called "Three Miles," and, as my dear acupuncturist explained to me, it gives you the energy if you're tired to walk another three miles. It sent sheets of warmth down to my feet and left behind an odd heat sensation for the rest of the day.

Today is one of those beautiful winter days when the night's wet snow sticks to every little branch, and the air is still but not too cold. I'm looking forward to tromping through said wet snow for a bit. I have little inclination to be an intellectual today, absolutely none. Somehow, I need something else.

This being a hippy-ridden college town, we have a natural birth center that runs adds on the local public radio station, touting their classes to "empower pregnant women." Every time I hear one of these ads, I want to let out a cynical "ha!" Not that I don't appreciate the help they give to women who may need it, or the community they create for women whose identities are tied up in the whole "natural" thing. I mean, shit, I used to be one of those gals, thinking that nature had a solution for me. And for all I know, it may, and more "natural" approaches to improving my cycles have helped me tremendously.

But I know, for one, that even if I get pregnant with twins from IVF and have a scheduled C-section, I won't be any less "empowered" for it. Nor will I lose my "empowered" status if I am a childfree mother to the whole damn world. A feminist way to fit into the traditional female role? A feminist means to promote the feminine mystique? Whatever. Most of the women leaders, organizers, activists, speakers, writers, and artists who got us where we are today weren't biomoms. Empower that.

Make that Hyperactive Butterfly

Apparently, 100 mcg of thyroid hormone has launched me into the hyper zone, with a TSH of something like .001. They're taking me back down to 88, which is fine. Whatever. I felt pretty good there. I wish there was something in between, but apparently, there isn't. But wow, it's amazing how increasing your dosage is not a linear thing at all. I thought I'd be at something like 1.7.

This hyperactivity explains a few things: my constant hunger, my sudden propensity to sweat randomly -- you know I was starting to freak out about early menopause. Ah the joys of IF!-- and this really bizarre twitching in my eye that started a week ago. No seriously. It's harmless but deeply annoying. And it's a crazy cat lady symptom, I know.

I have been eating well, exercising regularly and all that jazz. Not sure if that makes a difference, but I think it might. Here's to making those 88 mcg go much further.

On another positivish note, my colpo came back mild, which means nothing but a follow up pap in six months. Yippee! I'll be spending so much time with my legs in the stirrups that it won't make a lick of difference.

Academia to the Rescue

Well, at least research and writing, that is. My scholarly ambitions have lifted me out of my heavy IF ponderings for the moment, and somehow it's a great relief to be scouring old Soviet histories for a mention--just one little tidbit!--about a long-lost writer/activist in the wild, wild East. But I'd better leave it there, before I blow my blog cover. Suffice it to say that I'm happily pounding away at my first dis chapter, slowly, very slowly trying to tie all sorts of wacko threads together, just to tell the simplest of stories. Let me just say that I envy all you academic suckers who can find most of what you need on Google Books. I've also been getting stuff together for various conferences, where this trick pony gets to prance for potential employers.

All is quiet, meanwhile, on the fertility front. I'm currently in waiting mode--not the truly maddening 2ww, but waiting to pump myself full of drugs and get cracking. I feel like I've crossed a threshold emotionally, in that I feel what I've felt for months (years?!?) but those feelings don't bother me. Even the dreaded absolute worse case scenario seems like something I could figure out, with help from things like research positions, triathlons, world travel, the coolest damn farm in the world. There's lots to do out there, in other words, if parenting doesn't wind up being an option. I feel as if my world has expanded again to include all the places, passions, and ideas once masked by my intense focus on fertility.

At the same time, I can't help but anticipate these coming medicated IUI cycles. Part of me is already thinking, shit, what if I'm pregnant when this or that happens? Part of me absolutely refuses to plan seriously for pregnancy. The mere thought of, say, buying some sort of baby paraphernalia seems as odd a notion as buying a scuba tank or a branding iron. I think my mind can't wrap itself around the fact that it might actually happen, and to me. Is this some sort of denial? Could it be that I am truly and honestly apathetic--not ambivalent, mind you, but apathetic?

The Day from Hell is Over!

After getting my teeth drilled AND a colposcopy in the same damn day, I'm feeling like a bad ass. I even managed to get some work done on the ol' dis. The really nice and helpful RN who did the colpo said everything looked good and it would be highly unlikely if anything more than watchful paps for a while would be necessary.

A relief!

I walked home through the woods--yes, there's a little forest between the gyno office and our house--and was so glad to get home and make dinner.

Death to Magical Thinking (children mentioned)

I think the past two years or so, I fell into the unhelpful pattern of magical thinking, the very same thought process by which people arrive at the random bits of "wisdom" that they so willingly dispense to women having trouble conceiving.

Yet I realized during a great conversation with my therapist yesterday that I had somehow left all that behind. I'm healthy, I'm doing what I love, and I take very good care of myself--after years of working to get here. So I need science to have a baby. So what? So it's hella expensive. Well, I've gotten many, many things for free that others have to pay tens of thousands for (like my education and all the grants I've been lucky enough to get). Life is inherently unfair, unjust, brutish and short. But, oddly enough, it is inherently beautiful, fulfilling, and far more magical than the most magical of thinking. Funny that.

We also talked a lot about anger, and I realized how intensely I chafe at the social expectations put not only on me, but on all women, especially those of reproductive age. A friend of mine who recently had twins comes to mind. She and her husband are artists, and he works at the university here, earning so little as an instructor that they qualify for WIC. Unfortunately, she's just not able to breast feed this time around, but some gal at WIC gave her the third degree about it, ignoring the fact that my friend had b'fed her older son until he was two or something. But no, this didn't matter, so she was made to feel like a bad mother and bad woman for not producing milk. I really related: I feel that I am often made to feel inferior or lacking or ill because my body doesn't seem to feel like getting pregnant. I know that this is wrong.

Why are our imagined possibilities for women so narrow and limited? It's as if, post-feminism, we get to assume all the responsibilities of men, while keeping all the old superstitions about women (except, thankfully, that we're too stupid or feeble to do anything but darn socks). You can bring home the bacon, but you better look like a star with a stylist while doing it. Your mind shouldn't be too wild, and your body should work like a hormonal machine.

I know that men face some weird, destructive social pressures of their own. But are they as pervasive and powerful as the ones we face? Do we infertile women feel incomplete only because our hearts cry out for a child, or are we also made to suffer by the constant message that we, as women, cannot be whole unless we become mothers? There's a continuum there, I'm sure, and it's far more complicated than my questions imply. I guess, at least, I know where I stand at the moment: the assumptions by others that I want to tow their line hurt me more than living child-free. But that, of course, is just me.

Assvice: Invent your own!

Why thanks, I think I will! I've decided that taking really long hikes with your beloved man boosts fertility--and fast! Yes, even faster than relaxing, chewing on those magical Peruvian roots, stuffing your craw with vandium, or submitting an adoption application.

Like all these myths and rumors, however, I don't have to bother with actually proving my claim. So get out there and start making shit up! It'll at least be a hell of a lot funnier than the stupid junk people foist off on you. Hmmm... "My cousin's accountant hit her thumb with a hammer, and wham! She was pregnant!" "I heard from the secretary at work that her friend drank poodle blood after trying for fifteen years and delivered the next morning!"

But seriously, we had a wonderful weekend. It's been eerily warm here in the ol' Heartland, and we embarked on not one, but two 10-mile + hikes. We tromped merrily over hill and dale through the forest, so strangely silent at this time of year despite the spring-like temps.

Then we played music and jammed with our buddy, a man of few words but many notes, and watched the Muppets and ate popcorn. Perfect!

It's funny, thinking about starting treatment. As I've written before, I don't feel like, "Joy! This is most certainly going to work! We're saved!" I feel more like, "Western medicine, the ball's in your court now. You've got the proof and the drugs and all that. Hit me with your best shot!" There's a feeling that I don't really have to do much anymore. If I want to drink a splash of coffee, whatever. If I want some cocoa almonds, fine. No more endless supplements of borage oil and vitex, no more fretting about my diet and how it's impacting my hormones. I can let go, do what feels good, and leave the work to evil C and friends. Oh, and to my body. I know my body will do what it can.

Damn it, letting go feels good! Especially when I just ordered this amazing chocolate cake from our best little hip bakery. It's my guy's birthday, and I can't wait to celebrate with him.

Dreams

I often have very vivid, interesting dreams, and a few nights ago, I dreamed our recently departed friend appeared at our home (which was a strange but cozy log cabin) and wanted to play music with us. He was just like he had been in life: exuberant and boisterous. I asked him, "But aren't you dead?" He said that he was, but that that didn't mean he couldn't get together with the living and jam.

In Praise of Dad

I've been blessed with one of the most extraordinary men in the world for a father--and my mom's no slouch, either, but this one goes out to Dad.

Last night, my folks called to tell me what was up with a piano they're kindly having moved to our neck of the woods. I'm thrilled: We just got a whole bunch of recording equipment and the piano couldn't arrive at a better time. For some reason, I decided to talk a bit about our visit to the RE. My parents know more or less what we've been going though, though not all the sordid details. They knew we were headed to see a specialist. Anywho, I give my somewhat apathetic/skeptical/realistic take on the whole thing, and my dad comes back with, "I think you really need to think positively about this." I resisted, and somewhat gruffly tried to explain that, no, what I needed was not to be told how to feel. I also explained that the chances of CC+IUI actually working were very low, and that IVF may be a distinct possibility. We ended on a somewhat mutually frustrated note.

However, lo and behold, this morning I find the kindest, most perceptive email in my inbox. Overnight, my dad had figured out not only the grand maelstrom that is my emotions surrounding treatment, but had some actually helpful advice and an offer of help. He figured it out all by himself, and he came to me apologizing and trying to understand (AND succeeding).

I teared up, filled with love and gratitude for all that I have, all the resources that will get us through this mess.

An RE Anticlimax

...of sorts. The local RE, who's got some pretty fine CDC-reported results btw, was a jolly fellow. I can say with pride that I have baffled yet another doctor! Yippee! Okay, what do I win?

I win a script for Cl0mid! Watch me go hormonally insane!

Ahem, back to the story. So, I tell him my sordid tale and he's basically like, "You ovulate, your progesterone is great, your guy is producing excellent seed, your tubes are open... And you can't get pregnant? Come on!" That's a frustrated/baffled "come on." He thought the spotting and the thyroid issues weren't all that relevant, as the treatment would be the same, anyway. Basically what I was expecting.

The plan was also quite predictable: three cycles of Clomid, the first one with sex, and the next two with IUI. He's also going to do a SIS (saline infusion sonogram) to check for polyps or other uterine bizarreness not detected by the HSG. And thus we left with a plan and an RX for the evil C plus an HCG shot I get to stick in my ass myself! Yes, gals, I'm joining the thrilling world of IM injections! I'm not too worried about it: I'm not particularly afraid of needles, my pain tolerance is high, and my MIL was a nurse for a while, so bring on the syringes.

If the first three rounds of fun don't work, the next step would be either injectables or IVF, with an optional bonus stopover in lap land. I think my insurance would pay for a lap, and though I know it's not to be taken lightly, there are some things in my past that indicate a lap may not be that bad an idea. I'm not too hot about the whole injectables + IUI thing, though we'd want to do the math and see what's up. Part of me just says, fuck it, bring on the IVF, if you're going to ask me to turn my ass into a pincushion with thousand-dollar meds anyway. Studies I've seen but can't seem to locate right this second also indicate that if three IUI cycles don't do it, it's in vitro time.

Get out the top hat and start the high kicks! Jazz hands!

All this has to wait until next month anyways, thanks to the colpo-imposed abstinence I'll be bearing after next Wednesday. One nice thing, the RE, let's call him Dr. Spunk, wasn't worried about my abnormal pap. Even if I got a LEEP, he said, it's highly unlikely I'd end up with an incompetent cervix. That helped me chill out.

On a more emotional note, I feel very calm about all this somehow. Am I in shock? Shut down? It doesn't really feel that way. I was nervous before the appointment, but I didn't feel the horrible anxiety that has suffocated me in the past when I thought about fertility treatment. I felt cool during the appointment, not hopeful, not resigned, but somehow... even and calm. Perhaps it's time. I feel like I'm bracing myself for a fight, but one I know I'll be able to win in the end, regardless of the outcome.

Ha ha! One down, 364 to go...

Last night, we rang in 2008 with some sparkling apple cider--seriously, I could drink gallons of the shit--and some Muppets. My man gave me the first two seasons on DVD for Xmas, and I am thrilled that many more years of therapeutic puppet shenanigans exist. I really will finish my dissertation, after all. I really couldn't take any more partying or timed merriment. I just want to enjoy the quiet winter and get back to work. So it was nice to kick around the house with my love.

Tomorrow we meet with Dr. RE. We'll see what he has to say; I'm excited. Not because of the whole "maybe this will work" thing. I love talking about the female endocrine system and I can't wait to discuss it with an expert. I have no idea what will come of all this, and in some way, I'm feeling somewhat neutral about it. It feels like something we have to try, because not to try would equal future regrets. It may indeed work, and who knows? I might feel fine on hormonal meds. I've never been on fertility drugs before. Perhaps I'll do just fine.

For me, viewing the process as an experiment is somehow comforting. Some experiments fail. So be it. Some succeed. At least I'll be able to say that I did everything within my power to have a child.