Random notes

The antibiotics are working their grody magic, and even though I hate eating at the moment, I'm feeling way better. Life seems more or less worth living again. It didn't earlier this week.

I've got a appointment with my RE in mid-July to prepare me for my new needly hobby, a week after I go back to have the Node of Doom checked. So not one but two more visits to the awful, no-good waiting room of my stupid obgyn's practice. It's that or drive 70 miles one way to a childfree space. I'll take the cheaper emotional torture, thanks.

I'm praying that Dr. Spunk (RE) doesn't get in a tizzy about the NoD. I'm also hoping that the NoD doesn't need to be removed surgically--hey, this happened recently to a colleague/friend, so I'm not just engaged in idle speculation.

Wouldn't that be tops? I finally screw up the courage to get fertility treatments big time, and I can't. I'm laughing, Universe, I really am.

On a more poetic note, last night we had a big thunderstorm sweep in, removing the funky Midwest summer dank from the air, and got a glimpse of fireflies in lightning. That, and the sound and smell of the rain, was almost enough to make us put our Battlest@r Gallactic@ viewing on hold. Yes, my guy and I are huge, proud nerds, though my appetite for grandiose sci-fi and fantasy is bigger than my man's. We even accidentally invented a dessert to go with them. One evening, I fiddled around with bananas frozen on chopsticks, coated (ungracefully but tastily) in dark chocolate with little bits of raw cashews.

Behold: the bananastar gallactica.

Yippee!

I gots me some energy today! I want to do more than sleep and stare into space! Hooray! I woke up not in agony! In fact, the pain's subsided significantly, even if the stomach's gotten a tad touchy on me.

I'm still taking it easy, though. Tomorrow morning I might venture out for a nice bike ride or something, just to get back into the swing of things.

Okay, back to Disland. Weird like Disneyland, but not generally as fun.

Future Days

I can't work on academic nonsense today. My guy gave me orders to putter around and relax. So I'm posting twice in one day.

I'm plotting our next move--FSH and IUI--by seeing if there are any tests they want to run on me. Now, my veteran comrades, don't laugh at me if I feel somewhat slightly vaguely optimistic about this next step. Even if it's only because, hey, I'll only have to do it a couple times before we a) go for IVF (most likely scenario: My man won't rest until we've tried it all); b) run screaming from the IF buffet; c) decide to wander the globe with a guitar, a mule, and a bag full of seed potatoes, proselytizing about the benefits of homegrown fingerlings. Not as unlikely as you might think.

This is stupid, perhaps, but what worries me more than OHSS and multiples (I know, no laughing matters) is the exercise ban. Some clinics in their online instructions are so damn specific, forbidding raising your heart rate about 140 BPM and prohibiting running and "cycling" (sic). If I don't get exercise, I get severely depressed. This lymph node thing has proven that to me, once and for all. My training's been on hold, and I feel so glum and useless and brainless. And just strolling a mile or two doesn't cut it. I need real activity (and frankly, I think most humans need it to feel good).

But if my ovaries are the size of grapefruits, I'm sure I'll feel differently.

Which brings me to my next rambling non-point: It could be worse. I could be on a cycle right now, with swollen ovaries AND a ginormous lymph node! That would be really fun.

Speaking of fun, here's a little video that will hopefully brighten your day. Or your angst-ridden, headache-prone ferret's day. It's from our local public access cable station and speaks volumes about our unusual community. It gets good about 2:30...

The fun just don't stop

You gotta love it. I went yesterday morning to my appointment for a follow-up pap, and of course, they couldn't do it because of my period. The RN took a look at the hulking lymph node and put me on two weeks of antibiotics, as she suspected infection (a blood count confirmed that suspicion, and ruled out lymphoma--always a plus). I was so disheartened by the pain and seemingly endless shit train I've been on this year that I broke down after my dear guy took me home. Of course, I thought and still think, this kind of bizarre-ass crap only seems to happen to me.

My dearest guy called in sick and we spent the day thumbing our noses at 4$/gallon gas, driving to very special place down south with sandstone box canyons and gorgeous stands of rare hemlocks. The valley where we hiked was inhabited as early as 12,000 years ago, and pocked with interesting rock formations and dramatic shelters, where little creeks dripped from high above into rocky, ferny pools below. We had ice cream, one of those ridiculous St@rbucks drinks, Mexican food on the square of a very funky small town (and I mean funky--not all charming like town squares are in New England).

Now, if I can just fend off a yeast infection and get my groin back to its normal topography, I'll be happy. I'm still very tired, but starting to see the light at the end of the lymphatic tunnel.

Rising Expectations

Alas, I can't just be happy anymore that my period arrives totally without warning and spotting. Isn't that sad?

So it's here, and to keep things interesting--heaven forfend I should have a month or two without some major event, death, crisis, scare--I have a terribly swollen bunch of lymph glands in my groin. Very fun. Sorry if that's TMI. I'm going to the doctor on Wednesday. I don't think they can do anything about it and fortunately I know what it happened, but it will comfort me to know I had it checked out.

So it's mope-in-bed day for me. I should be working on my dis, but I have zero energy and feel like limp rag.

Now for the good news...

Okay, enough of this whining and moaning and cursing pudgy ob patients and idiotic drivers. I have some good news.

No, not that good news.

But my wonderful FIL and stepMIL (modern families--so complicated!) gave us their old Acura. We were kind of like the Beverly Hillbillies, taking off our straw hats and wiping our brows in awe. Air conditioning! Automatic transmission! Radio and CD player! What will they think of next, I tell you!

This means that I can finally get my license. I know how to drive and had a license until my early 20s, when I lived in NYC and let it lapse, then lost the actual license. I never had a car, and thus never went about trying to get a license again. I walked everywhere or biked or took the bus.

Now, I'll be able to drive myself to the RE's office 60 miles away, or to the store! How exciting!

When the World Flips you the Bird

I had a bad day yesterday. I biked to my obgyn's office for a follow-up pap, seething with the thought of having more problems with my attention-hog ladybits. The office isn't far: about three miles or so. But it's up a big-ass hill. The kind when you shift way down, and you're granny-gearing it up, legs whirling like a windmill, asphalt inching by. I get there, eager to rip my clothes off and get it over with, and lo and behold, there had been a mistake. I should have come the day before. Drat!

On my way home (easier, though with some decent hills in that direction, too), some insane idiot in a pickup decides to run me off the road for no particular reason. He slams on his breaks and horn and nearly causes me to go sliding into a ditch. I screamed at him--he looked like an older guy, so maybe he was impaired in some of his senses or something--flipped him off big time, and got some solace from a kind Prius driver who stopped for a moment to offer solidarity and sympathy. Why do people in ginormous vehicles leading them to gas-tank bankruptcy hate cyclists so? Do they resent our slim physiques and fatter wallets? Is it sort of like me and pregnany ladies (see below)?

I came home, somewhat shaken and pissed as hell, and my guy saw I was upset. Before I knew it, I broke into tears, spilling my guts about how much I hated the obgyn's, how I hated seeing all the dull-eyed, slovenly, stupid women with children growing beneath their rolls of fat, how I felt broken and sometimes wished he would leave me and go find someone else to reproduce with, as I couldn't take the pressure. "I just want to be free!" I kept repeating. "But women are never free." He held me and said that no matter what happens, I'm the best woman for him. He had no idea how profound the suffering I feel is, and how I fight every day to keep it at bay.

The rest of the day sunk no lower, which was good, and I finished up my last full day temping. Today, I'm in for a half-day or so, and then bye-bye office job! And back to the load of stuff I need to do on my dis. It feels like such a relief. I'm glad I made the money, but I hate the drain on my time and my energy, which should be going toward more important tasks.

An Open Letter to Fertile Folk

I don't need your sympathy. I don't even need your understanding. I really don't need your judgment, comments, or advice, however well meaning. But I'd like to set the record straight.

First: I did not "wait to have kids." I did not put off having children due to some high-powered career. In fact, I divorced my first husband, in part, because he didn't want to start a family when I was ready, which was in my mid-twenties. Even though I was in graduate school. I looked seriously for a partner who would want to get married and have children after my marriage failed. It took me years to find a man I wanted to have children with, and when we made the decision to tie the knot, we got cracking on the kid front immediately. That was three years ago, and no dice. Not even a decent diagnosis.

Second: I would love to adopt, sure. But I need the following things: a) a partner who considers adoption a possible option and not a painful admission of defeat and despair; b) several years; c) several tens of thousands of dollars. If you can't tell me how to acquire these things, you do not have any advice for me. I don't feel strongly that my child would have to be a white, healthy infant. I'd be happy to consider a sibling pair of an ethnic heritage different from mine, even with health challenges. I'd prefer to adopt domestically. I am afraid, however, of my inability to parent a child with severe emotional or developmental problems. I don't know if I'd be able to handle such an important task with requisite compassion and patience. I'm afraid I'd do even more damage to an already struggling human being. Adoption is never about just doing it.

Third: This isn't about Darwinism, or world population. If you're keen on keeping human population low, take that burden on yourself and forgo biochildren and promote rational birth control options. I think we can all recall men and women who had no trouble producing ample offspring and just as easily neglecting them. Plenty of idiots breed, friends. When you cite figures that state that 18% or what have you of women in the 19th century didn't have kids or some such pseudo-social science stat, please state your source. And remember infant mortality. The great majority of that mythical 18% lost their children, often not long after bearing them. How many couldn't conceive is another issue altogether, and one I'd be surprised if you could get any data for. So please, give me a break.

Lastly: I have a life. I have work that I love, artistic pursuits that I pursue, gardens I tend. I will be a complete, happy human being regardless. I am not obsessed with babies and/or having them. I want to give my love to a child, and my husband longs profoundly, viscerally for this child to be his biological child. We honor that wish together, and together we've decided to spend a shitload of money to treat my mysterious physical problem that's apparently in the way. You know, the way you so often spend shitloads of money on useless clothing, electronics, "toys"? We spend money to make our vision for our lives a reality. At this point, it's the only option we agree on as a couple. This option is very intense and time consuming. Kind of like everything else in this world worthwhile.

***
Sorry, dear bloggybuddies, for the silence. Work and an in-law visit has left zero time for blogland, which sucks. I've missed you all! The above screed is what happens when you read the comments to stories like the Well column in the NYT.

More soon--and less in the Rosa Luxemburg mode, I swear!

Spoiled Rotten

That's me, after a year of not having to work at a job thanks to my fellowship. Now, after a few days of spending eight hours making press calls and plotting publicity strategies, I'm exhausted. I hate p/r work. I like writing press releases, but hate, hate contacting the media trying to sell them shit. Journalists are generally a cool bunch (except the people at glossies; they baffle me), but they're really stressed now, with all the shit going down at traditional outlets. Online stuff has yet to prove its effectiveness, so most clients still want print or radio. Frustrating.

Thursday's training was a bit humiliating: After our 14-mile bike ride in the blazing mofo sun, I couldn't make it more than a few tenths of a mile of our run. My ovaries screamed (I just ovulated) in violent protest, railing at me. I gave up and biked home. I've had some lovely FM, and therefore some lovely sex (yes, remember that? One thing that hasn't suffered--yet--from IF) and we're left with the feeling that we've done our damnedest. I refuse to hope on principle, but that's my little coping secret.

I haven't had much time to think over the past few days. I've just been treading water trying to keep up with the bare necessities at my temp gig and at home and at school and at the Y. It hasn't been stressful per se, just demanding.

On a completely different note (this post is just a string of non sequitors, sorry), my husband and I considered arc building this week, as a torrent of mucky flood waters overtook our little downtown, transforming the main drag into a rushing river, replete with rafting co-eds equipped with inflatables and shades. Darwinian selection at work: that is how people die in flash floods, dear students. Anyway, due to the temporary Venetian conditions, it took 25 minutes to get home by car (it normally takes about 5). It was impossible on bike, as the road between downtown and our house was covered with a fast-moving sheet of brown water where a creek exploded from its culvert. As one fellow traffic-curser shouted when we asked what the deal was, "It's Armageddon for no reason!"

Indeed.

Update about not updating

I'm going to be working full time for the next two weeks, as well as hosting relatives, training, and trying my damnedest to get some dissertating done. So if I'm silent, please forgive me.

Recovered

After riding 20 miles and running 2 and biking home, I spent Saturday afternoon passed out on the floor revisiting my dear friend, Brother Cadfael, and his crime-solving herbalist adventures. Propped up on pillows, cooled by a conveniently placed fan, I ate to my heart's content and faded in and out of consciousness.

Once my man came home from work (the poor guy often has to work Saturdays), we biked over to our friends' housewarming party, where we gorged on grilled veggies, meat-like products, brats, and finally our garden strawberries, which have recently gone berserk and produced a ridiculous amount of berries in a short span of days.

I drank wine, folks! Wine! Whoopee! It tasted so damn good. It felt so damn bad yesterday, even though I stuffed myself and only had 2.5 glasses. Can you say lightweight? The girl who used to knock back 8 Bloody Marys without flinching, and still walk home.

But damn! It was worth it. Just to chat, laugh, turn cartwheels, cruise home on our bikes in the dark slightly buzzed. I felt human, whole, free, all that good stuff.