My, what fun we're having

I can say I haven't felt this bad since I had alcohol poisoning from some bum moonshine in the Obscure Part of the World many years ago.

My husband and I had a delightful morning of weeping on our 1.5 hour jaunt up to Dr. Spunk's, where dear Nurse Sweetie, who is an angel among nurses, stuck me in both asslobes with a liquid that shone an eerie, near fluorescent yellow. I mean, if you wanted to convey the visual notion of "poison" and "nasty," that's the color you'd choose.

Now, everything is super sharp and somehow painful to look at. I can't move very quickly. I can't think very straight. Everything smells like shit. I feel like I could sleep for years, yet can't settle down. I've got odd (phantom?) pains all over the place. In short, I'm at my best!

I'm really looking forward to the unspecified moment when the rivers of blood burst their dams and start flowing. Isn't it cool that it could strike at any time, any place in the next, oh, two weeks or so? I mean, my life will just be that much more exciting, knowing I could be about to bleed all over the place any second now... Whoohoo. Hey folks, watch out! Don't let me bleed on you!

And the final two insults added to the injury: I have poison ivy (again!) and my fucking insurance doesn't cover meth. It wasn't expensive ($25) but still: it's the principle. I have to pay for all of the medicine that will keep my abdomen from exploding myself. This isn't botox, peeps; this is lifesaving poison.

Let me shake the all-fixing invisible hand of the damn open market. And then kick it squarely in the balls.

Well, hopefully I'll be less ill and bitter and ranty once we get back from my parents' farm on Monday.

Just shoot me...

...in the butt with chemo drugs! Oh boy.

hCG rose to 1100 something, making the doctor declare this debacle an official ectopic and putting Shinejil in line for a wham bam no thank you, man with some methotrexate tomorrow.

A very happy Labor Day Weekend to you, too!

Fuckity fuck fuck

Nothing to be seen on the u/s except a thin lining (4 mm), which suggested an ectopic to Dr. Spunk. They did more blood work, but looks like my worst fears are reality.

Well, not quite. I haven't started bleeding or experienced excruciating pain--or at least not yet. Something to be thankful for (she said sarcastically).

If my hCG is still rising, they'll do the meth shot tomorrow. Another day, another 70-mile drive to be tortured.

So I'm drinking porter and Spanish wine (not mixed--yikes!), eating espresso ice cream, and watching the stupidest DVDs imaginable. I called in to work to avoid the inevitable meltdowns and hysteria being around normal people would invoke in me at the moment.

I'm in such a bad mood, I can't even feel it anymore.

We interupt this regularly scheduled crisis...

...to talk to you about two wonderful things that are probably not of much interest, but hey. This is my blog, I'm temporarily pregnant, and you're going to have to indulge me.

The first wonderful thing is my man. Yesterday, after he heard the wacky news, he did some research online, and did it well. He came home understanding with perfect clarity what our situation might mean. He held me while I wept out of irrational, gut-grabbing fear of losing my tube to an ectopic. Then, he took me downtown, bought some of the world's best ice cream.

Upon returning, we watched the Muppet Movie and cuddled. We sang along to the songs. He did the dishes. He's the best, I tell you!

Other wonderful thing: our garden. This year's been a bit rough, but we've managed to grow some excellent cukes, sweet and succulent and prolific. We've also finally mastered the art of growing eggplants from seed, a tricky venture due to their so-so germination and the lusty flea beetles that attack young plants. We've got the loveliest violet globes hanging so gracefully from tall, flourishing (only somewhat flea beetle-attacked) plants. The 8-ft tall red sunflowers are drawing some of my favorite birds, goldfinches, while the trumpet vine, butterfly bush, and fuschia are visited by a small army of hummingbirds.

Despite a hard time, our Brandywines have done pretty well (they got a case of fusarium wilt but still managed to produce a decent crop). We had some okay beets and yummy salad turnips (Hakurai: a cinch to grow and so delicious sliced thin!). Our peas sucked due to the cold wet spring, but all in all, it's been pretty good. We even got our first crop of cherries, a good amount of strawberries, and mysteriously, several volunteer melons, one of which we can't identify but it smells like honey and sunlight.

In short, I love being able to wander out, grab some herbs, and come up with something tasty from our produce. I'm really looking forward to doing this on a larger scale.

BAHHHHHAAHAH!

That incoherent cry of anguish is the sound of my brain, trying to process the fact that my hCG just shot up to the 400s.

Ectopic? Slow starter? Freak of nature?

Anybody got any insight/hopeful tales/delusional rantings that might distract me until Thursday morning's date with the wand?

A Sonnet

To you, who could not seem to grow,
Engend'ring only sighing, sobbing,
how pitiful to struggle so,
With pulseless pulse, with pointless throbbing!

To you, so far from breath or light,
So far from true birth or becoming,
To you, who knew but fruitless fight,
A moment's being, a second's humming,

To you, my love, I give my heart,
My grief I could not bear you fairer
Than weakest weaves, soon rent apart:
A garment that betrays the wearer.

Return to me, I beg of you:
Next time, the knots will prove more true.

My first attempt at stricter poetry in... uh... well, in forever. But it seemed like the only way to say it...

Keep away from my veins!

It turns out Dr. Spunk wanted me to get re-poked this morning, not Thursday. My guy announced this--though he says he told me and he very likely did--as I got up this morning. Gee, what a lovely way to start my day!

So in we went, and again, I faced the struggle to subdue my errant blood vessels which seem to be becoming more and more reluctant to draws. After several attempts, we finally got a sample and I was free to go.

Now I feel like crap: sad, wiped out, exhausted, hungry yet without real appetite for food. I just want to go home and sleep and read and watch the Muppet Movie or something, but instead I'm doing low-paid pointless university work. Bummer.

Much better

Somehow, my energy and appetite have returned. I spent the whole weekend reading novels and watching DVDs, when not going for hikes (though it was way too hot and muggy) and doing a few household chores. My dis? Well, it's on hold for the next week or so, as I adjust to my two jobs and all that. Hopefully, soon I'll be down to one job + dis + freelancing.

My guy and I have been talking a lot about what staying here would mean. So far, we think it would mean lots of good things. We both love it here, and we both feel that living close to nature, having a good day-to-day life is more important than the psuedo-glory of successful professional careers. That's just our choice; for those of you with careers, know that you'll never be afflicted with the money shortages we're bracing for. Life will be frugal, but green and creative.

We've got lots of ideas for cash crops and other money makers, as well as some employment prospects that would allow me to telecommute and write. We need to run some numbers and such, but we both are more excited about this idea than we've been about anything in a long time. We could start looking for a farm as soon as we finish some repairs and updates on our poor bedraggled ranch house (tiling some floors, redoing some aspects of the bathrooms, putting in built-ins, painting, etc.). Lots of little tasks, but all doable with sweat equity and some help from our handy fathers. I still plan on defending in May and getting my degree. Because I've so earned it and I want to be Dr. Shinejil, even if only the rutabegas refer to me by my academic title.

As for my beta watch, I'm hoping it will be over and done with this Thursday. I've been asking my body to let go of the little cell wad and let things move on. I've stopped bleeding. I feel strangely confident that my body's figured something out. I have lots of questions for Dr. Spunk and am actually looking forward to our WTF in a few weeks.

A Picture that Says a Thousand Words

Out of the darkness like an animated cloud... that's it!
Source: Pop Sensation

Since there's no hope...

...might as well indulge. I think I broke all the preggorules last night: I ate very rare (excellent) tuna prepared by our gormet friend, a classical saxophonist from Puerto Rico. I ate fresh mozzarella and our juicy garden tomatoes. I drank a digestif made with juniper from the south of France. I had coffee. With the exception of changing the litterbox and chomping on poorly refrigerated deli meats or something, I broke 'em all.

Because there's no way with a non-doubling beta and on-going, insistent bleeding that I'm getting to motherhood from this poor little barely-there runtlet. This makes me sad: I feel sorry for this tiny mass of cells that is trying to grow, but is doomed to fail. What a pathetic, pitiful struggle life is sometimes. Poor thing.

Thanks for all your kind comments and support through all this. It really, really means a lot.

I heading to my acupuncturist today, because I feel like crap physically. I have no appetite for anything but sweets today, and I'm weak and drained. I'm back to the poking ground for a blood draw next Thursday, with hopes that my levels will have dropped. Once I have a normal cycle, we can try again. Nurse Sweetie thinks it's not an ectopic, and that it's most likely a fluke, though we'll be meeting with Dr. Spunk in Sept. 9 to see if there are any tests or other things (preferably those covered by insurance) we can run to get more info.

For fuck's sake

...please, stop rising. 21.6 was the result today. Not encouraging. Very annoying.

Just go away, whatever you are. If you aren't going to turn into a child, just go ahead and stop this stupidity.

No wonder I feel so off: I'm still sort of pregnant, yet I'm also menstrual. What a great combo! Who wouldn't be confused?

You know, this week has just sucked, in a hundred little ways. Kind of like that Manchu execution method, death by a thousand cuts.

Today, I woke up at the crack of ass, simply awake and technically rested though blue as all hell. I lost all my energy yesterday afternoon and felt terrible: weak, dizzy, absolutely exhausted. I was able to move this morning, but the weight of a new, unexpected sadness was on me. So I drank a whole shitload of cocoa.

Then we headed for the poking range, where the poor tech struggled to find a usable vein. After several painful attempts, she had to use my hand, which hurt like a mofo. All the while, I've got little seed tears in my eyes.

We got home, and I was just listless and upset. Finally, I lay down in bed and wept from all the hormonal madness and exhaustion. My guy held me and we talked. You see, this experience has some how sharpened the other aspects of my life that aren't working. I love some aspects of what I do, but the prospects for doing them in the context of the normal career paths--college professorship--are somewhat grim. For every posting in my field there are literally hundreds of applicants. The jobs I've seen this year so far--academia hires cyclically following the school year--aren't jobs I want. I don't want to live in Baltimore or Philly (though I'm sure they're lovely in their own right). I don't want to teach at a religious school. I want to live here and have a farm with my man, while still doing something intellectual.

My guy suggested the idea that I finish my degree and try farming, popular history writing, and translating. I really like this idea, though it scares me. I'm afraid of the financial insecurity. Yet many of people with less education and fewer skills, frankly, piece together decent livings in this area by doing a bit of this, a bit of that.

To make matters stranger, I'm obsessed with 100+ year old farmhouse I saw online. I really don't like our house very much; we bought it because it was the best thing available that we could afford at a time when we were sleeping on the nasty shag carpet at my MIL's place. We were desperate. I keep begging my guy to drive out to see it though I know it may simply add to the torture.

I'm sick of worrying and agonizing over all these things I can't control. I want to do the one thing that my guy and I both know will make us happy: a small farm. I want to set aside my vainglorious egotism, my pointless fears. I want to be happy sooner rather than later (or never).

You'll really think I'm crazy now

I have no hope that this pregnancy will miraculously morph into a wunderkind (in the most literal of senses). But I do suddenly and inexplicably have hope. I was pregnant. I felt I was pregnant, as I've never felt it before. Most of this tricky process worked. We just had a bum egg and bum luck this time around.

But this could, possibly, if the stars align properly, turn into a child one day. Meaning our parts can meet, begin the process. We just don't know if this was a fluke fuck-up, or the indication of a more serious problem of some cryptic sort. Yet my intuition was not wrong. That little voice inside me whispering, "You're pregnant" (along with the other wretched symptoms) spoke the truth and wasn't just blowing sunshine up my wishful thinking ass. I can't tell you what that means to me. It's as if a part of myself, one that had always served me so eerily well in the past, one I had come to detest because it never seemed to jive with reality has suddenly been proven accurate. My old friend is back and not a liar. And the voice says that all will be well in the end.

I spoke with Nurse Sweetie today. She had her own IF hell she went through, which explains why she's so amazingly nice and appropriate. We agree that my chances of having a baby from this are basically null, but I had already resigned myself to that Monday when Red Army attacked (and boy did it ever!). So the low beta was not a terrible disappointment, more an odd twist in the plot.

Again, for those of you playing Fantasy Fertility at home, I've got another blood draw tomorrow AM, which will likely show a plummeting beta. If it doesn't, I'll be so flabbergasted that I'll likely start to believe that pigs can fly, snowballs can easily weather the flames of hell, and that kind of thing. I'll also be nervous that something's done implanted where it shouldn't, and that I'll soon be ushered into a new circle of the inferno.

Let's hope not.

WTF indeed

I just got a message on our home machine from Nurse Sweetie (she's the nicest, most patient of women who's very sympathetic) at the RE's. I'm a little pregnant. I think it's likely a chemical. Beta=15 for those of you playing at home. Meanwhile, in coochie land, the Red Army continues its maneuvers.

Back to get poked again on Thursday. Ah, IF land! Just when you think you know your way around...

Sluggish RE

Dr. Spunk's office refuses to let me start shooting up again until next month, and insists I have a WTF meeting with the doc himself on Sept. 9.

Gee, I know what happened! I got the shit end of the stick and didn't get pregnant, though all went well. And this was indeed the more likely scenario, with IUI + Follistim's fabulous 20-30% success rate per cycle. So why the footdragging, people? I want to get this crap over with! You think I want to live in this hell forever?

Sure, it means I'll feel good, be able to get work done and exercise, and perhaps even get some insurance contribution to our growing IF bill, not have to jab needles into my gut... but it also means I most likely won't get pregnant and will be sitting on my hands yet another month. Which means, like everything else in my life at this point, all is and will remain unsettled. No clear academic path, no farm to start working on, no ability to try for a baby except the old fashioned way.

Limbo lower now.

Whatever

I can't sleep, which is no surprise because I drank one of those little half bottles of an excellent Australian shiraz. I used to live on that stuff--the much, much cheaper kind--for so many years that I was surprised how good it tasted. Since I'm such a lightweight these days, I got fairly tipsy and insomnia has kicked in.

My guy is fine: He pulled himself together once he understood the magnitude of the situation and switched on the love. Also, I bought him some nice local porter and some of those hippy tofu ice cream sandwiches.

Of course, Disc 4 of BSG was checked out at the video store. Of course. So I made do with a stupid Will Ferrell movie (my guy finds him extremely funny, and some stupidity was right up my alley). It was just one of those days.

I'm finding the thought of moving on to another cycle a bit daunting. I mean, injections would theoretically start tomorrow. I thought, as I prepared myself for a likely let down, that this fact would comfort me. But somehow it doesn't. Part of me just says, oh boy. More feeling like shit ahead. What fun. The thrill is gone.

It's all just so fucking pointless, folks. I mean, even if I get what I really want, who cares?

I'm very tempted to throw in the towel on multiple fronts because all I've been doing this past year is soldiering bravely on through the useless dis, all sorts of other dead-end projects, the seemingly relentless bad luck. Maybe it's time to move to my parents' farm and raise veggies for Whole Foods. Why do I need to be some scholar or writer or whatever? Clearly, I'm not meant to be a mother, either.

Several hours later...

The voice of my inner coach speaks: "Come on, Shinejil! Pull it together! You're going to get through this, you're going to find your little corner of bliss replete with poison ivy and ticks, and soon you'll be flying high on that estrogen buzz and will think you're invincible, like someone on angeldust. Rah rah rah! Now go back to bed."

The bright side...

I'm really craving a beer. And I'm going to go get one after work.

And the next disc of Season 3, Battlestar Galactica. Nothing like a post-nuclear chase across the stars to make me forget why I feel so fracking sorry for myself. :)

***
Edited to add (since I feel like a psycho posting a gazillion times today): You know what really pisses me off? No, it's not that other gals get knocked up by having a penis waved in their general direction. No, it's not that we have to bleed ourselves dry to pay for this because no one thinks it's an actual, bone fide medical problem I'm having.

It's that I felt like shit physically for a week and have nothing but a big ol' bloat belly and gut-wrenching pain to show for it. Nothing but gobs of gook that could be used effectively in a horror movie pouring out of me.

I'm also pissed that I still have to go in early tomorrow morning, have someone puncture my mofo vein, bruise me, cause me discomfort, and pay for it so that they can call me and tell me that, yes, indeed, that is your uterine lining flopping out of your hooha.

I mean, why bother with any of this?

I'm also pissed because my guy's having an existential freak out, and thus can't support me. I went over and spent an hour with him at work, holding him while he wept as he wrestled with hypochondriac fears of cancer related to his birthmark and was overwhelmed by the harsh beauty of existence. He's amazing for having such a rich, deep inner life and sharing it with me. It's just shit timing. No one's fault, but I'm still pissed.

He's got a dermatologist appointment for early September, just to help him relax.

Fuck all this. I'm going to go home, drink a beer, and refuse to move from in front of the laptop. Admiral Adama, jump me into some other galaxy.

Did I mention I'm pissed?

Better luck next time

My period has appeared, it seems, in a disgustingly painful and clumpy mess. Why aren't I more disappointed?

I actually feel strangely okay, though I'm pissed that I felt like shit all those days for naught.

Back to the drawing board! Wish me luck (which now means no cysts and a green light to shoot up again).

Feeling better

I had a good weekend relaxing, gardening, hiking in my favorite spot after my favorite breakfast, and in general just taking it easy. The headache faded quickly the moment I got out of that office and got a really wonderful ice cream cone.

I'm going to keep this short, as tomorrow morning's my beta and I'm feeling the urge to start speculating, etc. Wish me luck.

In which her head explodes

...and her stomach churns. I feel just awful today: nauseous, dizzy, with a raging headache. I rarely get them, but it's so bad I just begged two baby aspirin off our department secretary.

Help!

Aaah! (the sound of the sun emerging)

So things are better today. I worked things out somehow with my bureaucrat buddies at the DMV: I got my damned lerner's permit and even drove us home! I can still drive, it seems, though the first few moments were slightly shaky. My guy, at first somewhat on edge, soon relaxed and gave me supportive, helpful directions as we tooled around town. What a good man he is.

I also ate fish soup (again) last night. Is there some 12-step program I should be contemplating? I mean, the sweet, funny folks who run the restaurant, clearly family members (including one cute little toddler with a great giggle), are starting to teach me Burmese terms for cooking and food and urging me to order off the menu and get the really, really stinky, fishy dishes. But I love learning from them. If you find me blogging from their kitchen, though, stage an intervention.

I realized that I am making myself suffer by forcing myself to live up to my own, misguided expectations about productivity in this period of my life. I mean, it's pretty rough to start treatments and just keep rolling along, churning out pages of turgid prose on esoteric historical topics while losing your ever-loving mind, exercising enthusiastically when your belly's swollen as an overripe persimmon, resisting food temptations when your body screams eat! Now! I may gain weight. I may lose some momentum on the dis. I may not be the sharpest. I may be sleepy and touchy and always hungry. But I must stay somewhat sane and somewhat happy. Even if that means indulging in the occasional teary meltdown.

Somehow, finding the will to just let myself be has eased the hormonal pressure.

Meltdown!

Yes, the meltdowns we've all been waiting for have arrived! I've lost my ever-loving mind (and not just when someone tried to take my fish soup bowl away before I was finished) and my poor husband is paying to price.

It began last night. You see, I'm married to a charming, intelligent, sexually astute, musically talented funny, earthy but alas somewhat grumpy man. He's a big bear of a guy, so when he's ready to eat, he gets grumbly. We got home from the grocery store (I had done the shopping, he picked me up), and I was exhaustedly putting the groceries away while he desperately wrestled up some dinner. He grouched at me in his hunger, and I felt very hurt and ran away into the study, where I shut the door and started crying softly. We eventually worked things out, but I realized that the hormones were finally getting to me. That and everything else this year has brought. I was exhausted and my resources depleted.

Then this morning, things got even worse. You see, I went to the BMV to try and finally get my driver's license. Do NOT EVER go to the BMV during the 2ww, if it can at all be avoided. My situation, as always, was a little odd. For some reason known only to the idiot state bureaucrats, you need to show your SS card, your passport or original birth certificate, and several other forms of id and proof that you are who you say you are. This, even after they have already issued you a state id with your date of birth, which requires proof of social security number (a nice post-9/11 addition to the process). So whatever you did to get that id means JACK if you now what to get your license.

Yikes. So I storm home, really, really pissed, after I pass the written exam but can't even get a lousy learner's permit. In a blind rage of tears, I scream to my husband that I hate my life and everything about the way it's going, that I hate that nothing ever seems to go right for me lately, and that I'm a complete and utter fuck up. Poor guy moves through begging, cajoling, reasoning, raging, but he can't calm me down. I tear through the house, ripping into untouched nooks and crannies, vainly searching for my long-missing passport, sniffling and weeping.

Just when I am about to give up, I take down this old dusty box of cassettes of bad pop music from Obscure Corner of the World. Suddenly, I see the PeptoBismal pink leather cover I used to keep my passport in flutter to the floor. Thinking that it was empty, I open it, and there's my passport.

But that's not the end of my brutal saga of banality. We go back to the BMV (conveniently located where you can only reach it BY CAR) and I triumphantly show my passport. But then, oh woe is me! They notice that my first name is off by one letter.

I have a very unusual first name, and it's almost always misspelled by people who aren't paying close attention. However, I have a very unusual last name, so any reasonable moron can see that the person missing that second consonant in her first on the passport is the same as the person with the social security card, university ID, mofo'in STATE ID they just renewed, the credit cards, etc. etc. No, I need to get them my birth certificate from Texas.

So I spent most of the morning raging and crying. My guy and I made up, I told him all he needs to do is show me as much physical affection and kindness as possible in those situations, and we resolved to have a relaxing evening at home with the first disc from Season 3 of Battlestar Galactica (my second obsession after mahonga).

Well, at least I found my passport and can flee the country if I can't take it anymore.

Fish Soup

This is the weirdest side effect ever of the drugs I've been on. I've been obsessed, and I mean OBSESSED, with Burmese fish soup with rice noodles. I could eat it by the bucket, every day, every meal and still want more. Seriously.

All day yesterday, all I could think about was this first soup, known as mohinga, which is a breakfast staple in Burma. Here's a recipe. It's the best, most rocking meal in the universe to my progesterone-addled mind: a clear, salty, flavorful broth with little bits of fish, a mound of slurpable noodles, a sliced hard-boiled egg, fresh cilantro, raw red or green onions, little dal crunchies (that cool Indian touch that sets Burmese cooking apart from Thai, for instance)... Ah, heaven. I always loved this dish and usually order it at our local Burmese spot, but... this isn't love. It's something darker, less wholesome. It's obsession.

When I say that this soup was all I could think about, I'm totally serious. I woke up thinking about fish soup. It's all I wanted to eat. I literally had to force myself to eat something else for breakfast. I decided I would go get it for lunch. I schemed and planned about when my fish soup hour would come. I walked downtown, ready, tasting the fish soup on my tongue.

But the Burmese place is closed on Mondays, I suddenly recalled. Drat! So instead I tried to assuage my fish soup lust with some hippy food, but I failed. I ate so much hippy food I thought I would burst, but my brain raged on, unconcerned. I mean, I even spent half of my 1.5 hour hatha yoga class thinking about fish soup. After class, I was meeting my husband downtown to walk home with him but I took an extra four-block walk just so I could double check when the fish soup dispensary opened. 11:30 was my answer.

Though I was still obsessively longing for and sensing the fish soup, my heart was put at ease. I knew the hour of my fishy redemption, my cilantro-topped joy. I just had to make it through the night.

I did, somehow, and woke up, just like on Monday, craving fish soup with every fiber of my being. But the end was in sight: my guy and I walked to his work, and then I hightailed it to the Burmese place. Desperate, I sat out front, reading a book for the last ten minutes before they opened their door for business.

It tasted so damn good. I could eat some now, actually.

I didn't see anything about "possible pathological mohinga cravings" in my patient's info! Why didn't the RE's office warn me? I'm in hell here, people!

What have you all been craving lately?

Stupid things I have done, Part VII

Yes, I must, must lighten up the 2ww with a bit of my own stupidity, which always makes me laugh.

I've spent way, way too much time in a certain large E. European city, one that has its charms but also suffers from a quasi-police state mentality. That said, it also has a strangely small-town, down-home vibe at times, and people despite their busy lives take lots of time to hang out with friends.

One summer ritual in this city is the arrival of the watermelons. At little intersections and major crossroads, you'll see families from the Caucasus with a huge pile of the sometimes extraordinary fruits, stacked in what amounts to a melon playpen. They live beside their hoard, staying in small plastic tents and selling their melons. People have various methods for selecting the perfect watermelon, though none in the city were ever as astounding as the ones I encountered further south, where the melons were so sweet that they formed what looked like hunks of amber where scratched and made bees swoon.

One fine evening, I was with a gang of my buddies, some old friends who happened, oddly enough to also know my first husband, and we chose our melon. It was a very warm night, so we decided to sit out in the courtyard of my friends' apartment building (they lived in the same building) and enjoy our melon. We also had a little beer, and we sat on the curb by some bushes, drinking, laughing, and preparing to enjoy the watermelon. Our friend's baby slept peaceful next to us in a giant, old-fashioned baby carriage.

Suddenly, our little group was flooded with light from some car's headlights. My ex-husband brilliantly lifted up the large knife, turning it in the shafts of light so that it glittered menacingly. We were then greeted by several policemen, who asked us if we were planning to carve up the baby with a grim laugh.

When we said that we weren't, they asked for our documents. This is standard procedure in this city, something all foreigners fear. Though at the time, things were more relaxed there then they are today, cops could still get all in your face if they wanted to, and often claimed you had something wrong with your visa, registration, or other paperwork, and therefore had to pay a fine. Of course, that fine could be "taken care of right here." Nudge nudge wink wink.

I always carried my passport with me in the city, but at that moment, I had left it in my friends' apartment, thinking I wouldn't need it to go sit in the courtyard and eat watermelon. Needless to say, as the police went around the circle looking at everyone's passports, I began to freak out.

When they turned to me and asked, "Documents, young lady?" I stood for half a second with my mouth half open and then began spitting out a nearly incoherent string of phrases in the language I could normally speak quite fluently: "My documents... they are in purse... Purse, well, purse in apartments of, of friends! You see, friends. We can go and get it, if you'd like. Then I'll show documents to you, okay?"

The police officer interrupted me abruptly, "Young lady, cut it out. Speak normally!"

"I can't speak normally!" I replied, desperate. "I'm an American!"

At that, the cops laughed, and my friends laughed. Everyone had a good chuckle. Except me.

The cops let us go, telling us not to make so much noise and to go back inside. Which we did. My friends explained that the police thought I was so high or drunk that I couldn't put a sentence together. When they realized I was a foreigner--my accent in this language is pretty good--they thought I was hilarious.

When has your own goofiness gotten you out of a jam?

I hate progesterone / I love garage sales

I'd like to extend my sympathy to any and every woman who has had to inject or ingest progesterone. That wasn't my fate this cycle, but I surmise my poor ovaries are cranking out plenty of the evil stuff--yeah I know it's important for the big p, but whatever--and it's making me into a female monster. Think Grendel.

I don't know if this is the typical reaction for folks, but I have had the oddest, most vivid dreams. I keep falling asleep, even in the middle of the day. It's an irresistible sensation. It's accompanied by the worst combo of massive appetite and abdominal bloat ever. I'm not speculating about what any of this means, except that it means that I'm totally overdosing on progesterone.

***

On a completely different note, my mom and I went to part of the World's Longest Garage Sale on Highway 127 yesterday. It was overwhelming: endless trash, old clothes, toys, etc. with the occasional gem thrown in (Mom has an antique store, so she has a professional interest in this type of thing).

One item that stuck in my mind was a christening gown--I know, how odd that I have babies on the brain at the moment! I'm a bit embarrassed to admit that.

It was clearly old, but in perfect shape, carefully preserved by some woman for decades, perhaps in a trunk in the attic. As I fingered its hem, I thought about all the children who might have used that gown, children who might be old by now or long dead. There was something very touching about its flawless condition, the care that went into making it, the suggestion of loss that hung around it. Someone was selling it, its source forgotten, the long line of women's hands and thoughts broken.

I didn't buy it, but I did get an awesome hand scythe perfect for whacking weeds the old fashioned way. The curved blade was perfectly balanced in the hand, making for a powerful, steady stroke. When we got home, I went to work on the weeds that have flourished in the past few wet, warm weeks, loping through them. The grim weeder.

Eight is enough...

...to make my gut ache like someone just punched me repeatedly. Eight follicles with mature eggs, I was told.

Oh my god. What have we just done?!

I guess my RE wasn't whistling Dixie when he said he'd like to be aggressive.

My guy's end of the bargain went smoothly, and the IUI, with the exception of the extremely unpleasant sensation of something going through the cervix--it just feels SO WRONG--was fine. The nurse, a genuinely peppy, bubbly, kind-hearted gal, showed us the sperm wriggling away on the microscope slide. They were oddly cute, like little fennel seeds with sprightly tails.

Now, I'm ovulating. How do I know? The nurse said 1 PM was the time, and it hurts. Like worse than any other part of this process. Really unpleasant. Ouch.

I'm exhausted, in part because I was up once again at 5 AM to write a press release. I can't wait to go home and sleep, but after work, I'm getting acupuncture, a cool protocol to support IUI success based on Chinese and Western research. Then, thank the goddess, I'll be spending the next few days hanging out with my mom, going antiquing and taking a few days off to have some fun. Mocktails and rummage sales.

My beta is Aug. 19th. Wish me luck (but not too much luck, if you catch my drift).

That wasn't so bad...

Really, I keep being surprised at how the actual physical aspects of this process--i.e. inserting a big, long, thick needle into my ass--aren't as terrible as I imagined. Once I figured out how to mix up the stuff (I've been spoiled by my F-stim pen), I just took the plunge so to speak and got the job done. I have to tell any newbies out there: Look at the injection vids linked to Mel's blog. They are very, very helpful and make the whole new process less scary.

It's been nuts today (again): Up at five to write freelance stuff, clean up the house for a maternal visit tomorrow evening, call the RE's office to confirm appointment, go to the library and do several hundred pages of photocopying, soothe frustrated husband dealing with non-starting old car in the blazing heat... After all that, a few hours of mindless office work seems like an oasis of peace...

I know I have all your good wishes with me for tomorrow's IUI, the piece de resistance of this madness. That means a lot!

Yikes

It's been a wild yet dull ride these past few days. Our landline is still down, our cell has been acting strangely, but I think we're out of the woods. Trigger tomorrow, IUI on Tuesday morning. Things are looking good, apparently.

We had to drive up to the RE's office once again at the ass crack of dawn. I'm feeling really blah (I'm tired, it's too hot, etc.).

Damn!

Uranus must be in retrograde or something. When we left home this morning, Hubster unfortunately forgot his cell. Our home landline is suddenly on the fritz: It rings once, then gives you a busy signal (though you seem to be able to call out). So basically I have no way to get instructions, as the RE's office turns their phones off after noon on Fridays.

Dagnabbit! I think I'm supposed to come in for monitoring on Monday morning (again, the 1.5 hour drive) but don't know when. I think I'm supposed to continue with 125 IUs of Follistim, but don't know for sure.

This shit is so frustrating. Now we get to go pick up my MIL due to car trouble and all that jazz.

Fun fun fun. Hope y'all's Friday is going better.

Over the River and Through the Woods

..to get a vaginal ultrasound! Today we had to drive to RE hq, about 70 miles away, as the local branch monitoring center--also known in our household as the "bump barn" due to all the pregnant ladies--messed up and could do my u/s. Whatever. So out of the house at 7:15.

Things are still cooking along nicely. The biggies have grown a little bigger, whilst the slackers are picking up steam. Looks like I'm going to end up with 4 or so good follies by the beginning of next week. I know, we're playing with fire here.

I miscalculated when they'd want me to trigger, though: We're looking at Wednesday for an IUI at the soonest. Which is fine.

I'm so exhausted today, in part because I woke up at 4:30, made us some lunch to pack, wrote a page on the dis, etc. If I can only make it through the afternoon, I'm heading home to crash.