WTF?

And TMI: hCG is now at 19. Only a 3 point drop in over a week? Come on, body! What in the world is up?

Oh, and what's with the bizarre flourish of a bit of randiness and EWCM? The science people say it's impossible for you to ovulate right now! Even if you did start bleeding about 2 weeks ago!

Never mind, you goofball reproductive organs. Just get me a beer.

ETA: But thanks, dears, for not bleeding anymore. I really appreciate it.

And now, with more teeth!

I not only have license to ill--road trip, road trip!--but I have a full mouth of teeth.

Both of these bits of news deserve some explaining.

1. I haven't had a license for years because I lived overseas, lived in NYC, lived in a little college town where I didn't really need a car to do basic errands and have fun. We've got a decent bus system here, plus I'm an avid, nay fanatical walker. Sort of an al Q@eda-grade pedestrian who would do anything to convert others to my steppin' cause. I've even considered a tee-shirt that reads "Real patriots hoof it" or something.

But I needed a license for my university job, which involves visiting bloggy buddy Io, uh, I mean attending important educators conferences.

However, I will not give up my radical two-legged ways! Give me sidewalks or give me death!

Ehem. Sorry.

2. I had a genetically malformed tooth toward the front that basically made my mouth erupt in a nasty, nasty infection for years. Yeah, I know, but you try going to the dentist when you're clearing 12 grand annually and have no insurance. Or even worse: going to a dentist in Eastern Europe (my skin crawls).

To finally solve this issue, I went a year ago to Hippy Dentist, who referred me for a root canal, but I wound up needing surgery and an implant. Now, the saga is over and I have a pricey but lovely tooth. For a year, I walked around all gappy toothed and hillybilly. Now, I can smile with bourgeois pride.

Hippy Dentist claims to admire me for my ability to set vanity aside. He said I had character. That's nice, but I'm much more happy to have a tooth.

Now all I need to do is give birth and finish my dis and I'll have cleared the to-do list. Ha.

A "Real" American

Despite my pinko tendencies and dangerously cosmopolitan outlook, I am now a real, card-carrying, gass-guzzling American...

I got my license!

Constant Craving

Nope, not another ode to the wonders of Burmese soup. But a very peculiar sensation I keep having when I'm around children whose company I enjoy.

I feel a physical longing to give birth to someone like them. Seriously, it's like my whole reproductive system howls with a craving to get to work.

Maybe this is what many women feel who long for a child, and I've never felt it so acutely before. Wanting to be pregnant and bear a child were so abstract to me when I began this blog, forget back when we started trying. Maybe this sensation is a kind of pregnancy withdrawal, when that high tide of hormones recedes and leaves you dull and grounded and hollow again. It's as if my ute has decided to do backflips or something.

It's hard to bear, really, and I feel oddly ashamed of it. It makes me feel vulnerable and exposed. I want to bear a child too much, my brain says, and it will be obvious, the scarlet IF on my chest.

An Offering

This is National Infertility Awareness Week and I have neglected to festoon my blog with any appropriately aware code. Not that I didn't try... (I had technical difficulties).

Instead I'd like to offer my fellow IFers a Lakota story that appears in Frances Densmore's classic book, Teton Sioux Music. Before I go any further, let me say that Frances was a women of that era when pursuing an intellectual dream or a professional career meant remaining (in?)voluntarily childless. Frances traveled all over the US in the early 20th century, conducting field research into Native American music among all sorts of different groups, including the Lakota (Sioux), assisted by her younger sister, who also chose never to marry and start a family.

Her work is filled with lengthy direct quotes from conversations with elders, and is thus really fun to read--especially if you're avoiding working on your dissertation. Here's a story, as told by Higheagle, that I'd like to share with you:

"There was an old couple living on the bank of a river. They had been married a long time, but did not have any children, though they had often asked Wakantanka to send them a child. This special request was always made when they were in the sweat-bath booth. On one of these occasions, while they were praying, they heard some one outside saying that their prayer had been heard and would be granted on the following morning. They were very much pleased and felt overanxious.

On the next morning the old man went out, and there, right in front of the door, peeped out of the ground a greenish opening of some seed—out of the ground. The old man was very much excited, and, not knowing what to do, they both went into the sweat-bath booth and asked what they should do. As before, they heard a voice saying: 'Fear not. This plant which you behold is going to grow into the most beautiful child you ever saw.'”

They had received the gift of corn, something new to the Lakota, and very precious. I offer this story in hopes that if you are suffering from infertility, you, too, will someday here that voice and discover the unexpected and unexpectedly beautiful response to your prayers, longing, and pain. It may be something you never imagined, but it may be just something unspeakably valuable that will bless the entire community.

You can read more here, as the book's now in public domain and on Google Books.

Good news

My dad got through his procedure to address his prostate cancer with flying colors. They found exactly what they thought they would, no more no less, and implanted these teensy bits of radioactive material to zap the cancer.

He was worried about the anesthesia and even gave me an envelope with instructions "just in case." I opened the envelope a tad and saw the words "scatter my ashes." I had to stash the thing in a drawer because it was too painful at that moment to read any further.

But he's doing great: still resting (watching lots of Battlestar G, apparently) and already back tackling various winter projects around the farm.

My husband's also recovered from his serious bout of anxiety-driven gut trouble, and both the gut and the mind are again at peace. He's back to playing Willie Nelson on the guitar and devouring pistachio gelato with characteristic abandon.

Our home repairs are progressing nicely. I'll be teaching in the spring. I've caught up on my academic work (sort of). I've started writing fiction again, just for fun.

Just thought it was time to share some good news, instead of my endless woeful lament of my still-pregnantitude.

As per usual, I spoke too soon

Turns out my hCG is still in the double digits, 22 as of Monday.

That's the bad news.

Good news: self indulgence and poor eating continues, and perhaps the math will straighten out a bit, so that we can get all the cycle shit over before Christmas, etc.

So I guess the bleeding is just more bleeding. And more bleeding. With a little more bleeding thrown in, for good measure. I wonder what my body thinks it's doing...

Nice to see you, Auntie!

So, it's official (at least in my mind): I'm having a full-on bleed, which I guess technically isn't menstruation, but marks the beginning of a new cycle. That's the good news.

The bad news: I did the math, and it says that if this cycle moves along as it normal does with me (i.e. about 29-30 days long), that means that if we wanted to hit the hard stuff again, I'd theoretically be stimming right when we'd planned a big week on the East Coast for a conference and meet up with old friends in NYC. The next month, of course, is holidayhell at the end of December.

Sigh. At least the leaves are really pretty this year.

OMG, honey, I'm unpregnant!

It's odd what can make you happy if you let it. Yesterday, I noticed some spotting. No real sign of it today, but I think I know what it means: I'm more or less unpregnant.

We'll see what the blood test says. But I'm hopeful. Maybe I can even get cracking in November...

ETA: Okay, so I'm still a bit preggo: hCG=36. But getting closer...

Anger Management

You know, there are no good ways open to American women to deal with anger. If you're angry, you're a bitter bitch and no one wants to hang around that, right? Who could hang with a harpie?

The funny thing about IF is you're angry at something intangible. It's not fair to blame your poor body, which really is struggling to do what it can. You can't blame your doctors, who are actually getting you closer to what you've wanted so powerfully. You can blame my cat, or society. And while that's amusing, it's somehow not quite right.

I will assign blame, though, to our culture, as nebulous as that may be. I mean, come on! What American fool came up with the notion that life would be good to us? I was talking to my Israeli friend, with whom I often have interesting conversations. She's a very straight-talking gal, though never unkind. I was telling her very honestly about the emotional cocktail I've been imbibing of late, and she was confused as to why I and her other American buddies seemed to have such a need to convince themselves that all would be well and turn out a-okay. That's just not part of her culture, and with the struggles and sorrows of her ancestors, that makes complete sense. From her perspective, there are absolutely no guarantees of happiness, so you have to enjoy the little things and take heart in all that's tolerable in your existence.

Her approach seems grim and unsatisfying at first glance, Sartre and Woody Allen commiserating on a particularly gloomy day. But then again, where do I get off expecting a rose garden? And who the hell are those idiots around me who can't deal with sorrow, loss, fear or even the slightest mention thereof, without leaping to advice, dismissal, denial?

So yeah, I'll blame society. And give thanks for the understanding and love that I have.

Ectopic Angst

God, this really has to be one of the nastiest outcomes. And now I'm all paranoid that it's going to happen again.

The odds are in my favor (theoretically) to have a normal uterine pregnancy next time (10-20% chance that I'll have a repeat ectopic). But if I do manage to lodge another embryo in my tube, the next time I get knocked up, it's fifty-fifty. That's when the docs get all agitated and move to remove your tubes.

I just can't bear the thought of being functionally sterile. But then I realized recently that from now on, even when I get my period, I won't rest until I pee on a stick a few days after AF appears. Because that's exactly what happened this time: I bled, but I was pregnant in the wrong place.

Great: so now I'm not only terrified I will never get pregnant again; I'm also frightened that I will get pregnant and not be able to figure out where the little tyke has grabbed on. There's no way I'll ever get to enjoy any of this process.

I'll be in the game room

So, I've gotten to that long, dull period (excuse the pun) when I'm sitting around, drumming my fingers on the desk and gazing distractedly at the calendar. My hCG came back at 100 last Friday, so it's declining adequately, but at the halving rate it's making, I'll still be "pregnant" biochemically until sometime in fucking November.

Oh, pardon my French. Me? Bitter? No!

Then I have to wait one natural cycle (I think) until they'll let me get cracking with my stims and needles. And who knows what confusion awaits my poor, poor ladybits once the hCG bottoms out. Sigh.

But here, my dears, is the silver lining. Being from the Midwest, I've been taught to find one at all costs (or if one cannot be found, to drink myself into oblivion). I can drink coffee if I please! Guzzle Bernaise! Eat buffalo tartare--and I do like my meat gamey and rare, savage that I am. I can bungy-jump, run, go to the sauna. I can't even entertain the thought that I might be pregnant, that I might be deluding myself into thinking I'm pregnant, that my delusions will simply serve to make me miserable. This is something of a respite from my mental labors of the past few years.

But I'm still pissed. Pissed I have to sit idle, enjoying all the negative aspects of pregnancy (with the exception of the food and drink and activity restrictions) and none of the potential benefits. Only to have to go through it all again, with both more hope and more despair written into the equation.

So, body, snap to it and sort all this crap out. Stop giving me cramps and yeast infections. You're not gestating!

I'll be in the game room until it's over.

Okay, so I am special! ... plus Home Improvement Hell

Aw, shucks. Eurydice over at Geeks in Rome gave me an award. It's in Italian (so that means it's Eurostylin') and it has a funky pyramid that would be the envy of any decent Wicca circle. That's so sweet, and I can use the sugar nowadays, especially from a gal as cool as Eurydice... former stone cutter? Expert pasta boiler? Thoughtful mom? I mean, her resume of coolness is a long one.

Of course, bloggy awards are meant to be shared. And I can't make up my mind. I love all of you that I read and bug with my silly philosophizing... Uh, otherwise, I wouldn't read you! Seriously. You all rule, and you've made me a saner, happier woman with your stories. You're all brilliante! It's been a rough ride lately, and there's no way in hell I would have gotten through all this relatively unscathed without your insights and cheers.

I wish I could invite you over to our place, make you a nice dinner, and crack open some champagne/sparkling cider and some silly, silly stories. And I'd get to show off our bathroom, which is done: "Hey everyone! Come wash your hands! And no more worries about Beezlebub popping out of the medicine chest!" Do I know how to throw an imaginary party or what?

My parents came back to town and we got a whole load of stuff done outside the bathroom. The fireplace has a thick primer coat of while masonry paint and new doors waiting to go in. I got some cool new light fixtures. The foyer is ready to tile. The holes in the floor are almost fixed...

Yes, I did say holes in the floor. No, we didn't know about them until we yanked the nasty-ass carpet. One of them is large enough to jump through (carefully)! My husband suggested spinning it in our future home listing as a "mushroom nook and fallout shelter."

We had to get a plumber to fix the leak that had caused it, and this seems to have encouraged all sorts of other leaks to form (the washing machine, toilet, etc.) and in general to have had an impact on our already shitty luck. Our computer, cell phone, bike tires, everything has gone kaplooey at once.

But I'm happy anyway. In a great mood, actually. Finally.