Adventures in Insemination

I've been up since 4 AM. Sure, I was nervous about the IUI, but I also heard the distinct sound of tires spinning, spinning, spinning against newly fallen snow. And sure enough, we just got slammed with the biggest winter storm of the season. They even closed the university, which never, ever happens.

But our IUI was at 8:30, 70 miles away.

So we left more than 2 hours early, edging along the streets and highways in the driving snow, averaging when lucky about 40 mph. I had all sorts of visions of disaster: a flat tire, running out of gas somewhere along the snowy road (we were running very low, as per usual), arriving at the RE's office only to find it deserted.

But we got there, only 10 minutes late. My guy did his bit with incredible efficiency, a trait that, ehem, I'm happy he doesn't exhibit on a regular basis. We waited while they spun his stuff, and I could feel my ovaries clamoring with the veritable follicle moshpit that had erupted in my gut. Then into the exam room (which was plastered with photos of very funny-looking babies and many, many multiples--oh my), up into the stirrups, in with the spectulum and boom! A gazillion dudes swimming up to meet the ova marching band.

Beta is Feb. 11. Please, not another ectopic. I can deal with almost anything else. Okay, not a miscarriage. But sadly enough, a BFN would be highly preferable to another ectopic fiasco.

Yup

My man is being whipped around by his hypochondriac delusions due to my cycle.

This we've understood.

Now, what to do about it?

We had a good talk last night. It seems like a multi-pronged approach is needed: He needs some mild head meds for now at least, he needs to talk about his feelings of fear and anxiety regarding our attempts at reproducing, and he needs to go see doctors on occasion, just to rule out anything serious.

He's done all three, and seems to be getting a grip on things. Too bad I'm still exhausted (and terribly bitchy) and not really able to do more than encourage him to get his shit together because I need him.

I need him because I still feel like crap and can't seem to focus. All my work--which is all mental--is grinding along painfully. I have tons to do, and can't seem to do any of it well or very efficiently. This leads to a great deal of stress at a time with I seem to be able to tolerate no stress at all.

Sigh. At least it's pretty outside, thanks to several inches of snow.

I triggered last night, and our IUI's tomorrow morning.

Blech

Damn, this cycle is kicking my ass.

It's funny: Last time around, I felt pretty okay. Somewhat spaced and--dare I say--high during the stims phase, but nothing like this. It's like I've got a mild flu: My belly aches, my appetite is all bizarre (nonexistent and then ravenous), I have zero energy. I feel like the Michelin woman. I can't seem to focus.

They've dialed me waaay back, from 125 down to 75 the past few nights. Lefty has around nine good sized follies, though some are real bruisers who might Chuck Norris the remaining pipsqueaks into non-maturity. Righty has a decent looking trio going on, though they're a tad smaller than the mega follicles on the sinister side. Lining looks good.

I've made some interesting discoveries about myself (more on that later, when my brain is functioning better), while my guy is once again experiencing a bout of anxiety and hypochondria. It seems that whenever I'm feeling awful due to fertility-related crap, he feels some subconcious urge to go nuts.

Good times, good times. I'm guessing IUI on Thurday. I'm praying the luteal phase will be kinder.

Ovarian Centrism

Looks like Lefty and Righty are vying for supremacy, with Lefty still in the lead (like a good pinko's left ovary should). I had, oh, four or five good looking blobs on Ovary Sinister, and a trio of cuties on Ovary Dexter. A pretty interesting balance of left and right worthy of a forced parliamentary coallition. Despite my slightly lower dose of stims, I'm producing about the same amount of eggs. This is clearly not my problem in the whole getting-pregnant-in-the-right-place-and-staying-that-way game.

My RE, just so y'all know, is pretty devil-may-care compared to others. When I made eight eggs last time--lord, I'm starting to feel like a friggin' goose--he was fine with me going ahead with an IUI. Does he look at me and say, "Hey, she's pretty prolific and looks like a good candidate for triplet pregnacy. Let's just see what the ol' mare does this time"? I don't know.

I'm feeling better today than I have since this cycle started. Let's hope this bright spot lasts a few days.

Billie Holiday Moment

So, there I am. In the basement dressing room of our local theater, locked in the bathroom. A gospel choir is belting out something about Zion next door, and it comes booming through the wall.

I yank up my spangly skirt, whip out my kit, and stab myself with a needle in the belly. Then I go and sing "Strange Fruit" with my singing group (as part of a musical tour of the 20th-century Civil Rights Movement in honor of MLK Day).

***
For those of you playing at home, looks like Lefty is pulling ahead with 5 or 6 follies about the same, still fairly small size. This leftward drift I attribute to our new administration. Rightie is keeping it on the d-low, with just a follicle or two, for politeness' sake.

Still on 125. Back to the bump barn tomorrow for my morning wanding and bloodletting.

Short Sale

So, the place we really liked? The one with the surprisingly reasonable price that made me wonder what the hell was wrong with it, because something clearly was wrong for it to be so reasonably priced?

Short sale.

Alas, they had four offers already, and yet they were still barreling toward foreclosure and that means no sale at all. Which means no point in looking at the place.

I was disappointed, but that disappointment was balanced by a hefty dose of relief, because the thought of getting our house on the market in a few weeks while cycling, preparing to teach, and working on my dis (while working two other jobs) was terrifying. There's also the fact that someday, soon, we'll find our farm. Maybe even this place, after the bank's through with it.

Oddly enough, I think my reproductive history is all about the short sale, too. The attempt to get out from under by asking less, only to be inevitably repossessed by the same sadness and inertia.

Another 125 tonight. I always feel so exhausted after the injections.

Certifiable

You know you're going nutso when you wake up in the middle of the night, thinking about how you really need to declutter and paint and stage your house and doing mortgage calculations in your head, and you're not employed by HGTV. When you're making lists and trying to figure out how in the world you could sell your house fast, just in case this place is the one, in one of the ickiest market situations in memory.

I got up at three, tired of attempting to fall back asleep with visions of paintbrushes and storage units dancing in my head. I ran some numbers, and realized we could ask a bit less for our house, and perhaps get away with not fixing up all the things we originally planned. As we're doing the work ourselves, we might not have time.

And then I remembered my meds. They're arriving in a few hours. Tonight I have a date with 125 units of F0llistim.

[Cats look on curiously as her head spins and admits a puff of white smoke.]

Will any of this work? And who cares, if I lose my mind in the process?

Death to the Bump Barn!

I headed to the place I refer to as the "bump barn" (i.e. the annoying obgyn practice that's conveniently only 5 minutes from my house, but filled with pregnant ladies and run by bonafide c*nts) on this bone-chilling morning to get myself wanded. I was all prepared to be cool and cynical, with my collection of Saki short stories (don't know Saki? He's the ultimate in turn of the last century snark and extremely entertaining).

But then the bitches didn't have my order. And my RE's office didn't pick up the phone for half an hour. And they said something to the effect that, "Well, you'll just have to reschedule." I explained to them--I mean, people, do you know NOTHING about female bodies, despite your profession?--that I could not reschedule, as it depended on my cycle day. And I burst into tears, shamelessly and openly. I let people stare, staring defiantly right back at them. I explained myself without apologizing to the front-counter skanks. I was angry, scared I would go through another trauma. I wasn't about to make things easy for anyone.

I don't know how women who have had later losses can do it. They deserve the pink heart for sheer bravery and gall.

Finally, one of the reception idiots had the good sense to get my RE on the horn via his answering service. He was extremely kind, friendly, warm, and apologetic. He took care of my order. I got wanded in an anticlimax. No cysts, no ovarian middle fingers being given, all clear for needly fun.

Then, in a sudden shift in tone and atmosphere worthy of David Lynch, I had a great morning with my man. We went for an ice-cold jog in the snowy woods near our house. To cheer me up, I asked if we could drive out to see a house I'd spotted online.

Lo, and behold, we saw a lovely limestone house on 8.5 acres only 30 minutes from the farmer's market where we plan to foist our vegetables on the public. Nice, flatish, pasture acres, dotted with little pumps. Big old trees in front. A front porch. A woodburning stove. A ramshackle old barn.

We look at it Wednesday morning with our realtor.

Oh yeah, and I get my first scan on Tuesday. Whatever.

Here we go again

So, it's Day 1. Time to make that call, order those meds that cost their weight in gold, get psyched for a wanding, bid farewell to all my chemical crutches. I'm depressed.

You'd think after all the bitching and moaning about waiting for my hCG to come down, I'd be totally rarin' to inject. But the whole process is stretching before me like one, long, dull day of meetings, where you have to pay attention and you have to attend, but you know you're not going to get a damn thing out of it.

I'm dreading the brain mist that inevitably sets in, thicker than the fog on the San Fransisco Bay. I'm dreading the fatigue, the gross bloat, the stupidity of it all. Maybe once I see some swelling follies, I'll be able to muster some excitement.

I wish I didn't have to do this. And, frankly, left to my own devices, I wouldn't. I'd live with the pain of being childless, and move on. But my guy, with his childhood trauma demanding some alchemical process of redemption via my incompetent reproductive system, it's the be all and end all for him. We have a hard time talking about this straight on.

Okay, time to make the donuts. I mean the call to the RE. Clocking in for another round of expensive self-molification.

The Unpost

• Thanks a million for all the advice, ideas, experiences you shared. They helped immensely and I've gotten some ideas about how to take care of myself, while being supportive to the man I love. He seems to be doing better, especially after we had a hiking adventure this weekend.
• Waiting. As usual. For AF to see what we can do this time around. No hope, no fear. Just waiting. It's kind of odd.
• Lots of work. Lots of work. Lots of work.

That is all. :)

Assvice, please

I want to support my guy, who's again struggling with anxiety and depression. Again, he suspects he has some form of cancer (at the moment, lymphatic cancer is his favorite terror). Again, he's often grouchy, blue, scared, and/or inconsolable.

It's not as intense as this autumn (the goddess be praised) but it's still hard to see and sometimes hard to bear. Has anyone read any good books they think might help me get some insight? Any anecdotes from your own experience?

The Bright Side

2009. Already, a much kinder year.

I don't know why, but I'm feeling happier than I have in a long time. I've started to tackle the weight I gained during Ectopalooza 'o8 and my personal tour of Belgium's finest beers by keeping a food diary and increasing my dose of daily movement. This seems to be having a positive impact on my mood--I know, you'd think I'd know that by now, that taking good care of myself=happy happy joy joy. Silly me. It seems until recently I thought happiness lay in pumpkin cheesecake and shiraz.

We're starting our search for a farm in earnest next month. Meanwhile, we're finishing up our ridiculously long-lasting renovation project, and with the end in sight, we can't help but feel hopeful. Now that I think about it, it'll be six months of house chaos by the time we're done. Yikes.

The thought of taking the big step of buying a place and starting a whole new venture seems to make any passing anxieties about my ladyparts flee like ghosts at dawn. The thought that we will get a large portion of what we want, despite all the set backs and hard times, is so supremely comforting that I want to generalize to anyone who will listen: Don't wait. Your dream? Do it now. Chase that joy.