Thank you to those of you who have been checking on me. I have not expired from surgical misadventure, septic gallstones, or the complete decay of my mental abilities. I'm just lazy. And busy. Simultaneously. They seem like they'd be mutually exclusive, but I guess they aren't.
Things are good here. Kevin got a new job with a nice, big raise and lots more responsibility. Yay! I'm as fat as ever, and on the brink of a major body overhaul (via diet and exercise, I wish it were more extensive). Work is keeping me outrageously busy but that's a good thing. I'm preparing for a huge consignment sale that I help manage, I'm completing preparations for the Ministry Fair at my Church, and have started a Daisy Girl Scout troop at Megan's school. No rest for the weary (and stupid).
Megan started Kindergarten and is doing well. She loves her teachers, has a couple of friends in class, and although I know she's tired each day, she's weathering it fairly well. She had TWO birthday parties this year which were big fun but lots of work. I'll post some pictures of the tea party we did for her school friends as well as the kick ass Tinkerbell cake that my best friend helped me make for her family party. I still can't believe Megan is 5 years old, it's like I was pregnant with her yesterday!
She spends oodles of time in trouble for manhandling Liam. If it were an Olympic sport, suffice it to say that she'd medal in "Beating Up on Your Brother." We've tried many variations of punishments and reward systems, and have enjoyed some success with each. Wish us luck, this is going to be a long road of sibling jealousy, we can see it now.
She is a beautiful little girl with a giant heart. Her sandy blonde curls are completely gone, and have been replaced by thick, wavy brown hair. She hasn't lost any teeth yet so she's still got that adorable little-tooth smile that can light up a room.
She got her ears pierced (didn't even flinch!), loves to wear her black high heeled boots, and desires faaaaaaar more bling than I ever have or ever will. We started letting her watch Hannah.Montana and now she thinks she's a teenage rockstar. Please shoot me.
She isn't eating much anymore, but is still shooting up like a reed. She really gives a shit about what she wears (which is a real drag), and won't wear bows in her hair except on rare occasions. [sniff, sniff] She is determined to grow her hair down to her feet, but if she doesn't stop giving me shit every time I try to brush that rats nest, then I'm chopping it all off. And she knows I'm not kidding, so these struggles are starting to dissipate.
Liam ... well, Liam is best described as a menace. Seriously, this boy wears me out. If he can touch it, break it, taste it, or carry it around, he will. I joke that we should have named him Chuck. Hand him something, and his initial reaction is to throw it. Hard. Far. Then run (walking is apparently for sissies) over to it and shove it in his mouth. After both of these activites are completed, then -- and only then -- can he take a moment to actually inspect it and see what he's got his hands on. Of course, after this assessment, his next step is typically to just throw it or bite it again anyway.
He is a study in constant motion and he is hilarious. He's finding his voice (Lord help us, we've already got a house full of talkers), and his temper as well. Awesome. I need to post a video of him dancing because you've never seen something so funny and cute in all your days. Let's just say he channels a bizarre mixture of Elvis, Elaine from Seinfeld, and John Travolta. Just take a moment to picture that. It's good stuff. One of his favorite channels to dance to is the Weather Channel. No lie.
He's got some new teeth, has finally grown hair, and has taken the act of saying "Hi" to a new, agressive level... "hi. hi. Hi. Hi. HI. HI!!!!" Heaven help you if you don't respond in kind. He'll practically come over and bitch slap you.
He's sleeping well (finally!), growing like a weed, and eating us out of house and home. He rarely sits still but when he does, it is to give an extended and wonderful hug typically followed by a dramatic kiss complete with the "mmmmmwa!" sound. Then he's off.
For a taste of what we are working with on a daily basis, let me tell you what he's like in the shower. First, he prefers the shower to the bath because he loves to stand under the streaming water and blow bubbles with his mouth. When he's done with that, he'll tear all of the shampoo bottles off the shelves and throw them around. Then he'll pry off the drain cover, shove his fat little hand down the nasty pipe, and will LICK the underside of the drain cover. Complete with that pinkish water mold stuff. Yes, it IS every bit as horrifying and revolting as it sounds. He's so fast and so wiley that he accomplished that little feat while I was washing the conditioner out of my hair yesterday. I think I screamed so loud that the neighbors could hear me.
I have another post brewing about how reality measures up to the fantasy of completing our family building activities. I'm just struggling with the words to express my thoughts.
In the meantime, I still read your blogs. Every single day. I just don't comment much and obviously don't post for shit. Please forgive me! I'm celebrating your joys and triumphs. I'm also mourning your disappointments and losses. I promise, I really am.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Monday, August 3, 2009
Earflaps, Hubcaps and Mousetraps
I wrote a poem. I've written poems before -- anyone remember 'Twas the Night Before Transfer?. I've also rewritten classic stories such as Snow White. Clearly, I shouldn't quit my day job.
What is this new poem about? The surgeon who removed my gallbladder. Actually, it's as much about the whole adventure as it is about any particular surgeon. But it still cracked me up anyway.
----------------------------------------------------
Ode to the Minimally Invasive Surgeon
How do I feel about my defective gallbladder?
My friends, it was worse than wrestling a death adder
It made me unhappy, not just mad, but much sadder
And when it was gone, I have never been gladder
Well, we ripped the bitch out, it was heaved, tossed, evicted
The sweet relief that I felt was even more than predicted
Oh the pain that the little bastard inflicted
Had me straight on the road to being pain-drug addicted
So, you ask, oh Leah, what could really be worse?
What could be so bad that you think it's a curse?
What would make you wish you were carted off in a hearse?
What could make you feel pain so bad it's perverse?
It's a stone! A gallstone! Stuck in your bile duct
I am here to tell you that WOW how it sucked
I was in so much pain that I bucked and I clucked
I writhed and I moaned, I even upchucked
So, my friends, if you feel that your insides are urgin'
If you find yourself having meals then immediately purgin'
Don't be a wuss, unless you're a surgery virgin
Run! Don't walk! To your nice, friendly surgeon!
He's capable of so much, many things he can fix
He'll do what you need, even remove your appendix
He's got all kinds of talents in his big bag of tricks
With a flick of his scalpel, he'll provide a quick fix!
What's your problem? A hernia? A rectal prolapse?
Well, pull yourself up by those proverbial bootstraps
No need for earflaps, hubcaps or mousetraps
Go see your nice surgeon, he can help you perhaps
What's got you down? A bout of ulcerative colitis?
That's far more painful than having just sinusitis
It even sucks more than enduring gastritis
When your surgeon is done, you will feel like King Midas!
He'll fix you up right with his surgery skills
He'll save you from living on narcotic pills
No longer you'll need endure the battle of wills
He'll release you from all those pain-addled dunghills
Yes, a Minimally Invasive Surgeon is your friend, there's no doubt
He'll make you want to get on a rooftop and shout
You can eat what you want! No need to live without!
And that is the end of this tale, there's no doubt.
----------------------------------------------------
I worked fairly hard to use the phrase "catastrophic surgical misadventure" but it just didn't have that Seuss-like cadence or flow.
The good news is that I am feeling 100%. I'm considering writing a little ditty about my poop since it's so weird these days, and will surely share it here first. :-)
What is this new poem about? The surgeon who removed my gallbladder. Actually, it's as much about the whole adventure as it is about any particular surgeon. But it still cracked me up anyway.
----------------------------------------------------
Ode to the Minimally Invasive Surgeon
How do I feel about my defective gallbladder?
My friends, it was worse than wrestling a death adder
It made me unhappy, not just mad, but much sadder
And when it was gone, I have never been gladder
Well, we ripped the bitch out, it was heaved, tossed, evicted
The sweet relief that I felt was even more than predicted
Oh the pain that the little bastard inflicted
Had me straight on the road to being pain-drug addicted
So, you ask, oh Leah, what could really be worse?
What could be so bad that you think it's a curse?
What would make you wish you were carted off in a hearse?
What could make you feel pain so bad it's perverse?
It's a stone! A gallstone! Stuck in your bile duct
I am here to tell you that WOW how it sucked
I was in so much pain that I bucked and I clucked
I writhed and I moaned, I even upchucked
So, my friends, if you feel that your insides are urgin'
If you find yourself having meals then immediately purgin'
Don't be a wuss, unless you're a surgery virgin
Run! Don't walk! To your nice, friendly surgeon!
He's capable of so much, many things he can fix
He'll do what you need, even remove your appendix
He's got all kinds of talents in his big bag of tricks
With a flick of his scalpel, he'll provide a quick fix!
What's your problem? A hernia? A rectal prolapse?
Well, pull yourself up by those proverbial bootstraps
No need for earflaps, hubcaps or mousetraps
Go see your nice surgeon, he can help you perhaps
What's got you down? A bout of ulcerative colitis?
That's far more painful than having just sinusitis
It even sucks more than enduring gastritis
When your surgeon is done, you will feel like King Midas!
He'll fix you up right with his surgery skills
He'll save you from living on narcotic pills
No longer you'll need endure the battle of wills
He'll release you from all those pain-addled dunghills
Yes, a Minimally Invasive Surgeon is your friend, there's no doubt
He'll make you want to get on a rooftop and shout
You can eat what you want! No need to live without!
And that is the end of this tale, there's no doubt.
----------------------------------------------------
I worked fairly hard to use the phrase "catastrophic surgical misadventure" but it just didn't have that Seuss-like cadence or flow.
The good news is that I am feeling 100%. I'm considering writing a little ditty about my poop since it's so weird these days, and will surely share it here first. :-)
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Happy Liver, Sad Panky
The ERCP went fine yesterday. The urine sample I provided before the procedure was interesting. It was sort of a copper color. The GI doctor just looked at it and said, "Um, yeah. Your liver isn't very happy." I guess it's happy now. My pee is a normal shade of yellow, and my eyes aren't. So that's good news.
Today's adventure? Post-ERCP pancreatitis. I've given my pancreas (and it's friend The Pancreatic Duct) a new nickname: Panky. Panky had better shape up or it will meet the same fate as Mr. Gallbladder*.
If it weren't for My Reality, I would be thinking I was a raving, hypochondriac, unlucky nutjob. Fortunately for me and unfortunately for her, she's already traveled this road and has held my hand along the way.
I'll take this and any other pain (including labor pain!) over that gallstone-in-the-bile-duct pain. Today's issue is accompanied by endurable pain, endurable nausea and strict orders not to eat or drink anything. Good times. At least my weigh in on Tuesday should be a good one...
Thanks to everyone who has been checking on me!
* Not really, because I'm not sure you can just rip your pancreas out. Seems to me that there might be some nasty complications as a result.
Today's adventure? Post-ERCP pancreatitis. I've given my pancreas (and it's friend The Pancreatic Duct) a new nickname: Panky. Panky had better shape up or it will meet the same fate as Mr. Gallbladder*.
If it weren't for My Reality, I would be thinking I was a raving, hypochondriac, unlucky nutjob. Fortunately for me and unfortunately for her, she's already traveled this road and has held my hand along the way.
I'll take this and any other pain (including labor pain!) over that gallstone-in-the-bile-duct pain. Today's issue is accompanied by endurable pain, endurable nausea and strict orders not to eat or drink anything. Good times. At least my weigh in on Tuesday should be a good one...
Thanks to everyone who has been checking on me!
* Not really, because I'm not sure you can just rip your pancreas out. Seems to me that there might be some nasty complications as a result.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Catastrophic Surgical Misadventure
Well, we are assuming that it's not that. But I liked the sound of it so much that I wrote it down immediately when my surgeon said it.
Here I am, live blogging from the bed in room #21 of the Emergency Department. You'd think I was developing some sort of crush on the surgeon that yanked my gallbladder out -- given that I tortured myself with steri strips in order to talk to him again, and now camped out in the ED fresh off a consult with him.
Yesterday afternoon my stomach/abdomen started hurting. I am PMSing and had just crammed a quarter of a bag of potato chips down my gullet, so I figured that was the problem. But it kept hurting all evening, which sucked. I took one of my 800mg Ibuprofens and was able to at least get to sleep.
When I woke up, it still hurt but not too badly. I still wasn't going to chance eating anything. By lunchtime, I was starving. To death. So I got a salad, and man was it good. Twenty minutes later, all hell broke loose.
The pain quickly went from "ow, that kinda hurts" to "holyfuckingshitohmygodsweetmamahelpme" accompanied with literally writhing around on the floor (the dirty, nasty carpeted floor of my office), sweating and moaning. It lasted about 10 minutes -- basically an eternity -- and then was gone. Poof! Like nothing ever happened. Except that I was completely soaked in sweat, shaking, panting, and chalk white.
My co-workers had already procured a wheelchair to take me to the ED (perk of working in a hospital), but I tried to tell them that I was okay now. Which I was. Only it didn't last long. A few minutes later, it started all over again. Gawd, it's awful pain.
Fast forward to now. I am lying on a bed, getting Dilaudid in an IV drip. I've just had my 4th cup of apple juice with contrast dye in it as preparation for the CT scan I've got in 20 minutes. Good times.
The good news is that my bloodwork just got back and since my liver enzymes are jacked up, it just about confirms what my surgeon suspected which is a stone in the bile duct. It snuck in there before they got my gallbladder out and has been just hanging around, waiting to torture me.
So I'll get the CT scan in a bit, it will show that nothing else major is wrong, and I'll have an endoscopy tomorrow to remove the stone. I moaned and pissed and whined about needed to go home and see my kids, so they are actually releasing me (pending good CT scan results) with instructions to come back at 9:30 tomorrow morning for the endoscopy.
I am SO over myself and these medical woes. But at least I got another idea for my ficticious band names list: Catastrophic Surgical Misadventure. Rock on! Get it? Rock... stone... in my bile duct... Okay, that's not funny. Give me a break, I'm high on pain meds right now, okay?
Here I am, live blogging from the bed in room #21 of the Emergency Department. You'd think I was developing some sort of crush on the surgeon that yanked my gallbladder out -- given that I tortured myself with steri strips in order to talk to him again, and now camped out in the ED fresh off a consult with him.
Yesterday afternoon my stomach/abdomen started hurting. I am PMSing and had just crammed a quarter of a bag of potato chips down my gullet, so I figured that was the problem. But it kept hurting all evening, which sucked. I took one of my 800mg Ibuprofens and was able to at least get to sleep.
When I woke up, it still hurt but not too badly. I still wasn't going to chance eating anything. By lunchtime, I was starving. To death. So I got a salad, and man was it good. Twenty minutes later, all hell broke loose.
The pain quickly went from "ow, that kinda hurts" to "holyfuckingshitohmygodsweetmamahelpme" accompanied with literally writhing around on the floor (the dirty, nasty carpeted floor of my office), sweating and moaning. It lasted about 10 minutes -- basically an eternity -- and then was gone. Poof! Like nothing ever happened. Except that I was completely soaked in sweat, shaking, panting, and chalk white.
My co-workers had already procured a wheelchair to take me to the ED (perk of working in a hospital), but I tried to tell them that I was okay now. Which I was. Only it didn't last long. A few minutes later, it started all over again. Gawd, it's awful pain.
Fast forward to now. I am lying on a bed, getting Dilaudid in an IV drip. I've just had my 4th cup of apple juice with contrast dye in it as preparation for the CT scan I've got in 20 minutes. Good times.
The good news is that my bloodwork just got back and since my liver enzymes are jacked up, it just about confirms what my surgeon suspected which is a stone in the bile duct. It snuck in there before they got my gallbladder out and has been just hanging around, waiting to torture me.
So I'll get the CT scan in a bit, it will show that nothing else major is wrong, and I'll have an endoscopy tomorrow to remove the stone. I moaned and pissed and whined about needed to go home and see my kids, so they are actually releasing me (pending good CT scan results) with instructions to come back at 9:30 tomorrow morning for the endoscopy.
I am SO over myself and these medical woes. But at least I got another idea for my ficticious band names list: Catastrophic Surgical Misadventure. Rock on! Get it? Rock... stone... in my bile duct... Okay, that's not funny. Give me a break, I'm high on pain meds right now, okay?
Thursday, July 9, 2009
So freaking funny
I have been a slacker on my daily posting. I'm sorry! I have lots to say, and will catch up. In the meantime, check out this outrageously hilarious video. You've probably all seen it already, but I can't stop laughing and gasping at technology/graphics today.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_PHnRIn74Ag&NR=1
P.S. - How do I embed a youtube video with blogger?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_PHnRIn74Ag&NR=1
P.S. - How do I embed a youtube video with blogger?
Monday, July 6, 2009
10 Things that Suck About Infertility
I initially thought about this topic and planned for it to be funny. I know there’s nothing funny about IF, but I still had hopes of it being lighthearted. Then I started jotting down my thoughts. And they weren’t funny at all. So I apologize for the somewhat morose tone of many of these, but it is what it is. They are also very specific to my IF journey, but I have to imagine you can relate to many of them anyway.
Here, my friends, are the top 10 things (in no particular order) that I think suck about infertility.
1) The Fear
Will this all just end up being a waste of time? Will it be a waste of money? Will it ruin my marriage? Will sex ever be fun again? Will I be childless? Will my husband leave me for someone who can give him children? What will happen at my monitoring appointment today? What is my E2? Will I sleep through the alarm and miss the exact time for my trigger shot? Will I ovulate before they get in there to retrieve the eggs? Will any eggs be mature? Will any eggs fertilize? Will any eggs make it through the first night? The second night? Will I POAS and see stark white? Will I always be angry – at fertiles, at the IF Gods, at myself? Will we be bankrupt, with nothing to show for it? What are other people saying about us? Will I ever be the one in the maternity clothes? Will I ever be able to repair the friendships that I’ve neglected? Will I ever feel good about myself again?
2) The Self-Loathing
I’m broken. I’m barren. I’m weak. I’m defective. I’m pathetic. I’m an embryo killer. I’m a baby killer. I have lazy ovaries. My uterus is useless. God must know I’m going to be a terrible mother and that’s why I’m infertile. I’m fat thanks to the IF weight gain. I’m not a real woman. I’m a whiner, why can’t I stop bitching about not having a baby? I’m sick of hearing my own self complain. I’m ugly on the inside – angry and jealous. I want everyone to pity me, yet I can’t stand the idea of being pitied. Basically, I just suck in every way.
3) The Money
I refuse to add up how much we’ve spent. I can’t stomach it. There are so many different places that we’ve hemmoraged cash, I’m not sure I could even remember them all… a basal body temperature thermometer, OPKs, REs, HSGs, acupuncture, copays, drugs, syringes, needles, suppositories, HPTs, fertility massages, BCPs, acupuncture, visualization CDs, books, herbal supplements, D&Cs, fertility yoga DVDs, bracelets. The list goes on and on. Other people get knocked up for free. They don’t spend tens of thousands of dollars trying to make a baby. They spend it on stuff like vacations and clothes and flower gardens and beach houses. Damn them.
4) The Loss of Control
I don’t get to decide when, or where, or how we make a baby. It’s decided for me, in the form a protocol from the RE. I never know what to expect when I show up for daily monitoring – I’ve taken my meds, I’ve visualized my follicles growing and my lining thickening, I’ve drowned myself in positive thoughts – but will it be enough? I can’t enjoy carefree planning with trips or vacations or social activities, these things are dictated by monitoring appointments and trigger shots and inseminations and egg retrievals and transfers. I cannot will this to happen. I can’t try really, really hard or practice or take a fancy shortcut to make this happen. I’ve worked my whole life to make good things happen, to try harder than the other people, so that I could get what I wanted. Infertility doesn’t work that way, and that sucks.
5) The Waiting
Waiting to see that elusive 2nd line on an OPK. Waiting two long weeks to see if that worked. Waiting the requisite amount of time (full of failures at home) to consult an RE. Waiting to finally call, but then not getting an appointment for 6 more weeks. Waiting for your consult. Waiting for your bloodwork results. Waiting for your HSG to be scheduled. Waiting for your protocol to be developed. Waiting for your cycle to start. Waiting for your meds to arrive. Waiting for your name to be called so you can get a camera shoved up your ladybits. Waiting for your E2 results. Waiting for the appointed trigger shot time. Waiting for the anesthesiologist to knock you out at the retrieval. Waiting to hear how many eggs they got. Waiting for the fertilization reports. Waiting for your transfer time. Waiting to pee after the transfer. Waiting to POAS. Waiting to see if a line appears. Waiting for your beta. Waiting to see if your beta doubles. Waiting for your sonogram. Waiting to miscarry. Waiting for your beta to drop to 0 so you can get on this God-awful rollercoaster and do it all over again. Waiting to tell people The Good News until you are sure it’s going to be okay, and then having it all turn to shit anyway. Waiting to see if you will ever, ever have a baby to bring home. Waiting to use that perfect name you picked out. Waiting to pull out that cute onesie that you stupidly bought during the first month of trying when you were sure it would be so easy.
6) The Exhaustion
I’m tired of trying to make a baby. I’m tired of being angry. I’m tired of being pathetic. I’m tired of the waiting, the wishing, the hoping, the crushing disappointment, the heartbreak. I’m tired of crying at baby showers. I’m tired of sobbing after pregnancy announcements. I’m tired of doing the mental math to figure out how old my babies would be if I hadn’t miscarried. I’m tired of realizing that people who started trying after us now have 3 kids. I’m tired of waking up at 6am to get poked and prodded and have the blood sucked out of me. I’m tired of feeling like a bloated, drugged whale. I’m tired of waiting to make plans just in case. I’m tired of the lack of answers. I’m tired of other people’s optimism. I’m tired of the stupid shit people say to make you feel better. I’m just so, so tired – mentally and physically.
7) The Anger
I’m angry at my fertile friends. I’m angry at pregnant strangers. I’m angry at my body. I’m angry at my RE for not being a miracle worker. I’m angry at anyone who conceives an oops baby*. I’m angry at other people’s stupidity. I’m angry at the unfairness of it all. I’m angry about the wasted money. I’m angry about the delayed plans. I don’t care if God does know what’s best, I just wish it didn’t have to mean I’d have to struggle or have to miscarry. I’m angry at myself for letting this rule my life. I’m angry at myself for being such a huge failure.
8) The Pain
Without a doubt, it’s the emotional pain that hurts the most. The pain in my heart has left scars that are so big and so deep, not even a houseful of kids could take it away. But the physical pain can’t be denied either. It hurts to get a needle shoved in your arm day after day after day. The stim shots hurt. The trigger shot hurts. The PIO hurts, and it just keeps on giving since you have to do it for weeks on end. Clomid and Lupron and the rest of those vile, nasty devil drugs give me painful headaches. The HSG hurts, the dildo cam hurts, retrieval hurts, transfer hurts, D&Cs hurt. Watching your husband cry hurts. Watching your friends feel helpless hurts. Watching your sister live through the all too familiar angst of IF or miscarriage hurts. Seeing the disappointment on your Mom’s face hurts. Getting the “I’m so sorry” comments on your blog hurt (even though they aren’t supposed to). Crying until your eyes swell shut hurts. Realizing that everyone else at work knows your co-worker is pregnant except you (because they are too afraid to tell you) hurts. Hating yourself hurts.
9) The Loss of Dignity / Privacy
Sex isn’t between you and your husband anymore. It involves an entire medical team and that sucks. I can’t count how many different people have seen and/or shoved their hands and/or medical equipment up my private parts. I’ve been told specifically when to have sex with my husband. I have to sit in the waiting room while my husband jerks off into a cup. I have to take time off work (and provide an explanation) for monitoring, retrievals, transfers, and whatnot. As you are sitting in the RE’s waiting room for the first time, you are mortified because you might as well be wearing a sandwich board that reads, “WE HAVE UNPRODUCTIVE SEX. WE ARE BROKEN AND DEFECTIVE AND CAN’T MAKE BABIES.” Nevermind that everyone else in that room is in exactly the same boat as you, it doesn’t matter. You are sure you’re the biggest losers in the building. You have to pretend like it’s okay when you have no great answer for the incessant, “So, when are you two going to have some kids?” question. Your choices are to divulge all the personal details about your failed babymaking sessions or just grin and bear the pain silently. Maybe the only thing worse than the when-are-you-going-to-have-kids question is the one that occurs after you finally spill the beans about your infertility. That’s the “So, what’s wrong with you?” question. ‘Nuff said.
10) The Wondering
Did I cause this? Did I do too many drugs in high school? Did I lay my cell phone in my lap too many times and fry my ovaries? Am I eating too many cold foods? Did I stand too close to the microwave? Was it that glass of wine? Was it the fish? Was it my childhood vaccinations? Was it a drug my Mom took during her pregnancy? Will I ever get pregnant? What will it feel like? Will I miscarry? Will I have a healthy baby? Will my IF friends hate me when I get pregnant? Will a baby fill this gaping hole in my heart? Will my husband and I be able to withstand the financial and emotional war that we’ve been in for so many years? When will the pain, fear and loathing end? Ever?
I’m sure there are dozens more things that suck about it all. We weren’t dealing with MF issues. Although we were on the doorstep, we didn’t embark on the donor egg path. We didn’t get put through the adoption wringer. There are so many other facets to someone’s IF journey that I don’t even begin to touch on. But they all suck.
In another post at some point, I’ll tout the joys of The Silver Lining. Those joys aren’t quite as numerous as the shitty things, but there is actually some good to come out of the journey we’ve taken and it deserves to be explored. That’s another post for another day…
* - About this oops baby anger... it doesn't apply to everyone. There are many of you (and you know who you are -- Farah, Artblog, Mrs. LaLa, S, BuggsMomma) that I am thrilled for. Basically all IFs are excluded from this one. Just wanted to be clear...
Here, my friends, are the top 10 things (in no particular order) that I think suck about infertility.
1) The Fear
Will this all just end up being a waste of time? Will it be a waste of money? Will it ruin my marriage? Will sex ever be fun again? Will I be childless? Will my husband leave me for someone who can give him children? What will happen at my monitoring appointment today? What is my E2? Will I sleep through the alarm and miss the exact time for my trigger shot? Will I ovulate before they get in there to retrieve the eggs? Will any eggs be mature? Will any eggs fertilize? Will any eggs make it through the first night? The second night? Will I POAS and see stark white? Will I always be angry – at fertiles, at the IF Gods, at myself? Will we be bankrupt, with nothing to show for it? What are other people saying about us? Will I ever be the one in the maternity clothes? Will I ever be able to repair the friendships that I’ve neglected? Will I ever feel good about myself again?
2) The Self-Loathing
I’m broken. I’m barren. I’m weak. I’m defective. I’m pathetic. I’m an embryo killer. I’m a baby killer. I have lazy ovaries. My uterus is useless. God must know I’m going to be a terrible mother and that’s why I’m infertile. I’m fat thanks to the IF weight gain. I’m not a real woman. I’m a whiner, why can’t I stop bitching about not having a baby? I’m sick of hearing my own self complain. I’m ugly on the inside – angry and jealous. I want everyone to pity me, yet I can’t stand the idea of being pitied. Basically, I just suck in every way.
3) The Money
I refuse to add up how much we’ve spent. I can’t stomach it. There are so many different places that we’ve hemmoraged cash, I’m not sure I could even remember them all… a basal body temperature thermometer, OPKs, REs, HSGs, acupuncture, copays, drugs, syringes, needles, suppositories, HPTs, fertility massages, BCPs, acupuncture, visualization CDs, books, herbal supplements, D&Cs, fertility yoga DVDs, bracelets. The list goes on and on. Other people get knocked up for free. They don’t spend tens of thousands of dollars trying to make a baby. They spend it on stuff like vacations and clothes and flower gardens and beach houses. Damn them.
4) The Loss of Control
I don’t get to decide when, or where, or how we make a baby. It’s decided for me, in the form a protocol from the RE. I never know what to expect when I show up for daily monitoring – I’ve taken my meds, I’ve visualized my follicles growing and my lining thickening, I’ve drowned myself in positive thoughts – but will it be enough? I can’t enjoy carefree planning with trips or vacations or social activities, these things are dictated by monitoring appointments and trigger shots and inseminations and egg retrievals and transfers. I cannot will this to happen. I can’t try really, really hard or practice or take a fancy shortcut to make this happen. I’ve worked my whole life to make good things happen, to try harder than the other people, so that I could get what I wanted. Infertility doesn’t work that way, and that sucks.
5) The Waiting
Waiting to see that elusive 2nd line on an OPK. Waiting two long weeks to see if that worked. Waiting the requisite amount of time (full of failures at home) to consult an RE. Waiting to finally call, but then not getting an appointment for 6 more weeks. Waiting for your consult. Waiting for your bloodwork results. Waiting for your HSG to be scheduled. Waiting for your protocol to be developed. Waiting for your cycle to start. Waiting for your meds to arrive. Waiting for your name to be called so you can get a camera shoved up your ladybits. Waiting for your E2 results. Waiting for the appointed trigger shot time. Waiting for the anesthesiologist to knock you out at the retrieval. Waiting to hear how many eggs they got. Waiting for the fertilization reports. Waiting for your transfer time. Waiting to pee after the transfer. Waiting to POAS. Waiting to see if a line appears. Waiting for your beta. Waiting to see if your beta doubles. Waiting for your sonogram. Waiting to miscarry. Waiting for your beta to drop to 0 so you can get on this God-awful rollercoaster and do it all over again. Waiting to tell people The Good News until you are sure it’s going to be okay, and then having it all turn to shit anyway. Waiting to see if you will ever, ever have a baby to bring home. Waiting to use that perfect name you picked out. Waiting to pull out that cute onesie that you stupidly bought during the first month of trying when you were sure it would be so easy.
6) The Exhaustion
I’m tired of trying to make a baby. I’m tired of being angry. I’m tired of being pathetic. I’m tired of the waiting, the wishing, the hoping, the crushing disappointment, the heartbreak. I’m tired of crying at baby showers. I’m tired of sobbing after pregnancy announcements. I’m tired of doing the mental math to figure out how old my babies would be if I hadn’t miscarried. I’m tired of realizing that people who started trying after us now have 3 kids. I’m tired of waking up at 6am to get poked and prodded and have the blood sucked out of me. I’m tired of feeling like a bloated, drugged whale. I’m tired of waiting to make plans just in case. I’m tired of the lack of answers. I’m tired of other people’s optimism. I’m tired of the stupid shit people say to make you feel better. I’m just so, so tired – mentally and physically.
7) The Anger
I’m angry at my fertile friends. I’m angry at pregnant strangers. I’m angry at my body. I’m angry at my RE for not being a miracle worker. I’m angry at anyone who conceives an oops baby*. I’m angry at other people’s stupidity. I’m angry at the unfairness of it all. I’m angry about the wasted money. I’m angry about the delayed plans. I don’t care if God does know what’s best, I just wish it didn’t have to mean I’d have to struggle or have to miscarry. I’m angry at myself for letting this rule my life. I’m angry at myself for being such a huge failure.
8) The Pain
Without a doubt, it’s the emotional pain that hurts the most. The pain in my heart has left scars that are so big and so deep, not even a houseful of kids could take it away. But the physical pain can’t be denied either. It hurts to get a needle shoved in your arm day after day after day. The stim shots hurt. The trigger shot hurts. The PIO hurts, and it just keeps on giving since you have to do it for weeks on end. Clomid and Lupron and the rest of those vile, nasty devil drugs give me painful headaches. The HSG hurts, the dildo cam hurts, retrieval hurts, transfer hurts, D&Cs hurt. Watching your husband cry hurts. Watching your friends feel helpless hurts. Watching your sister live through the all too familiar angst of IF or miscarriage hurts. Seeing the disappointment on your Mom’s face hurts. Getting the “I’m so sorry” comments on your blog hurt (even though they aren’t supposed to). Crying until your eyes swell shut hurts. Realizing that everyone else at work knows your co-worker is pregnant except you (because they are too afraid to tell you) hurts. Hating yourself hurts.
9) The Loss of Dignity / Privacy
Sex isn’t between you and your husband anymore. It involves an entire medical team and that sucks. I can’t count how many different people have seen and/or shoved their hands and/or medical equipment up my private parts. I’ve been told specifically when to have sex with my husband. I have to sit in the waiting room while my husband jerks off into a cup. I have to take time off work (and provide an explanation) for monitoring, retrievals, transfers, and whatnot. As you are sitting in the RE’s waiting room for the first time, you are mortified because you might as well be wearing a sandwich board that reads, “WE HAVE UNPRODUCTIVE SEX. WE ARE BROKEN AND DEFECTIVE AND CAN’T MAKE BABIES.” Nevermind that everyone else in that room is in exactly the same boat as you, it doesn’t matter. You are sure you’re the biggest losers in the building. You have to pretend like it’s okay when you have no great answer for the incessant, “So, when are you two going to have some kids?” question. Your choices are to divulge all the personal details about your failed babymaking sessions or just grin and bear the pain silently. Maybe the only thing worse than the when-are-you-going-to-have-kids question is the one that occurs after you finally spill the beans about your infertility. That’s the “So, what’s wrong with you?” question. ‘Nuff said.
10) The Wondering
Did I cause this? Did I do too many drugs in high school? Did I lay my cell phone in my lap too many times and fry my ovaries? Am I eating too many cold foods? Did I stand too close to the microwave? Was it that glass of wine? Was it the fish? Was it my childhood vaccinations? Was it a drug my Mom took during her pregnancy? Will I ever get pregnant? What will it feel like? Will I miscarry? Will I have a healthy baby? Will my IF friends hate me when I get pregnant? Will a baby fill this gaping hole in my heart? Will my husband and I be able to withstand the financial and emotional war that we’ve been in for so many years? When will the pain, fear and loathing end? Ever?
I’m sure there are dozens more things that suck about it all. We weren’t dealing with MF issues. Although we were on the doorstep, we didn’t embark on the donor egg path. We didn’t get put through the adoption wringer. There are so many other facets to someone’s IF journey that I don’t even begin to touch on. But they all suck.
In another post at some point, I’ll tout the joys of The Silver Lining. Those joys aren’t quite as numerous as the shitty things, but there is actually some good to come out of the journey we’ve taken and it deserves to be explored. That’s another post for another day…
* - About this oops baby anger... it doesn't apply to everyone. There are many of you (and you know who you are -- Farah, Artblog, Mrs. LaLa, S, BuggsMomma) that I am thrilled for. Basically all IFs are excluded from this one. Just wanted to be clear...
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Gee, sorry about that, Lorelei
Okay, another change to the posting schedule. I don't have my shit together to finish the Simple Pleasures post that was supposed to be for today. Therefore, a cop-out. The "Leah understands" meme:
Leah understands the frustration of women who would rather scrub floors than shop for clothes.
What? No, no, I really don't. I'm not all that wild about shopping but I would DEFINITELY prefer it to scrubbing floors. Um, hello?
Leah understands God-given talents are different for everyone .
Yes, and I'm still waiting to see just what mine are!
Leah understands the needs of the working class and works hard to find people the right house at the right price.
No, I don't. Unless they want to buy my house, I don't give a rat's ass what they need.
Leah understands the desires of potential buyers and can help transform a home into an attractive space for potential buyers.
What's with all the real estate agents named Leah?
Leah understands the value of quality customer service .
Yes, I do. Especially when *I* am the customer.
Leah understands the need for education, instruction, entertainment and options.
Especially the part about entertainment.
Leah understands suddenly that the knife is a thing deep inside Lorelei.
Weird.
Leah understands the Los Angeles market, as well as the intricacies involved with relocating and buying a home.
I've never been to LA, and never plan to. But clearly my name suggests that I should have gone into real estate, eh?
Leah understands that immunity only applies to the competition and not elsewhere.
Screw the competition, I want immunity. Wait, I want SERENITY. NOW!
Leah understands that this loan is for the weekend only.
Those are some shitty payment terms, remind me not to borrow from you again, jerkoff.
Leah understands the glass and the torch.
Both are very important when heading off to a date with an ogre.
Leah understands the importance of lifestyle change.
Especially in your 20s.
Leah understands that women's subordination to men is, under most circumstances, a fact of life.
Are you fucking kidding me?
Leah understands people go through many obstacles in life which may bring some to the feelings of helplessness.
Um, hello infertility!
Leah understands that, and works really hard to find jeans that are flattering for everyone that comes in her store.
I own 1 pair of jeans because I have a figure like a fat 14 year old boy, so I don't recommend taking any jean fashion advice from me at all.
Leah understands how lucky she is to have sole access to this fine horse.
Ah yes, Kevin loves it when I refer to him as This Fine Horse. Although he usually perfers The Stallion.
Leah understands that events are more than just cheese & cracker platters with streamers.
Yes, they are opportunities for uncomfortable clothing and mind-numbing conversation. Good times!
Leah understands to some extent what the hippies were about back then but mostly she just thinks they look really cool.
No, I actually don't. I'm more the Pottery.Barn type, not the Hippie type.
Leah understands she has multiple identities, each of them important.
Multiple personalities? No doubt.
Leah understands the special needs of the dancing community.
Ha! Have you seen Elaine dance on Seinfeld? That's the type of dancing community where I'd fit in.
Leah understands only too well, not everything always goes to plan.
You can say that again. About 1,001 times.
If you haven't done it (which nearly everyone in the blogsphere has because I'm 729 years late to this particular meme), try it out. Google your name with understands.
Have fun!
Leah understands the frustration of women who would rather scrub floors than shop for clothes.
What? No, no, I really don't. I'm not all that wild about shopping but I would DEFINITELY prefer it to scrubbing floors. Um, hello?
Leah understands God-given talents are different for everyone .
Yes, and I'm still waiting to see just what mine are!
Leah understands the needs of the working class and works hard to find people the right house at the right price.
No, I don't. Unless they want to buy my house, I don't give a rat's ass what they need.
Leah understands the desires of potential buyers and can help transform a home into an attractive space for potential buyers.
What's with all the real estate agents named Leah?
Leah understands the value of quality customer service .
Yes, I do. Especially when *I* am the customer.
Leah understands the need for education, instruction, entertainment and options.
Especially the part about entertainment.
Leah understands suddenly that the knife is a thing deep inside Lorelei.
Weird.
Leah understands the Los Angeles market, as well as the intricacies involved with relocating and buying a home.
I've never been to LA, and never plan to. But clearly my name suggests that I should have gone into real estate, eh?
Leah understands that immunity only applies to the competition and not elsewhere.
Screw the competition, I want immunity. Wait, I want SERENITY. NOW!
Leah understands that this loan is for the weekend only.
Those are some shitty payment terms, remind me not to borrow from you again, jerkoff.
Leah understands the glass and the torch.
Both are very important when heading off to a date with an ogre.
Leah understands the importance of lifestyle change.
Especially in your 20s.
Leah understands that women's subordination to men is, under most circumstances, a fact of life.
Are you fucking kidding me?
Leah understands people go through many obstacles in life which may bring some to the feelings of helplessness.
Um, hello infertility!
Leah understands that, and works really hard to find jeans that are flattering for everyone that comes in her store.
I own 1 pair of jeans because I have a figure like a fat 14 year old boy, so I don't recommend taking any jean fashion advice from me at all.
Leah understands how lucky she is to have sole access to this fine horse.
Ah yes, Kevin loves it when I refer to him as This Fine Horse. Although he usually perfers The Stallion.
Leah understands that events are more than just cheese & cracker platters with streamers.
Yes, they are opportunities for uncomfortable clothing and mind-numbing conversation. Good times!
Leah understands to some extent what the hippies were about back then but mostly she just thinks they look really cool.
No, I actually don't. I'm more the Pottery.Barn type, not the Hippie type.
Leah understands she has multiple identities, each of them important.
Multiple personalities? No doubt.
Leah understands the special needs of the dancing community.
Ha! Have you seen Elaine dance on Seinfeld? That's the type of dancing community where I'd fit in.
Leah understands only too well, not everything always goes to plan.
You can say that again. About 1,001 times.
If you haven't done it (which nearly everyone in the blogsphere has because I'm 729 years late to this particular meme), try it out. Google your name with understands.
Have fun!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
