Independence Day

It being Independence Day yesterday, I thought I would declare my independence. In much the same way our founding fathers declared their independence before they were technically independent. I guess I think of it as a mini-resolution. What do I want to be independent of, and am not.

So today, I declare my independence from my mother.

This is not going to be an easy post, so forgive me if I'm hard to follow. Or if I don't exactly... make sense. But here goes.

I can sum up my mother's feelings for me in one anecdote: She didn't call me on 9/11. The daughter who lives in New York City. Who works in the financial industry. (Hell, I had an interview for a job in WTC2. My daily commute involved transferring trains at the W.orl.d T.rad.e C.ente.r station).

Everyone on the planet called me on 9/11. My landlord, the woman I had in to clean once a week, an assortment of friends and ex-boyfriends. Are you okay? Are you alive?

But not my mother.

My father called me 15 seconds after the first plane hit. I answered the phone "I'm okay" and he screamed "I know you're okay! Where's your BROTHER?" He apologized much later when he realized what it sounded like.

But my mother... just doesn't like me.

I'm sure, on some level, she loves me. For whatever "love" means to her. But she doesn't like me.

I'm forty, conceived in '66, born in '67. Before abortion was safe and legal. When my mother found she was pregnant, she wanted to get an abortion. She wasn't married, she knew a safe practioner; her college roommate had already seen him with no ill effect. (And not completely, although reasonably sure that my dad was my dad). But, as the story goes, my father wouldn't let her. Was willing to marry her.

And so I exist.

I know this because my mother told me. The first time, I was eight. I can describe ever detail of the scene to you. The car we were in, the intersection we were at, the smoke curling off of her cigarette. She was pregnant with my brother, and because of that, I'd learned that babies take 9 months to grow. And done the math days earlier, and realized that I was born six months after my parents wedding. And, because I was eight, assumed my math was wrong somehow, and that my parents had married the year before.

My mother set me straight.

I wish I could tell you that that was the only time the story came up, but no. My birthday is within a week of the Roe v. Wade decision. So every year, when news would cover it, or our local priest would homilize against it, my mother would tell me the story that, if it had been up to her, I wouldn't exist.

My mother's general attitude was... that I owed her. If she didn't like her life... well, I was the one responsible for her current situation. For the marriage she grew increasingly discontent with, for the job she didn't find fulfilling, for a life that disappointed her, for the extramarital affairs and divorce that still didn't fix it. It would have been SO MUCH BETTER if she hadn't had kids early, she'd say, everything would be different. Better.

And I declare my independence. From her disappointment, from her anger, from the nagging voice in my head that wonders if I'm truly worth it. (oh, that one's going to take a while).

But -- most importantly -- I declare independence from her pattern.

I am not going to blame any child of mine for my choices and my body and my life and their consequences. And, furthermore, I'm not going to blame any non-child. If I never end up having kids, I'm not going to blame the lack of them for things under my control. My happiness is dependent on me and my choices. Me. Mine.

Happy Independence Day.

How It Went

Okay, bottom line: It went fine. I have to get a few things sorted out, but when I'm ready I just show up on CD2 and let the party begin.

Gulp.

Now the drama: I show up, and they have no record of my appointment. None. "Is there anything that can be done?" I ask, whimpering. Nope, I'm told. And I make an appointment. For next month. I'm 40 freaking years old. I'm not happy about waiting an extra month JUST for an introductory appointment that frankly, I already had. (I met with this clinic twice, about six months ago. And then set about getting insurance to go ahead).

If y'all recall, I don't make my appointments. H does. It's a combination of the fact that I don't have the privacy (or time) at work to do it, and the universe likes him better. (Every time there was bad news, I got the call. Good news, him). So when I hit the pavement I call H up. And I leave the teariest, most pathetic (and slightly angry) voice mail message you can imagine. I stand there, on a Manhattan street corner, and I sob for a good ten minutes. (You may recall, I was nervous about this appointment to begin with.) Then I get in the subway and head home.

When I get off the subway, H calls my cell. "They said you never made the appointment," I sniffle. "I know," he replies, "can you be there in twenty minutes?" What? Somehow, me standing in front of the receptionist looking forlorn wasn't enough to move someones schedule around. An angry husband calling up was.

So back I went, and darned if I wasn't seen IMMEDIATELY. Dang.

If you'll note the links to your right, you'll notice I listen to N.o Pea in the P.odcas.t, with your host Gabby. And last week Gabby made an off hand comment about your TSH level should be 2 or lower if you are trying to conceive. (5 or lower is good for anyone else). I have hypothyroidism, and I had taken the advice of Heather and Bea and brought along every scrap of medical history I could find. (Seriously. I had copies of films from the test where they shoot you up full of dye to see if your tubes are working. In addition to the write up that said everything was flowing fine). I mention the hypothyroid, and the RE looks at my pile of paper. And gasps aloud.

Now, I should mention the RE I was seeing was... let's say... professional to the point of being robotic. When she shook hello, she hurt my hand. When she asked me to follow her, I had to jog (JOG!) to keep up with her. She talked so fast, in flat staccato tones.

For any doctor to GASP upon looking at my TSH results would have been... odd. For Dr. Robotica to react so violently... I jumped out of my seat.

The gasp causing truth is that I've apparently never tested below a 3 point something, thyroid-wise. And that isn't good. She gave me the names of some endocrinologists and STRONGLY suggested that I take care of it before we went to the next step.

Lord Almighty. I've had HOW many IUIs and one IVF and this is the first time someones noticed? I've filled out the blank "what other medications are you on" with Levothyroxine more times than I can count -- wasn't anyone paying attention?

(Lie and tell me that this isn't really as big of a deal as I take it to be. Or tell me the fact that I did NOT respond to the f.ollisti.m that I took for all previous procedures was related to this. Or something. I'm dying for some CONTEXT, here.)

Anyway. I have an appointment with an endocrinologist next month (so I have to wait a month anyway -- THERE's irony for you).

So now's all to do is some blood work for me (genetic screening) and H, see this new doctor and figure out how we're going to pay for medication...

Which I haven't the slightest idea how we're going to do it...

Help

So I have my first real meeting with my new RE on Friday morning.

And I'm scared to death.

And I don't want to go alone.

And since I don't think any of y'all are going to climb in my over-large handbag and come with me, what... What? What should I expect? What should I ask? What should I bring?

Unless, of course, you are willing to climb into my over-large handbag...

PS: quick recap: First RE was a brand new (read: CHEAP!) RE who was so incompetent she is no longer in practice. Second RE was a friend of a friend who gave us a discount rate on my first IVF. This is a real-live grown up RE, or actually RE practice (so a revolving chorus of REs), nationally ranked and everything.

And I have that it's Sunday night midnight and I haven't done my project due first period Monday feeling. You know it?

(Belated) In Honor of Cake Day...

I went off diet and CHOWED.

Please note: YES this is a store-bought cake, NO it didn't look a thing like it's picture, and NO it wasn't very good

But it was still CAKE.

Real Quick

I found my wallet (benignly left a neighborhood cafe).

I have insurance coverage for two IVF cycles.

I have an appointment next Friday with my new RE to set the ball in motion.

I have a date this Friday to dance with my husband at M.idsumme.r Ni.gh.t S.win.g.

I don't know how to dance.

It's cycle day 1.

(And the song STILL runs through my head).

So Give Me Something To Sing About

I had a great weekend, by the way.

To be like other girls...
To fit in in this glittering world...

Friday night, H and I went to the Buffy Sing-Along. (Yes, I am that big of a geek.)

Life’s a song
You don’t get to rehearse.
And every single verse
Can make it that much worse.

This was not a spur of the moment decision; you have to buy tickets in advance, and stand in line at the theatre. H prepped by downloading the songs onto his i.p.o.d. He'd come up to me at random moments and make me listen to a song or two. Or blast them when we were driving in the car. H was insanely excited and MOCKED ME LOUDLY for my trying to look cool as we waited to be seated outside the theatre.

So that’s my refrain.
I live in hell
’Cause I’ve been expelled
From heaven.

But the thing is... I wasn't trying to look cool. I was a little scared. A wee bit nervous.

There are songs on this album that make me cry. Break down and sob cry. Just reading the lyrics makes me sniffly. (which, I know is more than a little cheesy. And weak. And lame. But whatever.)

So I sat in a darkened theatre and sobbed my heart out, while people around me blew bubbles and kazoos and exploded poppers and all sorts of other merriment.

Life’s a show and we all play a part
And when the music starts,
We open up our hearts

I recovered moments after whichever song had set me off ended, and sang my heart out to the ones I knew.

I tell myself I'm doing fine. Most of the time, I feel fine. I'm good, I'm great, THINGS ARE GETTING BETTER.

And then I'm sitting in a darkened theatre, sobbing my heart out, wondering. Wondering.

Give me something to sing about.
I need something to sing about.

And now, this song will NOT leave my head.

Life’s not a song.
Life isn’t bliss.
Life is just this.
It’s living.
You’ll get along.
The pain that you feel
Only can heal
By living.
You have to go on living.
So that one of us is living.

Have I Mentioned

Mama sometimes forgets my name. Sometimes forgets H's name. Sometimes calls the cats by the wrong name.

But while watching a dvr'd episode of T.he D.ail.y S.ho.w, she points to the screen and exclaims

"that's A.ngelin.a J.oli.e, Jon Voight's d.aughte.r!"

Too funny...

...because I SAY it's getting better

It's getting better BECAUSE...

Because every morning, I stand in this little patch of sunlight in Grand Central Station and say, 'today will be a better day.'

Because I smile. Even when I don't want to.

Because I have your blogs to read.

Because I've had talks with the folks that I wanted to work with, and they lament the fact that I am not with them.

Because I have hope it will all work out.

Because I have medical insurance now, and can move forward on the baby making tract.

Because I have a husband who loves me, a crazy Mother In Law who loves me, and two cats who like it when I'm around. (mostly because I feed them).

Because I've watched T.he S.ecre.t three times.

Because I have a husband who loves me.

and mostly because I SAY so.

Okay, it's getting better

I'll s'plain more when I can.

And no, I didn't find my wallet. Or get the Job I Want. Or win the lottery. Or get a BFY.

But it's getting better, just the same.

And just when you think it can't get any worse...

I lost my wallet. Which contains every bit of my identification.

As well as every bit of Mama's identification.

(As well as my C.ostc.o card and other such useless-to-anyone-but-me items).

This week has GOT to get better...

...right?

Begging and Crying

So I cried. Just a little, but I cried. No one saw me do it, but I cried. And trust me, I will be doing it more later.

And when I was done with the crying, I started thinking. I called H, I posted here. I started casting about for anyone I knew who was good at the HR Speak of the Manager Speak. (I didn't find anyone who'd fluent in that language).

Finally, I went to Boss of Job I Want (not Job I Have) and offered points that she could negotiate with. Another member of my division has a "part-time" deal where he works half here, half somewhere else. So he's available if they need him here. Maybe we can do that, I said. B of JIW said she'd ask.

I actually even mentioned that JIW works better for me as a caregiver. (It's true -- I'd be home to put Mama on the bus and home in time for dinner). I am not above emotional blackmail. (Okay, but seriously -- am I hopelessly tacky to do it?)

And not to be a complete b*tch, I ended the encounter on a funny note -- telling anecdotes of how Mama negotiated with my wedding vendors to get a lower price.

Please, God, please. The part-time thing would work for everyone. Please, please, please.

(I haven't been this down since my last failed cycle).

On to the crying

Update...

And now it seems that division A says that because I "just went permanent" that i am not going to be allowed to transfer to division B.

Maybe.

My potential new boss just saw me in the hall.

She says she's going to my current boss, going to see what he says. His office it 8 feet away. I'm torn between going in and trying to talk to him and just breaking down into tears.

Anyone know what I should say?

First and Foremost

Okay, here's the story:

I've been working at Job A for three and a half years. As a temp. They FINALLY say, "we'd love to hire you," and I say GREAT! and accept. The hiring process, they say, takes about two months. Along the way, I hear about Job B, and I apply, and I'm told that I got it. And Job B is for the same company, same division, but the next department over.

So I ran the assumption that Job B would talk to Job A and do whatever to transfer me over.

So yesterday, I had orientation and it's my official first day and all that, only it's for Job A, my "old" job.

Huh?

Has anyone ever transferred departments? Anyone? It's been a week and a half since I was told I had the "new" job; when can I e-mail my "new" boss and ask, nicely, WHEN ARE YOU GETTING ME OUT OF HERE?

Anyone?

In the meantime, I haven't told anyone in my current department that I am looking to get out. Not even my boss. (Should I?)

I've never done this before, and am completely confused.

And what does it MEAN, I wonder, that Job A's "official" Day 1 was CD 1?

And how do we like the new graphics?

Being Junior Designer now, I thought it was time to spruce up...

Union Square

Anyone know where Union Square is, in New York City?

Obviously, it's "a square," which is to say a spot of open space in the middle of buildings and streets. I went the other day, because (3 days a week) they house an incredible farmer's market.

And while I got off at the right subway stop (that part is easy) I exited out an incorrect door. H always knows, with some incredible instinct, which is the exit that is inches from his destination. Me? Nope. I exit two blocks away from where I need to be.

But no matter, I say to myself. It's a beautiful day and the sun is shining and I haven't been to Union Square in a dog's age. Look! That restaurant has changed names and cuisines. That theatre is now a church! And I'm going to pass by the toy shop, so I can go in and look for that thing for H.

Except that the toy store is now a baby shop.

I don't know why I was so stunned. But I was seriously stunned. To the point that I cannot, do not, cannot tell you what THAT THING was that caused me to head for what I thought was a toyshop. Clueless.

So there I was, dead in my tracks in front of a Baby Store.

And I went in.

There was a short, chubby employee who greeted me when I walked in. Or at least I think she may have greeted me; I saw her lips moving but my heart was pounding SO LOUD I couldn't hear a thing. I smiled warmly (wanly?) and moved on.

I wandered rudderless a while. WHAT AM I DOING HERE I kept asking myself. AM I INSANE was next on the FAQ. IS THIS EVEN HEALTHY followed. My heart was thudding. My breathing was shallow. No joke, there was a moment when I thought I was going to pass out.

So I focused on a bottle display and forced myself to breathe. BREATHE. Told myself, I will not be afraid of this place. BREATHE. I will be back here, one day, to select things for my registry. For my baby. For my family. BREATHE.

And once the panic fled, I left. Head high.

STILL don't know if I was brave or crazy.

Decline

I do not like the word "decline." It's a wimp of a word. "I decline your offer." What's that mean? You don't want to, or you cant, or what the hell?

The folks at Mama's daycare tell us she's declining. Which means WHAT.

Hate that word.

Changing My Life

So a billion years ago, I made some New Years Resolutions. And I've actually made good on most of them.

7. Start a Medical Binder for me, and one for my MIL
Yeah. I'd forgotten about this one until I dug out my old posting. So no, but now that I remember it, it's next on my list.

6. I will do something positive (per Bea) as often as I can. (I hope I can get to 50).
Knowing all of you has changed my life. The only thing that's stopping me from listing you all by name and mentioning how much y'all have given to me, and how you have changed my life, how much I have learned from you is the huge freaking fear that I will not remember all of you (because it's more than the folks I list to the side) and that I might accidentally offend you in the process of praising you. But godDAMN, women, I owe you my life. From inspiring me to do something positive to be better to try for a new job to investigate a new treatment plan. I can do this because I saw you do it. And while I have not done a "good deed" every week, I made the decision (a la Bea) to, as I put it CRAM SUNSHINE into everything coming out of me. Until it got to be something I can do fairly comfortably, and regularly.

5. I will blog at least once a week.
Yeah. Does composing blog entries in my head count? No?

4. I will ask myself Powerful Questions.
All right, I admit it. I still use affirmations. But I aggressively ask questions, and ask positive questions. And I love it. It's a bit NLP, but I recommend it.

3. I will laugh really hard at least once a day.
The D.ail.y S.ho.w. The C.olber.t R.epor.t. My N.ame is E.arl. U.gly B.etty. H.ow I M.et Y.our M.other. Stand-Up podcasts. W.ait, W.ait, D.on't T.ell M.e podcasts. Not to mention, life's everyday antics. Laughing is FUN. (any suggestions?)

2. Continue with the somewhat goofy but "good for me" things I do.
I've been reading The I.nfertilit.y C.ure: The A.ncient C.hinese W.ellness P.rogram for G.etting P.regnant and H.aving H.ealthy B.abies. I bought it a year plus ago, but it took Square Peg saying she was reading it (and liking it) for me to have the patience to crack the spine. And while the book is lacking in some areas, I'm digging it. I mentioned the recommended diet to H, who responded "That's m.acrobiotic.s!" So we switched from struggling vegans to fairly successful macro-psychotics. (It helps that H used to work at the O.mega I.nstitute and has friends who are m.acrobiotic-friendly. Because, man, no one wants to have dinner with the vegans). I've kept most of the list up (except for s.ynthroi.d -- don't seem to need it anymore.) And an accupuncture clinic opened up blocks from my house, so I don't need to haul into Manhattan (and pay Manhattan prices) for my accupunture. I've even taking accupunturist-provided herbs (the most foul-smelling and evil-tasting thing I have ever put into my body).

1. Update my resume. And when the resume is updated, I will look for a job that will offer me health insurance.
Done. Okay, it took me four months (no exageration) to update my resume, but I DID IT. And I sent it out. And I applied for jobs, including one in the Marketing Department of the company that I work for.

And I got the job. (which comes with a raise, better hours, more fulfilling taks and oh yeah HEALTH INSURANCE).

EVERYBODY DANCE NOW!

Oops

These were supposed to come out at different times. (I thought, at least)

Apologies for the blog-spam

Cycles

It's a cycle, and not a good one. I'm away for a few days, months, years, and then I come back, and i feel OBLIGATED to read up on all of you, on what you've been doing, on where you are.

And when I'm done reading, the small amount of time that I've managed to secret away has been expended, and I have to go. And then I'm away for a few decades, centuries, eons. And, like the brooms with buckets in F.antasi.a or dirty laundry, y'all have blogged more posts, conquered more mountains, lived through more hells, and I feel obligated to be witness...

But today, I broke the cycle. I promised myself if I got the actual dirty laundry done, as well as a few other uxorial chores, I would pay the $9.99 at S.tarbuck.s and sit and blog and read and whatever for a few hours.

TA-DAA!!

I even managed to schedule it in such a way that H gets some time to vanquish our incoming bills and (please, Jesus) put us on a schedule and figure us a way out our black hole of debt.

Double TA-DA!!

And as to why I haven't been posting... Here's the story.

I've got a Supervisor and a Manager. And the Manager gave the Supervisor some projects, but even though the Supervisor has two scheduled hours of downtime a day, Supervisor was going nowhere on the projects. So Supervisor comes over to me the day after I get back from LA and INFORMS me (not asks, not even wrapping it in a nice "would you mind") that I am going to do her job for -- wait for it -- SIX MONTHS and she is going to do mine because MINE is EASIER.

Riiiiight.

And I, of course, smiled and said ANYTHING I CAN DO TO HELP because I am a "contractor," a "temp" and three million years ago they said I was on the short list to get hired which means health insurance which I do not currently have.

And so we switched and I did her job a helluva lot better than she did mine because my job is hard, is demanding, is incredibly draining, and you have to make the decision to get through it smiling. (Or, at least, *I* have made the decision to get through it smiling).

You ever notice when you decide to make the best of it, and you actually find the best of it, without sarcasm or snark or teeniest of bitchiness... it actually becomes pretty good?

For the record -- I'm a word processor who is SO GOOD that I've learned three thousand software packages, and was elevated to a position that I am the coordinator/troubleshooter for all the other word processors in my center, and all the ones off in India. Twenty to thirty people I give constant technical and design assistance every single day.

Easy, my EYE. I just make it look like that. (Anyone who has ever managed anyone -- you KNOW what I mean).

So I used to have downtime. Not a lot, but a bit. And I would start a blog on Monday and finish it up a few days later. I had a small amount of privacy, a nice little desk in the back that I shared with other folks in my position (my job is open 24/7). And I blogged.

But since I've been 'supervising'... I'm up at the front, with my Manager by my side. Clients constantly coming in the door to be attended to. (I great every freaking one of them with a smile, unlike my Supervisor, who is a drama queen.) I ask questions, I seek solutions, I say "no" when we can't accomplish something but I follow every "no" with possible alternatives. I'm rocking it, to the point that my Manager said to me, "Nica, I have to be more like you." Score!

But no space to blog. The manager would NOT take kindly to taking my downtime to blog. I think I mentioned, a few months ago, the Company I work for even blocked the blog sites. I figures a way around it, but that's all the more reason for me not to flaunt it.

So, sorry I've been gone so long, but I'm sucking down decaf coffees with soy milk so let's see what I can get done today...

Couples fighting infertility might have more control than they think

US News and World Report

http://www.usnews.com/usnews/health/articles/070429/7infertility.htm

Allright, this is a cop out. More later...

I'm in LA this week...

Work sent me to LA to cover for another worker. Anyone have any suggestions on what and where to go?

Yankees vs Red Sox

Imagine if you will, that you are a huge, D.ere.k J.ete.r loving, stripe-wearing Yankees fan. And more than that you are a New Yorker. An American. But you are in a country far, far away from New York City. And that you have been there for a very long time. Years and years in fact.
And then one day, you see a restaurant open up just a few miles from you. An American style restaurant, with all the foods and customs and mores that you grew up with. You get happy. You get excited. Until you find out...

It's Red Sox-themed.

The same thing happened to my Mother-in-Law, with the changes in the story that she's not from the United States, she's from somewhere else (legally emigrating more that 5 decades back, thanks for asking). And that it's not, obviously, a Red Sox-themed restaurant. But everything else is the same, and for ease of understanding, I'm going to be referring to "Yankees" and "Red Sox."

Entiendamos?

So yeah, there's this Red Sox themed restaurant. And at first, we would drive by it, and Mama would spit at the sight of it. Which changed (thank you God) to her telling us the story about how her father would spit every time someone would say the name "Red Sox." And sometimes she would sing the fight song from the rival team's fight song.

Then, one night, we're scrounging for a place to have dinner/get take out from. H is having a craving for food "like his Mother used to make." And I suggest the Red Sox Diner, laughing as I say it. A strange look comes across H's face, and off he is to enemy territory.

H loves it. And Mama loves it, although we don't mention where it came from. I breathe a sigh of relief that we got away with it.

Next month, we're back.

This time, I accompany H. I, who root for neither the Red Sox not the Yankees (let's go Mets!) feel as though, on some level, I am doing something bad. This is how vehemently and eloquently Mama has conveyed her dislike for the Yankees.

Much to my surprise, God does not strike us down when we walk through the door of Red Sox Restaurant. And the people are nice and the place is far more authentic than I thought. And there's a little, little Yankees logo up in the corner. H says, "Mama would love this!" I'm not so sure, but my husband is always right. Mama loves the leftovers and holds her spit when we tell her where it came from.

So a few days ago, we all decide to go there for dinner. (I know -- we eat out far too much for people so broke). And Mama decides to wear her Yankees T-Shirt. To the Red Sox Diner.

At first we were a little concerned -- this is a serious rivalry in Mama's home country. But we decide to go for it. (Of course, being a chicken, *I* put on the Red Sox shirt that H bought only to poke at his mother).

H leaves us outside the restaurant to go find parking. We ask for a table for three and the hostess leads us right to one.

Once at the table, Mama looks at the hostess. "Do you know what I have on?," Mama asks and opens her coat (like a flasher) to show off the Yankee T-Shirt.

The hostess erupts in a stream of Spanish to quick for me to follow. She calls over to another table. Mama flashes them the Yankees shirt and they cheer. Another table boos. One of the bartenders comes over to shake her hand and compliment her on her "fine breeding" and "great taste." Mama (the woman who cannot walk a straight line without a cane or walker) begins to dance around, randomly opening her coat and flashing people the Yankees T-shirt. I chase after her, get the coat off and her in a seat about a minute before H comes in.

"Did anyone notice the shirt?" H asks.

Huh.

We have a nice, uneventful dinner. I practice my Spanish and all goes well. H pays the check and goes running out to get the car, leaving his mother and I to (slowly) put on our coats and make our way to the door.

As Mama passes a table, one of the men growl "You are in the wrong place!" His manner of delivery makes me a little nervous, but Mama laughs at him and flashes her shirt. An entire table near the front (near the bar) start howling and booing at Mama. She flashes the shirt and blows them kisses.

Once we're (safely) outside, Mama can't stop laughing. And I join her. And we're laughing and laughing and laughing. H pulls up and we're still laughing. And I tell him the story (her entrance, her exit, and everything in between) and H starts laughing. Mama is howling, I am giggling.

And I realize, I can't remember feeling this good in forever.

And I realize, I haven't felt good in so long, it feels WRONG to feel this good.

And I make the decision to keep laughing. Dammit.

The Eyes Have It

Mama's eyes turned red a few weeks ago. (Her ultimate diagnosis: Blepharitis). Her (social model) daycare couldn't handle it; sent her home saying they were not going to let her back until she was declared "non-contagious."

I called her doctor, who said "go to an opthamologist." Mama hasn't seen an opthamologist for two decades, so I was at a loss to find one. QUICKLY.

Luckily, the last time Mama had a medical crisis, I was at work, and my well-organized hypochondriac co-worker supplied me with a list of specialized emergency rooms. So I packed up Mama and took her to the N.e.w Y.or.k E.y.e and E.a.r I.nfirmar.y one fine Monday morning.

The minute we walk in, she says, "are we going to see Dr. B?" I say no and smile and explain that, um, we're going to see an associate of Dr. B. Yeah, that's it. "No," says Mama, stamping her foot like a spoiled child, "Dr. B is my eye doctor."

We (meaning I) fill out forms as we (meaning her) wait impatiently for our turn. (They are mind-boggling quick after-hours, but we had come for a regular walk-in appointment. So we waited about 90 minutes).

At one point, Mama was so agitated I put my I.p.o.d headphones on her and cranked the classical music. It made her SO HAPPY that she began to dance. And sing. LOUDLY. To the orchestral, no-vocals included classical music. (Mama sings SO BADLY that a co-worker of mine who heard her once wanted to record her JUST for the comedy of it...)

We were the talk of the waiting room...

I had placed the I.p.o.d in Mama's hand (and wrapped her fingers around it), because I didn't want it to go flying. At one point, Mama screams "Nica, you have to hear this!" and crams the I.p.o.d. next to my ear. As if it was a transistor radio. I (politely) decline and she shoves it next to her own ear. And continues to dance. And sing. Loudly (and off-key).

Within five minute of the start of Mama's performance, we're whisked to a consultation room. (Coincidence? I think not). A nurse does the preliminary examination, and Mama starts talking about Dr. B. The nurse looks at her (then me) strangely. She asks Mama to repeat the name and Mama repeats it. "I'm sorry," says the nurse. "Dr. B died some time ago." She walks out and Mama and I quietly wait for the doctor.

Mama is sad, and spends the next few moments reminiscing. Dr. B's wife was named A. He had two sons. He was a great man, and a nice man. She gets a little teary, which isn't a bad thing an opthamologist's office.

The Trainee Doc comes in to examine Mama. I recommend the NYEE highly, but the doctors that you see there are fresh out of school. I think I have shoes older than the Trainee Doc. And while Trainee is knowledgeable, she's thrown by the fact that Mama is a sad (and bad) patient. Mama will NOT sit still, Mama will not stick her chin in that thing that you're supposed to stick your chin in (anyone know the name). And the glaucoma test -- where you have to keep your eye open as they blow air in it? -- yeah. NOT happening.

Trainee Doc asks, then begs, then I ask, then beg. We ask in English, we beg in Spanish. (I've explained about the Alzheimer's). Trainee Doc gets frustrated, and says she's going to call her supervising doctor.

"I should send a card to the family," says Mama when Trainee's out of the room. "A sympathy card to Dr. B's family." I nod and plug her into the I.p.o.d, worried about how we can get Mama through the necessary tests.

In walks Dr. Trainee with her Supervisor.

The Supervisor is the son of Dr. B.

The Supervisor, the son of Dr. B. examined her 20+ years ago when he was just a trainee and remembers Mama.

And the Supervisor looks enough like his father that Mama calms down and gets through the exam. (they want us to come back fro some preventative laser surgery, but all should be well).

As we get in the cab home, Mama turns to me and says. "I told you that I was going to see Dr. B."

I ask you -- what are the freaking odds?

This and that.

Am I crazy, or did bogger used to have a fun toolbar? That allowed you to insert links as, well, links? I don't seem to have that anymore. And the short cuts don't work...

Recent articles of interest to me from the New York Times...

MODERN LOVE; In the Grip of Nature's Own Form of Birth Control

Prevalence of Alzheimer’s Rises 10% in 5 Years

And I’m Not Your ‘Girl,’ Gramps

This I found amusing, mostly because I have used this agency and the Home Health Aides did not like to change a soiled bed, much less what they say they do in this article.

Promise to have a real post soon....

Life Isn't Fair. But That's Okay.

Life isn't fair. But that's okay.

A friend of mine and I had a conversation a week or so back. Her life is going great, mine not so much, and I dunno. I think she was looking for the silver lining in my current IF cloud.

"Of course this will all work out for you," she says, "because you're taking care of Mama."

Which took me a minute to put together. And then I asked her explicitly, just to be sure, that I understood her.

And I did. By her logic, I'm going to get pregnant because if I deserve to get pregnant.

Except. Who decides that I freaking DESERVE.

Two weeks ago, when Mama was screaming at me that I was the cause of all things wrong with both her and her life, I yelled back.

Mama never knew me before her dementia, before the Alzheimer's. So any memory she has of being healthy, happy and strong... doesn't include me. So every so often, her logic decides that I am responsible and she shrieks at me to get out. She screams and hits and hits and screams and demands that I get out, that I leave, that her son will be better off without me, that she will be better off without me, that I am fat, that I am ugly, that I am stupid, that she curses me, that I am cursed, that she hates me, that I am evil and deserve to die. And when she hits, she always (always) strikes me in the abdomen and occasionally adds "I kill your baby! I kill your baby!"

Sometimes (rarely) it rolls off my back. But this last time, I screamed back, loud and vicious. After a minute or two of howling, (mine and hers), I sat down quietly. While I can still see Mama (and she me), I cease to interact with her. I pray a little, focus on something (anything) else, and get my calm back. (I think of it as giving myself a time out.) And after a moment of two of quiet, she starts to talk to me. Can she do anything for me, she asks. Can she make me a sandwich? Get me a glass of water? Can she make me a cup of tea?

H called me at that moment, and I collapsed into tears. I crumpled, I whined, I demanded that he make it all better. And he tried, but he couldn't. So we fought on the phone and made up on a second call.

Mama was having problems finding her crayons and when I found them, she said "Thank you Nica. You bring such good things to my life. I love you." And she hugged me and kissed me and happily toddled off to color.

People routinely say something trite. How good H and I are to take Mama in, how good we are with her. Like I would instantly "deserve" to have kids, be pregnant.

But. If we don't have kids, is it because we don't deserve to? Did Mama deserve to have dementia? Does the woman with Alzheimer's deserve to be yelled at for what she cannot control? For how her brain does (and doesn't) function? Does my family deserve to be without health insurance? Does H deserve to have his wife scream at him at work? Did I deserve to have a chemical pregnancy?

Life isn't fair. Mostly, I'm thinking, because life is filled with humans. And humans are frail creatures with frailer bodies. And sometimes they fail -- both the human and the bodies -- despite the best of efforts and the best of intentions. And what's fair for me may not be fair for you, or for H, or for Mama. And if I forgive them -- Mama and H and all the other humans (including me) in my life -- and they forgive me for my frailty, for what makes my life (and their lives) unfair... and if I'm going to continue to try (and to risk failing or really screwing up)... then I have to make my peace with life being unfair.

Life isn't fair. But that's okay.

Feel free to disagree with me. It took me a few weeks to get to here...

What is In Vitro Maturation?

See above. What is In Vitro Maturation and how is it different from IVF? Anyone know?

See, I do searches periodically for news articles about fertility. I keep hoping that there will be something... something. Preferably with the headline "HEY NICA -- THIS WILL GET YOU PREGNANT!!"

In Vitro Maturation popped up a while back, and though I have g.oogle.d it, I'll be darned it I understand it. Because if it works so well... why aren't more folks using it? If anyone has a clue, feel free to share with the rest of the class...

And speaking of being confused by the news... Being overweight is bad for fertility, trans-fats are bad for fertility, but a diet high in fat is good for fertility.

My little head is hurting...

Yesterday

Yesterday, I'm waiting in front of the building. It was shortly after 8:00AM, raining like hell, cold enough to be miserable (but not enough to make it snow). I'm waiting with Mama for the bus that takes her to daycare. And Mama, being Mama, is wandering around. I'm chasing after her, making sure that she's covered by the umbrella, and while she doesn't move fast, she has this superhuman ability to make sure that she's far enough away that I am constantly drenched. And because I am REALLY SMART I am wearing pink fluffy bunny slippers that are sopping and freezing and slipping off my feet and getting filthier by the minute.

And then the morning got bad.

Isa, Mama's former Home Care Attendant, comes walking by, on her way to the subway. She waves and runs up to Mama, chirping a greeting and (thank you Jesus) causing Mama to stop in her tracks. Isa then turns to me and says NICA, WHERE'S THE BABY? WHY YOU NO PREGNANT YET?

Yeah. We're Latin. Have I mentioned?

I was raised in the Midwest, by parents trying (and succeeding) to be middle class. Polite (ish). Small family. You know the kind.

I move to NYC, I marry H, and I am pulled into a large (although now, all moved away) Latin family.

And WHERE IS THE BABY is the way we get greeted. That, or WHY DON'T YOU HAVE KIDS (YET). Just after we were married, we'd respond we're trying!! with laughs and smiles. And then the smiles got thinner and the chuckles died away. And now while I am usually reeling from this hello, H (if he's with me) if giving whomever an abridged version of our attempts to procreate. Up to and including our maybe-chemical pregnancy. (My 2nd RE is convinced it was a real pregnancy, my OBGYN is not. Doc Fight!)

But H wasn't there, so I just stood there. In the rain, feet cold and hair sopping, I just stood there. And Isa continues, YOU'VE GAINED WEIGHT. I THOUGHT YOU WERE PREGNANT.

Yeah.

I wish I could be like H. I wish I could just tell people that we're trying, that it's hell, that it's hell. H actually told his boss that he needed a job that had good benefits because we were having fertility problems and needed great medical coverage. (H is currently working freelance). I wish I could make similar requests to my boss.

But I don't.

Catching Up

Hi there. I haven't been here for a while. And not only have I NOT been posting, I haven't been reading other blogs. I haven't been logging on. I haven't been turning on the computer. You name it, I haven't been doing it.

What have I been doing? Working, mostly. Listening to my i.P.o.d. too much. Swinging from self-doubt to self-pity to selfishness. The usual.

I'm going to read a bit, and then I hope to have an uplifting yet vitriolic post on the morrow.

Cheers.

Happy Valentine's Day!

talk at y'all later

The Search For Insurance

So H has been trying to get this business thing off the ground. And I support him. Really. I just really want him to get a JOB right now.

Neither H nor I has what you'd call a REAL job right now. American businesses have figured out that, in many situations, it's cheaper for them to have 'contractors' or 'temps' work for them. (I'm in my third year of 'temping.')

The thing that makes it doubly frustrating is that I'm not a true freelancer. If I was, I could take a lot more stuff off of my taxes. No, I'm an employee of some rinky-dink temp agency. I haven't set foot in the place in two years, and they still get a piece of my paycheck.

Without offering insurance.

Now, my employers have been really supportive of me. When I want to take time off, when I need to switch around my schedule, when I need to disappear for two hours to take care of Mama, they cope. And there's the fact that they are dangling the "hey we MIGHT hire you" carrot in front of me.

So H has decided if anyone is getting a new job, it's him. Not that he wants a job. He wants a business. But if he gets a business, he's not going to be able to insure himself. Or me. We can't get an insurance policy that covers IF, even if we do get it through a business.

We've been fighting about it, these past few weeks. Whose dreams come first? Mine? His? Ours?

In the end, I won. The ticking biological time bomb cannot be ignored.

Never easy, this

The Big Accomplishment Of The Day

The big accomplishment of the day is that I went walking this morning with my neighbor. All though this may not appear as any big deal, it's huge in the Sandwich world. Not only is it time that I spent on myself, but I had the chance to have a talk with someone.

Being a caregiver may not necessitate being isolated, but I'll be damned if H and I have figured out how to do it without getting isolated. There are almost no support groups that take in couples, and while we have had some support from friends... Yeah, well, we haven't had a lot of support from friends. (We've had some, but not the heavy duty "I will gladly sit for your MIL one evening a week" kind of help. Not the big-time impactful on our quality of life kind of help.)

Periodically, I take Mama out to a movie. I do this without H to give H the afternoon off. (He enjoys being completely alone). I usually do this on Sunday, so he can watch the football game. (I actually shoved him out the door on Saturday night to go play poker with friends. H not only copes with a crazy-Alzheimer's mother, but a not-always sane IF wife. He needs all the re-charging he can get. Although I do not like football, I am always sad when the season ends, because H gets so much out of it).

Taking my MIL out is... well, usually it's difficult. On her best day of the week, she's partially paralyzed, motor skill-challenged and in and out of reality. I cannot leave her in unfamiliar territory for more than a few minutes, and I can't have her walk too far. And she never moves quickly (no matter WHAT is going on). On her worst day, she's all this and CRANKY.

But occasionally... it's soul killing. Like the last time I took her out to lunch. Once the order was placed and we were just looking at each other... I realized how desperately lonely I was. How I wanted to talk to her (someone, anyone) about my hopes and fears for the future, about anything that was going on in my life. And I couldn't. So we talked about some pop star she's currently in love with, and her childhood on the farm, and whatever else mattered to her.

I haven't been able to keep ahold of a great deal of friends, and those that I have all have kids or some other huge all-important endeavour. (Context: I have a friend with a dying parent, another with HIV, another who's going back to school and a few others who have children). So they don't have buckets of free time, either. But. There's only so many times you can be half-way through a gut-wrenching telephone conversation only to be put on hold because "Rachel needs something right now." (I have more patience with the others). It's like, dammit, am I not worth fifteen minutes of your time? Huh?

Of course, I talk to my husband, but he's a BOY. (You know what I mean). Sometimes I want to talk to someone ELSE.

So, this morning I went walking with my neighbor. She'd asked me a few weeks (okay, MONTHS) ago if I wanted to do a daily morning walk. At the time, I was focused on how chaotic my morning is. Getting Mama and H up and out takes a bit of doing. But I began to realize that I had 30 minutes free. So I knocked on her door and said, "Um, are you still interested....?"

Halfway through the walk, as we were chatting, she brought up that she has Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. "Ah," I replied, "PCOS." (Not that I know what it is exactly, but having surfed the boards I know it's a common complaint). And we chatted about fertility issues the rest of the walk.

Thanks, God.

Friday Was My Birthday

I awoke Friday morning discovered three things: I had EWCM, I was forty, and Mama had forgotten where the bathroom was (so she defecated in her bed).

Certain things made me happier than others...

H cleaned the bed and I cleaned Mama and then the bathroom, and praised God, Jesus and R.eckit.t B.enckise.r for L.yso.l Wipes. Love them.

We packed Mama on her bus to daycare and H called in late for work. Ahem.

A hell of a morning, even in the Sandwich household.

That night, H took me to a fancy vegan restaurant. It was great. I got to dress up (contacts and make up, even). We saw an actor I recognized coming out on his way in, and our table was between a super-hip Middle Eastern couple (she kept saying she wasn't responsible for the break-up of the marriage of the fellow she was sleeping with) and a lesbian couple on their first date (the one closest to H was so stressed she could barely eat).

I love to eavesdrop on other diners. I'm horrible that way. But we had a great time at dinner. An old married couple from the 'burbs (by Manhattan standards) having an exotic outing in Greenwich Village.

How was your weekend?

And the Ward Goes To...

We didn't go. But not for any reasons you might think.

It turns out that H’s friend has beliefs that preclude non-family members from viewing the baby until the baby is a certain age. (Eight months, I think, but don’t quote me). These same beliefs prohibit them from receiving gifts (so no online registry), from taking photos the baby and from getting the baby formally named (although I think the naming happens sooner than the viewing, but again. Don't quote me).

So, uh, yeah. We didn’t go.

I've heard of traditions like this before (I have 2 co-workers who did the same) but I have to say, my first reaction was negative. And then I thought about it.

And then I remembered us. The minute we got a positive on our Beta test, H was calling everyone in sight telling them we were a go. I was slightly more restrained, but only slightly. (I started my online registry). And then when the pregnancy ended (most doctors agree it was a c.hemica.l p.regnanc.y, although the RE who did the implantation insists it wasn't) H had to call up -- or at least deal with -- all the folks he had told. Me, I only had to hit the DELETE button a few times (sobbing all the way).

Some folks start celebrating at 7 weeks, when they hear the heartbeat. But those of us who have been around the blogs know that that's not even a guarantee that all will be well. Heck, we IF'ers know that even giving birth is not an indication that it's all roses. Sadly, we now all know the tale of someone somewhere that it didn't work out for.

So eight months. Keeping the child indoors and under wraps for eight months. Protecting them fiercely, keeping them close, watching them like a hawk. And then at eight months, taking them to your place of worship, dedicating them to God and presenting them to the world.

And so when I thought about it, I liked the eight moth waiting period. Not that, necessarily, waiting to have your child photographed and out in public will have an impact on whether they survive. But that is (God forbid) something bad happens... it's a private thing. No phone calls to make. No registries to delete. No onesies I purchased in a moment of hope that I can't bear to throw out but hate having to keep.

The waiting makes sense to me.

(Not that I'll ever do it...)

Okay, Here's the Deal

I used to post mostly from work. And my work regularly bans access to chat rooms, e-mail and BBS's just found out about blogs. Or, at least, just got around to banning them. So anything from "blogger.com" I can't read.

Ironically, while I can't get in to post, nor to comment, nor to see other people's comments, I can still see the main posts. So I have become Queen of the Lurking. (It's frustrating to be the Queen).

Anyway, I now have to post from home, which will be difficult. Living with a doubly-incontinent victim of Alzheimer's means never having to say I Have No Housework. Because there is always, always something that needs to be washed, tidied, laundered, or policed. (Like this morning. I unloaded and loaded the dishwasher, wiped down the countertops and cleaned up after Mam's decision to make breakfast. You never knew how many places jelly could get). And of course, H likes when I have a conversation with him. (Go figure).

This should be interesting...

PS -- I'm not upset at my work for the lack of access. It's well within their rights and honestly, it's prolly for the best.

We Are Experiencing Technical Difficulties

I have less internet access than I used to, so it's going to take me a bit longer to post.

Please be patient.

Husband Says: Let's Go To The Maternity Ward!

Wife answers:
Are you freakin' crazy?

Husband replies:
It'll be good. Baby vibes. They're good for you.

Wife says:
Are you freakin' crazy?

Husband says:
She's a really nice co-worker, and I'd love for all of us (her, me, my husband and her husband) to become friends.

Wife says:
We'll go Friday.
But you're freakin' crazy.

What do you think? H thinks it's a GOOD idea to go visit his co-worker in the hospital. Now, I am (trying) to be Little Ms. Positive, (see any damn previous post) but I'm thinking that for me to visit a maternity ward... well, I'm thinking we'd be better served visiting the psych ward.

Hey, it's one thing if I knew her... But I don't. H hasn't even mentioned her (I don't even know her name). And to meet her there, in the hospital...

What you think?

It's That Time...

We hate periods around here, don't we?

Exclamation points, also known as the positive lines on tests we like (understanding or course, that exclamations are both for joy and fear). We (or at least I) live for weeks with the question mark, and the vague and hopeless hope that accompanies it (the hopeless hope that whispers that even though H's sperm count is so low, that maybe one of the swimmers was an overachiever and we'll have a small miracle).

But we (or at least I) don't like period. Period.

It's hard to see the period as beginning. Who decided it was Day 1? That never strikes me as right. Science schmience. The period is the end, not the beginning.

I know women who hate their period. As in HATE their period. They give it different names (some really, really funny names) and they treat it as if it is some kind of alien creature invading their body. Not only alien, but traitorous as well.

I so completely get that. For me, in addition what it means (no baby) I hate how it feels. No emotional "feels" either, but the physical sensation of it all. (I'm not going into details. You know what I'm talking about.) I hate the mess, I hate the embarrassment and even more the potential for embarrassment. Oh, Aunt Flo, how could you?

So when I tell you that I am trying to love my period... Yeah. I'm nuts.

It's like this: I have a lump on my butt. (Have I shared too much?) It's not cancerous, or dangerous, or even THAT noticeable. But it's there and you can see it (if you're looking for it) and I wish I could get it removed. And when I'm shoved in a subway with thousands of fellow New Yorkers, my mind starts to wander. About how I'd like to have the lump removed, and maybe some cosmetic surgery in the area wouldn't be bad. About how I'd like to lose weight, how I'd like to reduce my hips by several miles. About how not satisfied I am with my body that aches and creaks and ISN'T PREGNANT.

And then I start to hate my body.

Now, I am going to be a mother (someday). We will either conceive or adopt. And if we conceive, it will be with this body, my body. And I think I will have a better chance of conceiving if I don't HATE the vessel that brings me what the most in all the world. I think I have a better chance of getting pregnant if I don't hate my body. (Call me crazy).

And even if my body never brings me a child.. well, my adopted child will see what I bring to my body. And I don't want to teach my daughters that it's okay to hate yourself. (Even the lumpy, alien, traitorous parts).

So I'm trying to love my body, dimpled thighs and crampy period included. Isn't it great that my cycle is regular! Isn't it comforting that my flow is consistent!

(I know. It doesn't sound so convincing yet. But I'm working on it, and welcome to suggestions).

The Other Side of the Sandwich

There was an article in the NY Times, "Elder-Care Costs Deplete Savings of a Generation."

The synopsis of the article is "Never before has old age lasted so long or been so costly, compromising the retirement of baby boomers." And while I am not a baby boomer, yeah. We spend about $700 to $1,200 taking care of my MIL. We've lost jobs because of taking care of her, because of the need to be with her and take way too much time off.

Medicaid thinks a person can live off of $600 a month. So we have to PAY BACK from her Social Security.

Yeah.

What I forgot yesterday...

2. Continue with the somewhat goofy but "good for me" things I do. (Continued)
I. No smoking or drinking of alcohol (which will be easy, because I never smoke and rarely drink)

see others from yesterday...

7. Start a Medical Binder for me, and one for my MIL
This is something I saw on one of those shows like R.ea.L S.impl.e or some such. One of those shows for the organized about how to be super-organized. I fall into neither category, but it is an idea whose time has come. Especially for me -- H got the results of his new SA, and couldn't remember if it was an improvement or not. We had to go digging through previous pieces of paper, and even then we weren't quite sure. So, I thought, Medical Binder. That may, we can put in notes, and try to be organized. (Emphasis on TRY).

And for my MIL -- H and I both take her to the doctor. Always, there is some card or piece of paper that the other one has when we're there. So having one central location (not to mention portable) makes sense...

What are your resolutions?

Resolved: This Year I Will...

1. Update my resume. And when the resume is updated, I will look for a job that will offer me health insurance.
(Even if it means re-typing the resume, as the computer it's stored on is on my husband's list of "things to be fixed". And even though it means calling a bunch of old employers and checking the exact dates of where I worked there, and when I was fired, which I dread dread dread).

2. Continue with the somewhat goofy but "good for me" things I do.
(Please note: by continue, for the most part, I mean "start again." )
A. I will sleep with a sleep mask, because light can impact your body's production of melatonin, and with my MIL, I don't always get to sleep at night.
B. I will take Synthroid, because I have hypothyroidism.
C. I will (try to) cut down on sugar. Sugar raises the insulin level, which inhibits the release of growth hormones, which in turn depresses the immune system, and in general antagonizes the endocrine system.
D. I will have (almost) no caffeine.
E. I will eat (almost) no dairy products. (But I am slightly lactose intolerant, and find that when I cut out dairy it makes my allergies much more easy to bear).
F. I will eat (almost) no meat, especially red meat. (Hard for my husband -- he's a carnivore.)
G. I will (try to) eat a diet rich in alkaline, specifically green vegetables.
H. I will take my vitamins, including folic acid, B6 , B12 and zinc.

3. I will laugh really hard at least once a day.

4. I will ask myself Powerful Questions.

5. I will blog at least once a week.

6. I will do something positive (per Bea) as often as I can. (I hope I can get to 50).

Did I forget anything?

Auld Lang Syne: What Does That Mean Again?

So my brother is a man so educated, so literate, so knowledgeable that it is virtually impossible to have a conversation with him. He has a concentration in English literature, and spent far too much time studying ancient poets. And a few years back he "translated" Auld Lang Syne for me.

"Auld Land Syne" is an ancient song of Scottish origin, attributed to Robert Burns. "Auld Lang Syne" translates, roughly, as things that past. Old friends. Old times. Back in the day.

The song says, in my opinion (and helped by the brother's translation), there are moments that happen. Moments to remember. Good and bad. People that matter, that touch your lives and then go away. And change is going to happen, life is going to go on, no matter what. But for this moment, I remember the old acquaintance. I bring you to mind. And I remember what it was to love you. I promise to remember you. But I also promise to continue, to celebrate you more than mourn you, and to go on.

For me, when I sing this song, I remember my grandmother, who died too long ago to know my husband. And I remember my husband's uncle, who was like a father to him when my father-in-law ran out. But this year, after reading all your blogs, I also think of the angels who never quite made it to earth, both from miscarriage and a "failure to implant." Mine included.

I promise to remember you, and to honor you, and to drink a cup of kindness here. For auld lang syne.

Send in the Clowns...

My friend Steve sent me this bit of news a while ago.

"Sending in the clowns can significantly increase the chances that fertility treatment will be a success, Israeli researchers have found."

Which is both ridiculous and completely logical. Being scared and strained and stressed can't help anything. Saying (and praying) "please please please" makes my tummy hurt and my shoulders aches. But when I declare "I am going to have a child, I am going to be a mother," it feels good. Great even. Like laughing. (Laughing always feels good. It's why we do it...)

Steve, I should mention, is one of my few real-life friends that I tell my IF horror stories to. He's HIV positive, so he's got his share of horror stories. And, like me, they involve the added HELL that is being sick in this country without insurance.

But Steve is my inspiration: he knows a guy who is a professional clown, he says, and is
sending Chuckles over when I have my next IVF treatment.

there ought to be clowns...

Infertility Shower

So Teamwinks put a post a few days ago, To Shower or Not To Shower. And as I read it, (and added my comment), I was struck by one sentence.

You see, a “normal” woman has a baby shower.

And I thought, I want an infertility shower.

I have been to more than my share of baby showers. (My traditional gifts are D.ref.t and B.oppie.s, which you cannot have too much of). I have been to baby showers of friends, co-workers, relatives and neighbors.

My turn. I want an infertility shower.

I want friends and acquaintances to gather around me and tell me, as they tell the new mother at the traditional baby shower, that it's okay. At the traditional baby shower, the guests tell the new mommy that she is going to be okay. That she has the love and support of all who are assembled.

I want that. Screw the quietness around the topic and no one asking for updates. I want a celebration of where I am (bleak as it is) and where I want to be. Where I am going. Where I am going to get to.

And, of course, I want cake. Hope, cake and presents.

and it's bumming me out...

..that I appear to be the only one surfing and posting on Christmas...

Merry Christmas!

Ask the Question

H (my husband) is a big fan of affirmations. Perhaps I've mentioned. But he's not a big fan of the statement affirmations. You know the kind. The "every day, in every way, I am getting better and better" flavor.


He thinks they're hooey, and I agree with him. Almost immediately, after I say it, my mind will provide me with a thousand reasons why it's not true, and a million things that are wrong with me and my life. Maybe it's just me.


H is a big fan of affirmations in the form of questions. Positive questions. And, at the risk of sounding like a dutiful wife, I agree again. Because nothing is more powerful, more insistent, more compelling than the unanswered question.


Now, if I ask myself, "what the hell is wrong with me?" I can always come up with an answer. But if I ask my self "what the hell is RIGHT with me?" it's suprising and NICE what pops into my head.


My affirming question, right now, is "what can I do to make my body more fertile and responsive to the drugs?"


Even though we don't have a hope in hell of affording an IVF until next year (if then), I'm doing things NOW that are answering the question. Goofy, loopy things—cutting down on sugar and caffeine, eating way too many vegetables, and (H's favorite) wearing a sleep mask.

So when I ask myself the question... even though we are on a "break," even though I am powerless against IF, even though I've got no reason to hope... I feel hopeful.

Any questions?

Entitlement

So we're so broke we're hitting the bill collectors up for cash. So what do we do this weekend? Go on vacation!

Okay, see, we're a member of a timeshare thing. And it was paid for, and we can't afford to anything for Christmas, so we packed up the Mama and the car and away to C.olonia.l W.illiamsbur.g! (seriously -- we're so flat we shook my purse for change to pay the tolls.)

Now, the park has a shuttle bus, and the shuttle bus is handicapped accessible. This is GREAT, because Mama needs her wheelchair to go further than a block. She has trouble walking on her own.

We approach our stop and begin to try to extricate Mama from her safety harness. A safety belt for her, a hook for each wheel and an extra restraint that I could not figure out. Most people give us space. Most people are patient (as we struggle) and give us room. Most people.

But who has the problem? The witch with the baby carriage.

She comes barrelling onto the bus, with her toddler on her shoulder and her stroller overloaded with gear. She's got a second bag on her other shoulder and is sniping at the man who trails them CARRYING NOTHING. She sets down her baby, her stroller and her bag is such a way that I CANNOT GET MY MOTHER IN LAW'S WHEELCHAIR OFF THE BUS. Has she got other places that she could have settled in? SURE, but that would have meant going a half of foot farther and WHY DO THAT.

The driver quietly and politely asks her to move her stuff. I don't know if she didn't hear him or was just too busy witching at her husband to pay attention. But she doesn't move. Finally, I'm so fed up I just say "HEY!" and gesture at my stranded and befuddled Mother In Law. 80 years old, mismatched, and crazy.

"Well, I have a child," she huffs.

I almost popped her. I freaking almost popped her. No court in the land would have convicted me.

How was your weekend?

And if you notice that I don't post pictures anymore....

...it's because they don't work so well in Blogger Beta...

Blech

Christmas is next week. WHEN DID THAT HAPPEN? Lord, I am not ready.

Went to the RE's today to have some sort of smear that I don't really understand. Not the PAP, but a c.hlamydi.a. I guess that they want to rule it out as a cause of IF. Which I just think is FUNNY because this is my third RE and the first to think of it.

I'm a little cranky today.

I've mentioned before that we don't have insurance. Because of that, we've been paying everything out of pocket. I cashed in my 401(k)s and we had an IVF cycle. And now we are broke. BROKE. Checking account overdrawn BROKE.

And Christmas is when?

Insert platitude here. We'll get by. Things will get better.

And a Merry Christmas everyone...

The thing that is extra frustrating is that I can't talk to many about it. Not in real life. Mentioning that you're penury makes people a wee bit uncomfortable. And it's a little embarrassing for us, as well. And knowing that we have no safety net... well, that just adds to the fun.

My father said that he would mail us some money. It's like I'm 19 again, living on my own for the first time. Sheesh.

Okay, I'll admit it

H and I needed time. We needed time to settle into each other, adn to settle in to the idea of being parents.

Even though we are both in our late 30s (H's 40, and I am not too far behind) we only got together a few years ago. And we had to figure out who we were as a couple. And that took time.

And then, almost on cue, Mama got sick. Way sick. Can't live on her own sick. And we had to adjust to being full-time caregivers. And that took time.

And then the concept of children. BABIES. Neither H or I had a good childhood. We had some good moments, but my mother abused me, and his father abandoned him. So... yeah. Not something that we wanted to do as a matter of course. And to truly get out heads around becoming parents. Yeah. That took time.

Now, of course, I think we're good. I think we're stable. I THINK WE'RE READY. So anytime you're ready, God, well, so are we.

Today

Today was a busy day. I took Mama to the doctors, beciuase her M11Q had expired. Her doctor had filled one out previously, but V.isitin.g N.urs.e S.ervic.e of N.e.w Y.or.k took over 30 days to process her request, and then realized they couldn't help us. (Mind you: they advertise that they will have a Home Health Aide out the next business day. Not over a damn month).

Now, if I haven't mentioned, Mama goes to Alzheimer's daycare everyday. And today also was the day of their Christmas party. And so after the doctor, I had to drive to this restaurant in the middle of nowhere, and wait with Mama for her daycare people to get there.

Now, let me mentione, I hate to drive. HATE to. It scares me. I live in New York City, darnit, I do *not* drive everyday. So a big day of driving to the 'burbs (where Mama's doctor is -- we go to a specialist) and then to some large party restaurant -- terrifying.

I set out with three sets of directions and two numbers of people who could help guide me. AND I DIDN'T GET LOST. Okay, I didn't get a lot lost. Yay me!

So I drop her off at the restaurant, help the aides get everyine settled and then Mama turns on me. She's been begging for weeks for H and I to come to this party. And she was sooo excited when I said that I would go with her. But when I was there, she was NASTY. I don't know if she was somehow embarrassed of me, or if putting me down make her look cool in front of her friends, but she was mean.

Then, I drive back home, park the car, and arrive to work by subway 4 hours late.

How was your morning?

I have to say -- my almost employers (after three years, I am still a "temp") have been very supportive and flexible with me regarding my odd schedule needs. But I am still looking for a job WITH BENEFITS come the first of the year.

So now, I AM STILL AT WORK since someone called out sick and I was late.

And I am so tired.

GREAT!

H called and got the results of the MIS test today. Borderline is 0.4; I am a 0.76 which (in the words of the clinic's nurse) makes me a good candidate.

I am a good candidate. Vote for me!

This means that I'll be trying again. At least once; from then on, I just don't know.

BUT THE HELL WITH IT. It is so RARE that we in the IF get good news that I am going to focus on the positive FOR AS LONG AS I CAN.

By the way, if you heard a woman whooping and hollering about 11:00AM this morning... you may work in my office.

:)

And the results are...

STILL UNKNOWN.

H says he got busy and couldn't call. Probably true but STILL. This means that I have to wait until Monday. OH JOY.

So I had a meltdown. And H... can't handle when I melt down. So the melting caused a fight, and the fight grew and then came to a close. It wasn't pretty, but we got through it, and I think we came out the stronger for it. Which sounds really trite but is true.

So. I'll find out what my ovarian reserves and all such funness that is the results of the MIS test. And then we'll cope.

And we'll get through it.

******************

Anti-Mullerian hormone and its role in ovarian function.

Anti-Müllerian Hormone — New Marker for Determination of Ovarian Reserve.

Müllerian inhibiting substance levels at the time of HCG administration in IVF cycles predict both ovarian reserve and embryo morphology.

The MIS is MIA

My MIS test results were supposed to be back already, but due to the holiday, they've been delayed. My husband's been checking up at the clinic. The following conversation took place today:

H: Are the test results in yet?

Clinic: No, sir, we're sorry. We expect them in sometime Friday. We'll call your wife and let her know.

H: No.

Clinic: What?

H: No. Don't call her.

Clinic: Sir.. I... (insert very confused noises)

H: See, my wife is convinved that I'll get better news, because the universe likes me. So don't call her, call me.

Clinic: (laughing) Will do!

Why I love him... among other reasons.

My Vow (to myself)

My boss informed me that I am "on the list" to be hired. (Hmm, so probably not the best idea to be blogging at work?). I nosed around as much as possible and found that there's a chance that I could get "hired" in December. I have been working here for three years, and now I might get "hired." Go figure.

Now, because I live in the State of New York, any employer with more than 40 employees (and my company counts) has to provide health insurance, and the health insurance has to cover infertility (until I am 44 years old. Which is far too close for comfort).

I have tried to find health insurance on my own. The cheapest was $600 a month and the most expensive was $1,100. Both were varying shades of wretched, and neither covered IF. (Hey. Let's face it. Neither covered optical, dental or chiropractic, either). So to hear I might be WEEKS away from being covered makes me adoa little happy dance.

But this is my vow: If I do not have Health Insurance by New Year's Eve, I'm going looking for a job that has one.

thanksgiving

Well, this was our year to host Thanksgiving. So my Brother and SIL came and condescended. And my Father came and planted himself in front of football. And my MIL got into the flan and got sick.

How was your Thanksgiving?

The nice part was that H and I got to spend time together. I tortured Brother and SIL (as well as Papi) into our traditional M.onopol.y tournament. Very fun, but MIL is much better at P.ictionar.y. (Maybe for Christmas).

This will be our only family holiday this year, as this is the only holiday where family comes to us. Traveling with an Alzheimer's victim is a challenge on a good day; traveling during the holidays is sheer hell. ESPECIALLY in the post 9/11 world. Once, my MIL was even detained by security for behaving suspiciously.

So no more holiday travel for us...

We took a hard look at our budget, and realized that even if we wanted to, we couldn't afford any travel in the near future. Much less any Christmas presents of heft.

Maybe next year...

i hate this

This has got to be the worst 2ww in the history of 2wws. To find out what my chances are... crap. Damn. Of course I want to know, but damn I don't want to know. I want to have a baby. I want to have my baby -- mine and H's. I want to look at a little face and see a link that connects me and my father and my grandmother and all the way back. I want that. I want that. And in less than a week I get to find out my chances.

If you're just tuning in, my old RE is on maternity leave (I never get tired of that). My new RE recommended this new test, called MIS. It's supposed to tell me what my chances are. But it's so damn new that it takes for-FREAKING-ever to get the test results. I should have gotten them already, but as it is a holiday weekend, it'll take extra time.

And I just know... the tests are going to be middle of the road. Average. Mark my words.

Waiting on the Telephone

Today, my husband called me up all excited: The results from my Day 2 test were NORMAL. I didn't see what was so fabulous to be excited about, but I've had more of these than he has.

We've got a new deal, my husband and I. Now he takes (and makes) all phone calls to the RE. I say it's because I have NO PRIVACY at my job, and that I am ALWAYS on the phone at my job (I'm basically a dispatcher, in an office setting, of office work.) I say it's that I'm sick of coping with crappy news in the middle of work. And while these are factors, they are not the complete truth.

The truth is this: the universe likes my husband better than me. Really. He gets good news, I get bad. Consistenly, religiously, ridiculously. He calls the charge card companies, they lower rates, extend credit lines, and send him complimentary gifts. Me, they scold to be more prompt with payment. The list goes on. God loves H. Me, the almighty is a little cranky with.

So H. will be taking all calls, most especially from the RE, and extra super-duper especially the one about my MIS result. I am completely freaking aobut the result of this MIS test. I've done more research and it appears to be everything it was sold to be: the test will say how good of a candidate I am for IVF. It will predict my personal and specific possible percentages of success.

No pressure, eh?

and today i figures out how to post comments

apologies to those who posted and I didn't publish... I just didn't know how!

MIS Test -- have you heard of it?

So my husband and I went to see my new RE on Friday. (My old RE is still on maternity leave). The RE read over my file and recommended I take a MIS test. This stands for Müllerian Inhibiting Substance and is supposed to be able to predict "both ovarian reserve and embryo morphology." In other words, before I go broke with IVF cycles, this will give an indication as to if they have a shot at working.

I am terrified. I figure there are only three responses: Good, Bad and Indifferent. Truly, the one that scares me the most is indifferent. A Good result will give me hope, a Bad result will take it away (and force the adoption question) but an Indifferent result... keeps me in hell.

And let's face it... I'm scared of the Bad result, too. To go from "maybe, maybe" to "definitely not!" Is it better to have no hope?

Has anyone heard of this test? My new RE says they've only been using it for the past six months. Has anyone taken it? Passed? Anything?

The History of Me

I haven't been very clear on this, so let me take you on My Fertility Journey.

About a million years ago (7? 5? I've lost count), I didn't have health insurance, but my employer offered free OB appointments, and I took one. And the doc mumbles something about fibroids and tumors and cancer and never being a mother.

I went out and spent thousands of dollars (no health insurance, remember?) and found out that I was basically okay, (no tumors, no fibroids to speak of, no cancer) but the "never having kids" thing... scared me.

About four years ago, I met my husband, told him of the doc's pronouncement and H encouraged me to find out for sure. I went to a new Gyno (who I love) who gave me a thorough check up and could find nothing wrong... save a minor thyroid condition.

So I get put on the synthroid, and H and I keep trying. It doesn't work, and I find that when I try to use ovulation detectors... nothing happens. I try C.lomi.d, and for the first time I score on the ovulation pee test. But still no baby.

My gyno runs tests. He tests, I test. H's s.per.m is... not good. Low volume, low count, poor motility. He has varicocele-ectomy, with only minimal improvement. So we go to my (now former) RE.

Now it's time to find out everything that's wrong with me. My FSH is not good. I get put on massive doses of ungodly expensive drugs and the result is still not good. Apparently, my body is stubborn and does not like to respond to drugs. We try IUIs and nothing.

Finally, we decide to try IVF. There's a clinic where his aunt lives, and it's cheap (relatively speaking) and Aunt says that she'll help with my MIL. So I take a month off of work and we journey the ten-hour car trip out there. And I end up with three (only) fertilized embryos and implant them all. I get a positive response, but a few weeks later it's discovered to be a chemical pregnancy. No dice.

(And, in non-related-to-me-news, H and I realize that Aunt canNOT cope with her sister's dementia, so all fantasies of leaving MIL in the warmer climate for the winter months evaporate).

And then I start a blog.

Hi, how are you?

Thesauri Are Our Friends

I abhor, abominate, anathematize, can't stand, condemn, contemn, curse, deprecate, deride, despise, detest, disapprove of, disdain, disfavor, dislike, disparage, execrate, loathe, object to, recoil from, scorn, shudder at, shun, spit upon and spurn the V.isitin.g N.urs.e S.ervic.e. (If I have left any verbs out, please let me know).

These are the folks who are supposed to be supplying a Home Health Aide for my MIL. But they don't. Because, they say, they lost the paperwork. (Heard of a COMPUTER?)

I am very frustrated with them... Mostly because they are not responsive, nor responsible, nor dependable. Customer service is optional, it seems.

So, for the past week and a half, Husband and I have had to juggle lunches and appointments and beg neighbors and friends to help. And it hasn't gone well. H's boss said that while they sympathize with our situation, if he can't continue to be at work whenhe is supposed to be at work they will have to let him go. My boss said the same thing. And V.isitin.g N.urs.e refuses to return a phone call...

Crunchy Granola

My husband is a hippie. Oh, don't let the fact that he's in a dress shirt and nicely pressed khakis fool you. He's a hippie. Which I mean in the nicest possible way...

For the longest time, H was convinced that we would get pregnant naturally. We just had to want it bad enough.

Well, then we started seeing doctors, and started learning what was wrong with me (and what was wrong with him) and he changed his mind. Kinda.

Yesterday he handed me something he had printed off of the internet. It's all about affirmations, and how to make them effective (ask yourself questions, give yourself concrete answers). He also handed me something on visualizations, and then walked me through how to visualize our next IVF treatment (or whatever we do) being effective.

Part of me loves this. I mean, it's positive, it's... it's restful. It helps to quiet the evil raging voice of doubt that rules my head. But another part of me wants him to just talk about adoption, to just consider the possibility that this will never work.

Okay, am I horrible?

I love my husband (Do we let spouses read these?)

My husband and I have been doing a lot of talking. Mostly about what we are going to do next. Do we adopt? Do we try again? Do we hide in bed under our covers? (I was fond of that one last week).

Initially, Hubby was dead set against adoption. I don't know why. We've talked about it, and all he can say is that "adoption seems like giving up." We're talking about it, though. His grandparents (my MIL's parents) had wanted a bigger family than God granted, and adopted a boy and a girl. That... didn't turn out so well. My MIL's parents treated the adopted kids like second class citizens. I don't know if that's coloring his judgment.

Hubby found some sort of state program that promises to help pay for IVF if certain criteria are met. As we're poor and uninsured, I think we might qualify. He hasn't told me all the magical details; we're meeting with someone of the 17th to get all the details. He's so excited; he seems to thing that we can get an IVF cycle for 5 grand or less. If this turns out to be true I will so post all info with links attached.

I have to say; to see him pick up the banner like that... Its what has pulled me back from giving up. That he is working with me on this... that he is not angry, not hopeless, still confident and still going... Keeps me going.

Yesterday, Hubby is talking on the phone with his best friend. I was cleaning the kitchen, and heard snippets of conversation. First it was football (Giants are looking good this year) then it was jobs (best friend is thinking of switching) and then it was fertility. To hear my husband start to explain assisted hatching and EEC like he was one of you bloggers is both heartwarming and surreal.

*********
Still don't know if it's true, but I found this:
New York State Grant for IVF

Now I know. There is a New York State Grant for IVF but I don't qualify. You need to only have a certain amount of drugs and I need the MAXIMUM amount. SO they're not going to cover me, not even a little bit. Hope this helps someone else...