Med Tourist: Full Story

Here's the punchline: I was interviewed about it. The m.edica.l t.ouris.m agency that arranged things with me was approached to do an article. H thought it would be a good idea for me to participate, as anyone who was in our situation might want to know it's not as terrifying as it may seem.

And while I don't think I was interesting enough to be published (that's a good thing), I figure I may as well spill. Because one of you might be in a similar situation.

Okay, so back when I was still with my first RE, I did five or six IUIs. But the thing is, we suffer from a m.ale f.actor infertility, so it no longer made sense to try IUIs. So I trotted into my REs office and said I wanted to try IVF.

And my RE said no.

As I mentioned before, I don't seem to respond well to drugs. I have the one, developing too soon egg that seems to screw something everything up for the other eggs. So I have never developed more than 4. And my first RE didn't think it was worth it for me to try IVF. Adoption? my RE suggested. Donor eggs?

That was my last appointment with that RE. When you get a list of the top ten infertility clinics in the United States. Two are in the New York City area. One I got an appointment with. (The other is my current clinic).

So I met with my second RE. The second RE screened me for a bunch of stuff, thought I had a better chance than my first RE did, but quoted to me a price that was higher than the norm of 12K, and even if I got insurance, they were going to require me to pay outright and then make claims to my insurance.

Then I got creative.

Long story short, Mama is from Argentina. And I found a clinic in Argentina. So I talked to my husband, talked to the clinic and set something up.

A lot of my apprehension about this upcoming IVF is that I have no idea how they do IVF here in America. In Argentina, I was kissed hello and hugged goodbye by my doctor (my third RE)and all those in the office. I was put into a pink gown with little roses sewn at the neck. The pharmacy that sells you the drugs will also inject them for you. And everyone will hug you and kiss you and bless you and wish you well. Everyone.

That is not like the doctors and medical professionals I have encountered here. And I do miss it...

My Doctor spoke great English. As did the embryologist and the nurses. As did every third person we ran into in Buenos Aires. The drugs were the same, the protocol the same, the technology the same. About the only thing that drove me batty was the fact that Argentina is an anti-choice country. Three is the absolute most embryos they are willing to implant. They are completely against selective reduction, and no amount of arguing that you are a 40-year-old woman is going to change their mind and up their implantation count.

So now I have insurance, and I am at a Big Medical clinic where I am a number (and no one hugs me). And while I hope that the two cycles I have coverage for are more than enough, if I have to do another cycle, I'm going back to Buenos Aires.

E-mail me if you want to know more.

I Was a M.edica.l T.ouris.t

H feels I sould come out of the closet on it.

There's a long story as to why. Which I don't have time to spill, at the moment.

Okay. Here We Go.

We're going to try IVF again. Just... not this cycle.

In theory, I should have gone running into my new RE's practice this morning for the traditional blood and wand. But I didn't.

I didn't because I had to go to work early (too early to go to the RE's office). I didn't because my new insurance requires meds through mail order, which is rumored to take two weeks, and I haven't placed the order yet. I didn't because I hadn't talked to my husband about it, to make sure he was completely and totally on board with it.

And mostly, I didn't because I am absolutely terrified.

I've known for the past few weeks that I was stalling. I said that I had to get the results back from the Endocrinologist about my hypothyroid. (Check). I said that I wanted to make sure we had everything on our checklist completed. (Check). I said that I wanted to complete the how to inject yourself class, and H absolutely had to be there (check and check).

So now all there is left to it... is to do it.

I've been skipping listening to my MP3 player all week to listen to... me. To think (and think) about what the hell has me running scared. Here's what I've come up with:
► In five IUI cycles and one IVF cycle, I have never ever ever ever EVER produced more than four follicles.
► I ovulate early, which has baffled every RE I've ever had
► My insurance only covers two IVF cycles.

When we had orientation, we stayed after to chat with a nurse. She was nice, blonde and cheerful. She kept running from the room to find a doctor and answer H and my questions, as we kept stumping her. (Do we get points for this?)

But I need to make more eggs, I told the nurse! Isn't there some super extra something you can put me on to make more eggs?!?! I ask the nice nurse lady. She excuses herself, checks and says um.... no. Standard, generic protocol.

I point out that (for the first time ever) I had been put on the generic no-lupr0n protocol, where both other REs had very much liked the lupr0n. (Here's the thing, and please, someone tell me, have you ever heard of someone who started developing follicles while still menstruating? I've heard and read of folks who ovulate late; I ovulate early. Like a week plus early. And previous docs have put me on lupr0n to keep the one freaking over-achiever follicle who starts growing moments after I start menstruating in check.)

Um...no says the nice nurse lady. No to changing the standard drug protocol. And no to more monitoring (they like four days apart). And no to every other non-standard generic thing I asked about.

No.

So I'm completely convinced that my clinic will need one "learner" cycle with me, and that the first one will be a complete wash, and we will spend thousands of dollars for nothing (even though I have insurance coverage, it specifically does not cover things like ICSI and a portion of the meds -- approximately $2,500).

And this is thousands of dollars that we do not have, as every other IF treatment has been out of pocket and my faulty ovaries (and H's slacker sperm) have caused us to go into debt. And this makes me feel like an irresponsible, selfish, evil person. Even H says he wishes we could wait until we had the money saved (we're contemplating putting the amount on our one remaining credit card).

But I'm 40 freaking years old; it's been a year since my last medicated monitored anything (unless you count the acupuncturist which you really shouldn't). And the law says my coverage will expire at age 44 which seems like a long time away but really isn't.

And my husband says, let's do it.

So. Okay.

Here we go.

Can't... Bring... Up.... Blog....

Okay, I like to read my last post, see where I am, before I post again.

But my blog WILL NOT LOAD.

Why?

Flying blind, I am...

It Rained Today

It rained today. It rained so much that the streets flooded and some highways closed down.

And the strong winds ripped up roofs and knocked down trees. And the subways flooded (and were then cancelled).And the buses were packed to overflowing (where there were buses were able to run).
And people muttered of hurricanes, tornadoes and general devastation.

And I got my period.

Please and Thank You

My husband was someone raised without knowing the MAGIC WORDS. Having more than a little Southern in my background, I know them quite well.

I've started a campaign to bring the Magic Words into my household here in New York City.

"Get me the soap!" my darling husband barks at me.

"I'm sorry, what?" I brightly reply.

He sighs deeply. "Could you PLEASE bring me the soap, dear? Thank you...."

Mama is a different battle.

"Bring me a towel!" the queen commands.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"BRING ME A TOWEL!"

"What's the Magic Word, Mama?"

She thinks a moment.

"BRING ME A TOWEL NOW!!!"

Peace Out, Brother!

My darling husband has tought his mother a new phrase.

See above.

So, fo the past week or two, my MIL has been yelling PEACE OUT BROTHER to random strangers.

But the BEST PART is that she's been also shooting them the peace sign... backwards...

Which, for some people in our neighborhood, means something profane. (It transates, roughly, into f*ck you and up yo*rs).

Reaction, to say the least, has been interesting...

What Does It Mean?

So I mentioned, about a month ago I had the appointment with the Endo to talk about my hypothroid.

For the most past, it was the most benign doctors appointment I had ever had. There were no forms to fill out; he took a long oral history in his office. He did a generic, general physical. The only wacky bit was that he wrapped his fingers around my throat and said SWALLOW. (It was hard to do so).

"There's something wrong here," he said, feeling up my neck.

Um. WHAT? Probably nothing, he assured me.

I wait a week (per his instruction) and take the blood test. I wait a week (to be polite) and call for results. And then start calling every other day to (politely) inquire WHAT NOW.

Yesterday, he called back. While I was NOT ONLY at work but at the worst possible time.

I have Hashimoto's disease.

"It sounds scary," says the Endo, "but it really isn't." He's going to increase my synthroid, and in six weeks, he wants me to take another blood test and see where we are.

Um. Fine.

"Now where are you with IVF?" asks the Endo. WELL, I've been waiting for this to all shake out. Before I go forward.

"Well, don't wait on my account," he chuckles. Go ahead. I don't think it will impact anything.

Now, mind you, my TSH levels, which have never been better than 3.5, are currently at 3.0. I guess they're optimally at 2.0 or lower, by my new RE says she'll take anything below 2.5.

Which I'm NOT.

Which I point out.

"Yes, well, but it won't really impact anything."

So why am I talking to you? Why did my RE send me to you?

WHAT DOES IT MEAN?

This weeks The Economist

How to deal with a falling population: Worries about a population explosion have been replaced by fears of decline

In vitro veritas: If a country wants to keep its population up, it should promote IVF

DIScLAIMER: The E.conomist is a magazine that's uber smug. So, I apologize in advance for the tone of it.

(Of the articles listed, I especially like the last one. Do you think it might change someone's mind?)

My Thought For The Day

post secret

Thank You

Thanks for all the kind words the past few posts (the sobbing uncontrollably one, especially).

It always looks too me like so many other people have it so much harder. I don't understand when I can't shoulder what that drunk lunatic known as God has decided to throw at me.

I'm off to IVF class now, which scares the hell out of me.

Look forward to more whining.

Thanks for listening.

Mama Busted in Daycare For Carrying A Concealed Weapon

Behold, Mama's weapon of choice:

The full story: Mama has been taking beads and string and making bracelets. Along the way, she has been using (and losing) every pair of scissors we have in the house. So she went into the kitchen and took the POULTRY SHEARS out of the knife rack. Poultry shears, as you well know, are designed for cracking the delicate bones of fowl. Apparently, they work just as well on gold stretchy thread. And people who run programs full of delicately-boned people do not look kindly on POULTRY SHEARS being wielded about. (Apparently Mama had them in her hand, and was gesturing with them. As you do).

If she IS NOT kicked out of her daycare, this will be very very funny. (Is she looking for enforcement money? Recruiting for the geriatric division of the L.ati.n K.ing.s? Protesting the taking away of Hot Dog Day?)

(As H has not called in a blind panic, I'm assuming / hoping / praying to Jesus that this is the case) **CONFIRMED*** She has not been kicked out. (Let the jokes begin).

Lord, may I please lead an un-interesting life?

(and get pregnant?)

And I Sobbed Uncontrollably At Work

You know that bad day you had? A couple of weeks / days / hours back? When you were just so damn tired of being infertile? Of the toll it takes on your life, your heart, your freaking bank account, your relationships? And your back's aching because of physical therapy / hormones / you were trying to get fit? And your home care attendant has flaked on you? And a couple of other things, little things really, went wrong. You forgot your keys, your debit card, your work ID, your cash? And then someone teased you?

And then someone made an offhand comment about how THEY'D never do IVF / try to get pregnant at 40 / didn't want to wait until they were past 35 to get pregnant...

And you lost it?

Welcome to my Tuesday. Guess it was my turn to have the bad day.

Tuesday was so bad it bled into Wednesday. THAT'S when I started sobbing. Sobbing. And. Just. Couldn't. Stop. My manager pulled me into his office and wanted to know what was up. And I couldn't stop crying. I kept trying to change the subject, but he would not be dissuaded. So I started telling him. Getting teased at work. (I'm thorough in my explanations, which is not always well received). Mama. (Home care coordinator kept having issues coordinating) Debt. (Got lots of it because we paid for so much IF treatment). Husband (in charge of paying bills and budget, but keeps forgetting to open the mail and oh yeah pay the bills). IF (no further explanation needed). Miscarriage (doubled for two weeks and then stopped. Is that a chemical pregnancy? A blighted ovum? A miscarriage? Can I get a ruling from the judges, please? Until then, I call it a miscarriage).

Apologies for the whining. That's the worst of it -- how embarrassing it is when you lose it.

Thanks for the kind words. (I kind of feel as though I cried wolf). I'm not sure I deserved them, but I'll take them anyway.

The Really Bad Day

See title. Details later.

Mama and the W.onder.Bra: Part 2

So we take the W.onder.Br.a home and my husband.. doesn't kill me. It gives Mama, ahem, a nice little bosom, which God did not provide. And, H says, as long as NO ONE EVER SEES the bra.

Fine. Phew.

And then. And then...

Shortly after purchasing the bra (and putting it on) I noticed Mama watching TV. Her hands are folded behind her neck, her head back, and her breasts are about a half inch from her chin.

Wait -- WHAT?

Yeah. Okay, the W.onder.Br.a is a thin, thin little thing. And Mama IS NOT. And while the bandeaux is hooked tightly behind her, and the straps are as loose as they can be... Somehow the 38A push up COMPLETELY escapes her breasts and starts heading for daylight.

Meanwhile her own breasts are a little farther down on her chest (about where you would expect breasts hanging out on their own on an 81-year-old woman would be) which means she had... 4.

Lovely.

I put the bra away, then, until I could think of something (anything) that would help to keep the bra in place. That Mama could live with. But, as you imagine, the bra was popular.

Most notably, I realized she was wearing it at brunch. And that, once again, the bra was making a break for it, and she had breast right parallel to her collar bone.

I reach over to try to pull the bra back into place. NOT well received. I ask Mama to, ahem, pull her bra down, but she doesn't realize that the two perfect cones she keeps hitting with her chin are NOT her breasts. I ask my husband to request she pull her bra down and OH DO I GET A LOOK. (Sons do not talk to their mommies about their boobies and bras, it seems).

I start hiding the bra, and she starts looking for it. And finding it. I put the bra up and out of her reach... and she still gets to it. Highest shelf of my utility closet... nope, found it there. Buried in one of my boots...nope, there it is. What is this thing, freaking super-natural? Does it have a homing beacon?

Finally, I go to a sewing supply store (the one thing New York does NOT have) and pick up 3" elastic and extra bra hooks. I have spent the weekend carefully sticking them all together to create the world's first ORTHOPEDIC PUSH UP BRA!

It looks freaking horrible, especially as I am the world's WORST sewer, but the bra stops riding into the sunset, so we let her wear it as we walk around the neighborhood this morning.

I make the mistake of asking her if the bra is moving, what have you. She stops, lifts her shirt and asks IS IT STILL THERE.

Oh, god. (It is still there, by the way. Should I patent my invention?)

(And if anyone asks, I did NOT make my husband WEAR the W.onder.Bra while I was pinning the elastic to it. Nope. Not me.)



(Okay, yeah, I did.)



(Looked good on him, too)

Mama and the W.onder.B.ra

Mama's hard on her clothes. Really, really hard. If there's a shirt she likes, she will wear it every single day. Every. Single. Day. And she'll, occasionally, sleep in her clothes. We try to catch it, and get her to change into her pajamas, but dang. She is hard on her clothes.

Most of all, Mama is hard on her brassieres. Now, you know how, sometimes, after too many washing and too much wear, the hooks from a bra will start to become misshapen? Mama's go straight. As in uncurled, flat, straight. I still haven't figured out how she accomplished that trick.

A few weeks back, Mama and I went shopping. I took her to a local outlet mall because they had a big bra shop. Mama is a 38A, just to overshare. It's hard to find her size.

When we arrived, I had her fitted, just to be sure. (Yup. 38A). "We're you looking for anything in particular today?" the salesgirl (she was in her teens; I can say 'girl').

"I'm looking for a man," says Mama. (It's her usual response. Sexual urges do NOT go away, it seems).

Now, I'd like to interrupt this anecdote and mention a few things: first, a description of Mama. She's 81, a little over 5 foot tall, and a bit thick. (She weighs twenty pounds more than me, and I've got about 4 or 5 inches on her.) She demands to be taken to the beauty parlor whenever she notices her roots growing in (Vainful urges do NOT go away, it seems) and no matter how we beg and please with the hairdresser, Mama always comes out a redhead. A really RED redhead. Add to this a little rosacea, orange nail color and a too bright lipstick (someone, somewhere slips her the lip paint: I have yet to track them down) and you've got Mama. She's also prone to break out in song or dance when she feels like it. Not a shrinking violet, not your typical frail old lady, that's my Mama.

"I'm looking for a man," says Mama to the teen-age salesgirl, who takes one look at Mama and points her to the W.onder.bra.s.

"Um, NO," I say, valuing my marriage and knowing that my husband will not appreciate me bringing his sainted mother home all tarted up. But Mama was intrigued and started for them. Again, please note: I usually put Mama in the wheelchair for such excursions, so for Mama to "start moving toward the display" involved her having to figure out how to (1) unbuckle the chair's seat belt (2) stand without assistance (3) walk without support. All of which she did, none of which is an everyday occurrence.

Behold the power of the W.onder.bra.

I direct her to the moderate ones. Simple designs that are not too daring. Neutral colors that kind of match her skin tone. Calm bras that will not get me in hot water with her son.

"I want that one!" she cries. And selects this one:

Oh, God.

I'm dead.

I try to get her to reconsider. I tell her it's a push up bra (which it is). I tell her it's too provocative (which it is). I try to reason with the Alzheimer's patient.

It's hard, if not impossible, to reason with an Alzheimer's patient.

"They don't have your size," I say, finally.

"Oh, no," corrects the salesgirl. "Here's a 38A." And hands it to Mama. "Would you like to try it on?"

I mean, really. Where's all that crappy customer service I've come to EXPECT in a New York City Shopping Mall?

I accompany Mama into the changing room, and she encounters an obstacle that she can't overcome: the clasp. Her "old" bras are the sturdy standbys. Lots of give and plenty of buckles. The W.onder.Bra is not nearly as forgiving. In short, she can't get it on.

I suppose a different person would have just said, "hey! It's broken! We're done!" and wheeled her over to the 18-hour category. But we'd gotten this far... so I helped her into it.

And watched her fall in love.

"Nica! Look! I am sexy!" She admired herself from several angles. She even dug out her glasses so she could see clearly, then whipping them off because they spoiled the, um, sexy look she was going for.

I tried to talk her into the more moderate bra, but it backfired on me: she would take those she said, but the animal-print one as well.

Oh, goody.

And then she refused to take the bra off.

"Um, Mama," I try to reason with her. We have to take it off so we can pay for it.

"I show them," she reasoned, "and you pay."

"But what about this?" I ask, fingering the anti-theft device firmly snapped to the bra.

Mama shrugged. "They take care of it."

I'd had it. I got Mama dressed, and rolled her out to see the ever-helpful salesgirl.

"Please tell her that she has to take the bra off to buy it," I ask politely.

"Nope!" says the salesgirl, not getting me. "All I need is the tag!"

Mama raised her shirt, in the middle of the store. I headed to the checkout line, pulling her shirt down as I went.

"Well, what about the anti-theft device?" I asked. "Can you take THAT off? Or should we take the bra off so that you can remove it?"

"Hmm," thought the salesgirl, her creaseless forehead creasing. "Well, if you don't mind having it, I can leave it on..."

"Good!" cried Mama and off we went, triggering every alarm in every store we went to for the rest of the day.

And now she wants to get something "low cut" to show off her breasts.

Help me.

and how was YOUR commute home yesterday?

Three blocks from my office.... What WILL it take to stop talking on the phone?
My story:
About six o'clock last night, the fire alarms went nuts. Some people evacuated immediately. There was a series of announcements, all confusing and conflicting, but everything seemed to be mostly okay. Everyone stood around telling horrow stories: 9/11, the blackout, the transit strike, the other blackout. Not a fun day, but one of those days that reminds you of so many things. (Like it's good to be alive, you can get through a crisis, nothing is certain and what's really important to you).

The full story...

An Eruption, and Fears of Worse

Steam Blast Jolts Midtown, Killing One

Asbestos and Aging Pipes Remain Buried Hazards

H.arr.y P.otte.r and the Wheelchair Accessible Seats

Mama loves H.arr.y P.otte.r. Loves him. Before Alzheimer's, she used to be a big reader. Since... well, it's a little harder for her to follow. With "adult" literature, she has a tendency to be stuck on a page. With "juvenile" books, she finds them... too childish. Not for her.

But H.arr.y P.otter, that's our Goldilocks book. Just right. I got the first last year (and in Spanish, so it'd be easier for her) and she flew threw it. For days, all she could talk about was H.arry. And occasionally Ron. ("He's Harry's friend," she would explain to me, over and over again. "Really?").

Her love of one book necessitated getting all the other books available. And to say that she loved them all is an understatement. They fell to pieces from too much use. She would carry at least one book with her at all times. She would read half of book 2, then switch to book 5, then start on book 3. I have no idea how (or if) she kept track of it. I'll confess; I've never read the books (and only seen a few of the movies).

Of course we started her on the movies. And Mama loves those, too. When Ron is on screen, she points to him and calls HE'S HARRY'S FRIEND! She waves to Harry on the television and calls out HELLO. I truly think she's just excited to make the connection. Nonetheless, I vowed to never take her to see H.arr.y in a movie theatre.

Then came the H.arr.y P.otte.r and the 0rder of the P.hoeni.x movie.

Mama saw the ad on television, and it stuck with her. A new H.arry movie is coming, Nica. Can we see it? Can we see it today? I heard this for weeks. It's not coming for months, I told her, hoping to buy time until the DVD came out. But then Mama got crafty. She wrote down the date she saw on the ad and asked me how soon it was. As her birthday was around this time, I was stuck.

Okay, I acquiesced. We can go this weekend.

So Saturday the 14th rolls around, and I lie to my family. I boldly LIE to them so we will get to the theatre a full 30 minutes before the movie starts. And we pick a show in the mid afternoon, because I'm hoping the theatre will be empty and we can just toll into the wheelchair accessible seats with no issue.

Now, two things, before I continue. One is that Mama does not need a wheelchair, she can walk, but she walks very slooooowly. So most of the time I take her out to interface with the public, we put her in the wheelchair. (It's really REALLY handy if I need to get her to a bathroom quickly). Two is about wheelchair accessible seats.

You know those seats in the middle of the movie theatre? There's, like, a group of three together? And all that space around them? And then maybe two or three seats the right and left, and those have space around them as well?

THOSE are the wheelchair accessible seats.

Anyway, I roll Mama in to the theatre (30 minutes before the show starts) and I'm happy. There are maybe 9 people in a theatre that seats 90. I should be good.

Except that the wheelchair accessible seats are taken.

At first, I think, I'll get the management and avoid a confrontation. But then, I think: there are DOZENS of other seats available. SURELY when I POLITELY ask the ABLE BODIED PEOPLE seated in the WHEELCHAIR ACCESSIBLE SEATING to move to one of the MANY other seats available so the ELDERLY INFIRM WOMAN in a WHEELCHAIR can sit, they'll graciously get up and go.

Right?

Yeah. Not exactly.

The seats are taken by a fella in his late forties/early fifties and two tween-teen girls.

I ask, politely, that they move, pointing that the row above them (and below) are available.

"Why should *I* move?" the man asks, dumbfounded.

You're in the WHEELCHAIR accessible seats, I explain. Again. I'm here with a woman in a WHEELCHAIR.

"Well, she can stay there." He gestures to the space to the right of them.

Yes, well, she'd like to sit on a MOVIE SEAT, I continue.

"Well, that chair over there is available." He points to a lone Wheelchair accessible seat of to the left.

Um, I'm with her and would like to sit WITH HER.

"Well, how many people are in your party?" (I don't know what bearing that had on it, but he asked. The theatre only had the three seats that he was sitting in together and with handicap accessible seating).

There's three, I reply, looking at the man and (I assume) his daughters in the three seats.

That was all the girls needed. They had jumped up shortly after I started this inane conversation and had been whispering "CAN'T WE JUST MOVE" to the Dad throughout. I don't know whether to say it was because someone (not this guy) had imbued them with a sense of decency and fairness, or if it was there not wanting to be in a public confrontation/conversation. At this point, they just started moving into new seats.

He followed a moment after. I was shaking. SHAKING. I mean, what the hell? You really need an explanation after the she's in a wheelchair and you're NOT observation? Really?

How was your weekend? (PS -- when Ron came on, she tapped me on the shoulder. What, Mama? I ask. That's Harry's friend, she says.)

Really.

All I Ever Wanted Was To Be Your Spine**

I want H.ous.e MD to be my RE. Tell the truth; you do, too.

There's never been a puzzle he couldn't fix. (Okay, a patient or two has died, but he figured it out... eventually...)

It was a goofy comment H made a while back, but it inspired me. When a mysteriously ill patient comes to the H.ous.e team's attention, they gather in a conference room and mark up a dry erase board with all the symptoms. And I decided to do the same (minus the conference room and board).

Now, because H.ous.e is a TV show, the symptoms are always relevant. And get treated with a level of respect. Mine... not so much.

I know I've mentioned the hypothyroidism.* But have I mentioned my spine?

I have, um, a reverse curve spine. (I don't know if it has a proper term) It's concentrated in my lower back. I was diagnosed when I was in high school. The doctor wanted me to wear a brace, but my mother said no. (I don't know why).

Because of the curve, my hips have to compensate. And my hips are TIRED of compensating. So the right one has started to hurt.

It was nothing more than a dull ache, but I mentioned it to first RE. Who was very un-H.ous.e-like and said it had NO connection. But I figured, my hip is IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD of the party I'm trying to host; may as well make sure the welcoming map is out for the whole neighborhood.

So last year, I went to see a chiropractor. I had seen one before, but this one was thorough. he actually had be take x-rays. Of the spine. (I'd been to another Chiro, who jut popped my bones about and nothing more, and I'd been to see my GP, who ordered x-rays of the hip and only the hip, because THAT was what was hurting. And my hips are structurally fine, they just get moved too often. I have new found respect for Charo...)

And looking at my spine, he saw the curve. And he was convinced that it could have an impact. After all, what are those things in the middle of spines? Oh, yeah -- nerves. It can't be good that they're having a traffic jam. NO ONE likes a traffic jam.

Anyway, that was last year. And now I have health insurance! So I took it up a notch, and yesterday I went to a Physical Therapist.

Ow.

My PT needed to conduct an evaluation. My PT is a huge (6 and a half foot) muscly fella with some sort of Russian-Polish-Slavic accent. "We put you on rack and stretch you out!" he chortled in a somewhat evil way. (I started having B.on.d movie flashbacks).

He grabbed my ankle, knee, etc. and tested my flexibility. Can my ankle go over my ear? Does it hurt when he pulls my knee off? (Okay, I'm exaggerating, but it hurt).

My spine is definitely a problem, my PT says. "I can drink soup from your back" he says. (I'm not kidding). Yeah, THERE'S an image for you. But it can be fixed.

All I have to do is STRETCH (and meet with the PT two to three times a week).

I may be glad about it later but DAMN and I hurting this morning....


________________________________
**A title of an A.rchers of Loa.f song.

*(I have an Endo appointment today. Trying not to think about it; secretly worried the Doc will say "nothing to be done, Sorry.")

And now for something POSITIVE

I don't know if I mentioned, but Dr. Robotica recommended two endocrinologists for me, because of my crappy test results with regards to the h.ypothyroidis.m. And when I was done reeling, I called them both.

I now have appointments. With them both. I believe in overkill...

Actually, the second office could get me into see the Endo a full week before my other appointment, so I figured... What'll it hurt? If Doctor Two (who I see first) doesn't work out, I still have the other appointment. (I'm a belt AND suspender kind of person).

The first office (with the second appointment) called back with an hour of my calling. That's a good thing. The knowledge the receptionist has was... slight. As you may recall, I have new insurance. Do I have to have a referral? What kind of referral is it? Am I covered? These are all questions that your doctor has no clue on, but the doctor's administrative help should know. But this one... didn't.

The second office (with the first appointment) called me back a few days after I called. As I said, they could get me in a full week earlier. And the woman on the phone knew EVERYTHING. YES, you are covered, NO you don't need a referral, YES you should bring every scrap of previous medical information and by the way, do you need directions?

I love this office already.

Okay, so you want to hear something goofy?

I only know the second doctor (with the first appointment)'s last name. Not the first. And because of this, I have no idea of gender. It just wasn't mentioned.

Wacky.

Now, for reasons that I can't put my finger on, I am nervous as hell about this upcoming Endo appointment. Perhaps it is because it is on Friday the 13th, or because I am the last appointment of the afternoon, but I am scared. Again. Fully expect the possibility of a melt down. Again. Don't want it, am not looking forward to it, but know it's a distinct possibility.

I guess it's just... it feels like the stakes are getting higher (and higher and higher) at every turn. I'm getting older, we're getting broker... This all freaking matters too much.

Title, once broken, now fixed

And now my title isn't working, either.

Great.

I was going to call this "and now for something positive" but since I can't title the freaking post... I get to whine.

I'm tired of not being pregnant. TIRED.

I've mentioned in the past money's tight. It's so scarce that I'm not sure that we can cover the cost of drugs on my otherwise insured IVF. Not to mention the incidental what nots that they never tell you about and then SURPRISE! You owe a few extra grand. I work 40+ hours a week. I work ten hour days. I have freaking insurance now and am not sure we can afford IVF. Tired.

Money's so tight we haven't been able to pay last month's rent. Or this months. Tired.

My husband blows up at me when I try to talk about the money. Mocks me, says it is "just my primal fear" talking. And all I am trying to do is set up a plan, a road map, a WAY OUT of this. A way he gets what he gets and I get what I want. Tired.

_________
Okay, so my NExT post will be about something positive.

And now my title isn't working. And Blogger help isn't working. And I'm out of time.

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