Today, I Have No Hope

I can't imagine going through IF without getting depressed. And I don't just mean the "I feel down today" depression. I mean the "it's hard to function" depression.

Or maybe it's just me.

I fell asleep yesterday, and slept through my acupuncture appointment. And then, when I woke up, I forgot that I'd had one.

And when I remembered, I freaked.

What kind of IF'er am I to abandon the practices I truly believe will help get me pregnant? How could I forget? How could I not be more organized?

It went down from there.

H didn't seem what the big deal was about, but to be honest, he rarely does. If this cycle doesn't work, there's always the next! he says. What's the big deal?

Ow.

I stuck lavender massage oil under my nose, listened to my affirmations and hoped it would be enough. H actually contributed a rub-down, but he was angry at me, and frankly it was physically painful.

I cried for a bit, but as I said, H had no idea why.

I'd made the decision earlier to start peeing on a stick. I will try every day until my official Beta on Friday. In keeping with my "I Am The World's Biggest Chicken" title, I peed in a cup and then woke my husband from a sound sleep to put said urine on a stick.

It was negative (no big surprise). I know it's much too early.

But.

I wanted hope.

First, you wait. And then you wait some more...

I have a RL friend that I've kept up to date on my fertility trial.

I have carefully trained her; at first, she was one of the "relax, it'll happen" crowd. No more. Through months of slow and careful education, as well as a tirade or two, she is now fairly versed in the ways of IF. (She even knows to call it "IF").

But.

Yesterday, she texted me, "Okay, what's next?"

I called her back and said, "Now I have to wait."

"Wait? Why? Can't they tell? Why can't they tell?" She was incredibly frustrated.

And I laughed.

And I explained the 2ww.

"Well, THAT sucks."

I Miss Washcloths (and other laments)

I miss washcloths. I do. You know, those little towels you take into the shower to clean yourself?

Mama loves washcloths. LOVES them. And, slowly but surely, they have been disappearing. I can only assume that she puts them in her purse and then loses/discards them someplace else. Either that or the washcloths hated it here and have been tunneling their way to freedom. I'll prolly never know.

I am jealous of every single one of you with a laundry room. Or a laundry SPACE. Or, at least, a washing machine in your house. Yes, I am the green-eyed monster. You people, who can do laundry whenever the whim strikes you, whenever you chose, you folks who are devil-may-care with your Maytags and what not. When Mama has wet her bed or somehow dirtied herself, OH I am so jealous of you all...

I am jealous of your people who only have to pick up after yourselves. And even (a bit) of you who have t pick up after yourself and your spouse. Because I'm guessing (and I could be wrong) that your partner can be induced to help out (of only the smallest bit). And I'm further guessing that you and your spouse don't accidentally leave the tops off of permanent markers and then ALSO accidentally drag said markers against the wall, thereby ruing the paint job. I am jealous of you, too.

I am jealous of people who live in houses where things don't break. Well, in houses where you don't have to run the assumption that things are going to break. I'm jealous of houses where they can put out their good plates, their favorite mug, their fancy elephant-shaped teapots, their knickknacks without fear.

And I'm jealous of all the folks who don't have the laundry room, DO have the soiled linens, DO have to pick up after more than themselves, DO have to deal with drawing on the wall, DO have to child-proof their homes ...but have are doing it for actual children. So all these actions get wrapped in hope, not in demise. Not in deterioration.

How many more days on my 2ww?

Pineapple and Progesterone

So. I show up early. As in, 40 minutes early. H was late. As in, 20 minutes late.

That was a fun hour.

I hid (yes, HID) in deli while I listened to funny podcasts and sipped from my ginormous bottle of water.

We were taken to the back room right away. The nurse showed me to a changing room where I was to take off all my clothes and change into a gown. H tried to go in and "help" me. MY how the nurse objected to THAT. (It was funny, really).

They waited until we were gowned up and on the table. THEN they wanted to talk about embryos.

Turns out that SEVEN eggs fertilized. But one had some serious issues, so they tossed it (without asking!). Of the remaining six, two were okay, two were "eh" and two they said were "slow."

They wanted me to put back four. So much so that they'd gone ahead and AH'd them (even the so-so ones). They expected me to dispose the final two.

But I couldn't. So I transferred all six.

I'll be honest -- they were surprised. But when I asked them if I had a chance for multiples, they said no. The doctor said, bluntly, she thought I'd be lucky to get a singleton.

So yeah. Six.

I came home and did my progesterone. And ate pineapple.

And now I wait.

The DUMBEST decision that I have ever made...

...was to come to work today.

I am BEYOND useless this morning.

Transfer is this afternoon. It's all I can think about. People are doing the traditional Monday morning rituals. You know. "What did you do this weekend?"

I'm sooo tempted to respond, "Had 14 eggs ripped out of my ovaries. You?"

But I don't.

I just should have taken the day...

SIX

Grade unknown.

We got a call yesterday afternoon, just someone checking in. H and I were at an open house in the neighborhood. He mouthed to me who was on the phone and I went nuts. I flew around the apartment, looking for a pen and for paper, and scrawlwd notes that I then THREW at H.

Can you imagine what the poor real estate agent thought?

So, yeah. Six. SIX. More than four that I had last time, less than 3,125,676. But who's counting.

They are NOT going to discuss grades, etc. with us until we get there this afternoon. Whoever made the call flat-out didn't know.

So now we almost know.

But HOW MANY?

My clinic was supposed to call me the day AFTER retrieval and set up a time for me to come back and get implanted.

They didn't.

They were also supposed to call me with my "fertilization results."

Ditto on the didn't.

AAAAAAAAAaaaaargh!

After my third or eighteenth freakout meltdown, H called them yesterday. I left the house before he made the call, because I am a big chicken. Cluck, cluck.

This ended in a classic New York moment -- my husband hanging out the window calling out my name at the top of his lungs. (And yes, I had my cell phone. But where's the fun in that?)

So I implant on Monday.

And how many? I asked. What grade? What shape are they in? How many cells?

Um... replies H. I don't know.

AAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaargh.

Not that it matters, I tell myself. Not that it really impacts anything. I mean, it is what it is. Right? Knowing NOW isn't going to make it any easier (or harder) tomorrow.

(Anyone buying this?)

So H and I had a couple talks that we may not have needed to have. How many are we putting back? How many is too many? We do not want to reduce, but we had to talk about that, too.

WATCH. I'll have only one embie to put back.

Breathe.

Okay.

Until tomorrow...

9 or 14

...depending on who you ask.

When I was being wheeled out of the OR, I was told 9. When I was getting my departing instructions, I was told 14.

So I'm COMPLETELY confused.

As you all probably know, we're to get the call today to tell us how many halved and quartered and what have you.

But WHO'S NERVOUS.

I was late taking my Medr0l, which I'm taking in case they have to do assisted hatching. (Do you think this matters?)

I come back Monday for a 3-day and Wednesday for a 5-day transfer, said the nurse. I laughed at her. LAUGHED. Do I really think I have a shot at a 5-day transfer? NO. (She looked offended when I laughed, so I apologized and said. "I'm 40 years old. 5-day transfer? C'mon....")

I have to say, by the way, that while in the past I have not been in love with the big infertility factory that is my current RE clinic, they were AWESOME when it came to retrieval. (For me, at least).

They forgot to call H. So I was done with the procedure, done with my 45 minute wait time and done with my instructions and they STILL hadn't called him to, ah, PRODUCE. H was greatly peeved and demanded to see our doctor and be assured that there was not going to be a problem with the additional delay. (He did and he was).

So now we get to wait. again.

I've Been Shot

...and it went WELL. Thanks a MILLION to Bea and WHOEVER put up their videos of intramuscular shots. They helped a bunch. I never even felt it.

YIKES. I know I've said that before but YIKES. I've never had this many possibilities on an IVF cycle before. (I think I have six possible follies. SIX PEOPLE!) I'm starting to get, shhh, come closer because I'm going to whisper... hopeful.

But I can't really be the "h" word, because that will ring all sorts of demons. The ones who feed on, ahem "h". There was a line I read somewhere, and I don't recall the details, but the gist of it was something like "the worst thing is to be in hell with hope." It's better, goes the logic, to be be in hell and resigned to your fate. Not have a thought that it might change.

H thinks I'm NUTS. "Of course this is going to work!" he says. He's already calculating delivery dates and arguing with me about c-section versus a vaginal birth.

(Note: We had this whole crazy conversation about Mama-care with regards to me and um... you know. Like, if I have a problem and have to go to the ER in the middle of the night, WHAT do we do with Mama? H pointed out that I wasn't "p" yet, but I replied that the whole thing was STRESSING ME OUT and I wanted to know what the hell we were going to do. So we figured out a plan...)

I am nuts. Cuckoo. Scared, excited, SCARED.

My procedure is in 11 and a half hours.

Please feel free to pray for me, send me positive energy, sacrifice chickens, say a few rosaries and complete five or six novenas. (I'll do the same for you).

Okay, Breathe. I can do this.

Right?

YIKES

I Trigger Tonight

I didn't get stats today. But the ones from yesterday:
Lining: 13
Right: 19, 18, 18, 17, 16, 16, 15, 15, 15, 14
Left: 18, 17, 14.

Today they said, "Yup, your retrieval is Friday."

YIKES.

I was prepared for there to be an issue with my dosage

I was prepared to underperform.

I was prepared to have them scrap the cycle half-way through because of something going wrong.

I WAS NOT PREPARED FOR THIS.

Yikes.

One of the lovely nurses from my clinic told me this morning. Reminded me that I needed to give myself another dose of my G0nal-F and Men0pur ASAP. I called H in a panic, and he went running home to mix and bring me drugs. (He has a far more flexible schedule than I do.)

Yikes. YIKES.

I am terrified and I am excited and I am TERRIFIED. I do not want to be the deflated hope balloon at the end of this. I don't want this to fail, I don't want to start thinking it'll work (or that it WON'T) I yi yi yi.

I should mention that, all things considered, this has been the best cycle I've ever had. When I did my IUIs, it was all me. I did the shots, I went with a cup the the RE. When we went to Argentina, H was far more involved, but somewhat distracted. After all, he was surrounded by family who he hadn't seen in a decade.

But this time... this time, it's him and me. We went to IVF orientation a few weeks back, and he made a nuisance of himself. Asking more questions than every other person in the room combined. H was so confident about his medicine mixing and needle skills he gave tips to the couple to our left.

He's shy.

When the drugs came, he personally reviewed and inspected them. This, he had decided, was his domain. When it came time to inject, he was ready. He spread out a clean towel and placed everything out. He was exacting, he was precise, he was lovely. Our instructions said to inject "about an inch" from the navel and so he measured. I've never felt so loved (and so glad to have an extra roll of fat on my belly).

I'm taking my trigger shot in three hours.

H says not to worry. He's been watching online videos on how to give an intramuscular shot.

Unfortunately, the videos were authored by the US Army, so this may not end well. ("Do you have an exit strategy for that needle?")

Tuesday

I was at work. A different job than I have now, different boss. The Boss was yelling at me for doing exactly what he told me to do. (ever have one of THOSE bosses)?

Then the neighboring cubicle got a phone call from a friend working downtown, and the world forever changed.

I can't (without lots of pain and sobbing) give you the blow-by-blow of my day. I don't want to think of it.

But I can tell you the bits that I remember this year.

That Phil, a 22-year-old who worked for me (I was a manager), called me up sobbing because he didn't know where his mother was. I talked him through her likely locations, and an hour later she came home from work (safe and sound).

That my father called up, demanding that I go find my brother because he couldn't get him on the phone. My father "knew" that I would be okay; it was B. that we had to worry about. (Brother was in Midtown, away from it all).

That I wore a new shirt that day that I'd loved in the store, but was hesitant wearing to work.

That I bought that shirt at a store in the World Trade Center.

That I threw out that shirt and never wore it again.

Six years later, it still hurts.

At First, And Then

I went in for the AM monitoring today.

At first, I was happy.

Stats:
Lining 10.6
Right: 17, 16, 15.5, 15, 15, 12, 12, 10.5
Left: 22, 17.5, 14, 13

YES! I waited for the nurse as this time there were too many for me to write down. "You're doing really well," she told me.

Egg retrieval may happen as early as Thursday. And they definitely want me to come back tomorrow and see.

And I did a happy dance. And I called H and told him to get ready. And then I danced all happy around for the rest of the day.

And then.

And then I caught the date.

And I realized tomorrow is September 11.

And then I was filled with memories of walking home under the cover of fighter jets.

And then.

Where were you on 9/11?

Cry Baby

This morning, I cannot stop crying.

The thing that is especially crappy, for my husband, is that Sunday is his day "off." Especially during football season. Sunday I am to make myself scarce (and take Mama with me). Sunday he watches TV and calls his friends and checks his computer every two minutes and does not shower.

Ah, male bliss.

Except I am a weepy, clingy mess. I don't quite know my. (Perhaps it is because the Jets are losing?)

Ugh.

H blames the C.etr0tid.e; last night was the first night we added C.etr0tid.e to the mix. What else could it be, he says?

Mama's grasp on reality is slowly but surely ebbing away. This morning Mama told me that she didn't give birth to my husband. (She did). Mama told me that my husband's father had gotten another woman pregnant, and she agreed to raise the child as her own. I've seen my husband's birth certificate, I've seen photos of Mama in the hospital. She gave birth to my husband, no question about it. In fact, it used to be her strongest memory. (She did NOT like labor, let me tell you). And now, in her mind, it's in question.

Crap.

When the mood strikes her, Mama will strike a dramatic pose and intone, "I am a waste. I can do nothing. I should die and leave you alone..." followed by a fluttering of hands. (I'd compare it to a six-year-old trying to emotionally blackmail you. The sentiment is there, but the execution is clumsy). Depending on the context, it will either make me laugh or cry. For instance, when she's trying to get out of chores, it's funny. When she's attempting to do something (sew, crochet, cook) and she can't... it kills me.

Years ago, when we just engaged and blissfully ignorant about IF, my husband would say in response that we needed her. Who would take care of the baby?

Mama would always get excited about the baby, or the hope of one. The baby could sleep in her room, she'd say. The baby should be named after her father. The first child should be a male child, with hair like my husband and eyes like my brother (she loves those blue eyes). For a while, Mama was even passionately praying that I would have triplets, or at least twins. Mama would explain that that way she could "get one." (That I'd have so many, I would let her raise one).

We live in one of those classic New York City apartment buildings that families settle in. So 2F is the cousin of 4K and the grandson of 7L. That kind of thing. And the old ladies of the building congregate with their grandchildren. And Mama sees them, most every day. And Mama wants to be one of them.

And recently, she's given up hope.

Yesterday, when she awoke, we were not there. Later, when we returned, she demanded to know where we'd been.

"At the doctor," I explained, "trying to make a baby." But it's a story she's heard too many times before.

Mama made a dismissive gesture with her hand, and blew a raspberry. "I don't believe you," she said, "You never make a baby."

And then she walked away.

And today, I cannot stop crying.

Cycle Day 6

Updated to show the pictures H took. (We're geeks)

I love my new RE clinic. I love that they are open holidays, weekends, you name it. I love that, in orientation, the nurse made a not of saying "if your ideal egg retrieval day is Christmas, we will have egg retrieval on Christmas." It's a solid up-side of going to a place that is SO FREAKING HUGE.

So I go in today for my "midpoint" check. I'd asked H to cme with me, and to my delighted suprise, he said yes. So we took off for the clinic at dark-thirty, and were there shortly after it opened.

Can I just say: three times I have been there for early morning monitoring moments after it opened, and three times the place has been PACKED. Easily, each time, 10 to 15 women ahead of me. Wow. Wow.

Who was it who mentioned going to an IVF orientation class, and none of the students made eye contact with each other? (Apologies, it was a good comment and I should have made note). The waiting room at my RE clinic is (mostly) like it. Today, I realized it felt like a casting call. As though, somehow, some of the women looked at the others as competition. You know? No sense of camaraderie, no "we're all in this together." More along the lines of "80% lose and is it going to be me or you?"

Maybe it's just a New York thing. (We're a little competive here.)

Anyway, the stats: CD6
Lining: 8
Left: 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 10, 10
Right: 14, 13, 10, 10

We checked (again) and everything seems to be going normal, fine. (I've mentioned my first RE was always concerned about the overachievers, and used to put me on lupr0n. This place's response is "well, it happens. No biggie." Crimeny!)

More later.

Cycle Day... Um...

Okay, If I started bleeding Sunday then that makes this... Cycle Day 4.

that was hard.

Okay, I don't know if I've mentioned, but I routinely (from IUIs) have one follie that starts early, grows big and ruins the picnic for the rest of the girls. (I prolly mentioned).

Anyway, my new and improved clinic's standard protocol is to see you on Cycle Day 2, blood and wand, and then not see you for, like, five days.

With my history, I thought this was a recipe for disaster. So I asked for (and was granted) an earlier wand-and-blood.

Now, the note on the chart says "come in after three days." But when I went in for CD2, along with my instructions on how much drugs and how to mix was a note reading "come in Sept. 5." Which is Cycle Day 4 (today) which is not 3 days from the scan which is wrong.

I got confused. I kept counting and COUNTING over and over again. Finally, I thought, well, I'll just go in when the note says.

So I rise at the crack of dawn (years from now, they'll find out that sleep deprivation causes IF) and go to my clinic. And wait my turn. And my doctor comes in and says...

"Ummmm... why are you here?" (They couldn't find my chart. No one had pulled it, since no one was expecting me).

I explain. I also explain that HE'S MY DOCTOR although I haven't seen him in a year.

Results from the wand-and-blood
Lining: 3.5
Left: 11.5 and 11.5
Right: too small to measure

I ask about the overachiever (although this is the first time I've known of their being TWO) and he says "Nope. looks normal. I'm not worried. But it's early, and we'll keep an eye on it. What cycle day is it for you, he asks.

I cannot count. It is too early and I am too stressed. "I was here Monday." I say. "Well, you should come back at your regular interval," the doc says, "Friday morning."

The nurse coughs discretely. "Saturday," she gently corrects.

Math is hard.

Now: can I get context on my numbers?

And We're Off...

Gulp.

Started bleeding Sunday. Could not have been at a worse time, but there you go. Was technically a little early, but whatever. It's here.

Went running into my current clinic yesterday. Check your calendars; that's right. LABOR DAY and they were open for business. (And quite busy, too). That alone is a huge improvement over my last local RE. (Closed for holidays, weekends and whenever else she wanted).

I thanked everyone for being there on a holiday (the plebotomist who blood-ed me, the lab tech who wand-ed me, the nurse who reviewed my instruction).

Golly, it's a big place.

Anyway, I'm back in two days for monitoring. At my request -- previously, I have always had one over-achieving follie who doesn't let his friends get a chance. (Anyone had that? Is that anything?)

Yikes.

Look What Came

Oh. My. God. (I need a new fridge).

What Does My Birthday Mean?

(Actual day withheld in vain attempt to protect my anonymity)

http://www.blogthings.com/whatdoesyourbirthdatemeanquiz/

You are a cohesive force - able to bring many people together for a common cause.

You tend to excel in work situations, but you also facilitate a lot of social gatherings too.

Beyond being a good leader, you are good at inspiring others.

You also keep your powerful emotions in check - you know when to emote and when to repress.

Your strength: Emotional maturity beyond your years

Your weakness: Wearing yourself down with too many responsibilities

Your power color: Crimson red

Your power symbol: Snowflake

Your power month: September

Fantasy

H and I went walking this morning. (Mama does not have "program" on weekends, and the weekend home care attendant comes about 10:00AM. We try -- operative word TRY -- to get out of the house for a bit when she comes).

So we went walking. We went by a park we don't normally go to (at least at that time) and saw a bunch of fellas playing soccer. They were, on average, a bit older than H and myself. (One fella looked to be in his sixties). But, to a man, they were passionate. They put their all into the game. Chubby, old men running like their lives depended on it, running like it mattered.

H and I watched, enraptured, for over half an hour. The men called to each other in a language neither of us recognized. (We guessed Polish, but who's to say). I started to wonder why they were all, all trying so hard. (The one we thought was in his sixties had a vicious head butt). I wondered if this was just for exercise, or if it had a deeper meaning. Like they were playing for pride or country or beer. And if they'd been playing all their lives, if one time they'd had dreams of being professional athletes or World Cup players or what. Or was it just good fun, the best of their week?

Football season is fast approaching. This makes H very, VERY happy. He likes football, but loves Fantasy Football. He's the commissioner of his league (yes, a bit of a control freak). The draft was Saturday; it lasted hours and H was flying the rest of the day. He exchanged hundreds of e-mails, texts and phone calls with his league members, all twittering like girls off to their first dance. I love this time because it's the one time of year where H has a social life. He gets to go out with his friends and chat about something that isnt his mother, our IF, our debt, whatever.

I on the other hand, can barely breathe. I am waiting. Waiting for drugs, waiting to bleed, waiting. I realized yesterday that it's been year since I had any sort of official IF treatment. Doubly terrifying because of the time off.

And I wonder what it will be like...

Waiting By The Telephone

I called the insurance company. (I have discovered my insurance is only partially insures. Mostly, they obtain "a group discount." LOVELY.)

It took 20 minutes. And we're still not done yet. YET.

I'm hoping this (by which I mean the process of getting drugs) will get better.

The good news is that they quoted me a price exactly half of the previous one. Exactly. Which leaves me to wonder -- did you forget something? Are you out? Having a sale? WHAT?

You KNOW you're an IF'er when good news makes you scared.

IF drugs are handles by a "special team," I'm told, because (and I quote) "they are so tedious." NICE. I waited for 20+ minutes for one of the special team to become available. After 20 minutes, the member of the un-special team that had been on the phone with me said that someone would get back to me.

And so now, I wait.

Lord.

I have no real news. I had a muffin today because I was in an odd mood. I know that's not truly scandalous, but when you factor in my insane diet... it is.

Mama is Mama. She has lately been all hug-y. Which she was not when I first met her, let me tell you. Last night we curled up on the couch and watched television. I wrapped my arms around her and put my cheek to her head. We sat there contented for the better part of an hour. (It was nice.)

Waiting.

H is also good. He's called almost all our credit cards and creditors and talked to them, setting up payment plans and whatnot. In six months or so we should have much better credit than we currently do.

I've completely turned into the dutiful wife on the topic of our finances. I don't know if I'm just so exhausted by IF or what, but I let my husband handle EVERYTHING about our finances these days. It's nice to trust someone to do it, it'd nice to not have that worry on my shoulders. (I'm full, thanks.)

One credit card rep needed to to talk to me a week or so ago. She wanted to get confirmation that H was "authorized" to speak on my behalf. And then she wanted to chat a little bit more with me, for what I can't recall. What I can CAN recall is saying to her on the phone: "We've had a little problem coming back after our miscarriage." I was feeling a wee bit... bitchy. "Can you talk to my husband now?" and walked away from the phone.

The Credit Card Rep was so sweet. She cut H a deal, pulled some strings, and put us on a payment plan. It worked SO WELL that H came up to me after the conversation and asked, "Am I a horrible person to call all our past due accounts and tell them that you miscarried?" And I replied, "well, you might be, but do it anyway."

I'm still so hurt and angry about my mc/chemical pregnancy/blighted ovum/can someone give me a ruling on what to call it. Angry angry. Want to break things and stomp about and burst into tears angry. I want someone, everyone to know and I want them to FIX IT. Someone FIX IT.

I'm waiting...

Drugs, Drugs and Hugs

So I called and ordered my drugs. My insurance demands that I order all exciting drugs through a mail-order pharmacy that they seem to own. When I went to see my new RE practice all those months ago (How it Went) they gave me a list of drugs that I was going to be using. And when I asked what sort of coverage there would be (ie, how much $$) they just faxed it to my insurance company.

Who thought it was an order, told me it was going to be $1500, and did I have a credit card?

EEP. $1500 is too much (for me) to spend until I know that I am going to try.

And now I do.

I have a million fears, only some of which are fertility-related. H has been very clear about the fact that he wants to wait until we are more financially solvent. As in, next year. He realizes that this is "just his fear talking" and when he mentions it, we fight, argue and discuss our next move. I keep pointing out I'm 40, insurance runs out at 44 and while (to him) that seems like a long time, it's not. But he's got a valid point about trying to get out debt in check.

So, in addition to every step being tense and scary because it's IVF, every step is tense and scary because I keep having to shore up my husband's commitment to the process. And I keep having to fight feeling selfish for doing this. (Can anyone relate? Anyone at all?)

What Vanity Brings

And then today, I broke 2 nails.

God says HA!

But at Least I Have Great Nails

Nothing of any importance... It's just that I've been noticing lately how GOOD my nails have been looking. Normally, I have brittle, peeling nails. But this last month, while I've been on all sorts of vitamins and some muddy thing my accupuncturist recommended, my nails have come is, and come in niiiiiiiiiice.

I'm not vain (much). I almost never get a manicure (anymore). And it means almost nothing.

But it's nice to look down and seem them in all their slightly-long unbroken glory.

Because if I like to think that my nails are indicative of some better health for me...

(here's hoping)

Sugar

Because I am going to cycle next month, I have put myself on as strict as a m.acrobioti.c diet as I can muster.

I am insane.

If you read The In.fertility Cu.re (as I did) and was frustrated by her scanty dietary information. I'm supposed to eat seaweed, fine. Can I have a recipe?

My husband read it (those parts, at least) and made the pronouncement: It's m.acrobioti.c. (or at least, it incorporates some elements).

Um. Okay. (I grew up on fast food. I know nothing of nutrition).

So for the next two months, I will live without sugar, coffee, chocolate, baked goods and all sorts of other deliciousness.

I've got to do something to grow more than 4 follies.

Yikes.

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?