. . . As far as Murdock goes and you could have knocked me over with a feather when the PA (not R*bbie) told me so. I didn’t get to see the heart beat, but she said it was. She had the screen pulled in close to her. All I could see was the gestational sac and something still in it. I was also given a new glossy black and white picture to take home.
I return for another scan as scheduled on Thursday, the 13th.
I feel rather sheepish and I honestly don’t believe I have any more right to be obsessed and paranoid over any one else, but I keep being reminded that I “have been through so much”.
I admit that I feel a bit defensive when I’m told that, just because I believe I shouldn’t have to go through all these cycles and miscarriages. No one should to get what they want. It sucks.
When I asked the PA if there are other women who get a little stir-crazy during this time, she said the same thing to me (about going through so much). I asked her when do they start to level out and get their wits about them. She replied that they don’t until they go home with the baby.
In some ways that made me feel better as for not feeling like a freak; on the other hand, I potentially have seven more months to feel like this. That sucks, too.
For now though, Murdock is on track and that certainly does NOT suck.
First I have a PIO horror story and then I’ll wrap it up with something not-so-light.
Since the time I had to do my own PIO while Mr. DD was out of town, I have continued giving them to myself even when he’s around. It’s not as bad as I imagined, plus they weren’t as nearly as painful as when Mr. DD gave me my shots. Can’t explain it.
Saturday night, per my routine, I shot myself on the left hip. When I finished I couldn’t understand why something was still coming out of the injection site even though the needle had long been withdrawn. It looked like a dark thick string…
It was blood.
My arse had taken on the distinct characteristics of the Dutch dyke that had sprung a leak.
For a few seconds I watched the blood shoot out horizontally for a couple of inches and drop to the floor. I must of said, “Oh shit!” as my husband came around to see what had happened. By then, I had grabbed a tissue and pressed it over the gusher.
On the tiles beneath me was a plate-size blood splatter. I looked at it. I looked up at Mr. DD. Then I promptly burst into tears, bordering on hysterical.
I was so traumatized that I had Mr. DD do my shot last night.
I should note that I’ve never have pulled the plunger back after the injection to see if there’s blood. I don’t know what it means if there is, I just know I’m not injecting myself twice in one night.
To make matters worse, I’m convinced that Murdock is dead. I woke up this morning in a panic and have been trying to come up with some good excuse to get an ultrasound this week as well as next. Since the only reason I have is extreme paranoia and fear, I’m afraid a request will fall on deaf ears.
I try to push the image of seeing an empty gestational sac out of my head by imagining how things will be if this works out. I try to imagine myself fat and cumbersome. I try to imagine the guest room as anything but. I try to imagine myself worn out by chasing around two children…but guess what?
The images just won’t come to me. They are unimaginable. Literally. They all get pushed away by an ultrasound screen with black and white blurring together punctuated by a black hole filled with a frozen nothingness.
If there’s a hell, this would be it for me.
The progesterone is certainly doing its job if that includes making me a freak who cries at the drop of a hat and the boobs….
Sweet moses, the boobs! I accidentally got one pinned between XBoy’s elbow and my rib cage last night and it took every once of control not to fling him across the room in a spontaneous reaction to the pain.
I’ve been asked in a couple of emails if I’ve tested yet. If I have and it was positive, don’t you think I’d tell you all by now?
And just final proof that the hormones are working the kind of magic that would make even Criss Angel the Mindfreak envious, a commercial played earlier on the television where a baby begins to cry.
I promptly burst into tears.
Progesterone: an evil necessity if there ever was one.
Would you mind if I just glaze over the inspiration for my last poll? I’m on limited brain functionality, which may or may not be related to the fact my son has strep and I have not been allowed to sleep – if his moaning and whining at the exact moment I feel myself drifting off are any indication. Shall I bother to mention that this morning when Mr. DD and I were making the bed and he didn’t stack his pillows per my OCD and I corrected him that he snapped, “Back off! I was yawning.”
Yes. Well, there is that. Apparently, we both have been hit by whatever it is that makes us completely stupefied, crazy and just damned tired.
The pointless point I was going to hope to make – and let me first apologize for the assumption and to anyone who may get pissed off at such – is that while we (“we” being anyone diagnosed with some form of infertility) each suffer acutely the pain of infertility, the length of time we suffer does exponentially increase that pain; whereas having wealth can minimize the impact of the pain brought on by infertility. I would then have to squeeze in there a disclaimer of some type about government-funding
on ART * for my friends overseas and North O’ the Border and those who must calculate in six months of vacation due to OHSS regardless of what the omnipotent Sugar Daddy wants.
And since I knew it would take several paragraphs to justify my statement and several more to do the aforementioned apologies for ASS-U-MEing, I just virtually threw up my hands and muttered, “meh”.
I should mention that I found a couple of nifty sites, including this one that provides excellent debate fodder to use on our behalf against those numskulls who think infertility treatment should not be covered under insurance. You know how we love those assbandits.
Also, I was going to remind those of you who pay U.S. taxes that many expenses related to IF treatments should be itemized as medical deductions on your returns if the total expenditures exceed 7.5% of your annual income. Expenses can be as obvious as any of the office procedures and consults to the easily overlooked lodging and travel expenses.
See how potentially dull that post would have been? This one was so much better.
* See comments for input from those who actually know compared to me who pulls things helter-skelter out of my ass.
I can’t say I’m surprised to see someone has bailed from my blog’s subscription, but Dude? Why you hatin’ on the T.K.O.? At least let yourself be known so I can make sure to not by stop by at your place and find the welcome mat has been pulled in under the door leaving me standing in the cold, hand raised at mid-knock.
Not like that will happen since they will never read this – because they unsubcribed! I’m just a little bummed, but will shake it off. I still have my closest friends and I take great comfort in what each of you have said. [warm fuzzies all around!]
This shit is hard and I am reminded repeatedly that this is hard for everyone. How many blogs are started because one’s life is so perfect they feel they just got to share?! Not too many.
I promise that for every one of my pathetic whiny posts, I will have a half dozen that are not so depressing and will be back to my old snarky self in no time.
Here’s my random thought for the day: I don’t think it’s any kind of phoenitic coincidence that “cycle” sounds suspiciously like “psycho”.
I’ve got my bitch back on and I continue to rally my spirits with this (by the way, I’m the body double in the training scene – bwahahahaha!): (crank it up!)
Here’s my problem: I am feeling sorry for myself.
Yes, I know you already knew that, but I just want you to know I’m not trying to fool anyone including myself.
I’ll be frank. You are/were/will be pregnant/getting your referral and I am/will not.
There. I said it.
Do you know what the secret is to all those beauty pageant contestants’ perpetual, yet slightly creepy, smiles? Vaseline smeared liberally on the upper gums. That way when they smile for that abnormal length of time, their mouth doesn’t dry out. Instead a glop of grease and the taut muscles of the face, which are stretched to their max in nervous tension and anxiety, cause the lips to slip up past the teeth revealing what certainly appears to be a very toothy smile.
So now you know that when I read about what you had/have/will have turns me into a piteous pile of shit, I try to convince myself (and some of you have emailed me suggesting as well) that I need to take an extended break from blogging. And so you can understand why I brought up the vaseline thing, blogging is my vaseline.
Unfortunately even though you don’t need to “listen” to me blahblahblah woe is me blah boohoo, I desperately need you and your supportive emails and comments. I feel like a complete putz having to put my hat in my hand and admit to you that I can’t seem to function normally without hearing from you occasionally.
So I get stuck. If I don’t stop and wish congratulations as befitting your good fortune, you may not feel so inclined to stop by and tell me to pick my chin off the ground, especially when I am being pissy and feeling sorry for myself.
I need to work out how to break away from all of this if things don’t pan out. Some time ago I thought that even if we didn’t end up pregnant again, I could keep blogging under the assumed identity of a mommy blogger. As much as I have come to admire several of the MBs, I know that I will be exposing myself to just as much heartache as they discuss getting pregnant again and having a new baby in their lives (and I would like to state for the record that is definitely NOT what MBs normally do on their posts, but it can and does happen).
On the other hand, I can’t stay here amongst the infertility bloggers. For me that’s salt on a never-healing wound. I’m realizing that a very important and almost integral part of my life for the past couple of years may come to a tragic end and I can’t seem to make myself think of it any differently, which is that I might end up pregnant and blogging for another year.
It feels like the end of an era, albeit a short, tedious and wholly unremarkable era, it’s something that is/was completely mine that I worked really hard for and in a matter of weeks it could just go *poof*.
AUGUST 5, 2007
IN FOUL MOOD STOP
NEED ALCOHOL CHOCOLATE EN MASSE STOP
DO NOT ASK STOP
I’ve been posting fast and furious over here. Have you noticed? I have ulterior motives besides actually milking you all for yummy recipes and decorating tips (mirrored ceiling and velvet paintings…all that talent and taste but no one suggested black light paint??). I’ll enlighten you in the not too distant future.
In the meantime, more drivel in the form of some advice this time from me to the general populace of questionable intelligence and common sense.
When you are getting a drink from a soda fountain, please be familiar with how your cup should feel in your hand when the personally preferred amount of ice has been delivered prior to purchasing a do-it-yourself cup. Only an amateur ass-monkey will push the ice dispenser and then stop, look inside, shake the cup, push the ice dispenser, stop and look inside then shake the cup AGAIN. May the gods be merciful if you are the person who gets too much ice and decides to shake out three cubes EXACTLY to get what you perceive is the perfect level of ice.
Now that you have your fother-mucking ice, if your refreshment of choice is located on the far side of the fountain machine – move your damned self over so the person behind you can begin the ice dance (push, stop, look, shake, push, stop, look, shake, repeat until bludgeoned to death by another person in line).
Finally, now that you have your drink, for the love of all that is unholy, if you don’t want your spouse to have to come identify your face-burger at the city morgue brought on by a certain someone who is within hours of their period starting and has had their last vestige of sanity implode as you proceeded to drink from your goblet of sugary goodness that should so be diet as noted by the ass baggage turning your jeans into all kinds of 4-way stretch fabric in all the wrong places because someone did not have the patience to wait for you to get the fuck out of her way!
Who’da thunk? That was way harder to write out then to actually vocalize to my husband at lunch today. Maybe because my body language and facial expressions made it quite clear what I was thinking.
Until yesterday, I hadn’t had a meltdown and cried for almost three weeks straight.
Yesterday I did – twice.
If not a miracle, it’s a record as far as how long I’ve gone without.
I think I need a ticker.
My counselor (yes, I’m seeing a counselor now) thinks we had a breakthrough.
I keep trying to have another baby because I think I want another baby.
Then she dug deeper.
I want another baby because I succeeded the first time and failed the second time.
I perceive myself as being a failure.
I believe I would have not tried at all if there was the chance that I would have failed. I have always done what I thought I could succeed in.
Another reason why Secondary Infertility sucks shit.
Another reason Infertility sucks shit and the flies that feed on it.
Yesterday was a B-A-D day. It sucked, quite frankly. I had to open up my own site and look at my son’s picture multiple times to keep me from running from the building into the rain and never looking back. I blame the hormonal let-down combined with the ‘roids.
Of course it didn’t help that at one of my meetings I noticed the woman across the table from me sitting peculiarly, with her arms akimbo. Jesusonaritz! She’s pregnant! Nothing extraordinary about that, except she just had a baby born in August. Clearly she was 5-6 months along already.
I had a friend with a very colorful personality when I was living in Kansas who had a quaint saying for women like that: She didn’t sleep with her feet in no bucket.
Couple that with the attendance of my sweet, caring ER doctor, Dr. Marathon, who pulled me aside at the end of the meeting to ask how my ultrasound had went…
Yes, today I would have been scheduled for my 6 week ultrasound. Good thing I had that 3rd beta because the requisite freakingthefuckout would have already begun with all the bleeding I’d been doing for the past 36 hours. Because he was sincerely moved by my bad news whispered discreetly back to him, I had to quickly excuse myself to go sob in the bathroom.
When I got back to my office I then had to shut the door because I was a mess, complete with the blubbering, sniffling and snot draining.
As I was getting ready for bed, it started all over again. Mr. DD, bless his heart, even went ahead and mounted the under-cabinet radio I got for him for Father’s Day (he found it "hidden" in the garage). Major truce move since this morning he announced he didn’t like it because it had to be bolted to the cabinets. Well, duh.
He then came in to the bedroom and sat down next to me. The room was already dark, so I watched his silhouette as he said to me:
You cannot let it get to you, this business of being angry at every pregnant woman you see. If you do, it will eat you alive. If all you do is think about them, then you are not thinking of X, and when we get all done with this, he will have grown up without you.
Not only was that the sweetest blow I’ve had to the stomach lately, but it also echoed something someone else just recently wrote me in an email.
The control I so desperately want on my life is swirling the drain. While I wait for a donor, I think I’ll find a tampon or a drain plug and try to stem that flow. This bullshit has got to stop!
By the way, if you notice the time of this post? After two full days without hives, I woke up at 3:00ish to pee and was attacked by another round, this time on my elbows, buttocks and the back of my thighs. It looks like I’ll be getting some refills before heading to the beach NEXT SATURDAY!!!!!!
It’s Memorial Weekend here in the US. It’s the weekend set aside to commemorate the US armed forces killed in war. Many will visit the family cemeteries and place flowers on grave sites. My mother will make several trips this weekend with wreaths of plastic flowers in unnatural colors to different plots and remember. Many others will watch the parade, cook out and here in the Midwest, the water park and swimming pools open for the sumer.
I will also go visit the cemetery that is home to the plot that holds the remains of the unborn babies that did not get their own headstone. Vivienne is there. Wolf is not. But I will bring two candles with me and try not to cry too much.
It is beautiful outside. Unusual for Memorial weekend which is usually marred by seasonal storms.
This weekend will also be the 10, 11 & 12 day post IUI. This cycle has already been decided, I just won’t know for sure what the results are for a couple more days. I’ve written a half-dozen posts in my head about how I will feel and do if it’s negative. It’s much easier to imagine it will be negative than positive. It goes with the odds, I guess.
I just know that right now I’m very tired, not physically, but mentally and spiritually. I keep thinking that some day I’ll wake up and the nightmare will be over.
You may want to skip this post as it will reveal how I have some moments where I’m actually relieved I have only one child and find myself seriously second-guessing my desire for a second.
The details are moot, but I can tell you that by the time I was getting ready for bed Wednesday night, which was shortly after finally getting X into his own bed, I was on the verge of recreating the scene from Indiana Jones where the witch doctor rips a still-beating heart straight from the victim’s chest, except I was going to reach through my own belly button and dig out my uterus.
I remember the frustrations that came with a new baby, mainly because it was new and they centered around my inexperience as a first-time Mom. It wasn’t X’s fault that he had colic and that I would call my husband 15 minutes after he left the house in tears demanding that he come back home. We didn’t need groceries that bad. It wasn’t X’s fault that he had that nasty round of rotavirus and that within 5 minutes of changing his diaper he would blow them out over and over again and achieved a rash so nasty, it bled. It wasn’t his fault I didn’t make it past 2 months of breastfeeding because I was just too damn tired to try anymore.
These were my problems manifesting themselves through an innocent third party.
However, at 5 years old he now can control things like getting undressed after his swim lessons but won’t because the trunks are wet and sticky so he whines and whines and whines. He can control whether he has to play with every goddamn toy in his room instead of getting dressed, which can take him up to 15 minutes on a good day and always when there is a time-crunch – even though I’ve already picked out his clothes. He also chooses to converse normally with me when I pick him up from school but as soon as he gets into the car the crying starts because he didn’t like the snacks that day at school and now he’s hungry and thirsty.
He tells me I’m lying when whatever I say doesn’t coincide with his perceptions. When I ask him to put away his toys, he responds with "What?". I repeat. "What?" I repeat again, louder. "What? I can’t hear you." Then I start yelling that I’m just going to throw away his toys and he says back, "That’s not what you said. You told me to put away my toys!"
. . . . . . . and I run screaming from the room to curl up in the corner of my closet petting my fuzzy slippers and plucking my eyelashes one at a time . . . . . .
I really want another baby, but I’m afraid I just want The Baby, not the child that emerges from it. Maybe I just want a pregnancy to prove I can get through one without bitching about how much I dislike being pregnant. Right now I’m seriously doubting I can find the value in spending up to $30,000 on a donor egg cycle, but will piss away another $5000 for two more IUIs because if they don’t work, I won’t be out "that much".
It’s hard to want to repeat something that you feel like you failed miserably at the first time around.
As most of you know, I’ve had three known miscarriages.
The first one was Vivienne, whose death at 15+ weeks heralded in the world of infertility.
The second, a result of Hope-Overdose (aka IVF #1) was coined a chemical pregnancy, since the betas were falling before they even had a chance to go up, and the pregnancy was over by the fifth week.
I would think that the pain and heartache that comes with multiple miscarriages follows logic. For the layman anyway. Logic and infertility, as we know have never gone together. They never will. Nevertheless, let us look at this "logically".
Logically, one would think it was Vivienne’s death that has affected me the most. She was the oldest fetus. Everything we thought that was safe, and beautiful, and easy, and…logical…was stripped from us in one horrible moment in time when the tech said, "I’m sorry, but there is no heartbeat."
But, wait. Forget logic. This is infertility. It’s Wolf I miss the most. That little tease winked at me on 11dpIUI and then disappeared until 14dpIUI. Her pathetic first betas rallied. Her heart started beating when we thought there was no heart to be found. And then she died just when I was starting to believe we could crawl our way out of the pit and into a real, live, pregnancy.
I couldn’t understand why it was her I found myself weeping for. I thought it was because her karyotype came back as "normal" whereas Vivienne’s did not. Did I mourn my perfect baby more than my defective one?
I realized earlier this week why. When I tell you, I’m sure you will wonder how I did not realize it sooner and that my head must surely be so far up my ass, I’m using my ovaries as sun shields. It’s because her death has been overshadowed by so much life, and that daily I am reminded by how dead she is when I read some of my oldest virtual friends’ blogs, who are well on their way through pregnancies.
I love them all so very much that it makes it hurt all the more to feel this anger, this jealousy, this acute sense of loss, over something they deserve not just as much as me, but even more so as I have a healthy son at home. Their pregnancies came on the heels of mine ending. Each pregnancy post reminds me of where I would have been now (30wks). Where I should have been right fucking now!
I didn’t have blogging after I lost Vivienne. I had a friend who was six weeks ahead of me who delivered a healthy girl. She is really my only "comparison" and this friend moved many miles away some time ago so the reminders, still incredibly painful, are sporadic and few. Blogging post-miscarriage is more difficult than the uninitiated could know. My emotions are frozen in the aftermath of November while I watch my internet friends planning for their summer babies.
I’ve emailed a couple of these women privately to let them know. I know this post will upset them to be the subject of my grief-crazed vent, but I just couldn’t hold it inside anymore. It was eating at my heart to harbor these feelings. I wasn’t just shielding them, I was shielding myself thinking that if I just let it go another day, I’ll feel better. But I don’t.
Unfortunately, I doubt that by admitting today that these feelings are so raw I have to brace myself when I read my bloglines, that it will be a cathartic release. That just doesn’t happen for me. Instead, I will go back to putting the emotional turmoil back under a lid for the next 4-6 months to fester.
This post has left me emotionally spent. Each time I proof-read it, my chest tightens up. I had serious reservations about not only publishing it, but to allow comments. I didn’t want to seem as if I was begging for validation, because I’m not. I know that these feelings are valid . . . because they are mine.