My last supper

This was it. Except mine was reheated leftovers from the night before. I had visions of my last pre-IVF meal being a hot dog with pop chips. It came to me in yoga class. The salt, the deliciousness of a good all-beef hot dog. The guiltless pleasure of pop chips. But when I got home and realized we had leftovers, I decided to dive into those instead. I hate throwing away food. And to go with my tasty reheats: two glorious classes of wine. I had previously promised myself that after a dinner party last Saturday night I would cease drinking alcohol. But then we had an amazing meal on Tuesday, and a crisp white wine was in order. So with the hubby away at guys night chomping on steak and kicking it with some high class bottles of wine, I decided to partake a bit myself. Not the best combination, reheated chinese and merlot, but it was delicious.

I lied in my previous post. Sorry. I actually inject the cetrotide today. Then I have to wait for CD1 at which time I call the doc and head in for my baseline ultrasound. Then the big meds begin. I feel both at ease and emotional about this second try. I now know that there are two outcomes: pregnancy and no-pregnancy. The first time around I expected only one. I know the routine of the meds, the sting of the needle in my ass cheek, the acne that will burst forth onto my face with the strength of ten hormonal adolescents, the weird satisfaction I get from injecting a tiny needle into my belly because it reminds me that I am stronger than I think I am. But then there are the emotions, the unknowns, the moments of grey and waiting and hoping and forward thinking. Those are the things that will drive me into the ground. But at least I know that’s coming.

So, after a fabulous last supper and an amazing last pre-IVF day (which included a 3-run walk-off home run at the baseball game I went to), I’ve decided I’m going to swing away. For you non-basebal lovers, this means I am going to step up to the plate and not worry about where I’m going to hit the ball. I’m not going to bunt. I’m not going to question. I’m going to drive the ball as far as I can and with everything I have. I have taken six months off of running, I have thrown myself into yoga and meditation, I have been drinking my mud martini twice a day (chinese herbs), going to acupuncture, visualizing myself giving birth, seeing Hubby as a father, thinking all the right things. And now, I’m going to make it happen. I’m going to swing away and come up pregnant. There, I said it.

dfb

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Some random and unrelated thoughts

1. While reading the Sunday New York Times, I came across an article about the top 200 CEOs in the country. The article was about rising pay in the face of a withering economy, but that’s not what intrigued me. Of the 200 CEOs, only seven were women. SEVEN! That led me to this thought: what the fuck is wrong with this country? Nevermind that I don’t have health coverage for this upcoming cycle of IVF or that insurance covers Viagra but not birth control for some women or that women make up the majority of the population, but of the top 200 CEOs, we are nowhere to be seen. This is not ok. Women earn more college degrees than men yet we make less money. We do more of the household chores yet we work longer work weeks. We are amazing creatures, crazy at times, but we have the power to change this. Are you with me?

2. I was again reading the Sunday times … I’m a teacher, what else can I do on Sundays? The Wall Street Journal doesn’t publish on Sundays … and I came across another article. The article focuses on the Penn State troubles from the fall and wonders where our morals have gone. The line that just made me scream in agreeance was this: We’ve moved from a culture of character to a culture of personality. So true. For me, at least. And so I thought about how my character and the strong character of the other infertiles in my life are so valuable, so powerful and amazing. While we struggle with the baby thing, think of how strong we are. How adaptable we’ve become. How much character we have. Infertility is not for wimps.

3. Last Times mention, I promise. This article really hit home. The title will tell you why: Think Before You Breed. This article even got my hubby fired up as it raised the question of why people ask us why we don’t have children. I would never ask someone why she did have kids, yet I have been asked time and time again why not? Why is that ok? Isn’t that the most personal question you could possibly ask a couple? Yet why is that question socially ok to ask? Ladies, we have work to do. I’m starting a campaign against the “why not?”

4. If you want to see a fabulous movie that will make you cry and make you laugh and make you realize that companionship with good friends and good lovers trumps all else, see The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. Not only are some of Britains best actors and actresses in the film, but it’s also a great story that will lighten your day. Promise. And it’ll make you want to travel. And laugh. And think … I want to age like Judy Dench. And, when is the next season of Downton Abbey going to start?

I inject myself with cetrotide on Thursday, and then IVF #2 begins … it’s almost go time.

 

dfb

Imagination Cul-de-sac

I am not crazy, but today I heard something profound. It didn’t come in yoga or in some great piece of literature. Rather, it came from a 45 second clip I heard on NPR. Some musician was talking about the power of the imagination and how we can imagine the path before us. The problem with most of us, he said, is that we’re in an imagination cul-de-sac. This got me thinking. I don’t believe that everything I want is out there. I’m not pessimistic; I’m just a pragmatist. I also don’t believe I can “call in” everything I want if I focus hard enough. I’m not lazy; I just know that bad shit does happen to good people … like me and all the other infertile girls I know. So why did this idea of an imagination cul-de-sac strike a cord? Well, I think it did because I’ve been in an infertility cul-de-sac for more than two years. And I’m ready to break out. I know that this desire to break out comes with some risk. My breakout might include kids or it might not. Both options come with their own pros and cons, but, regardless, I’m just tired of where I am. I’ve put a lot of things on hold for our baby-making efforts. We’ve put a lot of time and energy and money into it, too, and we’re ready to move. (Not to go all English teacher on my readers, but this is what James Joyce focused most of his work: stuckness.) We’re ready to be somewhere else. Aren’t you?

Here’s to a new road map, a new street, a new neighborhood. Here’s to a road that doesn’t involve a turnaround or a dead end. Here’s to the certainty that anything, everything is better than being stuck in the land of if. Here’s to using the word when.

dfb

 

Something to celebrate!

OK, so I’ve been pretty down lately. My acupuncturist says I’m just blue. I hear that. I agree. I cried walking my dog last weekend. And why? I have no idea! Friends have been telling me it’s normal. My dad is telling me my body is readjusting to life post-IVF and medication. I’m telling myself I’m losing hope what with the gaggle of girls in my life recently pregnant. Alas, last night as I sat on the couch transfixed with what I was watching, I screamed with joy when I found out Trudy was pregnant. Yes! Finally!

I’m not sure of my readers’ familiarity with Mad Men’s Trudy Campbell (and her asshole husband Pete), but she’s been wanting to get pregnant for a long, long time. And what with her living in the early 60s, what’s a girl to do after getting married if she can’t have a baby. So Trudy went to the doctor, and so did Pete. It wasn’t him (he came home cheering the fact that his sperm was a-ok!). So that left the struggles to her. Poor gal. Did I mentioned that her husband is an asshole? Anyway, it finally happened. Trudy got her pregnancy and all is right with the world. I can honestly say that this is the first pregnant woman I’m 100% thrilled for. Does this clearly make me insane because this excitement is for a fictional person? Yes. Yes it does. But you’re also reading a blog post from a gal who has plowed through the first four seasons of Mad Men in less than a month. If you know of a Mad Men Anonymous meeting nearby, let me know.

Yours in pointy bras, va-va-voom skirts, and whiskey on the rocks before noon,

dfb

Struggle Hierarchy

This has been a tough few days for me. OK, extend it to a week. I found out my oldest friend, I have known her since were were 12-year-old campers, is pregnant with baby #2. “It was just so easy to conceive,” she remarked after I commended her on the timing. Babe #2 will come almost exactly 2 years after Babe #1.

Fast forward five days and my brother calls to tell me he and his wife is expecting in early September. After some “struggles” they finally conceived. Now, my brother has been in the know about my issues, so he was reluctant to say anything, but seeing as I’m visiting him in a month, this could be hard to hide. Regardless, it was like a kick in the stomach, again.

I’ve always believed that in some way women (and partners, too) pay for pregnancy and a baby. It may not be money but it could be pain, suffering, time, you name it. My friend mentioned above had a hellacious 3-day labor battle that ended in an emergency c-section and every imaginable abdominal infection known to woman. Awful. But, really, is that that bad? And my brother told me he and my sister-in-law struggled. They couldn’t conceive, my sister-in-law is a carrier for cystic fibrosis and a few other genetic gems, and so weren’t sure if she had any good eggs. Obviously this is not the case. Again, was that really that hard?

I realize I sound like a cold-hearted bitch, but what IVF survivor hasn’t thought, I’ve got it worse than anyone else. My pain, my struggle puts yours to shame. This is where the hierarchy of struggle has reared its ugly head into my life and I am in the throes of trying to shake it. Forget it. Ignore it. I feel awful for my thoughts. I feel ungrateful for the gifts some of the most important people in my life have been given. I feel like I should be a better friend and sister. But in the in-between moments of the last few days, I’ve slipped back into the horrible area of self-doubt and anger. Why me? Why us? What the fuck? Can everyone else get pregnant but me?

So what good can come from this? I hope that this entire experience, when it’s all said and done I have a kid in my arms, reminds me to keep things in perspective. To handle the good and the bad with grace and gratitude. To not panic when my kid goes down in a blaze of glory on the swing set. What are some stitches when compared to the pain and agony and hell of infertility? Sure someone else’s kid is going to be smarter and cleaner and faster, but does it matter? No. Well, at least that’s what I’m trying to tell myself right now.

I’m bringing back AADFB protocol. That’s All About Doping For Baby. Put the pregnancy blinders on, and let’s make own baby … or go crazy trying!

dfb