herveryown

Strike That, Reverse It

This is getting really tiresome.  I seem to be on some sort of unending uterine rollercoaster of doom.  Everything I said Tuesday about how the situation seemed to be improving, tapering off, going to that big maxi pad in the sky?  I take it all back.

Yesterday, I bled through my clothes.  At work.

Luckily, I discovered this before anyone else did, but aside from being annoying, ridiculous and icky, it's also really humiliating.  I felt like an idiot, as if I'd missed some important lesson in Chick School on the care and feeding of vaginas.

Somebody once did an experiment where they trained rats to perform a trick for a reward and then started randomly rewarding and/or shocking them, regardless of how often or well they performed the trick.  In no time flat, the rats became apathetic and neurotic.  I know just how they feel.

If this would either go away or get significantly worse, it would be easier to deal with.  If it went away, I'd be thrilled.  If it got worse, at least I would have a clear path: The Miracle of Modern Medicine and/or some sort of further surgical intervention, but my delicate flower seems unwilling to commit to either side and is just dragging the whole thing out at the same alternating levels of "hey, things seem to be improving" and "oh shit, this seems bad." 

At this point, I'm more than willing to chalk the whole thing up on the side of "oh shit, this seems bad," because really, it's gone on far too long.  Friday will mark the two week anniversary (that's the cardboard applicator tampon anniversary, for those buying gifts) of my D&C, and both Dr. BrightEyes and Dr. Google feel that my chacha should have gotten its goddamned act together about a week ago.

I guess I'm going to have to suck it up, drag my ambivalent uterus down to Dr. BrighEyes and say "No, seriously: What the fuck?"

Stay tuned for next week, when Dr. BrightEyes says "You know, Akeeyu, this is really odd.  This only happens in [insert ridiculously small percentage here] of patients."

Insert Deity Here

Dear Whatever,

If it's not too much to ask, could you just give me ONE set of problems at a time?  It hardly seems fair that I am currently dealing with fertility problems AND childrearing problems.  It's not so much an issue of (hang on while I get the fainting couch to fling myself across) it all being too much, it's really more an issue of coordination. 

I have problems that clash with eachother terribly.  I don't mind stripes with spots, but dealing with a reproductive system that won't do what it's supposed to do and an eight year old doing the same?  It's just a little too much irony for me.

Sincerely,

Akeeyu

PS.  That thing with my Dad?  Knock it off.  Nobody is amused.

See? I Know!

For the record, Alex is totally right.  Not about the being a man part, although that would explain the lack of menstruation, but about how improbable it is that this much stupid could attack any one person on any given week.

And yet, it continues.

Wednesday night, I took the assvice offered by the nurse and emailed my GP, Dr. SoFarSoGood, explaining that my brand new OB/GYN was gone for three months, and asking if she could possibly refer me to a Reproductive Endocrinologist, pretty please with sugar on top, because I am so polite and professional-sounding in my emails, and I never use run-on sentences or whine, and don't you totally want me to reproduce, Dr. SoFarSoGood?  Because I would teach my children these wonderful things!  I swear!

I also emailed my OB/GYN's office, requesting an appointment with another doctor in her absence.

On Thursday morning, I checked my email and just started laughing.

It's too absurd.

Dr. SoFarSoGood said that she would love to help, really, she would, but unfortunately, a referral for an RE would have to come from an OB/GYN.  Which, you know, I currently don't have.  She further offered to hook me up with an OB/GYN in her office, but since I'm trying to stay in Dr. DoesNotSuck's office (which at this point, I freely admit sounds kind of stupid, even to me), I did not take her up on this.

Dr. DoesNotSuck's office emailed me back offering me an appointment smack dab in the middle of the time when I will be out of town.  What are the fucking odds?  I give them a ten week time frame, they pick one of like, four fucking days when I will be unavailable?

I'd insert some sort of punchline here, but I'm a little afraid that the shit pinata hanging over me hasn't quite stopped dispensing its tiny nuggets of joy. 

I, for one, can't wait to see what happens next.

Ciento

Day 100

By now your baby is almost the size of a dollar bill and is capable of sucking his or her thumb.  Your baby is covered with a fine downy hair called lanugo.  You may be feeling movement and increased achiness in your pelvis.  Don't forget to take your vitamins and get plenty of rest.

Day 100

I have given up hope of being rescued, and have settled into a comfortable routine on the island.  There is plenty of food, and the natives seem friendly, but I am homesick.  Two weeks ago a box of tampons washed ashore, and following island tradition, I have gone crazy and started talking to it.  I shall call him "Corky."

Day 100

The stand off continues.  Negotiations have completely broken down.  If the hostages aren't released soon, all hope may be lost.  By now, Stockholm Syndrome has set in.  Some of the captives may not want to leave. 

Day 100

Money saved on tampons: $35
Money spent on prenatal vitamins: $8
Having a menstrual cycle hit triple digits: worthless

Everybody Limbo!

Really, I'm fine.

A few days after I stopped the progesterone, I had some spotting, and there was much rejoicing (and drinking).  And then it stopped, and there was much less rejoicing (but still some drinking).

Dr. DoesNotSuck indicated that the spotting is still considered a "positive result."  I have no idea what that means.  I need to email her with questions (yes, Dr. DoesNotSuck prefers email to phone tag with nurses, and emails me my complete test results rather than making me chase down a receptionist who can't pronounce my name and can't find my chart anyway, and yes, I totally love this) but honestly, I don't know what to say, or more accurately, how to say it without sounding like a big whiny asshole.  "So, if everything looks so nifty, why isn't anything haaaaaaaaaaappening?  Huh?  Huh?  All the books say we're supposed to try for a year before freaking out, but does that mean twelve months, or twelve periods, because the way things are going, it's starting to look like I might be collecting social security before I have twelve more periods, and, um, what the fuck?"

The spotting was obnoxious.  Too light for tampons and such, but too heavy to completely ignore.  About three o'clock every day, I started feeling like I had diaper rash.  The irony of the infertile woman with diaper rash was not lost on me, har har har.

The pain is in the same category.  Too transient to justify heavy duty painkillers, too intrusive to completely ignore.  In Endo terms, I wouldn't even call it pain.  I would just call it persistantly uncomfortable.

I've been thinking a lot about what I want to do next.  I want to curl up into a little ball, stick my fingers in my ears, hum a little song, and pretend none of this is happening.  No, really.

So here's the plan.  Sam and I are going away for the weekend, during which time I will lay around, shop and probably drink some more.  When we get back, I am going to drag up every ounce of tact I have (.00173 of an ounce, to be exact) and write Dr. DoesNotSuck a polite email expressing my confusion and my burning (but tactful!) desire for a second opinion.  I fully expect to wait about six to twelve weeks for that appointment, during which time, I am going to pretend everything is hunkyfuckingdory.

So this cycle is about to reach triple digits.  So I'm apparently never ovulating again and nobody knows why.  So what?  Everything's fine!  My FSH!  It is 4.9!  I allegedly have (snort) 'lots of follicles.'  Everything's fine, people.  Nothing to see here, nothing to see.

It's like that line in Alias Grace, by Margaret Atwood:

"This must stop, he tells himself.  This can't go on.  But nothing has been going on, and therefore nothing can stop."

Akeeyu Buttmansion and the Temple of Doom

At least our Wand Monkey was nice. 

The ultrasound gel was warm, and BeaverGirl is totally right: when they squirt it on your belly warm, it feels like errant jizz.

When our Monkey noticed that we were craning our necks to see the screen, she nicely turned it towards us so we could get a better view.

In retrospect, I wish I hadn't looked, because it doesn't look good.  Now, I don't want to start publicly guessing at what it is, because for one thing, that would be Practicing Medicine Without A License, and for another thing, what 'guess?'  The fucked-uppedness of my body on that ultrasound screen was glaringly obvious.  At this point, it would be Practicing Duh Without a License.

But there will be plenty of time for that later.

I am so drunk.

I haven't had a drink since I don't know when, because my body has been a sacred temple, with so many joys sacrificied upon the altar of Trying To Conceive.  But right now I know that it's not going to be happening any time soon, so I get to drink, goddamnit.

I am not giving up.

I am just not sure how to continue right now.

Diagnosis: Duh

I think I'm still depressed.

What gave it away? The crying?  The apathy?  The fact that I got so choked up at work over stupid shit that I almost couldn't hold a pen? 

Yeah.  I'm still depressed.

I'm also on day 59, which is just not as much fun as it sounds.

I want to write something else.  I want to spin this into a funny story for you.  I want to make you laugh. 

The only problem is, I really want to go lay down even more.

These Used To Be My Fat Pants

I am tired of talking about/thinking about my cycle (day 54).  Let's talk about something else.

You know that stage when you're gaining weight ever so slowly and you've been in denial for about a month and a half and then one day you just can't ignore it anymore because your fat pants (the ones that are ugly and at least a size too big and no longer really in style, but you keep them around anyway as a backup for when you're all bloated and hideous and can't fit into your regular clothes) are suddenly just a liiiiittle too small, and you find yourself whimpering "What the fuck happened, here?  These used to be my fat pants!"

Um, yeah, me neither, for I am svelte and trim.

Ha ha ha.  Anyway, in honor of those (these) days, I would like to offer you a little musical entertainment. 

Maestro?

(sung to the tune of "This Used to Be My Playground," that hideous schmaltz-fest by Madonna)

These used to be my fat pants.
These used to be my chubby jeans.
These used to be the pants I ran to
whenever I was in need of a snack

Gah! Fat rolls on my back!
Oh, why'd I gain twenty pounds?
Haaaagen Daaaaaaaaz
Keep your spoon held high,
Have a bit more pie because...
Life is short.

And before you know,
your waist has grown,
and your zipper's breaking...
Don't stare at my fat ass...
Is that too much to ask?

These used to be my fat pants.
These used to be my chubby jeans.
These used to be the pants I ran to
whenever I was in need of a binge.

Why did I come unhinged?
And why'd I gain thirty pounds?
Wendyyyyy's Friiiiiies
But I wish that you...
were fat like meeee, well then...
I'd look thin.

I can see your face...
in that ice cream place.
You're not just a memory.
Say goodbye to fudge sundaes?
Those are words I'll never say!

(Crappy instrumental part)

(Say, this crappy instrumental part is the perfect time to grab a snack.  Maybe a few frozen cheesecake squares?  A can of Pringles?  Preheat the oven for a nice pie?  Order a pizza?)

These used to be my fat pants.
These used to be my pride and joy.
These used to be the pants I ran to,
That no binge in the world could dare destroy!

These used to be my fat pants.
These used to be my chubby jeans.
These used to be the pants I ran to...
I wish you were gaining weight, not me!

These used to be my fat pants.
These used to be my chubby jeans.
These used to be the pants I ran to...
The best things in life are not fat freeeeee.

Wishing you were fat...like me.

Schrodinger's Patient

This sucks.

It's like a biblical plague, except it's happening in my vagina, and in reverse: "And lo, for fortyseven days and fortyseven nights, there was no flood, but verily, there was copious checking of the cervix, thus sayeth the Lord," or something like that.

I am not pregnant. 

I am also not in very much pain, which ordinarily I'd be over the moon about, but under the circumstances it means that my ovaries are not doing their goddamned job.  I have no idea what they're doing in there (updating their resumes?  learning Swahili?  taking up knitting?), but they're not producing any significant amounts of estrogen.  If they were, the Endo would be active.

If it sounds like I'm complaining about not being in pain, I'm not.  Okay, maybe I am a little.  It's just that I can handle the pain.  I can handle trying and failing.  I can't handle the nothing.  I can't handle sitting around like an ass, trying to think warm fuzzy thoughts and waiting for my temperature to drop.  I can't handle this whole 'just relaaaaaaaaax' bullshit, because frankly, my life is held together by nothing but stress and tension.  If I give that up, I'll just collapse into a little heap of secondhand clothes. 

I hate taking pre-natal vitamins every day and eating a healthy diet.  Yes, I hate it!  Why?  Because I'm not pregnant!  If I were pregnant, I would snort back eightyfive grain bread and spinach salad with relish (low fat!), knowing that I was doing something good for the baby, but see, there is no baby!  It's just me and my empty motherfucking uterus trekking to the Little Infertile's Room a jillion times a day because you know I'm getting enough fiber and drinking plenty of water! 

I'm still getting migraines from the erratic hormones, but I'm not taking effective migraine medication because of that pesky 'fetal death' warning in the fine print.  I'm Bipolar II, but I'm not medicating that, either, because of the risk of heart and neural tube defects.  See, one of the many books I flipped through in Borders recommended eating/drinking/medicating as if you're pregnant as long as you're trying, just in case.  Good advice in theory, annoying as fuck in practice.  Of course, I'm pretty sure that book also recommended a positive attitude and optimism, and we all know that's a load of crap.

Look, I know I'm just being a big whiny tittybaby.  I'm aware.  Fortyseven days isn't the longest cycle in the world, and I know y'all have been through worse.  That's why I've been talking about fiber and kitties instead of this: because I feel unworthy of sympathy in this situation.  I respect you, ladies.  I respect what you've been through.  I know that what I'm going through is no big deal.

I'm just tired of being Schrodinger's Patient: half alive and half dead.  Half fertile, half barren.  Half ready and half waiting. 

Living half in hope and half in despair.