My emotions have been getting the better of me the last few days. On the way to a family dinner last night we were listening to one of my favourite Johnny Cash CDs and I started to cry, with my running makeup leaving me looking like a demented clown. What is there to cry about on a Johnny Cash CD? Yes, Johnny Cash is dead. This makes me sad. When I hear "Hurt" or see the video, this makes me sad. Thinking of the song or video makes me sad. I can't win.
The Dude is coping well with my outbursts, which range from spontaneous tears to glaring daggers at him when he asks the very charged question, "What would you like to drink with dinner?" I'm trying to supress the bitch, but it's not working too well. In order to release some of my frustration and pent-up hostility, I'm going to air recent grievances. I have nowhere else to do it, so I'm afraid you, dear readers, must suffer.
1) Smug Fertiles that think I want to hear about every single thing their darling offspring does in life. I don't. I no more want to hear about how precious Kayleigh has learned how to say "hello" in Spanish than I want to be probed by GLCP at 8 in the morning. I don't care about your child. Why can't adults just have adult conversations without children being a constant presence in the conversation? This is not because I am infertile. I don't like other peoples' children enough to invest any sort of emotion into then wishing I had one of my own based on their cutesy stories. I just want to carry on a conversation without having to act interested in the goings-on of an 8 year old. Tip: If Smug Fertiles engage you in this sort of discussion, counter it with mentions of your pet, which I know can often be regarded as children. I often quell a Child Bore discussion by talking voluminously about my beloved canary. Their eyes glaze over much like mine do when I have to sit through their child-focused ramblings. It's only fair.
2) My mother-in-law. A few days ago I wrote quite a lengthy post on my mother's impending visit. Today, whilst discussing the visit, my MIL proceeded to slag off my Mom for no apparent reason. My Mom recently sold her horse because she could no longer devote enough time to him. MIL says, "I don't see why she got a horse in the first place. It's not as if she doesn't have enough pets at the house anyway. What was she going to do with a horse?" Uh, ride it?
My Mom is also looking to sell her house so she can downsize and manage the space more easily. However, she seems to be obsessed with the idea of having a rambling old Victorian, so she keeps looking at houses much larger than her current one. To this my MIL opined, "Why would she get a bigger house when she can't even manage the one she has? It's not as if housework is a priority of hers." Right. Let us just say that MIL has met my Mom three times and visited her house once for about a week and a half. MIL is not an animal lover, whereas my Mom is. MIL is a lifelong housewife that spends most of her week cleaning her house, and my Mom chose to put her education and career before housework. To each their own is not a concept my MIL is familiar with. Not only that, but for god's sake you vicious old bat, keep these feelings to yourself! It's one thing for me to pick on my Mom, but I cannot stand it when other people feel as if they can criticise members of my family.
3) IUIs. Seriously, do these things ever fucking work? Browsing the host of infertility blogs I love, I can't remember the last IUI that actually was successful. You just can't help feel that you go through all of this emotional and physical effort for nothing.
Ok, I'm finished for now. Bring on Monday.
2/27/2005
2/25/2005
The Crying Game (aka how to embarrass yourself publicly in a forum such as a blog)
The other day I was boasting to The Dude that this cycle of injections has not made me nearly as moody and emotionally vulnerable as the two previous times. I thought I had mastered the most bothersome of side effects, and ordained myself victorious. However, sometimes life thrives on leading us into a false sense of security. I was watching Curb Your Enthusiasm this evening and began to get teary during one scene that wasn't particularly sad nor moving. It is a comedy for god's sake, and a bloody good one at that.
Larry organised an orchestra to play in the foyer of his house for his wife's birthday, and though the scene quickly become comedic rather than touching, I was still sitting on the sofa like a big blubbering idiot. Who cries at comedies? Well, aside from unstable, sore-nippled dweeby nutjobs like myself...I suppose I should gain some solace from the fact that this time last month I cried for the duration of an episode of Pimp My Ride. Yes, the same Pimp My Ride on MTV where Xzibit (or however you spell it...let's not kid ourselves. I know how to spell it. How lame is that?) soups up some old bangers and then surprises the owner with a fancy new car that has built in DVD players and other tremendously expensive, highly complicated technological gadgets. Tragic, heart-wrenching stuff you know. Apparently.
So as not to focus too much on me being totally pathetic, I'll change the topic. The two week waiting period is up next Wednesday, though GLCP told me not to test until at least day 17, which would be Friday. I chuckled to myself when she said this, and would have every intention of testing prior to that point if need be had The Dude not been giving me the total hairy eyeball. He knows I'm a closet tester, so he likes to think he monitors me close enough at these times so I'm not resigned to stick peeing in the bathroom stalls at work. I will attempt to be disciplined, but I imagine my period will show up before the need for a test is reached anyway.
When The Dude and I were discussing the outcome of this month's IUI yesterday, he told me that if this is yet another failed cycle, he wanted me to "be good". When I asked him what this meant, he couldn't elaborate very well, and then came out with: "I just want you to realise that if it's bad news, there are two people involved in this, it's not just about you." Hmph. For a brief moment, I understood what he was saying, but then my emotions took over.
As we know the problem is with me, I don't feel like it is "our" problem. I can't fathom ever thinking of it in that way. Yes, because of my problem WE are having trouble conceiving, but that doesn't make it OUR problem. I do understand that there are two people that are disappointed when my period arrives, but I do feel as if my pain is greater, more raw. Not only do I have to deal with the frustration of still not being pregnant, but I have to cope with being the one that is letting us down. I don't want to seem as if I'm trying to quantify the emotions involved, but it is like I've got much more to lose when each month yields a negative result.
Well, perhaps it will all come up roses in the end. My mother has just informed me that she has added my plight to her prayer circle. She tried to sell me on the idea by saying, "Remember that girl I told you about that just gave birth to twins? She was added to the prayer circle right before she conceived. Three years of fertility treatment and nothing. It looks as if prayer is all it took." Shit...drugs schmugs, just whip out the bibles and bob's your uncle. The cure to infertility has arrived!
Larry organised an orchestra to play in the foyer of his house for his wife's birthday, and though the scene quickly become comedic rather than touching, I was still sitting on the sofa like a big blubbering idiot. Who cries at comedies? Well, aside from unstable, sore-nippled dweeby nutjobs like myself...I suppose I should gain some solace from the fact that this time last month I cried for the duration of an episode of Pimp My Ride. Yes, the same Pimp My Ride on MTV where Xzibit (or however you spell it...let's not kid ourselves. I know how to spell it. How lame is that?) soups up some old bangers and then surprises the owner with a fancy new car that has built in DVD players and other tremendously expensive, highly complicated technological gadgets. Tragic, heart-wrenching stuff you know. Apparently.
So as not to focus too much on me being totally pathetic, I'll change the topic. The two week waiting period is up next Wednesday, though GLCP told me not to test until at least day 17, which would be Friday. I chuckled to myself when she said this, and would have every intention of testing prior to that point if need be had The Dude not been giving me the total hairy eyeball. He knows I'm a closet tester, so he likes to think he monitors me close enough at these times so I'm not resigned to stick peeing in the bathroom stalls at work. I will attempt to be disciplined, but I imagine my period will show up before the need for a test is reached anyway.
When The Dude and I were discussing the outcome of this month's IUI yesterday, he told me that if this is yet another failed cycle, he wanted me to "be good". When I asked him what this meant, he couldn't elaborate very well, and then came out with: "I just want you to realise that if it's bad news, there are two people involved in this, it's not just about you." Hmph. For a brief moment, I understood what he was saying, but then my emotions took over.
As we know the problem is with me, I don't feel like it is "our" problem. I can't fathom ever thinking of it in that way. Yes, because of my problem WE are having trouble conceiving, but that doesn't make it OUR problem. I do understand that there are two people that are disappointed when my period arrives, but I do feel as if my pain is greater, more raw. Not only do I have to deal with the frustration of still not being pregnant, but I have to cope with being the one that is letting us down. I don't want to seem as if I'm trying to quantify the emotions involved, but it is like I've got much more to lose when each month yields a negative result.
Well, perhaps it will all come up roses in the end. My mother has just informed me that she has added my plight to her prayer circle. She tried to sell me on the idea by saying, "Remember that girl I told you about that just gave birth to twins? She was added to the prayer circle right before she conceived. Three years of fertility treatment and nothing. It looks as if prayer is all it took." Shit...drugs schmugs, just whip out the bibles and bob's your uncle. The cure to infertility has arrived!
2/22/2005
Fine art and sore nipples
Careful...the title does not say "The fine art of sore nipples", because though I feel I am an expert on the topic, I would hardly say I have elevated it to an art form. I know I'm being annoyingly pessimistic when I attribute things like sore nipples and exhaustion to the onset of my period, but I have no faith. Why do pre-period symptoms have to be so damn similar to pre-pregnancy symptoms? You'd think that because they are virtually opposite that they wouldn't have so much common ground.
The real focus of this post is meant to give me the warm fuzzies and remind me why I have subjected myself to doing a master's degree. I am so sick of reading about art that I need to rediscover why I love it in the first place through the eyes of others. So, my challenge to you is - what work(s) of art or artists are your favourite, and why? I understand that many people have no interest in art whatsoever, but I think most would be able to come up with something/someone that has moved, inspired and/or intrigued them.
I find it extremely difficult to narrow this field down, but the first painting that comes to mind is Millais' Ophelia. A former professor berated me for daring to like the work of a group as "twee" as the Pre-Raphaelites, but hey...we like what we like. It was a major pilgrimage for me to see this painting 7 years ago on a trip to Tate Britain, and of course the bastard painting was in an exhibit in NYC at the time. You know, the NYC that was about 3 hours' drive from my house, rather than London, 4000 miles away from where I lived. Rest assured, I finally got to see it in person a few years ago and it's just as I hoped it would be.
I am endlessly intrigued by the work of Lucien Levy-Dhurmer. Particularly his haunting portrait of the Belgian Romantic poet Georges Rodenbach. I love the Symbolists.
Frida Kahlo. Always, and forever. Don't worry, I'm not a Kahloist. Crazy fuckers.
Now it's your turn. Answer me people, or else I shall quit my degree and blame you lot.
The real focus of this post is meant to give me the warm fuzzies and remind me why I have subjected myself to doing a master's degree. I am so sick of reading about art that I need to rediscover why I love it in the first place through the eyes of others. So, my challenge to you is - what work(s) of art or artists are your favourite, and why? I understand that many people have no interest in art whatsoever, but I think most would be able to come up with something/someone that has moved, inspired and/or intrigued them.
I find it extremely difficult to narrow this field down, but the first painting that comes to mind is Millais' Ophelia. A former professor berated me for daring to like the work of a group as "twee" as the Pre-Raphaelites, but hey...we like what we like. It was a major pilgrimage for me to see this painting 7 years ago on a trip to Tate Britain, and of course the bastard painting was in an exhibit in NYC at the time. You know, the NYC that was about 3 hours' drive from my house, rather than London, 4000 miles away from where I lived. Rest assured, I finally got to see it in person a few years ago and it's just as I hoped it would be.
I am endlessly intrigued by the work of Lucien Levy-Dhurmer. Particularly his haunting portrait of the Belgian Romantic poet Georges Rodenbach. I love the Symbolists.
Frida Kahlo. Always, and forever. Don't worry, I'm not a Kahloist. Crazy fuckers.
Now it's your turn. Answer me people, or else I shall quit my degree and blame you lot.
2/20/2005
Mommy dearest
I had some upsetting news the other day...my mother has planned a visit in March. For three weeks. Eternity. A long time. Forever. Two weeks too long. Three long, tortuous, agonising weeks. Did I mention she's staying in our small two bedroom flat for three weeks? Yep, three weeks. Three weeks...
My mother is a wonderful woman. She manages to always see the good in people, a characteristic I will never possess. She was a working mother that sometimes held down two jobs to ensure that my brother and I had enjoyable childhoods. She fought for a doomed marriage for years in the hopes that both my brother and I could remain the few children in our respective grades that had parents that were still together. She is an educated, strong woman whom I admire greatly. However, all of these fantastic traits do not lend themselves to me wanting her to stay in my flat for three weeks.
"But Pru!" you shout, "You live 4000 miles away from your family and only get to see them once a year. Have some compassion woman!" To that I must quote a character in the quality flick Pee Wee's Big Adventure - "I'm a loner Pee Wee, a rebel." The Dude and I are hermits. We do things on our own, when we want. The flat is our little haven of Usness. If we want to go out to dinner, go to the movies, go to a museum, we make that decision mutually and make sure no one else is included in those plans. With my Mom hanging around the place functioning as a third wheel, that independence has vanished.
I think what I'm most fearful of is my Mom's personality versus the British way of being. Apologies for the forthcoming generalisation, but my Mom exemplifies the stereotypical American as envisioned by Europeans. She doesn't ramble on about America being the world's only superpower, or talk about how if it wasn't for the Americans, all the British would be speaking German. Politically, Mom is forever a peace-loving hippie, so I am safe there. However, my Mom likes a good talk. She'll talk to anyone, she doesn't discriminate. Scruffy drunken guy stumbling up the street - Mom will talk to him about the weather. Supermarket checkout woman -- lengthy chat about the inconvenience of not being able to get quality cherries in the winter. Toll booth operator -- A chipper, "Why hello there! How are you doing this fine day? I hope the day isn't dragging on for you!".
This inherent Americanness does not translate here in the UK. When she tries this behaviour here she's greeted with blank stares and looks of amazement that anyone would dare speak to another without being spoken to. My Mom views this as a shortcoming of British culture rather than *perhaps* just a societal difference. I was struck with terror when she said to me on the phone the other day, "When I come over, I just want to meet people, y' know?" Cue stammering from me, and visions of her trying to forge an everlasting friendship with the post man, or the server in a cafe. At these times, when the person she is attempting to become bosom buddies with looks at me desperately for help, I try to give them a look which says, "Hey, I'm with you. I feel your pain, trust me. I may be an American, but I've lived here for a few years now and believe you me, I'd never start a conversation with a stranger. I'm one of you now!"
My Mom is also a hugger. When she first met the in-laws she ran up to them screeching, with arms open wide. They were like deer in the headlights, seeing this crazy, ranting 50 year old woman with bright red dyed hair and a pierced nose hurtling toward them. They stood there rigidly as she gave them massive bear hugs, looking as if they had just been violated in a most unfortunate way. Naturally my Mom perceives none of this, instead believing that they want to then have hugs every.single.time.she.sees.them. on her visit. We told my in-laws she was coming (for three weeks you know), and though the poor dears managed half-assed smiles, you could tell I struck fear deep in their hearts of which they know no parallel.
So in a few weeks' time, if I'm making posts to the effect of, "MUST KILL. THIRST FOR BLOOD IS GREAT.", you know why.
My mother is a wonderful woman. She manages to always see the good in people, a characteristic I will never possess. She was a working mother that sometimes held down two jobs to ensure that my brother and I had enjoyable childhoods. She fought for a doomed marriage for years in the hopes that both my brother and I could remain the few children in our respective grades that had parents that were still together. She is an educated, strong woman whom I admire greatly. However, all of these fantastic traits do not lend themselves to me wanting her to stay in my flat for three weeks.
"But Pru!" you shout, "You live 4000 miles away from your family and only get to see them once a year. Have some compassion woman!" To that I must quote a character in the quality flick Pee Wee's Big Adventure - "I'm a loner Pee Wee, a rebel." The Dude and I are hermits. We do things on our own, when we want. The flat is our little haven of Usness. If we want to go out to dinner, go to the movies, go to a museum, we make that decision mutually and make sure no one else is included in those plans. With my Mom hanging around the place functioning as a third wheel, that independence has vanished.
I think what I'm most fearful of is my Mom's personality versus the British way of being. Apologies for the forthcoming generalisation, but my Mom exemplifies the stereotypical American as envisioned by Europeans. She doesn't ramble on about America being the world's only superpower, or talk about how if it wasn't for the Americans, all the British would be speaking German. Politically, Mom is forever a peace-loving hippie, so I am safe there. However, my Mom likes a good talk. She'll talk to anyone, she doesn't discriminate. Scruffy drunken guy stumbling up the street - Mom will talk to him about the weather. Supermarket checkout woman -- lengthy chat about the inconvenience of not being able to get quality cherries in the winter. Toll booth operator -- A chipper, "Why hello there! How are you doing this fine day? I hope the day isn't dragging on for you!".
This inherent Americanness does not translate here in the UK. When she tries this behaviour here she's greeted with blank stares and looks of amazement that anyone would dare speak to another without being spoken to. My Mom views this as a shortcoming of British culture rather than *perhaps* just a societal difference. I was struck with terror when she said to me on the phone the other day, "When I come over, I just want to meet people, y' know?" Cue stammering from me, and visions of her trying to forge an everlasting friendship with the post man, or the server in a cafe. At these times, when the person she is attempting to become bosom buddies with looks at me desperately for help, I try to give them a look which says, "Hey, I'm with you. I feel your pain, trust me. I may be an American, but I've lived here for a few years now and believe you me, I'd never start a conversation with a stranger. I'm one of you now!"
My Mom is also a hugger. When she first met the in-laws she ran up to them screeching, with arms open wide. They were like deer in the headlights, seeing this crazy, ranting 50 year old woman with bright red dyed hair and a pierced nose hurtling toward them. They stood there rigidly as she gave them massive bear hugs, looking as if they had just been violated in a most unfortunate way. Naturally my Mom perceives none of this, instead believing that they want to then have hugs every.single.time.she.sees.them. on her visit. We told my in-laws she was coming (for three weeks you know), and though the poor dears managed half-assed smiles, you could tell I struck fear deep in their hearts of which they know no parallel.
So in a few weeks' time, if I'm making posts to the effect of, "MUST KILL. THIRST FOR BLOOD IS GREAT.", you know why.
2/17/2005
The power of positive thinking
I doubt I could resist rolling my eyes at anyone that would dare utter the above words to me in seriousness. Both the magnificent Bugs and Deborah have pondered the role of positive thinking in the past few days, and I greatly enjoyed reading what they had to say on the subject. I am probably not coming from the correct vantage point, given that I am a raging cynic and a lifelong member of the "I'm not a pessimist, I'm a REALIST" club. I even think my cynicism and reluctance to be positive have protected me from a lot of pain, but then again, am I in denial about this? Have I orchestrated this concept of protection from pain to justify being so negative?
After I had my first IUI in October I felt the onset of positive feelings creeping in, slowly trying to overthrow the long-festering negativity that had settled in after two years of disappointment. Driving home from the procedure, The Dude and I kept joking that he could be sitting next to a pregnant woman, and my mind was swimming with happy thoughts of what could be occurring at that moment. My logic was that ovulation was certain to have occurred, The Dude's little soldiers were numerous and not simpletons that would crash into the uterine wall and get disoriented, and hell, they were injecting the things directly into my uterus, virtually ensuring success, right?
The nurse did suggest that if this cycle was to be unsuccessful, that we might want to wait another month or two in order to get over the disappointment. I stupidly said to The Dude on the day of the IUI, "Pfft...we're professionals in the disappointment stakes, why would this time be any different? We'll get over it right away like we always do and move on!" Fast-forward to the day exactly two weeks later when I got my period, and I was certainly not feeling so blase. My rationale is that had I been a bit more realistic, none of that would have happened. Had I been true to myself, I would have realised that making these assumptions would end up hurting me much more than being negative would.
A day after IUI #2 I think it's quite transparent to see how I'm feeling. I'm trying desperately not to think ahead to what comes after this, as I'm only one IUI away from moving on to IVF and that terrifies me.
I once had to read a collection of F. Scott Fitzgerald's short stories for a class in college. I didn't get past the introduction, which said, "In a real dark night of the soul it is always 3 o'clock in the morning." I read that line and decided that nothing in the rest of the book could possibly compare to that single statement, which I felt described my emotions perfectly unlike anything I'd read before. That, and I don't really like reading F. Scott Fitzgerald. I think of that line when I'm facing an IUI that I don't believe will work, and I live that line when the two week wait concludes in the way I fully expected it to.
After I had my first IUI in October I felt the onset of positive feelings creeping in, slowly trying to overthrow the long-festering negativity that had settled in after two years of disappointment. Driving home from the procedure, The Dude and I kept joking that he could be sitting next to a pregnant woman, and my mind was swimming with happy thoughts of what could be occurring at that moment. My logic was that ovulation was certain to have occurred, The Dude's little soldiers were numerous and not simpletons that would crash into the uterine wall and get disoriented, and hell, they were injecting the things directly into my uterus, virtually ensuring success, right?
The nurse did suggest that if this cycle was to be unsuccessful, that we might want to wait another month or two in order to get over the disappointment. I stupidly said to The Dude on the day of the IUI, "Pfft...we're professionals in the disappointment stakes, why would this time be any different? We'll get over it right away like we always do and move on!" Fast-forward to the day exactly two weeks later when I got my period, and I was certainly not feeling so blase. My rationale is that had I been a bit more realistic, none of that would have happened. Had I been true to myself, I would have realised that making these assumptions would end up hurting me much more than being negative would.
A day after IUI #2 I think it's quite transparent to see how I'm feeling. I'm trying desperately not to think ahead to what comes after this, as I'm only one IUI away from moving on to IVF and that terrifies me.
I once had to read a collection of F. Scott Fitzgerald's short stories for a class in college. I didn't get past the introduction, which said, "In a real dark night of the soul it is always 3 o'clock in the morning." I read that line and decided that nothing in the rest of the book could possibly compare to that single statement, which I felt described my emotions perfectly unlike anything I'd read before. That, and I don't really like reading F. Scott Fitzgerald. I think of that line when I'm facing an IUI that I don't believe will work, and I live that line when the two week wait concludes in the way I fully expected it to.
2/15/2005
Porn and nail polish
Tomorrow is the day of reckoning -- IUI #2. Well, I suppose technically that makes two weeks from now the day/period of reckoning. I have just painted my toenails a lovely deep red, which is a vast improvement to the chipped pink I've been sporting solely on my big toes' nails for about 5 months now. Who would have thought chipped nail polish could last for so long? I don't believe GLCP or junior wandmonkey will be interested in the colour of my toenails, but I feel slightly better groomed now.
The Dude has just propositioned me, and lest anyone think that I'll be getting a little non-conception geared action, it was to download him some porn in preparation for his contribution to tomorrow's affairs. The hospital has its own room of carnality, but he doesn't feel comfortable going into a small room to partake of the hospital's meager porn offerings. He's fearful of the knowing glances any nearby nurses would give him when he clutching his little plastic cup of joy with white-knuckled nervousness.
Instead I get to browse for porn that I think will get the job done, lucky me. I am very choosy, which is quite sad of me I know. I download clips and preview them before passing them on to my husband to use as wank fodder. My rationale is that if we manage to produce a child, it's bad enough it has to be in such a sterile, unemotional fashion. I might as well ensure that the porn does not go against my basic rules:
1) No girl on girl action. I'm fully supportive of real life lesbianism or bisexuality, but fake bisexuality so a man can get off is insulting.
2) No 40GGs. That's so not hot. As I find it disgusting, The Dude will as well.
3) The uglier the actress(es) the better. Unfortunately there aren't many buck-toothed, cross-eyed humpbacks in porn. Damn.
4) Limited exposure to women that seem to be enjoying themselves too much. Please. Jizz on the face is not the height of a woman's sexual satisfaction. The more men see things like this, the more they believe it to be true.
5) No cheerleaders. I've had a moral objection to them since my early teens and there is no way I'm letting my husband be turned on by those evil bimbo succubuses.
That said, I'm off to be my husband's porn pimp -- one of infertility's many blessings in disguise.
The Dude has just propositioned me, and lest anyone think that I'll be getting a little non-conception geared action, it was to download him some porn in preparation for his contribution to tomorrow's affairs. The hospital has its own room of carnality, but he doesn't feel comfortable going into a small room to partake of the hospital's meager porn offerings. He's fearful of the knowing glances any nearby nurses would give him when he clutching his little plastic cup of joy with white-knuckled nervousness.
Instead I get to browse for porn that I think will get the job done, lucky me. I am very choosy, which is quite sad of me I know. I download clips and preview them before passing them on to my husband to use as wank fodder. My rationale is that if we manage to produce a child, it's bad enough it has to be in such a sterile, unemotional fashion. I might as well ensure that the porn does not go against my basic rules:
1) No girl on girl action. I'm fully supportive of real life lesbianism or bisexuality, but fake bisexuality so a man can get off is insulting.
2) No 40GGs. That's so not hot. As I find it disgusting, The Dude will as well.
3) The uglier the actress(es) the better. Unfortunately there aren't many buck-toothed, cross-eyed humpbacks in porn. Damn.
4) Limited exposure to women that seem to be enjoying themselves too much. Please. Jizz on the face is not the height of a woman's sexual satisfaction. The more men see things like this, the more they believe it to be true.
5) No cheerleaders. I've had a moral objection to them since my early teens and there is no way I'm letting my husband be turned on by those evil bimbo succubuses.
That said, I'm off to be my husband's porn pimp -- one of infertility's many blessings in disguise.
2/14/2005
Infertilis terribilis
Last month I mentioned a former co-worker and her astounding fertility. I got an email at work the other day to say that she has since miscarried, which, according to her, is her body's way of saying she needs to slow down. That said, she will now wait until the summer months to try again. If last time is any indication she will be pregnant by Independence Day I imagine.
I know I'm supposed to feel horrible for her, but my first thought was "See...it isn't always easy!". I have always been a pessimist, and I unfairly presume that others should be as well. I feel as if she shouldn't have expected to get pregnant right away because life doesn't just fall into place like that. I am not happy that she miscarried, as I would certainly not wish that on anyone. But I am, shamefully, pleased that she is now enlightened to the fact that achieving pregnancy isn't always simple. Perhaps now she'll stop being a Smug Fertile and realise that sometimes something as seemingly basic as pregnancy does not happen flawlessly all the time.
I don't assume that everyone reading this can commiserate because I am aware there are a wealth of varying emotions involved in infertility. However, I am utterly relieved that I can finally share these feelings with other people that may actually understand. When I found out my sister-in-law was pregnant with her second child, I cried for the rest of the day. By that time I'd been on Clomid for awhile and it was clearly going nowhere. The Dude couldn't understand why I was so upset, and when I told him that I felt she didn't deserve to be pregnant he was furious with me. He asked me who I thought I was to judge and suggested that I stop blaming others for my infertility. It's immensely difficult to explain to someone that though I realise it isn't my sister-in-law's fault she's so fertile, that I cannot cope with the fact that for some reason, I am not. For him it's as simple as she can have children easily, I cannot, hence deal with what you have been given. The simplest way for me to deal with this is to be frustrated with people who get pregnant with little forethought or complication. It's not fair, and it's not rational, but it's just the way it is.
I know I'm supposed to feel horrible for her, but my first thought was "See...it isn't always easy!". I have always been a pessimist, and I unfairly presume that others should be as well. I feel as if she shouldn't have expected to get pregnant right away because life doesn't just fall into place like that. I am not happy that she miscarried, as I would certainly not wish that on anyone. But I am, shamefully, pleased that she is now enlightened to the fact that achieving pregnancy isn't always simple. Perhaps now she'll stop being a Smug Fertile and realise that sometimes something as seemingly basic as pregnancy does not happen flawlessly all the time.
I don't assume that everyone reading this can commiserate because I am aware there are a wealth of varying emotions involved in infertility. However, I am utterly relieved that I can finally share these feelings with other people that may actually understand. When I found out my sister-in-law was pregnant with her second child, I cried for the rest of the day. By that time I'd been on Clomid for awhile and it was clearly going nowhere. The Dude couldn't understand why I was so upset, and when I told him that I felt she didn't deserve to be pregnant he was furious with me. He asked me who I thought I was to judge and suggested that I stop blaming others for my infertility. It's immensely difficult to explain to someone that though I realise it isn't my sister-in-law's fault she's so fertile, that I cannot cope with the fact that for some reason, I am not. For him it's as simple as she can have children easily, I cannot, hence deal with what you have been given. The simplest way for me to deal with this is to be frustrated with people who get pregnant with little forethought or complication. It's not fair, and it's not rational, but it's just the way it is.
2/10/2005
2/09/2005
The rich get richer
As I recounted the other day, I have recently been reminded of the brilliance of my ovaries. That's brilliance in their overall crapness. They aren't the smart kids in school, the ones that sit in the front of the class frantically waving their hands at the teacher because they know the answer to everything. Mine are the dumb kids that sit in the back of the room, picking their noses and eating it, praying the entire time that the teacher doesn't call on them. They can't be bothered producing viable eggs because really...what's the point? My little underachievers.
They needn't worry that they are the only ones not realising their potential. In the past couple of appointments I have been reminded about my posterior left ovary, which I've known about for ages as it means I have extremely uncomfortable ultrasounds. Poor junior wandmonkey doesn't know what to do when she's put in charge of finding the missing ovary, and I swear my lungs are going to pop up on the ultrasound screen sometime soon given the way she wields that wand. Retarded sexual organ count: Tilted cervix- check, posterior ovary- check, perfect polycystic ovaries- check. I'm totally stealing from Miranda in Sex and the City here, but it is really the Special Olympics of Conception where I'm concerned. Any child being born of this fucked up reproductive system would indeed deserve a medal with those insurmountable odds.
This brings me to some comments that were left regarding my awareness of my perfect polycystic ovaries. I have often thought about how "glad" I am that I know I have PCOS, as it makes the problem much easier to attempt to address. I emphathise greatly with women that have been diagnosed with unexplained infertility, as it must be atrocious to not know the source of your problem. I can't begin to fathom what it must be like to not know why your body is doing what it is doing. However, I wish that knowing my problem is PCOS would actually lead to knowing what to do to treat it, which does not seem forthcoming. Basically, I know I have screwed up ovaries, but when it comes to figuring out the best way to make them work properly, that too is unexplainable. The moral of this story is infertility in its various incarnations sure does suck, doesn't it?
They needn't worry that they are the only ones not realising their potential. In the past couple of appointments I have been reminded about my posterior left ovary, which I've known about for ages as it means I have extremely uncomfortable ultrasounds. Poor junior wandmonkey doesn't know what to do when she's put in charge of finding the missing ovary, and I swear my lungs are going to pop up on the ultrasound screen sometime soon given the way she wields that wand. Retarded sexual organ count: Tilted cervix- check, posterior ovary- check, perfect polycystic ovaries- check. I'm totally stealing from Miranda in Sex and the City here, but it is really the Special Olympics of Conception where I'm concerned. Any child being born of this fucked up reproductive system would indeed deserve a medal with those insurmountable odds.
This brings me to some comments that were left regarding my awareness of my perfect polycystic ovaries. I have often thought about how "glad" I am that I know I have PCOS, as it makes the problem much easier to attempt to address. I emphathise greatly with women that have been diagnosed with unexplained infertility, as it must be atrocious to not know the source of your problem. I can't begin to fathom what it must be like to not know why your body is doing what it is doing. However, I wish that knowing my problem is PCOS would actually lead to knowing what to do to treat it, which does not seem forthcoming. Basically, I know I have screwed up ovaries, but when it comes to figuring out the best way to make them work properly, that too is unexplainable. The moral of this story is infertility in its various incarnations sure does suck, doesn't it?
2/06/2005
A day of hilarity
I don't believe in segues, as my train of thought is anything but logical. This post will be an assortment of thoughts from today, but there is a uniting theme--that sometimes in life you get so sick of crying that you have to laugh. In the world of infertility it doesn't take long to get this point and I think most of my days contain incidents which might have upset me before, but now I'm so numb to the shocking unfairness of it all that I don't feel like expending the negative energy that is required to rage.
1) I read a magazine article today about a tragic woman that is too fertile. The poor dear got married at 20 and decided to have children straightaway with her new husband. She was on contraceptives and was told by the doctor that it would take awhile for her to get pregnant as it might take 6 months or so for the drugs to leave her system. Quelle surprise, she got pregnant inside a month. After having a second child by the age of 22, she then decided to get her tubes tied to avoid any further pregnancies. For some reason she then chose to have an endometrial ablation, which is the removing of the womb lining, hence reducing her chances of ever getting pregnant to just about nil. She heaved a sigh of relief thinking, "Phew...no more of those little rugrats!". But oh, doesn't fate have a way of kicking us all in the ass, because guess who got pregnant a few months later? The tone of the article was one of, "Oh shucks...isn't it funny how these things just happen!", a light-hearted little story of one woman's struggle with being very fertile. Is there a blogging community of women that are hopelessly fertile?
2) Sisters-in-law. The bane of the infertile woman's existence, as chances are they have no difficulty reproducing. Mine are no different, and I find one of them particulary offensive though I keep these thoughts to myself. The poor girl doesn't try to annoy me, but she's one of those fertiles that (as ordained by the all-powerful me) should be infertile instead of me. She has two children, ages 4 and 10 months. Her husband is the least paternal person I've ever met, and if in 4 years I've seen him play or even hold one of his children 3 times I'd be exaggerating. He'd much rather spend his time at the pub, or finding some other way to marginalise his wife into the stereotypical role that a woman is supposed to fill. Not only that, they have very little income and often subsist on obtaining most of what they own in a rather...unsavoury and perhaps illegal fashion. However, it was apparently a brilliant idea to bring two kids into this life. Anyway, so SIL is complaining today about how she has failed to lose all of her baby weight. This despite the fact she is a slip of a woman and is at most 125 pounds. She is upset that she hasn't gotten back down to her pre-pregnancy weight of 115 and has now vowed to cut out all the fried breakfasts and trips to McDonalds for awhile. I say try living solely on wholemeal pita bread, water, vegetables and fruit for every damn day for months in effort to shift pesky PCOS-incurred weight gain, and then come talk to me about losing weight. It is worth mentioning at this point that I am a UK size 12 (US 8) and The Dude's family tends to buy me underwear and pajamas at Christmas at a UK size 20 (US 16) so clearly they think I have a weight issue...so don't moan to me about not being 115 pounds! Bastards.
3) Thank god, a non-infertility related issue. Today I came across a discussion on a messageboard about Candace Cameron-Bure, who played the oldest sister on Full House. I'm not pretending to not remember her character's name so as not to appear really lame, because I genuinely forget. Anyway, one of the posters actually said, "I hear her brother was an actor, but I've never heard of him", and even included a circled photograph of Kirk Cameron. Uh, pardon? Am I really that old that an entire generation below me has no idea who Kirk Cameron is? Oy vey. I was never a fan of him as I wasn't feeling his white boy 'fro, but he was in the seminal 80s sitcom Growing Pains and graced most issues of Tiger Beat and the Big Bopper! Good lord...For the record, I was a Johnny Depp fan. Even at the tender age of 12 I knew what I liked. Yummy.
1) I read a magazine article today about a tragic woman that is too fertile. The poor dear got married at 20 and decided to have children straightaway with her new husband. She was on contraceptives and was told by the doctor that it would take awhile for her to get pregnant as it might take 6 months or so for the drugs to leave her system. Quelle surprise, she got pregnant inside a month. After having a second child by the age of 22, she then decided to get her tubes tied to avoid any further pregnancies. For some reason she then chose to have an endometrial ablation, which is the removing of the womb lining, hence reducing her chances of ever getting pregnant to just about nil. She heaved a sigh of relief thinking, "Phew...no more of those little rugrats!". But oh, doesn't fate have a way of kicking us all in the ass, because guess who got pregnant a few months later? The tone of the article was one of, "Oh shucks...isn't it funny how these things just happen!", a light-hearted little story of one woman's struggle with being very fertile. Is there a blogging community of women that are hopelessly fertile?
2) Sisters-in-law. The bane of the infertile woman's existence, as chances are they have no difficulty reproducing. Mine are no different, and I find one of them particulary offensive though I keep these thoughts to myself. The poor girl doesn't try to annoy me, but she's one of those fertiles that (as ordained by the all-powerful me) should be infertile instead of me. She has two children, ages 4 and 10 months. Her husband is the least paternal person I've ever met, and if in 4 years I've seen him play or even hold one of his children 3 times I'd be exaggerating. He'd much rather spend his time at the pub, or finding some other way to marginalise his wife into the stereotypical role that a woman is supposed to fill. Not only that, they have very little income and often subsist on obtaining most of what they own in a rather...unsavoury and perhaps illegal fashion. However, it was apparently a brilliant idea to bring two kids into this life. Anyway, so SIL is complaining today about how she has failed to lose all of her baby weight. This despite the fact she is a slip of a woman and is at most 125 pounds. She is upset that she hasn't gotten back down to her pre-pregnancy weight of 115 and has now vowed to cut out all the fried breakfasts and trips to McDonalds for awhile. I say try living solely on wholemeal pita bread, water, vegetables and fruit for every damn day for months in effort to shift pesky PCOS-incurred weight gain, and then come talk to me about losing weight. It is worth mentioning at this point that I am a UK size 12 (US 8) and The Dude's family tends to buy me underwear and pajamas at Christmas at a UK size 20 (US 16) so clearly they think I have a weight issue...so don't moan to me about not being 115 pounds! Bastards.
3) Thank god, a non-infertility related issue. Today I came across a discussion on a messageboard about Candace Cameron-Bure, who played the oldest sister on Full House. I'm not pretending to not remember her character's name so as not to appear really lame, because I genuinely forget. Anyway, one of the posters actually said, "I hear her brother was an actor, but I've never heard of him", and even included a circled photograph of Kirk Cameron. Uh, pardon? Am I really that old that an entire generation below me has no idea who Kirk Cameron is? Oy vey. I was never a fan of him as I wasn't feeling his white boy 'fro, but he was in the seminal 80s sitcom Growing Pains and graced most issues of Tiger Beat and the Big Bopper! Good lord...For the record, I was a Johnny Depp fan. Even at the tender age of 12 I knew what I liked. Yummy.
2/05/2005
Good on paper
During my ultrasound today I was thinking about this whole process of infertility treatment and my feelings surrounding it. There is nothing like a little bit of soul searching and introspection while your legs are in stirrups and you are furthering your relationship with a wand that has had more intimate contact with you than your husband has in the past couple of months.
My current feelings are that I'm in over my head here. Factoring in the basics such as financial and marital stability, maturity, etc etc...it looks like I'm (technically "we", but as I'm talking about my feelings specifically) totally ready to have a child, but that is strictly on paper. In reality, I think I'm massively unprepared despite the great lengths I'm going to in order to make it happen. Add to this my doubt concerning whether I really want a child and I'm left extraordinarily confused and lost.
I'm 26 and have been trying to conceive for about 2 years. I discount about half that time since I knew that my PCOS would probably preclude me from conceiving naturally, so I consider the start of my Clomid experience last year as when we actively started trying. At the time I had no faith that it would work and hence I didn't really conceptualise that this treatment would lead to a pregnancy. It's still such an abstract thought for me that I never associate with myself. When I started down the IUI path in October it really started to hit me that I could get pregnant and oddly enough that thought terrified me. Because I never thought it would happen naturally or via Clomid, I didn't have to face my fears about pregnancy and actually being someone's mother.
I suppose the essence of this fear is that I still feel like I'm 16 years old. I don't feel as if I could possibly be old enough to bear a child and look after it. My favourite pair of shoes are 4 inch platform boots, I have a weakness for Jay-Z, curse like a sailor, and have a rather cruel sense of humour that has surely destined me to eternal damnation. How am I going to raise a child if I still feel like one? Sitting in the doctor's office today I felt so out of my element, just as I feel like an 8 year old playing dress up with her mother's clothes when I wear heels or apply lipstick.
Going back to what I mentioned earlier about my desire to have a child, I'm still in a quandary as to whether this is something I genuinely want, or if I only want to because I might not be able to. I have no qualms about admitting that I am profoundly bitter about having PCOS, and I think this has greatly coloured my perceptions on the whole issue. I'm furious at the provisions I have to make in my life to appear normal physically, and this is an expansion of that anger. It's very difficult for me to conceive (no pun intended) that most people have children with such ease and I have been given this difficulty for no apparent reason. I view infertility as just something else that sets me apart from these normal people that don't have to deal with this stuff. It sounds ridiculous, but do I want to get pregnant just so I can fit in?
I brought this up to The Dude when I started IUIs and he was most upset with me. He's so gung-ho on the kid thing that I knew instantly that I should have kept my thoughts to myself. I always knew he wanted children more than me, as he's much more receptive to the charming creatures than I am. He told me that only I could answer the question of whether I wanted children for the right reasons, and I know he's right. I just don't know how to go about it. I realise that this is something I should have thought about way before this point, but it had not occurred to me until it became feasible.
My mom always said, "You never feel ready to have a child." and I'm hoping that's all this is and that she was right.
My current feelings are that I'm in over my head here. Factoring in the basics such as financial and marital stability, maturity, etc etc...it looks like I'm (technically "we", but as I'm talking about my feelings specifically) totally ready to have a child, but that is strictly on paper. In reality, I think I'm massively unprepared despite the great lengths I'm going to in order to make it happen. Add to this my doubt concerning whether I really want a child and I'm left extraordinarily confused and lost.
I'm 26 and have been trying to conceive for about 2 years. I discount about half that time since I knew that my PCOS would probably preclude me from conceiving naturally, so I consider the start of my Clomid experience last year as when we actively started trying. At the time I had no faith that it would work and hence I didn't really conceptualise that this treatment would lead to a pregnancy. It's still such an abstract thought for me that I never associate with myself. When I started down the IUI path in October it really started to hit me that I could get pregnant and oddly enough that thought terrified me. Because I never thought it would happen naturally or via Clomid, I didn't have to face my fears about pregnancy and actually being someone's mother.
I suppose the essence of this fear is that I still feel like I'm 16 years old. I don't feel as if I could possibly be old enough to bear a child and look after it. My favourite pair of shoes are 4 inch platform boots, I have a weakness for Jay-Z, curse like a sailor, and have a rather cruel sense of humour that has surely destined me to eternal damnation. How am I going to raise a child if I still feel like one? Sitting in the doctor's office today I felt so out of my element, just as I feel like an 8 year old playing dress up with her mother's clothes when I wear heels or apply lipstick.
Going back to what I mentioned earlier about my desire to have a child, I'm still in a quandary as to whether this is something I genuinely want, or if I only want to because I might not be able to. I have no qualms about admitting that I am profoundly bitter about having PCOS, and I think this has greatly coloured my perceptions on the whole issue. I'm furious at the provisions I have to make in my life to appear normal physically, and this is an expansion of that anger. It's very difficult for me to conceive (no pun intended) that most people have children with such ease and I have been given this difficulty for no apparent reason. I view infertility as just something else that sets me apart from these normal people that don't have to deal with this stuff. It sounds ridiculous, but do I want to get pregnant just so I can fit in?
I brought this up to The Dude when I started IUIs and he was most upset with me. He's so gung-ho on the kid thing that I knew instantly that I should have kept my thoughts to myself. I always knew he wanted children more than me, as he's much more receptive to the charming creatures than I am. He told me that only I could answer the question of whether I wanted children for the right reasons, and I know he's right. I just don't know how to go about it. I realise that this is something I should have thought about way before this point, but it had not occurred to me until it became feasible.
My mom always said, "You never feel ready to have a child." and I'm hoping that's all this is and that she was right.
2/02/2005
Workin' those polycystic ovaries
Today I had my first wand monkey (cheers to whoever has come up with this fab term btw) appointment since early December. My precious ovaries had to take a month off due to the business of the holidays and the overall hecticness of being ovaries. Awww bless.
I hate these appointments at the best of times, and paired with the anticipation of the work day from hell I was in a rather anxious state. I was already crying when I was dropped off at the hospital by The Dude, and I choose to blame this on work stress and my injections. I don't cry before every appointment I may add as they are second nature to me now. I simply was not in the mood to be prodded and the thought of having to sit there and discuss my ovaries, follicles, injections, etc. with anyone outside the blog world lead me to consider skipping the appointment.
I find these appointments stressful due to the pressure of having cleanly shaven legs, good-smelling feet, and a well-kept, tidy whatsit. These things are especially an issue when you are a woman with PCOS and sensitive skin. PCOS has graced me with dark, insanely fast growing body hair which in conjunction with my translucent skin are quite damning physical attributes. Add to this my predisposition to razor burn and you've got yourself a complete mess when the trousers come off. Lovely. I wanted to excuse the state of well...my entire physical being really, to Good Lady Cooter Poker but wagered that I would then feel really embarrassed if she made an effort to convince me that I am normal after all.
GLCP has a trainee GLCP who was fortunate enough to wave the wand with me today. Original GLCP asked beforehand if I minded having trainee GLCP have a bit of work experience, which I had no issue with. I once had an appointment with a high-profile male fertility "expert", who managed to crowd about 3 male med students into the room during an ultrasound, so I'm all for a little ultrasound cooter party. I say, the more the merrier! The absence of party hats, confetti, and perhaps some of those noise makers eliminate some of the fun, so that's something to remember for next time.
Once the ultrasound commenced, I discovered that I am the proud owner of a textbook-perfect case of PCOS. Yes, yes...please ladies, try to keep that envy under control. I knew my ovaries were gifted, but I had no idea they were supermodels. Original GLCP told Trainee to capture some photos of my little Gisele wannabes to "give to the doctors, because they are always looking to illustrate what PCOS really looks like". I'm swelling with pride as I type this. The funniest part of this whole exchange was the fact that Original GLCP was beaming at me the whole time, as if I am supposed to be genuinely pleased by this revelation. Never mind that I am there to see how my follicles are developing in the hopes that I will get pregnant. I don't get any positivity there, only confirmation of how perfectly abnormal my ovaries are. Thanks wand monkey, I needed that extra boost of confidence! Jesus...it's no wonder I blog to work through all of this.
Random note--while spellchecking this the recommendation for PCOS was Pecos. I find that really funny. Just me then?
I hate these appointments at the best of times, and paired with the anticipation of the work day from hell I was in a rather anxious state. I was already crying when I was dropped off at the hospital by The Dude, and I choose to blame this on work stress and my injections. I don't cry before every appointment I may add as they are second nature to me now. I simply was not in the mood to be prodded and the thought of having to sit there and discuss my ovaries, follicles, injections, etc. with anyone outside the blog world lead me to consider skipping the appointment.
I find these appointments stressful due to the pressure of having cleanly shaven legs, good-smelling feet, and a well-kept, tidy whatsit. These things are especially an issue when you are a woman with PCOS and sensitive skin. PCOS has graced me with dark, insanely fast growing body hair which in conjunction with my translucent skin are quite damning physical attributes. Add to this my predisposition to razor burn and you've got yourself a complete mess when the trousers come off. Lovely. I wanted to excuse the state of well...my entire physical being really, to Good Lady Cooter Poker but wagered that I would then feel really embarrassed if she made an effort to convince me that I am normal after all.
GLCP has a trainee GLCP who was fortunate enough to wave the wand with me today. Original GLCP asked beforehand if I minded having trainee GLCP have a bit of work experience, which I had no issue with. I once had an appointment with a high-profile male fertility "expert", who managed to crowd about 3 male med students into the room during an ultrasound, so I'm all for a little ultrasound cooter party. I say, the more the merrier! The absence of party hats, confetti, and perhaps some of those noise makers eliminate some of the fun, so that's something to remember for next time.
Once the ultrasound commenced, I discovered that I am the proud owner of a textbook-perfect case of PCOS. Yes, yes...please ladies, try to keep that envy under control. I knew my ovaries were gifted, but I had no idea they were supermodels. Original GLCP told Trainee to capture some photos of my little Gisele wannabes to "give to the doctors, because they are always looking to illustrate what PCOS really looks like". I'm swelling with pride as I type this. The funniest part of this whole exchange was the fact that Original GLCP was beaming at me the whole time, as if I am supposed to be genuinely pleased by this revelation. Never mind that I am there to see how my follicles are developing in the hopes that I will get pregnant. I don't get any positivity there, only confirmation of how perfectly abnormal my ovaries are. Thanks wand monkey, I needed that extra boost of confidence! Jesus...it's no wonder I blog to work through all of this.
Random note--while spellchecking this the recommendation for PCOS was Pecos. I find that really funny. Just me then?
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