Confessions of a 27 year old drama queen

I have just reread my post from a couple of hours ago. I apologise for leading people to believe that I am on my deathbed, as I (almost) certainly am not. I don't think so anyway. Uh, I hope not.

Anyway, though this thing has lasted longer than I would have liked, I have gotten very much better in the past few days. I am by no means back to my usual chipper, the-hills-are-alive-with-the-sound-of-music self, but I have actually left the house which is a marked improvement. I am working under the assumption that this is a pesky virus AGAIN, in which case the best I can do is wait it out and things will gradually get better.

I apologise for talking like the Grim Reaper was huddled up on my sofa with me, I have a predisposition to histrionics it would seem. See, this is why I stay away from emotional posts, they just come out all whiny and apocalyptic. I should stick with trying to be funny, because at least then I come off as the witty, sardonic twenty-something that I so obviously am, rather than a brooding 13 year old writing in the diary she keeps locked and under her mattress.

For the record, I'm not sure if the Grim Reaper LIKES me likes me, or just likes me. Does he even notice me? Do I want him to notice me? Gawd, I hate my nose. My nose is way too big. I hope he doesn't notice, 'cuz he is soooooooooooooooooooo hot and I totally want him to like me too.

I am Lazarus, come from the dead...

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all...you know, that I'm not really dead after all. I certainly felt like it was near in the past week, or at least that's what I convinced myself during late nights spent obsessing over tumours, brain hemorrhages and an assortment of other fatal ailments. The head, well, it still ain't right, but truthfully...will it ever be? I haven't been to work for more than half a day since the 22nd, and my 27th birthday was largely spent curled up in my bed, cuddling a stuffed rabbit I have had since childhood, and apologising to whatever higher power who chose to listen for being so self-absorbed and negative, which was the obvious source of why I have been striken with this unknown problem.

I have a doctor's appointment Wednesday afternoon, whereupon I hope I will be told unequivocally what this is, how I can make it go away, and hopefully all again will be right in my world. So until I am feeling 100% better and sure that this is behind me, I'm avoiding blogging. I'm just not up for it, and I don't feel like I have anything to talk about at the moment that isn't focused on being ill. Naturally this leads me to pacing the floor again, muttering about certain death, and crying, so forgive me for taking the immature route and ignoring the problem. I've had enough with wallowing in the past 10 days, so until this clears up, you can find me on my sofa, barking orders at The Dude so he continues to look after the invalid, and watching my now endless supply of Sex and the City DVDs.

Visions of a daughter of Albion

Sorry to completely alter your title Will and twist it for my own self-serving, in-need-of-a-good-title purposes. Eh, you were an absolute delusional nutcase, what would you care?

Three years ago today I boarded a plane with my new(ish) husband, carrying just two suitcases filled to the brim with most of my worldly possessions, to move 4000 miles away from everything I had ever known. We had no place of our own to go to, and no jobs when we got there. It was two days before my 24th birthday, and as confident as I was that England would be the ideal place for me, I was also apprehensive at the thought of commencing a completely new life within a foreign culture, with my only support being my husband.

A few weeks prior to leaving the US, I grabbed every opportunity to tell perfect strangers about my impending move. I worked at a large chain bookstores that begins with the letter "Borders", and whenever a customer bought a book that in anyway pertained to the UK or its culture, or a CD by a British artist was purchased, I managed to sneak in comment such as, "Oh, England. I'm moving there in three weeks. Yup. Me....moving there." I was generally met with indifference, but some people were envious and conveyed this, which, let's face it, is what I was really looking for. Yes folks, you've heard me speak of the many Child Bores in my life, I was the Expat Bore.

I settled in quite quickly here, aside from the Viral Debacle of '02 mentioned in my previous post. We both got jobs, with The Dude's job utilising his degrees and experience much more than mine does, but that's a story for another day. We bought a flat, took on a mortgage and purchased the most beautiful and gay bird in the world, Desmond. We of course started IF treatment, something that by this point in the States would have cost us thousands of dollars versus the £200 or so we have paid thus far in the UK. Hopefully the next few years will bring on further happy changes along the baby front, less on the IF treatment side of things.

Moving to the UK was the best decision of my life, aside from deciding to marry The Dude "for real" the second time. When I begin to doubt myself and question whether I am capable of the mettle-testing things in life, I only need to think back to three years ago when this timid, introverted (albeit cynical and sarcastic) 23 year old decided to do something with her life, which at the time, was going absolutely nowhere. The changes in me have been significant, and I don't regret a moment of it.

Now, for your viewing pleasure, here are a few photos from my life here.


This beach is about a 30 second walk from my flat.
Unfortunately the water is freezing year round and
the beach is pebble rather than sand, but it's nice to
look at, right?

The pier that is also just 30 seconds from the
flat. Those waves are about as big as they get.

My beautiful boy, posing for the camera and working
it like he knows he can. He opted out of wearing his
hot pink heels and feather boa in this one.

So there it is. Happy three year anniversary to Britain and me. I think we make a lovely couple. If it weren't for this, I'd be BarrenKeystone instead, and it wouldn't quite be the same.

Oy vey

Calling all Metforminites! I got issues. In the past few weeks since starting Metformin, I have had occasional dizzy spells and lightheadness, generally in the late morning/early afternoon. They are fleeting, and I soon regroup, smack myself in the head a few times and move on. However, yesterday I had one that took me about an hour to recover from and I ended up going home from work. I was fine after that, but I felt like I needed to lay down and unfortunately no such facility exists at my work. They have no concern for women like me that have to take 8 pills a day and might need to either recline due to getting the vapours, or be sedated because her favourite pen runs out of ink.

As I am a worrier of epic proportions, I shot off an email to WHYBAML straight away, carefully including the phrases, "I am not self-diagnosing but..." and "Apologies for my hypochondriac inclinations". WHYBAML emailed me back at 6am this morning, a time so early I am still not entirely sure of its existence. WHYBAML essentially said that it isn't Metformin causing my dizziness, and suggested that I should go off of it temporarily to see if the symptoms persist. If they do, maybe it is the Metformin, though I don't know how that could be if he says Met hasn't caused my dizziness. If the symptoms remain, then he suggested I see my GP, which, coincidentally, I am lacking at the moment. So really, much as I love WHYBAML, I'm still worried because I need answers.

As someone with PCOS and being on some sort of medication or twenty for the past 8 years, I don't know what is normal or abnormal any more regarding my health. I think there are things that I brush off and accept that other people might find worrisome if they found themselves feeling that way. I dismiss them as PCOS-related, medication-related, or a combination of both. Unfortunately I am not able to do that this time, so I have convinced myself that I have a tumour or diabetes. Perhaps I'm a diabetic with a tumour, who knows!

I had a horrible "virus" three years ago, just a couple of months after I moved to the UK. It happened suddenly, and left me unable to do much of anything for about a month. It affected my vestibular system, which is why I still don't drink. The primary problem was an almost constant feeling of motion sickness, with hearing problems thrown in for good measure. I had lasting effects for about 6 months after it first appeared, and I still don't think everything is back to normal. During the "virus" I visited the GP three times, and each time I was sent away dismissively, when all I was seeking was some sort of comfort and assurance that they actually knew what was affecting me. I hate thinking back to those months, because I am stricken with dread thinking that it could happen again. I cannot convey how terrible it is to be really sick and have no source of solace regardless of how hard you try. Not only did I have to deal with the actual sickness, but I also had to come to terms with the fact that the doctors had no idea what was wrong with me, nor did they care.

So please forgive me if I get panicky sometimes. Trust me, you get the better end of the deal having to listen to me rave on here. The Dude gets the vastly more unpleasant side - me pacing, crying, hyperventilating, and hitting back huge doses of Nyquil so that I can relax enough to sleep. If anyone has any non-diabetes, non-tumour suggestions, I'd love to hear them.

Vain and not so glorious

Thanks to all who proposed the shockingly simple idea that I should perhaps have delayed the Provera until post-paper writing time. Unfortunately you did not take into account that I am both a glutton for punishment and the most impatient person in the world. Luckily it's like I never started taking Provera, that's how little it's affecting me. However, I'm inclined to believe that perhaps I'm always a bitch, so how would I know if it made me bitchier? A question for the ages...

Today I am brought to this little corner of the IF world seeking further validation. Yes, I know, perhaps I should seek a therapist or at the very least a "yes" woman to carry around in my purse so I always have someone to hand that can tell me that I am in fact normal and not within the domain of the criminally insane or emotionally vacant. My next confession is a horrible one.

I have been trying to get pregnant for the past three years. Some of that time was spent without medical assistance, though I knew it was pointless thanks to my PCOS and the fact that I never had periods. In the back of my mind all this time has been this niggling thought that if I did get pregnant, that all my body-related self esteem issues would worsen significantly. The pregnancy purists amongst you would say that it's a sacrifice I should be willing to make, but I don't know if it is.

I don't think I could possibly convey in words how much my body issues have affected my daily life. I am self-conscious in my professional life to the point of not being too vocal because I don't want people to focus on me. There is nothing about my appearance that I like even remotely, and I dread to think how people perceive me physically. A friend of mine sent me a link to an ebay auction for a dress I have been visiting obsessively in a local shop. The size of the dress in the auction is the size she thought me to be and I felt ill just thinking that I must look to other people. Sometimes I almost convince myself that I am thinner than I think I am, but things like this prove otherwise. My mother-in-law wants to get me bras and underwear for my birthday, and all I can think is that if she buys them too big, my birthday will be ruined. It will easily be enough to drive me to my bed, crying while The Dude stands there looking hopeless.

It isn't a matter of "Oh my god! If I get pregnant I might have stretch marks and I'll get really fat!", as it's more a matter of "Oh my god! If I get pregnant my body will have even more stretch marks to the point of having more stretchmarked skin than unblemished skin! I'll get even fatter and have to avoid cameras for another 5 years!" I know it seems like an easy problem to mentally overcome, but that's not happening so far. I also know that this situation could be easily remedied by hauling this mobile home I call an ass down to a gym or something, so no such preposterous suggestions please.

If someone is willing to find me the time to fit in a full-time job, part-time masters degree and gym time, as well banishing the ill effects (physical and emotional) of IF medications that lead me to feeling distinctly un-workoutable, I will give you a kiss. Not on the lips, but I guess I will if you want me to. I'm easy like that.

Sick and tired of being sick and tired

For the record, I'm taking that title from line uttered in the "Pod People" episode of MST3K, not from Anastasia's song "Sick and Tired". God I love and miss that show, and in addition, do not ask how I know lyrics to Anastasia songs. Some things are better left unsaid.

Anyway, I shall dispense of the pop culture references and carry on with the cooter talk. I'm aware things have been a bit cooter-lite lately, for which I apologise profusely. It's just that after my Dr WHYBAML appointment in mid-June, I was instructed to adapt my body to Met prior to moving onto the hard stuff. I was a bit skeptical at first, because I'm diehard and figured I could skip the pot (as in marijuana, not toilet or thing you put plants in) of the infertile world and head straight to the crack. Not so.

The past few weeks have proven to me that I am far more fragile and physically unstable than I anticipated. At first I was all, "Oh, Met schmet! 3 times a day!! Pfft...child's play!" Little did I know that the Met was staging a long-term attack and wanted to lure me into a false sense of security. Week 1 passed almost flawlessly with a few exceptions, and then a Met rebellion was staged. If I hadn't peed on a stick I'd think I was pregnant with the amount of nausea I have been experiencing, paired with the aversion to anything with a scent and pretty much all things that could be described as food. I didn't even want to eat pizza last night. 6 cheese pizza people! I would sell my husband and canary son for just one cheese, let alone 6.

A co-worker asked me today if I'd lost some weight and though I just shook my head no, in my head I was screaming, "I fucking well better have lost weight after not eating anymore than fruit and cereal bars for three weeks!" They say women with PCOS have difficulty losing weight, but it would be typical that me eating a total of 1000 calories in the last few weeks would still leave me at the same weight as the heady pre-Met days.

I got the go-ahead from Dr WHYBAML to commence with the Provera, and then the letrozole, blah de blah and blah de blah numbers 2,3 and 4. Sorry, the list of additional meds is so long I can't even remotely remember what the others are called. I am more than slightly nervous about starting the Provera as I have a very important paper due Monday and the Provera-induced ravings of a delusional infertile will not go down well with my tutor. Shit.

Do I have reason to be scared of the might of Provera? Oddly enough, despite Dr WHYBAML stating that Provera was the best period-enducer for women with PCOS, I have never been prescribed it before. How is that? I've had more periods induced than Tara Reid has venereal diseases, and let's face it, we're not in single digits here. Once again, the medical profession has outdone itself with its ineptitude. Granted, I don't really know what Dr WHYBAML means by that, but I'll go with it.

All this leads to an IUI date which will most likely fall in about three weeks' time. Hopefully I'll make it to that point without tufts of my hair missing and my marriage in shambles. I'll keep you posted.

On a lighter note, some housekeeping issues...

1) I'm listening to LL Cool J's "Around the Way Girl" on live365.com. Jealous?

2) The top search ever leading to my blog (sensitive readers stop here)

-"Cunty breath"

I don't know what to say to that. I am a bit concerned that the person that typed this proceeded to spend about a half an hour on my blog reading numerous entries. Do I really have a story that someone that is looking for that wants to hear? If so, should I be concerned? At any rate it has given The Dude and I a whole new insult for one another that we'd never thought of before.

3) I'm on the lookout for a job. I found the following description for a job that entails much more responsibility and far more money than my current one, yet you wouldn't know it based on the rather...specific and simple nature of the write-up:

"Working Conditions/Physical Demands: Whilst performing the duties of this job, employee is regularly required to sit, use hands to finger, handle, or feel; reach with hands and arms; and talk or hear. The employee is occasionally required to stand and walk. The employee must occasionally lift and/or move up to 10 pounds. Specific vision abilities required by this job include close vision, and ability to adjust focus"

Use hands to finger...huh huh.

Come on...just one hit of the good stuff.

Apparently, there is nothing like a little sex talk to bring out the commenters. I'm pleased that so many of you were inspired to say something, and no, I don't feel so alone now. Phew, I'm not the only infertile to not be having constant sex. I dread to think how many Smug Fertiles that would confound, "Stupid, whining barren women. Perhaps if you had SEX you might get pregnant. All it takes is some sex and relaxation." Cue forehead slapping and eyerolls.

However, despite my proven frigidness, I am still a whore when it comes to one thing. No, I am not referring to Johnny Depp...so make that two things, yes, two things for which I am a total whore. The other object of my lasciviousness is small, compact and has two little windows into its evil yet beguiling soul. This creature of which I speak is cunning and seductive; it whispers to me when my husband has just left the room. You may call it an HPT, I call it The One For Whom I Will Spread My Legs in an Instant.

I asked The Dude to buy an HPT, intending to test right before Dr WHYBAML gave me the signal to start Provera. You know what they say about best-laid plans...The Dude casually handed over the instrument of doom to my outstretched hand, and like Gollum with His Precious, I snatched that bitch like a ravenous animal. I ran into the bathroom, fondling the double box of HPTs, debating whether to break down and just pee on one. I think you know where this is going. Once I figured out how to take the plastic wrap off the box (very complex act), it was but just a moment until I was glancing nervously at the second window.

Not surprisingly an empty white window stared back at me, which I expected of course, so I ditched it before it could taunt me further. I had sex twice a week for the past month for this? Fate, you gotta give me something to work with here!

I know I'm not the only one out there that has been so used and abused by HPTs. The emotional abuse continues, yet we keep going back. We are a sick bunch of cats, this much is true. This twisted group has some new recruits over at yonder blogroll. Some are newborn bloggers, whereas others have been around for awhile and my lackadaisical ass has only just gotten round to adding them. Give them some love.

A-OK

I just thought I would check in to say that I was not in London today and thankfully neither were any of my family and friends. I am about an hour and a half south of London, but it has still been a rather tense and scary day.

I want to thank everyone for the emails and the concern expressed. A few of you apologised for having questionable geography skills, but as I never said on my blog whether I lived in London or not, there is no need to be apologetic.

My thoughts are with everyone that has been affected by what has happened today, and I hope that bloggers, blogger readers and their loved ones are safe. Fate has stepped in and seen the delivery today of two seasons of Curb Your Enthusiasm on DVD, so I am going to try and get my mind off things by attempting to inject some humour into the day.

The hills are alive with celibate cries

Virgins, avert your eyes now. Those of a sensitive demeanor when sexual issues are discussed, cover your sensitive ears. The rest of you pervs that have an interest in my sex life (or lack thereof), listen up.

Yeah, I thought that was most of you. Confession time for me...I'm a cold fish. Chocolate?!?! Oh, yes please! Sex? Eh, not so much. If my blessed husband does not start messing around on me soon, I will be surprised. I bring a whole new definition to the word "frigid". Throughout our nearly 9 year relationship, I've never been too sexual, a trait I always blamed on depression at the beginning and middle of our relationship, and infertility within the past two years of it.

When things became sexual I was on Paxil, and essentially felt as if my vagina had fallen off. Penetrative sex was infinitely dull for me, as I felt as if I was just a recepticle and outlet for The Dude's sexual urges. I derived absolutely no pleasure from any of it, though of course I pretended as if I did. I am not the type to fake orgasms (I would feel too self-concious) but instead would rely on the trusty, "No, I didn't have an orgasm, but it was nice to be so close to you." schpeel. In reality, I would have much preferred to read a book or eat a chocolate chip cookie dipped in cold milk.

Fast-forward to current times, where we are now graced with the constant cloud of infertile sex hanging over our king size bed, and things have not changed much. Behind us are the heady days of robotic must-have-sex-or-we-will-die action sponsored by Clomid, but now we have reached the sexual desert. Thanks to the IUI catheter and easily downloaded porn, there is no need for sex! It is absolutely atrocious to treat sex this way, and I feel horrible, but that's how I view the whole sordid situation at the moment.

Sure, there are plenty of times that we can have sex between cycle day 1 and IUI day, but who can with all the nausea, extreme mood swings and stomach upset? I have enough trouble feeling sexy with the horror of my corpulence (is there a better word in the English language?) greeting me when clothes are shed, let alone feeling as if all I really want to do is curl up and pull the duvet over my head.

I suppose what I'm looking for here is some validation. I get the impression that many of you are sex-crazed nymphos and damn if I don't envy you. I don't need lessons in getting it on, I know how to do it and do it well in ideal situations. I don't have Samantha from Sex in the City's "goodie closet" but I do have a "goodie corner of the wardrobe" which surely must count for something, right?

A sample of The Dude's extreme sexual frustration:

Me: "I offered a free shot in the ass with a drug of their choice to the first blogger able to tell me where the quote from my blog came from, and no one has gotten it right yet!" (N.B. Julie has come to the rescue. She knew it was Dave Chappelle. Do I seriously have no Dave-lovers aside from Julie that read this thing? You ladies don't know what you're missing...)

Him: :::waving enthusiastically, nearly throwing himself of the bed in arm-thrashing fury:::: "I know!!! I know where it's from!!!" ::::panting::: "Instead of getting a free shot in the ass, can I get a free shot at ass?"

In case any of you were wondering how that act of desperation turned out...The answer was no. Who knew?