Before I forget, thank you so much for the thoughtful comments after my last "oh woe is me" post. I love you all dearly and I'm glad you're here. Now onto business...
I have come to the realisation in the past few weeks that I need to be pumped full of medications. The more hormones the better! Bring it on! Since I stopped taking meds for IUI I feel lost, both emotionally and physically. I have had a reemergence of the anxiety that used to rule my life prior to being treated for IF, and my body is so out of whack, once again made to face the symptoms of PCOS with no medicinal intervention. My PCOSness (if it wasn't a word it is now) is rather latent when I'm having treatment, you know, barring the whole polycystic ovaries thing that has a *slight* impact on my infertility. Now the PCOS is all up in my business and between plucking the plenitude of errant hairs that grow in non-hair friendly places and my perceived impending baldness I am getting rather cross.
I am hoping that the IVF drugs that I am apparently soon to start redress the balance a bit. I am a vain, vain woman with enough self-confidence issues without PCOS deciding that the infertility just ain't enough to darken my days. I used to pursue more holistic treatment, regarding both PCOS and infertility in general, but those days have long passed. Instead, pass the stuff I can inject straight into me please.
On a slightly unrelated note, at the wedding last Saturday I once again trotted out my much loved and successful retort to, "So Pru...do you have any kids?". I know Smug Fertiles consider this quite an innocuous question, and let's face it, a simple "No." is so boring and frankly does not make me feel as if I'm being enough of a bitch in response. So when met with this question Saturday I twice answered, "No, I have a canary." and was satisfied to leave it at that. One person looked at me with a hint of fear, probably envisioning me at home with knotted hair, wild eyes, laughing maniacally whilst setting a place for my canary at dinner. I'm not saying that person is too far from the truth, but hey...infertility can have a strange effect on a girl. The other person thought my comment was funny and proceeded to ask me about my bird. They will not be killed.
Sliding further into the land of non sequitur, I have added some new bloggers to my list over yonder. Please check them out because there are some funny bitches with interesting stories to tell out there that not many people know about. I know, I know...you already subscribe to 80 blogs on bloglines (:::cough:::Mollywogger::::cough::::), but what is the harm of a few more? You know you want to. It will make you feel gooooooooooood...
6/16/2005
6/13/2005
Public enemy number one
I have been in a particularly fragile state of mind as of late, hence my distinct lack of posts. As I mentioned in my previous entry, I've got my IVF-planning consultation this Saturday, and I am constantly weighed down by the thought that all of this is a big fucking waste of time. I am by no means looking forward to the physical implications of IVF, and I know that I will deal with the emotional aspects as well as I always do when undertaking treatment -- I will cry constantly, be annoyed by the sound of my co-worker chowing down noisily on her daily pack of crisps to the point of sincere homicidal thoughts, and be unable to leave my flat on weekends. What is there not to look forward to?
The most omnipresent thought has been (surprise surprise) the financial side of treatment. We can afford a round or two, but it will quite severely cut into our savings. This is nothing new, I know, but the depressing fact is there is no way for an infertile couple to have a child without surrendering savings or becoming massively in debt. If this cycle is unsuccessful, we plan on pursuing adoption. My naive self thought that would be cheaper than carrying on with IVF, but from what I can tell it's just as expensive if not more so. Brilliant. So really, infertility fucks up your life in the obvious way, and continues to fuck you when you work hard to earn money so that you can afford a child in the first place. It fills me with the warm fuzzies, it really does.
Given this constant theme of infertility-induced depression, I have a confession to make which I hope will not be misinterpreted. It seems as if at this time I am in the depths, others have risen and achieved the perceived impossible. There has been a pronounced spike in positive pregnancy tests, and may I emphasise that I am ecstatically happy for all those wonderful women that have been through so much. I in no way resent their happiness, because as I have told some of them privately, why do we read blogs and encourage others during treatment if we begrudge them for being successful? Isn't that what we're all working toward? Nonetheless, I feel a bit left behind. I am the epitome of a cynic, as the successes do not instill me with hope, but rather make me all the more aware of how very unpregnant I am. I will not stop reading the blogs of the knocked up, because I love them dearly and want to follow their pregnancies, as I hope they will follow mine if that day ever comes. I'm just a miserable bitch that likes to wallow.
Given my recent unstable state of mind, the last thing I needed to be greeted with is the above-mentioned public enemy number one. This nemesis that I speak of came in the form of a gorgeous woman -- well-dressed, 5'10, naturally tan skin, green eyes and about 125 lbs. She is a friend of a friend and I spent quite a lot of time with her at a wedding I attended on Saturday. Not only did I feel like a short, fat troll next to this Amazonian beauty, but an immense reproductive failure as well. BWYCH (Beautiful Woman You Can't Hate) has two children, and is a year older than me at 28.
Normally I console myself when faced with such situations by thinking, "Well, I got an education rather than getting pregnant so young, surely that is good, right?" but of course BWYCH went to university as well and will soon be carrying on with postgraduate studies much like me. BWYCH: 3 (Kids = 2pts, Impossible beauty = 1 pt), Pru: 0. Not satisfied with winning three to nil, BWYCH went for my complete annihilation, as she is seriously the nicest person ever. I don't fool easily, and I can spot a fake person from the first nod where they pretend they care what you're talking about. I tried to find faults in BWYCH, but in the end I lost 4-0.
I hope I didn't bring everyone's spirits crashing to the ground with this rather cheery entry. I debate writing anything when I can't at least attempt to be humorous, because I think I just end up sounding like an angsty 15 year old, albeit an infertile 15 year old. Hopefully a viewing of Anne of Green Gables and a meeting with my old trusty Ben and Jerry's will lift me back up again so I can resume my post as lovable misanthrope instead of miserable cow.
The most omnipresent thought has been (surprise surprise) the financial side of treatment. We can afford a round or two, but it will quite severely cut into our savings. This is nothing new, I know, but the depressing fact is there is no way for an infertile couple to have a child without surrendering savings or becoming massively in debt. If this cycle is unsuccessful, we plan on pursuing adoption. My naive self thought that would be cheaper than carrying on with IVF, but from what I can tell it's just as expensive if not more so. Brilliant. So really, infertility fucks up your life in the obvious way, and continues to fuck you when you work hard to earn money so that you can afford a child in the first place. It fills me with the warm fuzzies, it really does.
Given this constant theme of infertility-induced depression, I have a confession to make which I hope will not be misinterpreted. It seems as if at this time I am in the depths, others have risen and achieved the perceived impossible. There has been a pronounced spike in positive pregnancy tests, and may I emphasise that I am ecstatically happy for all those wonderful women that have been through so much. I in no way resent their happiness, because as I have told some of them privately, why do we read blogs and encourage others during treatment if we begrudge them for being successful? Isn't that what we're all working toward? Nonetheless, I feel a bit left behind. I am the epitome of a cynic, as the successes do not instill me with hope, but rather make me all the more aware of how very unpregnant I am. I will not stop reading the blogs of the knocked up, because I love them dearly and want to follow their pregnancies, as I hope they will follow mine if that day ever comes. I'm just a miserable bitch that likes to wallow.
Given my recent unstable state of mind, the last thing I needed to be greeted with is the above-mentioned public enemy number one. This nemesis that I speak of came in the form of a gorgeous woman -- well-dressed, 5'10, naturally tan skin, green eyes and about 125 lbs. She is a friend of a friend and I spent quite a lot of time with her at a wedding I attended on Saturday. Not only did I feel like a short, fat troll next to this Amazonian beauty, but an immense reproductive failure as well. BWYCH (Beautiful Woman You Can't Hate) has two children, and is a year older than me at 28.
Normally I console myself when faced with such situations by thinking, "Well, I got an education rather than getting pregnant so young, surely that is good, right?" but of course BWYCH went to university as well and will soon be carrying on with postgraduate studies much like me. BWYCH: 3 (Kids = 2pts, Impossible beauty = 1 pt), Pru: 0. Not satisfied with winning three to nil, BWYCH went for my complete annihilation, as she is seriously the nicest person ever. I don't fool easily, and I can spot a fake person from the first nod where they pretend they care what you're talking about. I tried to find faults in BWYCH, but in the end I lost 4-0.
I hope I didn't bring everyone's spirits crashing to the ground with this rather cheery entry. I debate writing anything when I can't at least attempt to be humorous, because I think I just end up sounding like an angsty 15 year old, albeit an infertile 15 year old. Hopefully a viewing of Anne of Green Gables and a meeting with my old trusty Ben and Jerry's will lift me back up again so I can resume my post as lovable misanthrope instead of miserable cow.
6/07/2005
So you reproduced successfully, what do you want, a fucking medal?
It never ceases to amaze me how much people, particularly women, are supposed to care about the abundant fertility of others. Children are flaunted, and we are expected to oooo and ahhhh over these precious bundles of joy, as if basic reproduction is something rare and not achieved by millions of people per year.
Today a guy that works in my university brought his toddler daughter (who I must confess, I thought was a boy, oops! I should really be having kids, huh? Even gender confuses me!) into the office I share with four other women. Unfortunately for this man, he could not have picked a more child-ambivalent environment in which to bring his spawn. There is me, hopelessly infertile but nonetheless vastly unconcerned with the children of others, one woman is a childless-by-choice lesbian in her 50s, another is a child-hating woman in her mid-30s, a third has a stepchild and has no interest in any more, and the fourth is seemingly disinterested in anything aside from trying to project a managerial air.
So here is this clueless smug fertile, parading his androgynous child around a room filled with the women least likely to commend him for his potent sperm and his wife's particularly accomodating uterus and damn fine ovaries. I almost felt bad for him when he shuffled shamefully out of the room, head down with his child clinging to his leg like a leech. Ah, who am I kidding? It was all I could do not to make scary faces at the leech-child as they were leaving.
Naturally this anti-child rant is followed by my own reproductive plans because I am all about the natural segue. The meeting with the consultant to discuss IVF is rapidly approaching it's next Saturday, the 18th. Hopefully it will signal the go ahead to actually start IVF, though this would also mark the beginning of the bread and water diet that The Dude and I will be reduced to. I'm tremendously apprehensive, but I know this is the right path to take. Please remind me of this when I'm pumped full of hormones, my ass is even more dimpled, but this time as the result of needle marks rather than too much Ben and Jerry's. I'll be back to the talk of all matters fertility, even though I'll still have no idea what I'm actually talking about.
I am sure of one thing though - if by some freakish one in a gazillion chance this IVF does get me knocked up, I will not be toting my child around my former office expecting people to commend me for *finally* kicking my asshole ovaries into shape. I will expect all of you to do this, but uh...that's what you're here for, right?
Today a guy that works in my university brought his toddler daughter (who I must confess, I thought was a boy, oops! I should really be having kids, huh? Even gender confuses me!) into the office I share with four other women. Unfortunately for this man, he could not have picked a more child-ambivalent environment in which to bring his spawn. There is me, hopelessly infertile but nonetheless vastly unconcerned with the children of others, one woman is a childless-by-choice lesbian in her 50s, another is a child-hating woman in her mid-30s, a third has a stepchild and has no interest in any more, and the fourth is seemingly disinterested in anything aside from trying to project a managerial air.
So here is this clueless smug fertile, parading his androgynous child around a room filled with the women least likely to commend him for his potent sperm and his wife's particularly accomodating uterus and damn fine ovaries. I almost felt bad for him when he shuffled shamefully out of the room, head down with his child clinging to his leg like a leech. Ah, who am I kidding? It was all I could do not to make scary faces at the leech-child as they were leaving.
Naturally this anti-child rant is followed by my own reproductive plans because I am all about the natural segue. The meeting with the consultant to discuss IVF is rapidly approaching it's next Saturday, the 18th. Hopefully it will signal the go ahead to actually start IVF, though this would also mark the beginning of the bread and water diet that The Dude and I will be reduced to. I'm tremendously apprehensive, but I know this is the right path to take. Please remind me of this when I'm pumped full of hormones, my ass is even more dimpled, but this time as the result of needle marks rather than too much Ben and Jerry's. I'll be back to the talk of all matters fertility, even though I'll still have no idea what I'm actually talking about.
I am sure of one thing though - if by some freakish one in a gazillion chance this IVF does get me knocked up, I will not be toting my child around my former office expecting people to commend me for *finally* kicking my asshole ovaries into shape. I will expect all of you to do this, but uh...that's what you're here for, right?
6/03/2005
See you next Tuesday
Ok, so admit it. My use of the "c" word scared some of you off. Comments went way down for my last post, so either people have packed their virtual bags in a huff over my obscenity, or else it was just a crap post and no one knew what to say. I stick by my bold use of the "c" word, it contributed to the story I was telling, I had to do it! If my life was filled with people who in a fit of drunken exhilaration shouted, "stupid ninconpoops!" in a crowded restaurant instead, I can tell you that I would find a new group of people to hang out with. Life is a varied and rich experience, colourful language just adds to it sometimes.
That said, I witnessed a near car accident from the window of my second story flat the other day. Both people were at fault, yet the one driver (male) yelled an assortment of vulgarities at the other driver, who was female. She was visibly flustered, yet he kept shouting at her to "Fucking drive properly!" and "Get out of the fucking way!" I stood at the window extremely indignant at this fucking asshole that didn't care that this poor woman, initially apologetic, was getting really upset, hence affecting her ability to get out of his way. She finally composed herself enough to get out of his way, for which she was greeted with "Stupid, fat, fucking see you next Tuesday!"
I was leaning out the window at this point, debating whether to shout something at him, but I was neither bold enough nor witty enough to come up with anything to actually say. Knowing me, had I mustered up the courage I would have shouted some dumbass comment like, "Hey, you can go to hell you...you...dumb minivan guy with a comb-over!" You know, because that would show him. I was just completely shocked that a man said that to a woman, filled with so much venom, AND he threw a nasty comment about her weight in there!
The moral to this story is, though I did say the nasty "c" word in my post, I abhor its use in anger. If a man is shouting it at a woman, I find it particularly reprehensible. I am far too much of a feminist to think it's a word to be used with any regularity. I am however, partial to "fuck", "dweeby nutwad" and "twat". I know frequent swearing is the last bastion of the unimaginative, but then why does it feel so gooooooooooood?
That said, I witnessed a near car accident from the window of my second story flat the other day. Both people were at fault, yet the one driver (male) yelled an assortment of vulgarities at the other driver, who was female. She was visibly flustered, yet he kept shouting at her to "Fucking drive properly!" and "Get out of the fucking way!" I stood at the window extremely indignant at this fucking asshole that didn't care that this poor woman, initially apologetic, was getting really upset, hence affecting her ability to get out of his way. She finally composed herself enough to get out of his way, for which she was greeted with "Stupid, fat, fucking see you next Tuesday!"
I was leaning out the window at this point, debating whether to shout something at him, but I was neither bold enough nor witty enough to come up with anything to actually say. Knowing me, had I mustered up the courage I would have shouted some dumbass comment like, "Hey, you can go to hell you...you...dumb minivan guy with a comb-over!" You know, because that would show him. I was just completely shocked that a man said that to a woman, filled with so much venom, AND he threw a nasty comment about her weight in there!
The moral to this story is, though I did say the nasty "c" word in my post, I abhor its use in anger. If a man is shouting it at a woman, I find it particularly reprehensible. I am far too much of a feminist to think it's a word to be used with any regularity. I am however, partial to "fuck", "dweeby nutwad" and "twat". I know frequent swearing is the last bastion of the unimaginative, but then why does it feel so gooooooooooood?
6/01/2005
Like a chubby, unfashionable, big boobed virgin
Saturday night I learned two things about myself - one I already knew which is consistently proven as soon as I walk out the door, and the other I find troubling on the surface but in my head I'm thinking, "Score!".
a) Social events are not for me. Social events which involve 13 drunk people I don't know and a sober self, not me times one thousand. I would actually rather have a meeting with Good Lady Cooter Poker (ahhh...how I miss thee).
b) I seem to be turning into Madonna. No, I'm not wearing conical bras and forcing my whipped husband to put me in movies in which I prove I should not be allowed anywhere near celluloid, but rather this Yank has picked up a certain...hint of an English accent. I used to think Madge was beyond pretentious when I would see her on Letterman, decked out in her checked flat cap and matching cropped pants just looking for a pheasant to shoot, cooing, "Oh Dave, it's simply mahvalous in London dahling." I have crossed over.
On Saturday, I left a message on our answering machine for The Dude when I was at the event mentioned above. I got home before he did and checked messages and was thus greeted with, "It's me. If you get this before I get home, please ring me on my mobile. You have the numbah." The rest of my message was a mix of utterings of "numbah" and how I must get out of "hee-ah". Oh my god. My neutral Mid-Atlantic linguistic stylings have been compromised. I don't do it intentionally, I sweah!
So what is this social event I found such a miserable experience? I was fortunate enough to experience my first "hen night", that of a friend from work. For the uninitiated, this is the UK equivalent to a bachelorette party, though with lots more booze and no cutesy games involving sexual innuendo. My apologies for what is to follow for those of whom I have already discussed my hatred of the terminology "hen night". Men here have "stag" nights or weekends, whereas women have "hen" nights. Yes, we get it. Men are the all powerful, mighty stags. Women, on the other hand, are just twittering, inconsequential chickens. Charming. I refused to use the word "hen" in connection with the event, much to the disdain of my friend having the party. She doesn't find it in any way offensive, and thinks I'm way too sensitive when it comes to issues like these. It's called AWARENESS, not hypersensitivity. I don't expect a woman with a part time job for no apparent reason aside from domestic obligations to understand.
I have severe social anxiety that emerges every time I have to go to a gathering of more than a few people. I'm not agoraphobic in the traditional sense, but I get panicked at the idea of having to be around other people, especially those I don't know because I have such low self-esteem. I worry obsessively over how I look, to the point of sometimes not being able to get dressed to go out in the first place. This happened Saturday night and I had to try really hard to gather up the courage to go because I knew how disappointed my friend would be if I didn't. Once I got there I felt so inadequate, because everyone else looked beautiful and so well-dressed. I felt like a fat slob in my dull top and one of my 6 pairs of black pants. Situations like this are all the more disappointing for me since a mere 8 years ago I was voted "Best Dressed" in my senior class and had a fabulous extensive wardrobe of unique clothes gathered from vintage stores and little independent boutiques. I know it seems so trivial to place so much emphasis on a senior superlative from nearly a decade ago, but it is a constant reminder of how I used to be and how far away I am from that now.
The rest of the night was spent nodding to idle chatter about the other womens' children, pretending to care what they made at Brownies the week before. I was the only attached woman there without children, but I suppose the one good thing to come out of it was that no one said, "When are you going to have kids?" or "Oh, be grateful you don't have kids, they take up so much of your time and energy!". I spent the bulk of the night feeling as if I wasn't even a part of the occasion, that I just watched it all go by in front of me without being actively involved in any part of it.
The only time I was brought into any of the conversation was when my severely inebriated hen friend would shout to the others at the table, as well as the restaurant in general, that I had magnificent boobs and hair, and that she would "totally go gay with me" if it was the only way we could both bang Johnny Depp. So I suppose, in a way, all was not lost. Though I may have had a horrible time, clutching my purse to my stomach the whole night to hid my disgusting rolls, perhaps someone at the restaurant agreed with my friend. Maybe they were checking out my boobs and imagining me in a threesome with Johnny Depp and my drunk friend. Maybe not. Either way, I'm sure I did the other patrons a favour when I asked my friend to stop saying that various people mentioned in conversation were "stupid cunts" in her outdoor voice.
I think I'm finished with the whole going out thing for awhile. For now I think I'll stick to staying in, watching episodes of 21 Jump Street with The Dude, dressed in The Sweatpants and eating blueberry pancakes.
a) Social events are not for me. Social events which involve 13 drunk people I don't know and a sober self, not me times one thousand. I would actually rather have a meeting with Good Lady Cooter Poker (ahhh...how I miss thee).
b) I seem to be turning into Madonna. No, I'm not wearing conical bras and forcing my whipped husband to put me in movies in which I prove I should not be allowed anywhere near celluloid, but rather this Yank has picked up a certain...hint of an English accent. I used to think Madge was beyond pretentious when I would see her on Letterman, decked out in her checked flat cap and matching cropped pants just looking for a pheasant to shoot, cooing, "Oh Dave, it's simply mahvalous in London dahling." I have crossed over.
On Saturday, I left a message on our answering machine for The Dude when I was at the event mentioned above. I got home before he did and checked messages and was thus greeted with, "It's me. If you get this before I get home, please ring me on my mobile. You have the numbah." The rest of my message was a mix of utterings of "numbah" and how I must get out of "hee-ah". Oh my god. My neutral Mid-Atlantic linguistic stylings have been compromised. I don't do it intentionally, I sweah!
So what is this social event I found such a miserable experience? I was fortunate enough to experience my first "hen night", that of a friend from work. For the uninitiated, this is the UK equivalent to a bachelorette party, though with lots more booze and no cutesy games involving sexual innuendo. My apologies for what is to follow for those of whom I have already discussed my hatred of the terminology "hen night". Men here have "stag" nights or weekends, whereas women have "hen" nights. Yes, we get it. Men are the all powerful, mighty stags. Women, on the other hand, are just twittering, inconsequential chickens. Charming. I refused to use the word "hen" in connection with the event, much to the disdain of my friend having the party. She doesn't find it in any way offensive, and thinks I'm way too sensitive when it comes to issues like these. It's called AWARENESS, not hypersensitivity. I don't expect a woman with a part time job for no apparent reason aside from domestic obligations to understand.
I have severe social anxiety that emerges every time I have to go to a gathering of more than a few people. I'm not agoraphobic in the traditional sense, but I get panicked at the idea of having to be around other people, especially those I don't know because I have such low self-esteem. I worry obsessively over how I look, to the point of sometimes not being able to get dressed to go out in the first place. This happened Saturday night and I had to try really hard to gather up the courage to go because I knew how disappointed my friend would be if I didn't. Once I got there I felt so inadequate, because everyone else looked beautiful and so well-dressed. I felt like a fat slob in my dull top and one of my 6 pairs of black pants. Situations like this are all the more disappointing for me since a mere 8 years ago I was voted "Best Dressed" in my senior class and had a fabulous extensive wardrobe of unique clothes gathered from vintage stores and little independent boutiques. I know it seems so trivial to place so much emphasis on a senior superlative from nearly a decade ago, but it is a constant reminder of how I used to be and how far away I am from that now.
The rest of the night was spent nodding to idle chatter about the other womens' children, pretending to care what they made at Brownies the week before. I was the only attached woman there without children, but I suppose the one good thing to come out of it was that no one said, "When are you going to have kids?" or "Oh, be grateful you don't have kids, they take up so much of your time and energy!". I spent the bulk of the night feeling as if I wasn't even a part of the occasion, that I just watched it all go by in front of me without being actively involved in any part of it.
The only time I was brought into any of the conversation was when my severely inebriated hen friend would shout to the others at the table, as well as the restaurant in general, that I had magnificent boobs and hair, and that she would "totally go gay with me" if it was the only way we could both bang Johnny Depp. So I suppose, in a way, all was not lost. Though I may have had a horrible time, clutching my purse to my stomach the whole night to hid my disgusting rolls, perhaps someone at the restaurant agreed with my friend. Maybe they were checking out my boobs and imagining me in a threesome with Johnny Depp and my drunk friend. Maybe not. Either way, I'm sure I did the other patrons a favour when I asked my friend to stop saying that various people mentioned in conversation were "stupid cunts" in her outdoor voice.
I think I'm finished with the whole going out thing for awhile. For now I think I'll stick to staying in, watching episodes of 21 Jump Street with The Dude, dressed in The Sweatpants and eating blueberry pancakes.
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