Not the sharpest crayon in the box

I have some serious blog programming comprehension issues. If there is a blog-related learning disability, I think I might have it. I have been trying for a month (not everyday you understand) to figure out this blogrolling thing, and I can't do it! This despite the kind intervention of a few fellow bloggers. Oh, I have my blog roll finished, I just can't figure out how to import the damn thing into my template. If anyone cares to explain this to me in the most elementary way, please email me and help me out of my misery.


Death to Hotmail

For the tens of you that read this, and for the one that may have thought of emailing me at some point, I have changed my email address. Hotmail couldn't suck anymore if it tried, so I will be terminating my account there soon. I can now be found at barrenalbion@yahoo.co.uk. Here's to hoping it doesn't suck.


Fat Thursday

Today is a fat, ugly, pimply day. I swear I've gained 10 pounds in the past week, my eyebrows are way too bushy, I have had the same massive growth on my chin for the past week and a half, and my new haircut ain't rockin' it like I'd planned. I woke up this morning in a relatively cheerful mood until I realised this was a spillage day--this means I yank on my trousers, struggle to fasten them, then realise I'm totally oozing over the sides in a for-god's-sake-get-some-clothes-that-fit-you-fat-bitch way. The odd thing is, my diet has been good lately, so I have no idea why this is happening. Trust me, I don't cut sugar out of my diet, subsist on wholemeal bread, low fat hummous and cup a soups for the sheer joy.

When I was about to leave for work the shift from rational and normal shifted sharply to crazy and hormonal. The Dude has serious concerns for my mental states, as these displays of multiple personality disorder pop up at least once a week. It is literally a nanosecond change, in which I go from regaling The Dude with humorous work stories to shouting at him to leave me at home because I am too disgusting to venture outdoors. I bet he never knew what he was in for when he married me.

Crazy days always make me think of Scrubs, as a theme in a couple of episodes was women supressing the crazy in them from the men they were dating. An issue of discussion was when to safely unleash the crazy at a late enough stage in the relationship that the man would not run away screaming, but find it endearing. Methinks The Dude wishes he never found it endearing and had in fact run away screaming. I've not only unleashed the crazy, that sucker is on constant watch and ready to feed.

Pity then the poor cyclist that went through a red light today and hit my arm as I was walking to work. He had the nerve to reprimand me as he was cycling away, so clearly he could not tell that it was a crazy day, bless him. Though I'm not the type to shout obscenities at strangers, I found myself cradling my right arm and yelling, "Fuck you asshole!" while standing on the corner of a very busy road during rush hour. This may not seem strange to Americans in big cities that see this sort of thing everyday, but this is England. Bill Bryson rightly pointed out that these people hardly say anything forceful. A car accident provokes, "Oh dear, it appears I am in a spot of bother." rather than "Shit! Bastard. Mother fucker, etc...!!" (my chosen car accident vocabulary). I saw a couple of colleagues from the university looking at me with pity, shaking their heads in disapproval. Surely they were thinking, "Oh, these brash Americans. Have they no composure?" Answer: On a crazy day, no.


Fertile fertiles and the infertiles that hate them

My trip to Arundel today was fantastic, barring all the fucking fertiles and their infinite spawn which overran the place. I can't find a happy medium--a live in a city which is the Chav Capital of England (for definition of "chav", please go here), with a dense population of teenage mothers, usually with more than one kid. These girls quit school at 15, have a two pack a day habit, and chances are the children are the product of more than one pimply faced, moderately retarded chav teenage boy. I avoid going into town because I cannot tolerate one more girl with a Croydon facelift* shouting for little Jade or little Ebony to, "Get the fuckin' 'ell over 'ere before you get fuckin' 'it!" For a translation of this, please just add an "h" to the beginning of the shortened words.

Arundel, located in the rather posh county of West Sussex, lacks the working class "charm" of my locale, but in its place are preppy, well-dressed parents with their catalogue-perfect offspring. The couples are just as cliche as their poorer counterparts, but just at the opposite end of the spectrum. Mothers here politely raise their voices ever so slightly and say, "Thomas darling, please come to mummy now." I don't like these parents either. I think they are the UK equivalent to what I've seen referred to on other blogs as the Pottery Barn set.

Today we were taking a walk through one of the parks and approached a rather steep, rocky incline. Blocking the path were an extended family, with two grandparents, parents, and three kids under the age of five, one of whom was in a stroller. May I just add at this point that this is not the place to bring a stroller, as you cannot move the bloody thing out of the way to allow others to get by. Behind us was a couple with three dogs on leashes. Upon seeing the dogs, the grandmother of The Fertiles very audibly said, "I thought there was a sign at the entrance barring dogs. Can't people read? It's so inconsiderate!" to which her totally gormless son/son-in-law said, "Well...what do you expect? If you are dumb enough to have dogs, you're dumb enough to not be able to read." What the fuck does that even mean? I wanted to interject and tell the rude old bat that the sign ACTUALLY says that dogs are required to be on leashes, rather than banned from the park altogether. Unfortunately the sign made no mention of inconsiderate assholes that bring all of their kid paraphrenalia on the paths, thus inconveniencing others trying to get by. I doubt there are many people that are bothered about dogs on leashes minding their own business, whereas I am clearly very bothered by ignorant parents thinking that because they can give life that this gives them carte blanche to get in my way all the time.

That's enough from me. I'm all 'quil-ed up and will start to make less and less sense if I carry on.

*Croydon facelift: When young women scrape their hair back into an ultra-tight ponytail so as to make the face taut and immobile. Usually paired with a big pair of fake gold earrings called creoles.

Merry ol'

I do really love living in England. I live in a rather sorry excuse for a city, but today I get to bust out! We are taking a day trip to Arundel, which is an absolutely gorgeous place. The link is to the castle's webpage, but it's just a hint of the utter fabulousness of the town. Prior to meeting The Dude, I could have only dreamed that I would regularly visit such places on a day trip basis. Last time we went to Arundel we were on a trail through the countryside and we witnessed a poor sheep having a seizure, and it eventually died. Sorry, I had to throw that random morsel of morbidity in there to stay faithful to my cynical, negative self.


Just put on a little lipstick

Years ago I was watching the stand-up act of a comedian that I think eventually gained a role on Sabrina, The Teenage Witch as a zany aunt. Don't ask how I know this. Anyway, she said that there were times when her life spiraled out of control, with debts mounting and her personal life in shambles. Completely despondent, she would call her mom in the hopes that her mother would provide some solace, dispensing some comforting maternal wisdom as mothers are inclined to do. Instead, her mother would only advise her to "Just put on a little lipstick", anticipating that her problems would miraculously dissipate due to the measured application of a nice bit of slap.

I think my mother is increasingly displaying this attitude, and I find it quite worrying not to mention highly irritating. I had a phone call from her today, and as I've mentioned in a previous post, my mother is the queen of random, poorly-phrased queries regarding my fertility. Today she was rambling about the foot of snow that is expected to fall within the next day and how the supermarket was picked over as a result of anxious people believing that if they did not buy 10 gallons of water prior to the onset of the storm that their lifeless, dehydrated corpses would be found once the snow was cleared in a day or so. After this commentary she paused for about 10 seconds and said casually, "So, how is the fertility?" I told her it was broke (I know that's not grammatically correct, but there is something I find quite humorous in using "broke" vs "broken"), whereupon she came up with her usual misguided ruminations on the issues of infertility.

Mom: "Well...how about this. My chiropractor said that he had a patient recently that just spent $40,000 on IVF and other assorted infertility treatments. She had one appointment with him, and presto...she was pregnant two months later. Why don't you try and find a chiropractor? You never know unless you try and it may just work!"

Apparently my mom does not grasp that there are a multitude of other factors that could have contributed to the surprise pregnancy, and that a brief daliance with a chiropractor does not a pregnancy make. That, and the insinuation was that all this time being pumped with random medications, injected with hormones and brief yet constant interludes with a lovely wand I know was a waste, because all I needed was a bit of a back crack.

I think for my next Good Lady Cooter Poker appointment I'll just put on a little lipstick. I'll never know unless I try, and it may just work!


An assortment of delights

This is going to be a bit disjointed, but there are a few things I wanted to mention today and they are utterly random.

First, The Dude spoke to Good Lady Cooter Poker today and she recommended that I induce another period due to my phantom one of last week. Yay me. 2 periods (if you can call the first one that) within a few weeks of each other. Upon the onset of the newest period I'm to get a scan on the first day so I can start my injections again! I was hoping to wait another month but alas the little ovary-shaped devil on my shoulder kept prodding me with his trident to beg the Good Lady to induce. I'm hoping to turn this cycle of injectables into a competition to make life a touch more exciting. Last time round I cried at many ridiculous things including a cat sitting outside my flat grooming itself, the previously-mentioned lack of bananas situation at the supermarket, and an embarrassing period of absolute despondence when my email was down for a couple of hours. This month I'm aiming high. I'm talking temper tantrums when we run out of milk, crying fits when a pimple rears its ugly head on my already beseiged chin, and a full day of bed rest due to the immense emotional pain brought on by not being able to find a pen in the black hole I call my purse. Oh, the possibilities...

Second, could people who mention that at 26 my clock is ticking please go throw themselves off the nearest tall building for the benefit of all mankind? One of my co-workers told me yesterday that I'm "running out of time". The irony of the infertility situation aside, since when is 26 old by any standards, fertility or otherwise? This is actually the second time I have been told that I am rapidly approaching the point of no return in the fertility stakes. The first time I was 24. I try to focus on the fact that both women aren't exactly setting the world alight with their career and educational aspirations, so I suppose I can take solace in that. I'm just so offended both as a woman and specifically as an infertile woman. Infertile Pru thinks that it is amazing that people would assume that as I have had no children, that translates to me not attempting to. Feminist Pru finds it laughable (yet tragic) that the insinuation is that a 26 year old woman should only be concerned with childbearing. Nevermind that this is the 21st century and there are some women that do not make having babies their utmost priority! Bah...

Third thing...There are some interesting comments for perusal by readers on the BBC's website regarding the 66 year old Romanian mother. As I am a glutton for punishment and enjoy getting pissed off, I read the comments eagerly knowing there would be judgmental tripe regarding infertility treatment in general. The great people of Britain did not disappoint. Some personal favourites:

"Sorry but becoming pregnant and giving birth should be left to young women who can naturally conceive. I find it odd that with all the unwanted children in the world that this woman could not have adopted one."

"With so many parentless children in the World it is still debatable whether fertility treatment is appropriate at any age."

Pfft...just adopt a kid?? Why are we wasting our time with all of these infertility treatments when there are millions of children out there waiting to be adopted??? I had no idea there was such a simple resolution!

Lastly, and completely unrelated to fertility issues...I'm a pacifist that is desperately afraid of being involved in any form of confrontation. The Dude is always pleading with me to stick up for myself but as a shy, retiring wallflower type, I generally keep quiet when people are taking advantage of me in one way or another. I think I have grown tremendously since I moved over here and was forced to be more independent than ever before. Because of this, I have been making a concerted effort to be more forward and speak my mind. I have had a couple of breakthroughs lately (go me!), but today is my favourite.

As I mentioned yesterday, I work at a University. One of the lecturers is one the most reprehensible, vile, sad excuses for a human I have ever had the misfortune of crossing paths with. We shall call him Professor Titty Starer, as he seems to think that my eyes are where I could swear my nipples are located. Prof. T.S. is in his own world, foolishly believing that he can carry on in any way he sees fit regardless of the toes he may step on in the process. Today I dared to go against his wishes, though he knew what he was doing was incorrect. He wasn't around at the time I made the decision to correct his wrongdoings, so when he found out he hunted me down. The old me would have backed down and let him intimidate me, but the new and improved UK-edition Pru just acted bored and amused in reaction to his immense frustration and then proceeded to point out something else that he was doing wrong. I wanted to call him a pretentious, arrogant twat, but I held my tongue. Oh, he hates me. He can't stand me and I love it. God, I'm such a ball buster.


All in all, a good day.

I'm sitting at home at 2.30pm on a weekday afternoon, stuffing myself with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a packet of crisps. Ahhh...I took a half day so I could come home and ring Good Lady Cooter Poker, but in typical Pru's-ovaries-are-shit-and-so-is-her-luck-such-as-it-is fashion, she's not in until tomorrow. You know, when I'm back at mother truckin' work and can't call her. Bastard. Oh well, I get to gorge and do whatever I want on the computer. The husband's not here either, so all is good. I do love the poor sap, but sometimes a girl likes to type her blog while singing along loudly (and badly) to The Killers. Rock on.

Good things today:

I work at a university and on my walk to work a gracious student walking out of a hall of residence held the security door open for me...thinking...I...was...a...student!! Hurray! That Oil of Olay moisturiser must work. Kiss my wrinkle-less, youthful cheek dahlings. Shame about the cobweb-encrusted ovaries though.

I got to leave early and not for a probing for once, what's better than that?

Have I mentioned peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?

Bad things today:

I passed 4 puddles of vomit on the way to work...and that's just the scenic route. Also...the squeamish should stop reading here...

I warned you...

It's gross...

No, I'm not kidding...

Apparently pigeons like vomit. There you go. Take that knowledge and retain it. It may be asked on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire one day.

I think I might settle down with a cup of tea and go watch Sex and the City, reveling in my solitude. Life isn't always bad, just ask the vomit-eating pigeons.


Ain't life just a kick in the pants?

So here we all are...a community struggling with infertility. We do as we're told; we have sex only on certain days, thereby making sex a chore. We give up caffeine in the hopes that just maybe that will make the difference. We don't smoke or drink. We allow ourselves to be injected with powerful medications that though we have the .0005% chance of making us fertile, they will also give us hot flashes, headaches, aches and pains, nausea and murderous impulses. This is not to mention the effect any of this has on the other people in our lives. We do all this and then...

A bloody 66 year old gives birth. The article says she also underwent fertility treatment, but as a 26 year old struggling to get pregnant despite doing everything right it's difficult to not begrudge the fact that a woman 40 years my senior successfully carried a child to term. Hmph. I suppose in the alternate universe where I'm an incurable optimist, this would give me hope. Surely if a 66 year old can get knocked up, so can I! Unfortunately this is not the world I inhabit. Instead I wonder why it is her and not me, or not anyone else that reads this. How is it that everything managed to go right for a 66 year old, but not any of us?


Inspiration is the hobgoblin of...uh, something

It's the weekend. That means I have far too much spare time to browse blogs. I came across a thread in a few different blogs (Dead Bug , Fractured Fairytale , and Here Be Hippogriffs) referring to the utter fabulousness of husbands during the mad times of infertility. I like to think that I acknowledge the difficulty of my husband's role in this whole experience, but I doubt he feels as if I do. Though The Dude has been given strict instructions to avoid reading my blog under penalty of smiting, I will list some reasons that make him worthy of my blogworld worship.

-Though we met in the US, he lived in the UK throughout most of the first 2 years of our relationship. Three months into our relationship he had to fly back home due to visa restrictions. I spoke to him for hours on the phone once a week and told him how much I missed him. A few weeks later I came home from school to find a strange car in my driveway and him sitting in my kitchen. After our previous phone call he decided that a spontaneous trans-Atlantic flight was required.

-We had a big fight once and he had black silk roses sent to me with a note to say something to the effect that I was poisonous and would sabotage any relationship intentionally. This may seem anything but positive, yet he knew the closet goth in me would love the sentiment. I phoned him up, called him nasty names, we laughed about it and made up. Make of that what you will.

-When we first started dating I was a virgin. The saint waited two years until I was ready to take that step. Granted, he doesn't let me forget that now.

-On my first trip to the UK to visit him, he organised a series of trips to Paris and Ireland for me despite being unemployed and not having much money to spare.

-He didn't hate me when I turned down his proposal. I say turned down, what I really mean is I nearly vomited and THEN said no. What can I say...I was young and terrified.

-He listens to music that I would never listen to, even in my weakest emotional state. We're talking boy bands and sentimental ballads a la Richard Marx. He acknowledges this weakness of character and embraces it.

-He was never much of an animal person and I'm an animal lover. Now when I show him a picture of a cat and dog getting along in perfect harmony, he says with much conviction, "That is so cute!" Add to that his boundless love for our canary.

-Carrying on the canary theme...Though just a small, unassuming bird, we have managed to create a massive imaginary personality for him. The Dude and I regularly incorporate him into discussions and refer to him as if he were human. Sample: "Oooo...Desmond is going to be pissed that we're home so late tonight. We'll never hear the end of it." OR "Desmond says he didn't like the film we watched last night. He plans on taking action." The Dude says things like this with no hint of sarcasm, and nods his head in agreement when I make such comments.

-When my grandfather died last year, he answered the phone call from my mom to say that my grandfather was gone. I was in the room and could tell from his manner what happened. Without saying a word he hugged me while I cried. As he was holding me I realised he was crying also for a man he only met twice.

-He agreed to give up the life we were creating in the US so we could move to the UK. He was hesitant, but wanted to give me the opportunity to live in a different culture just as he had.

-He has told his boss that he will accompany to all my fertility appointments, even the three times a week scans, whether they can accommodate him or not.

-Despite his fear of all things poon when medical procedures are involved, he came into the room for my IUI. I could tell he was getting a bit woozy when the speculum appeared and Good Lady Cooter Poker said the word "scrape" in connection with my reproductive organs, but he soldiered on.

-The bulk of our verbal interaction is structured by quotes from movies and television. Random, arcane quotes in most cases that few others would find funny. How many other people would cast me a knowing smile when the words "Banana hammock", "You're out of your element!" or "Your mom goes to college!" are spoken?

-He has an MBA and will be starting an MA soon yet he still has the low-brow sense of humour of a 10 year old boy.

-That said, he can watch an Adam Sandler movie one minute and an Eddie Izzard DVD the next.

-He doesn't tell me to get over it when I cry because the supermarket has run out of bananas, nor does he say that when I'm still crying about the banana shortage 20 minutes later.

If those aren't reasons to canonise someone, I don't know what are.


Too much information

I've just realised how self-obsessed all my period ramblings make me seem. It's hard for me to come to grips with talking about myself and infertility-related issues so much suddenly since I'm not used to sharing them with anyone. Perhaps I've gotten a bit share happy and gone overboard. If so, my apologies. Though I'm sure it's helpful for people to read about others' infertility struggle, I doubt anyone wants to read about the intracacies of my menstrual cycle.

That said, given my screwed up cycle, I decided to purchase that icon of the devil's handiwork--an HPT! You know, for shits and giggles. I really do love depressing myself, so I figure the way to sabotage a perfectly happy weekend is to pee on a stick though I already possess the knowledge of its negativity. To further my immense masochism I will do said test in a bathroom stall at work. I think I've surpassed the disappointment stage at this point so when it was negative I did the requisite sigh and sulk for a moment then went back to my desk.

To anyone that actually reads this post...does pregnancy seem like it would be completely foreign to you? There are a lot of things in my life that I think will never happen --being conservative, having a good job that doesn't waste my education, getting a divorce, etc...yet all of these things seem more feasible than pregnancy. Getting pregnant and carrying a healthy baby to term seems as realistic to me as being abducted by aliens. I'm a cynic by nature, but even the tiniest percentage of my brain that is logical holds out no hope. I've "only" been trying to conceive for 2 years give or take and with each failed medication/IUI my cynicism increases volumes. I think I single-handedly support the niche market of depressing music. FYI, the chosen soundtrack to this month's disappointment: Garden State soundtrack and pretty much any of Johnny Cash's "American" recordings. Nothing makes a girl feel better than a little bit of music to make you cry to.


If a period disappears, does it make a sound?

Uh, so brief sharp stabbing pains from hell in the abdomen...slight bleeding, now nothing! It vanished. I've had ever so slight bleeding for two days and now it seems to have stopped. Oh, I don't know what the fuck is ever going on with my body. The Dude wonders why "Has your period started?" never has a straightforward answer...Neither myself nor The Dude phoned Good Lady Cooter Poker today because my situation is up in the air. I've asked him to ring her tomorrow in the hopes that she'll have a suggestion as to what may be going on. Ugh. Periods, how can they be so confusing?? On a more positive note, how great is it to have a forum in which one can talk about cooters and monthly bleeding?


The divineness of woman

Well I fell asleep last night with a hot water bottle pressed firmly on my stomach due to immense gut-wrenching pain, so I knew what was to greet me today. No partial glances to the underwear needed. I guess it spares me that drama this time. I was thinking how odd it is that prior to trying to conceive, a long long time ago in a land far far away, I would get way too excited each time I got my period. For a fleeting moment it made me feel normal. I never told my friends about PCOS, so I never had to explain to another woman that for some people, getting a period is a good thing. Now I find myself pissed off/inconsolable/vengeful/ every time I get it.

The next step is getting The Dude to phone the fertility nurse tomorrow morning to book me in for a prodding, which is likely to be on Friday. I'd phone up myself but unfortunately I work (I typed "live" at first...Freudian slip) in an office that is never empty. I've tried phoning the nurse from my office before, attempting to be subtle but ending up extraordinarily unsubtle in my subtlety.

Me: Hi Nursy McNurserton, it's MsPrufrock. Yes, I have been in before. Yes, I've been undergoing...errr...treatment for a year or so. I see you each time, you know, about three times a week for two weeks. Yes, the American. It's time for me to come in again...uh, for the...thing.
I'm not sure how it works in the US and elsewhere, but I go for ultrasounds on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays during IUI time. My appointments tend to be in the morning, so as an employed person this can be quite difficult. I suspect the people I work with either think I'm dying, or bunking off to go squirrel hunting under the guise of being ill. When I come back to the office everyone is really quiet, and no one will look at me. Oh, if only they knew of the cooter poking that goes on when I could (and would rather) be sitting at my desk getting on with work.

The Dude takes advantage of their ignorance, as when he occasionally picks me up for an appointment, he comes into the office and acts somber. He helps me get my coat on and says in a calm, soothing tone, "Are you ready to go?" while stroking my arm. My co-workers pretend to tap away at their computers, but their minds are clearly racing as to what my problem could possibly be. He laughs at his deception as soon as we leave the building, evil bastard. I'd vastly prefer to give them a slight wave and a smile, parting with, "See ya ladies, I'm off to get my cooter poked. Godspeed." Maybe next time.


Ain't life funny?

So here I am, day 34 and I got nothin'. My cycle is always all over the place, but it lures me into this false sense of possibility every time. Oooo...I'm a few days late, just perhaps.......few more days pass...nothing. ...week late...nothing. Pregnancy test. Pee on stick, nervously place stick across the bathroom, out of the direct line of sight. Glance at stick from distance while anxiously checking watch every 8 seconds. Talk to stick and God about how this really should be positive cos I'm just so damn deserving. Reason with God about how I'll be really good from now on and not secretly despise most people I come in contact with. Shout at stick to have two lines, because without shouting the stick might just decide to have one line. With trembling hands, approach stick trepidatiously with slow, sideways shuffle. Grab stick quickly, close one eye, and cover telling second line space with finger. Gradually slide finger off space....looking for pink line...even a faint one...uhhhh...no. Cue onset of period within 10 minutes. Go figure.

We all go through this regularly, while still having to deal with situations like I learned of today. I worked with a dim-witted woman that went on maternity leave last March, and she had a baby boy in April. She stops in to see us frequently with fat, squirming, flat-headed maggoty child in tow. The child has been beaten severely with the biggest ugly stick you ever did see, yet the others gather round and coo about how handsome he is. I hang around in the background trying to look unapproachable in the hopes that I will not be forced to come up with positive words about this creature. This woman always gushes about how she wants to be a young mum to many kids (she's 28) and how she wants her kids to be close in age. I figured that means two, perhaps three years. As I found out today, apparently that means a year and a few months.

As always, I am annoyed that it is so easy for some people, but I can't say that I'm upset this time. In this particular case the woman has now resigned herself to being a breeder, and as such has cheerily proclaimed that she will only work part-time from now on in undemanding jobs. To each their own and all that, but my resentment of the easily pregnant and my innate feminism clash constantly. I'm jealous of her for getting pregnant without any strife (how sick is that?), but yet I don't envy the fact that she has sacrificed a career for kids. I'm hoping that now she has the time to teach herself the difference between "too", "to", "you're" and "your" so I don't have to read any more cringeworthy emails. I am such a petty bitch when irritated. Apologies.


My weekly ritual on most Sunday evenings is to take a bit of Nyquil to help me sleep, or else I'm tossing and turning in bed until 1am. Imagine my paralysing terror when I realised that if I were to get pregnant, there would be no more Nyquil!!! Nyquil makes my Sunday nights pass with such ease, and my Mondays chilled out and relaxed due to my loooovely Nyquil haze. Do you think I'd get fired if my employer found out I have a Nyquil hangover on a weekly basis? On a Monday morning (as if Monday mornings aren't hard enough) it's all I can do to not say, "Dude...like calm down man...can't we all just get along and love each other?" to people on the phone or via email. I hope I'm not inadvertantly wandering around the building with a goofy smile on my face and glazed over half-lidded eyes. So what if I am, it feels gooooooooood.


Saturday bloody Saturday

Today is the day. Not that my cycle has ever been close to normal, but if it was to actually obey nature's intent I would start my new cycle today. I hate this time of the month because though in the very back of my mind I'm optimistic, I know there is no point. When it is nearly time for the blob to show up I find myself incredulously peering into my underwear every time I go to the bathroom, hoping I don't see anything. I do this sort of squinting, head-turned-to-the-side thing, with one eye on my underwear and the other closed so (god forbid) two eyes wouldn't have to see any blood if there was any! I do this every month, as if I think that perhaps if I don't make full eye contact with my underwear, I won't really be bleeding. If only it were that easy.

Traffic--believe it or not, it can be a good thing!

So I have had my first visitor to the blog. It's pathetic how excited I was to see that someone has actually read at least some of what I've written. I ran into the front room to tell The Dude the good news and he looked at me as if I was mad. I think it was more because I interrupted his football watching rather than questioning the visible joy exhibited by me because I'm no longer talking to myself, at least not today. Deadbug was kind enough to not only leave me a comment, but add me to her links list of "Infertastics". Thanks Deadbug. As soon as I am blog savvy enough to figure out how to have my own list of links I will compile one of my own.

I think of myself as quite computer literate, but I confess I'm a bit lost in the blog world. I've been attempting to get out more in our little infertility blog sphere to read, leave comments, and hopefully have people visit my own corner of blogdom. I was naive when I started the blog all of two weeks ago, as it didn't dawn on me that I'd actually want people to read the damn thing. Does every blog neophyte check for comments and traffic obsessively when they first start off? I confess, I sometimes check about 6 times a day, which I guess would explain my current excitement. Lame, huh? I just can't convey how thrilled I am to find a community of like-minded individuals for once! It's nice to know after two years of going through this essentially alone, that I there may be a light at the end of the tunnel.



Broken parts -- spread the word?

I think of myself as a private person. I suppose this isn't too surprising considering my husband is the only person I can tolerate for more than a day of continuous exposure, and even that is tested at times. When I moved abroad I didn't leave many friends behind, as many had moved further afield anyway. I guess it's because of this that I never shared my problems with infertility, or even PCOS with anyone outside my family. As it stands now, my mom is the only person I discuss these things with, and even that is at no great length because I cannot cope with her attempts to try and make me feel better.

Me: Well, I'm still doing the injections. I get one dose every night and sometimes two. I feel a bit achey and emotional, but aside from that I'm fine at the moment.

Her: I'm sorry to hear that. Hey, you know that woman at church that had fertility treatment? She had her baby. She only had one IUI before she got pregnant. She said her friend also had to have fertility treatment and she got pregnant with twins the first time! Oh yeah, and the one that had the twins cousin's greatniece took Clomid and got pregnant too. I'm sure you will be soon too.

Me: Yeah...so how are the dogs?

I suppose she tries. She has lovely functioning ovaries that churned out two kids, so I don't expect her to know what to say.

I don't feel as if I can share this infertility business with anyone primarily because I don't want their sympathy. I don't want people to feel as if they have to think of something to say to make me feel better, nor do I want stories about how it will happen to me if I just invest in the power of positive thinking. I think a lot of people with children have fertility guilt, and I don't want to put people in that difficult position. Naturally this does not mean I don't resent some people with kids, because I do. Not everyone...I'm selective in my jealousy and resentment. I have been reading some blogs lately of astonishingly strong women that have moved past that point on the rugged road of infertility, but I'm afraid I'm not there yet, and I don't see the end being in sight. Anyway, that is a whole other topic...

The intent behind this post is to find out if other people feel as private about their infertility experiences as I do. I have worked very hard to mask my identity in this blog because of a desperate fear of being googled and found out. I'm slightly bothered by my irrational fear of being discovered as AN INFERTILE, as it's not like I'm writing a beastiality blog or confessing my incurable lust for George W Bush. I guess I'd be a bit embarrassed by any cooter comments that I've made, but aside from that it's not as if there is anything to be ashamed of. Why am I so scared that people will find out my ovaries are broken?!?!


So it's 2005...

At the moment with getting this blog thing off the ground I feel as if this is just a personal diary for my perusal only. I imagine that is all it is anyway, since I don't really know how people browsing the internet stumble upon these things. I feel a bit stupid writing all this stuff in a public forum for what is essentially sole readership--me. Oh well. Maybe some bored/needful/fill in applicable adjective here surfer will eventually stumble upon my little non-sensical ventings and gain some comfort from knowing that there are people out there with common experiences. I know that is what has helped me through so much of this, as well as inspiring me to air all my feelings publicly.

I did have an objective other than self-pity when I started this...what was it...oh yes, the new year. So, for anyone that *may* read this: best wishes for a fruitful and gloriously happy 2005. I'm hoping that based on the last few years' events in my life that the next big thing to happen to me will be pregnancy, but then again, if it wasn't would I be here typing this? I moved to the UK in 2002 and spent the year getting a job, mortgage, and adjusting to the fantastic (yet overwhelming) life change. 2003 found me moving to my second flat since the transatlantic relocation, whilst simultaneously getting a new job and losing my grandfather. 2004 was ushered in by my introduction to Clomid, and a long 6 months followed. I also started my MA in this period, so in that sense Clomid was a blessing in disguise as I had a built in excuse when I didn't do well in papers or exams. Naturally it was the Clomid not procrastination! October 2004 was the start of this injections/IUI ballyhoo, and as I've mentioned, it's still going on. Soooo...after all that I'm hoping that 2005 will bring a nice, stressful, positively eventful year.