One step beyond

While the mother is away, the blogger will play. How old am I anyway--sneaking to the computer while my mom isn't around like a shifty little teenager. I hope my mom doesn't find out I've been talking to infertiles. I'll be grounded for weeks!

I'd like to thank The Academy everyone that has left comments wonderful things you said. As I've mentioned many times before, it's so great to be able to commiserate with people that actually know what you're going through. Having started this blog, as well as reading so many of the fab blogs out there I cannot imagine not having this outlet. I'd be way more emotionally unstable than I already am, if that can be believed.

Bring on the IVF. In the past week or so I've come to terms with this and so it is. The finality of it is something which I don't know if I will overcome, but I'm not so scared of it anymore. What I'm about to say sounds so annoyingly suzy sunshine, but in a way, all of these failed attempts have strengthened me for IVF. Yeah, so there are more cooter pokings, more pain, more frustration to come, but hey...I'm used to it all now. I think you quickly reach a point where the prospect of all these horrible things is just numbing.

I will look back on this post once IVF starts and wonder what the fuck I was waxing optimistic about. Don't worry fair readers, I will soon be pulling my hair out, scratching at my eyes, and screaming at passers-by again. It's only a matter of time.

Meanwhile, to keep us all entertained, let us regale ourselves with funny google searches which have led weary sojourners here. Though I don't get really odd searches like "panty-sniffing badgers" and the like, my mild ones do entertain me.

  1. Yeah, so I'm bitter. I'm impressed that I was ranked 5th in this search. See, it does pay to be a grouchy crone, you can be in fifth place in something! By the way, who does a search for this, and what were they hoping to find?
  2. Oh, the irony does not elude me. I was only 10th here. I never thought that someone could type in "homemaker" and end up being lead to me. That is the stuff of nightmares.
  3. I had two really good ones, but unfortunately my counter has now deleted them. Let's just say that the public's fascination with Candace Cameron Bure in various states of undress is a bit disconcerting. Between nipple slip searches and those seeking a complete muff-baring, I'm beginning to regret incorporating her into one of my posts. She's a god-fearing, married mother of three now people, get yourselves together. She won't be whipping out her business anytime in the near future. Well, keep hope alive I guess...


End of an era

My period has arrived. Thus ends the IUI stage of infertility, the dawn of IVF is nigh. I'm 26 years old, I don't drink, smoke, drink caffeine, or eat foods that are high in fat or sugar, I take supplements that are to aid fertility, and for what? Absolutely fuck all.

A few hours ago I planned on being insightful and witty in this post, but reality has come crashing down on me. There is nothing past this next step. Surely I haven't been treated for infertility long enough to now be at the last step?

Tonight, once I first discovered that IUIs are in fact a complete and utter waste of time, I dealt with it quite well. I calmly told The Dude that this wasn't the month and casually started chatting about our next consultation when we'll discuss IVF. I felt rational for a time, which is unusual for me. What has pushed me over the edge is The Dude's visible disappointment. Understandable, but it has left me completely guilt ridden. I feel like not only do I have to deal with my own feelings on all of this, but I have to cope with the fact that he has been let down by me again. I'm the cause of his sadness, but there is nothing I can do to fix it. It's a horrible feeling that I would not dare wish on anyone.

Now I'm fuming about people that get pregnant easily, and wondering how the fuck this can be so hard.

I'm sorry if I sound terribly self-pitying and oh-woe-is-me. I know lately has not been the best of times for a lot of bloggers, so as someone that has yet to venture onto the physical and emotional rollercoaster that is IVF I feel a bit overly dramatic.

What a way to start the Easter holiday.


Because I'm a whore

My stats have plummeted in the last week, and I'm desperately hoping it is because I said I wouldn't be posting much while my mom is here. Some might wonder why I'm so bothered, but may I now take the time to tell you all I have no real life friends. None. In true 21st century loser fashion my friends are all thousands of miles away, reachable only by instant messenger and email. Add to this lame fact that I share my infertility with no one and an obsessive, stat checking comment whore is born. I apologise if my odd twitching, rather unnerving stare and massive dopey smile scares anyone off.

In case anyone is wondering how I managed to post twice in the first week of my Mom's visit, it's because I'm a crafty, scheming minx of an infertile. That, or she wasn't in the flat at the time. At the moment Mom is on a lovely two day jaunt to places north of here, so here I am. She has managed to avoid any mention of my infertility being cured by prayer circles or a good chiropractor, but I'm sure it is forthcoming. Yesterday she asked me what the next course of action is assuming IUI #3 didn't work (ha! Poor, darling, naive little mother...it's an IUI. Of course it won't fucking work!). When I said IVF, she just looked stunned. Yeah, it snuck up on me too. The Dude was plotting a little uterine blackmail:

Him: Fruitbat (his affectionate name for my mom), Pru and I would like to provide you with your first grandchild, but unfortunately our desire for material goods such as a plasma television precludes us from coming up with the neccessary cash for IVF. Gee, it sure would be a shame if you had to wait years for your lazy, somewhat mildly retarded younger son to reproduce and bring his demon spawn into an unsuspecting world.

The Dude was very keen on this idea until he realised that a) Fruitbat would probably offer some money, and as such would b) consider herself justified to be the child's religious guru, which is The Dude's biggest nightmare. I can see it now, "Mommy, Grandma Fruitbat said that I would have been born a lot sooner had you agreed to be part of her prayer circle."...


For sale

One husband, and one mother. Husband is a '72 model, in good physical shape, but is a bit temperamental. Mother is young-looking and acting, pierced nose. Will need to be supplied with numerous medications in order to function properly. £2.50 for the two of them. This deal will not last, but at the moment they are too much for me to handle simultaneously.

Selling inflexible husband that makes you monkey in the middle: £1.25

Auctioning off mother that is oblivious to her impositions: £1.25

Keeping infertile woman's sanity intact so her head doesn't explode: Priceless


Blogger, you go to hell. You go to hell and you die!

Because I'm a total lemming, now is my chance to ponder moving my blog elsewhere. I subsist on comments left on my blog, so with Blogger recently TOTALLY SUCKING and not letting people leave comments, I'm getting more annoyed than an infertile locked in a tiny room with 20 pramfaces*. Should I stay or should I go now? If I go there will be trouble, and if I stay there will be double.

Speaking of trouble, the maternal unit arrives tomorrow. As of yet the walls have not started weeping blood and there is not a gathering of wolves baying at the moon beneath my window, but there is still time for these things. I am going to have to hide all my blog-related links, and I don't know how much available time I'll have for posting since the computer is in the spare bedroom where she will be staying. Who am I kidding? I'm addicted to blogging, both reading and composing...I'll kick the old bat out of the room for awhile. I really do love my mom...honestly. She's bringing me presents, how can I not?

*pramface: A brilliant description coined by Popbitch referring to rough looking teenage girls that can be seen pushing any/all of their children round the council estate. The chances of a pramface sporting a Croydon facelift are astronomically high.



I almost don't know what to say. After my IUI today GLCP said, "I wish everyone's IUI was so straightforward. You have a very compliant cervix." You hear that people?? My cervix is COMPLIANT. A part of my body has rejected the trend of being difficult and freakishly unusual, and has instead decided to behave itself! Cervix, you get a gold star! Take a bow. If my cervix had a head, I'd pat it.

Infertiles on the television alert! Watch them exist in their natural habitat--the infertility clinic! For those of you in the UK, ITV has a programme tomorrow (Tuesday) night at 9pm following 6 couples undergoing IVF. It's a three part series as I understand, so I know what I'll be watching for the next few Tuesday nights. I wonder how many of them have PCOS...

I recently recalled that the first baby born by IVF, Louise Brown, was born on my birthday. Not just 26 July (send cards), but the same year as well! This is a sign. As a child when I voraciously read the Guinness Book of World Records and thought it was so cool that I was born on the same day as the world's first test tube baby, I should have known it was a harbinger of doom. Of course I didn't know what "test tube baby" meant, but hey, she was in the Guinness Book of World Records, it had to be good, right? Man with the world's longest fingernails was cool, the world's fattest twins were intriguing, and the world's fastest talking man did Micro Machines commercials as well. How could a test tube baby not be cool?


I'm getting my cooter poked, what of it?

Tomorrow will sound the IUI death knell (aka IUI #3: The Final Frontier), and I got to thinking about what other infertiles tell their employers when they have appointments with their own Good Lady Cooter Pokers/wandmonkeys/fine purveyors of assvice.

As I've mentioned previously, I go for ultrasounds three times a week while I am taking the injections. When it was realised that I would be doing this three times a week for a series of months, the distinction was made that doctors appointments must be taken as flexi time, and hospital appointments do not. Lucky for me, GLCP (now featuring Junior Wandmonkey) is based in a hospital, so I'm quids in. However, a problem is posed when I have to get my actual IUI.

The situation where I live is a bit complex--the hospital where I have the IUI is not the same one that does the sperm whirlegig thing to filter out The Dude's retarded, deformed and otherwise substandard boys. This entails a journey to Hospital A for a 9.30am appointment, wandering around the city for 2 hours while said boys are being dizzied until they are ready for pickup 2 hours later. At this point I stick the specimen in my rather magnificent and ample bosom while we put the pedal to the medal to get to Hospital B on the other side of the city. Once at Hospital B, I rush up a few flights of stairs, find GLCP & Junior, and hand over the Pink Prize of Possible Procreation. Legs are put akimbo, and hopefully life is created.

All this shit takes time. Because of all the waiting and farting about back and forth, I have to take half the day off. In the past I have just taken the whole day off, insisting that I was ill. This week I have decided to be a trouper and actually go in to work once it is all over. As I do not tell my boss why I have hospital appointments three times a week, I am suitably vague when the IUI is approaching. I say that I have a "procedure" which will take some time, and thus far that has been sufficient. Does any of you have to offer up an explanation as to what it is exactly that you're having done?

I would be fine if my boss requested an official letter from the hospital just to verify that I'm not skipping out on work, but I would draw the line if they asked what I was going for. I don't feel that's any of their business. If I don't share any of this with my friends, why would I inform my boss? I know I must seem so petulant, but as I've said in the past infertility is an intensely private issue and I would resent being forced to share it with a person that doesn't deserve to know about it.

Right...I've got to go shave my legs for tomorrow. Wish me luck. Wish me luck on the IUI that is, not the leg-shaving thing, though I would accept good wishes for that too.


Cleanup in aisle 5

You know what I said about my emotional stability the other day? Lies. I did not intend to mislead anyone, but apparently my cockiness has come back to bite me in the ass. I was fine this morning despite my brief dalliance with Good Lady Cooter Poker and Junior Wandmonkey, until the sky began to fall. In my world, this was manifested by the button on my shoe mysteriously popping off and rolling into parts unknown. Despite a thorough search of my office, I came up with nothing. As I cannot fathom that there is another black leather button identical in size and design that I can realistically obtain, I am resigned to the fact that I must retire these, one of my most beloved pairs of shoes.

I tried to make myself feel better throughout the day, the voice in my head attempting to convince me that 2 hours of American Idol would make up for my loss (lest anyone think I'm kidding about this, I assure you I am not. I am really that lame.). When The Dude came to pick me up from work he was filled with sweetness and light, infused with the joy that the impending weekend usually brings. Met with my glum demeanor he thought better of asking me how I was doing. I told him about my shoe, and aside from brief protestations that it could be fixed (what, is there a magical leather button fairy I'm not aware of?), we spent the rest of our ride to the supermarket in silence.

Upon reaching the supermarket, I realised I left my final day injections for my Monday IUI in the fridge at work. Cue much swearing and throwing of purse contents, and The Dude could not get out of the car fast enough. I stayed in the car for a few minutes to collect myself, and joined him inside a few minutes later. In retrospect, this was not my most ingenius moment. I find supermarkets insufferable at the best of times, and when I'm in a mood it rapidly becomes a recipe for disaster. I started crying inexplicably in aisle 2, trying to hide my tears from the throng of people struggling to get by with their carts. By aisle 5 I was trying desperately to pull myself together and not run back to the car like I wanted to.

I stopped crying eventually, largely due to the freaked out stares I was getting from other shoppers, and the Emotional Me was quickly bitchslapped and pushed to the back of the queue by Evil Me. Evil Me became fed up with the clueless shoppers that stand in the MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING AISLE looking around aimlessly as if they have no idea what they are doing in this magnificent, brightly lit building which sells food. What? I'm supposed to push a cart and look at the products simultaneously?!? You don't say! Much to The Dude's supreme embarrassment, I said quite loudly, "C'mon people, it's not like it's fucking brain surgery or something." and pushed my way past the offending shoppers. I think The Dude might be doing the grocery shopping alone for awhile.

My madness does not end there. I've just recovered from a half an hour crying spell in which I berated The Dude for his choice of porn for the upcoming pre-IUI masterbatory session. As I've mentioned before, I like to be a very controlling wife and select his wank material. He bought a DVD featuring the "best" strippers (how is this determination made I wonder?) for Monday morning's festivities and I was not best pleased. I can cope with straightforward porn - getting off on seeing people having sex is natural. I don't compare myself to those women because I tell myself it is the act of sex that is turning him on, not the women performing the acts. However, with this DVD it's strictly appearances and I hate that. I have tremendously low self-esteem and as melodramatic as it sounds, I cannot stand the idea of him getting off by looking at strippers. If they were strippers having sex, I'd be ok with that, oddly enough. The Dude's response was, "Well, I'm a man." Gee, thanks for the clarification. You really know how to make a woman feel good.

So basically, broken shoes, forgotten drugs, the wrong porn, and Blogger having comment-leaving issues. What a great day. I fucking hate infertility.


Ms Prufrock, are you trying to seduce me?

I'm destined to be a mother, and a good one. Ok, so I don't like kids. Though this may seem like a slight stumbling block, I don't think it is. "So..." you say, "what makes you think you would be a good mum?" Simple. I have this innate maternal instinct that has manifested itself in a most unusual way -- I don't lust after good looking 20 year old guys anymore, I just want to mother them. As I work in a university I have constant contact with a plethora of 18-22 year old guys and yet I find that I'm not attracted to them, but I do have the urge to take care of them. I want to snuggle them to my breast and sing them lullabies. Yeah, so that last part might be a slight exaggeration.

Oddly enough, I had a singular moment of clarity on this matter. The university had a preview day with dozens of potential applicants invited, mostly male. I looked around the room and realised that I didn't find any of them hot, but cute in a "oh, isn't he an adorable kid" kind of way. May I just add at this point that these were 18 year old boys, so I'm keeping it legal. Am I getting way too old for my 26 years, or is this the empty womb talking? Combine this issue with my recent revelation that all *celebrity men I find attractive are 40+ and you've got one fucked up Freudian mess on your hands.

*For instance the delicious Carlos Bernard (Tony Almeida in 24), my beloved Gary Oldman, and the getting-vastly-better-looking-as-he-ages Johnny Depp (Jack Sparrow could pillage me anytime) . I think one of the few exceptions to the age thing is the gorgeous, intense Joaquin Phoenix. Yum. I think I came in my pants when I heard he was going to play Johnny Cash. Ok, I'll stop now before I repulse anyone else.


Hatefest 2005

Evolution is a glorious process. I find that I have quickly vaulted from emotional basketcase to embittered, hateful, vengeful bitch. I confess that most of these qualities have been latent for quite awhile, emerging mainly on my blog or popping up during crazy-eyed postwork rants to The Dude. I'm wondering if this is a gradual reaction to IUI related injectionables --

stage 1: moderate irritability, emotional distress usually at the provocation of cute puppy, small cut on finger, etc...

stage 2: increasing irritability, severe emotional distress brought on by car insurance commercials, bra that I wanted to wear being dirty and the like

stage 3: beyond the point of return emotionally. Deep hatred for co-workers, family members, non-family members, passers-by, celebrities, babies, small children, amoebas, American Idol contestants, farmers.

The other day I was seriously considering going home "sick" from work because every single thing other people did annoyed me to a level to which I was previously unfamiliar with. I wanted to crawl out of my skin I was so frustrated with every word that was uttered and every action carried out. This doesn't seem to be subsiding either. The only people/pets I can tolerate at the moment are The Dude, my precious canary, and most bloggers. Consider yourselves lucky. No defamatory comments about America's Next Top Model or asserting that Vincent Van Gogh was certainly nuttier than a fruitcake vs just being quite a sad, lonely little Dutchman or else I shall add you to my list. It's a very long list of course, but there is always room for one more.



1) I am seriously considering buying Guns N' Roses Greatest Hits. Hearing a bit of G n' R takes me back to being 13 years old, feeling rebellious for ditching Jordan Knight (NKOTB for the uninformed) for Axl. Ah, just the thought makes me daydream of big bangs, acid washed jeans, double mismatching socks and other hallmarks of late 1980s fashion. Anyone yearning for 80s nostalgia should definitely go here.

2) I am completely, utterly, absolutely addicted to America's Next Top Model. We're only on series 3 here (season 4 has just started in the US), and I even know who wins, yet I eagerly tune in every Saturday night. Since I am confessing, I will also admit to getting excited about viewing the next episode days in advance. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me?

3) I am a recovering Sims addict. Back in the days before I was employed in this country I would regularly spend 8 or 9 solid hours a day Simming. I've intentionally killed a few Sims in my time, and many of the murders were premeditated. They got in my way and prevented me from progressing at the rate which I had wished to, so I wasted those bitches. They asked for it. Tip: My favourite method is one which involves building a room, putting the offending Sim in it, then not putting any doors in the room. The Sim will die a slow, horrible death. Not only will they starve, they will also piss themselves. This, my friends, is entertainment.

4) Like Mollywogger, I'm a total celebrity gossip whore. I do wonder about Brad and Jen's marital relations, I care what Kate Winslet wore on the red carpet, and I certainly am concerned with Courtney Love's mental state (certifiably fucking insane btw). I could easily spend my entire workday on gossip sites, not that I do of course. Pfft...as if!

5) When I was about 12 my neighbour and I would film our own versions of "Star Search Fashion" videos, because really, how would Star Search not be expected to influence children so heavily? Our videos were shot very tastefully, with us sporting badly applied makeup and attempts at creative hairstyles. Flamenco was our chosen musical accompaniment, which we thought suited both the swimsuit and formal portions of our videos. I cringe at the very recollection of me posing in what I thought was a seductive manner in my blue polka dot bathing suit on the hearth of the fireplace to the guitar strumming of Ottmar Liebert.

So, tell me my children, how long has it been since your last confession? What embarrassing secrets are in your closets?


No eggs in this basket

Today while avoiding work I decided to check my email. I typed half of my username before I was interrupted by some work-related annoyance and had to leave my computer for a bit. I returned a little while later, and when I maximised the window again I realised that I'd left the caps lock on earlier and thus I was greeted with a large box which simply read, "BARREN". Oh, aren't the fates cruel? My work PC has always had a vendetta against me, which was first brought to my attention when it spontaneously produced porn pop-ups at the most inopportune times. Many things have gone wrong since, and the IT people tell me it is all down to my "corrupt profile". Oh, the tremendous numbers of jokes that sprout from that diagnosis...That little fucker has it in for me, I know it does. Now it mocks my infertility. That's just the lowest of the low!

When I'm not blaming computers for having it in for me, I'm pointing a finger at the powers that be for orchestrating situations which make me think that life simply must be pre-ordained. I was sitting in the waiting area for my Good Lady Cooter Poker (now featuring Junior Wandmonkey) appointment yesterday, and The Dude and I were forced to spend it with Chav Family from Hell. The fertility waiting area is next to another waiting area of unknown description, and it seems Chav Family from Hell seeped over to my section uninvited. The mother was rocking a Croydon facelift, and Dad was sporting the requisite Burberry hat and tracksuit. Four or five year old Chav Jr was dressed just like Dad, because imitation really is the highest form of flattery.

Chav Jr was climbing all over the chairs, while Mom and Dad looked at gossip magazines and traded such witticisms as, "You fink Jordan is hot, innit? No she ain't!" My fists were clenched when Chav Jr picked up the notebook that is always present on the coffee table in the middle of the room, as it is used for Fertility Clinic patients to document their feelings and success stories. I'm not inclined to write in it, nor do I really want to read it, but I know how valuable it has been for some people that did not have anywhere else to write about what they have gone through/are going through.

Chav Jr manhandled the poor book, then dragged it over to one of the chairs. He flipped through the pages quickly, and started to tear out the first few. I stared at him ferociously for awhile, hoping the little bastard would put it down, or the parents would realise that I was glaring at their precious child, but to no avail. He asked his mother for a pen, at which point I was seriously considering shouting at these people to get some fucking respect for other peoples' feelings, but luckily the kid was told, "No babes, I ain't got none." A few minutes later (and little further damage to the book) they were called for their appointment. At this point the book was just sitting on the floor, a few errant, torn pages slightly sticking out. As they were getting up I walked over to the book and made an exaggerated gesture of picking it up and carefully putting it back on the table. I'm sure they could have cared less about my attempt at a statement, but it made me feel better.

It's times like these that the injustice of infertility gives me another slap in the face. It almost makes me want to give up and side with this visitor to my blog. Yeah, you and me both luv.


Who here wants IUI #3?

Me me me!! What can I say...this seemingly flawless procedure failed me again. I started spotting Sunday night, and though I knew this meant a full-fledged period was impending, I held out for that .0005% chance that it could actually be implantation bleeding. Tell me, does this really exist, or does it function solely to lead us worn out infertiles on? "Ooo...spotting. Not a full period yet...could it be...?" No, it can't.

It was difficult for me to absorb all these emotions and head to work yesterday, but what choice do we have? As some of you may have guessed, I love T.S. Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. Clearly the poem does not concern infertility, but I have stolen a line from it that I feel perfectly encapsulates how infertility makes me feel: "There will be time, there will be time/To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet". Infertility is such an important part of who we are, yet we all carry on with facets of our lives that run concurrent with infertility but never intersect. It can be such a chore to continue with this facade, pretending everything is ok in the aspects of your live uninvolved in infertility, but knowing once you're back in your own home that this dictates so much of who you are.

Before going to work I feel as if I have to leave so much of who I am behind in order to get through the day. I have to pretend as if this thing that drains me does not exist. It's so difficult to switch to this person in order to keep up appearances. I do the same when I have to deal with The Dude's family. It's a double life, a guarded secret. Thus far I think I'm succeeding with the faces I have prepared, as I imagine most of you do as well.

IUI #3 is my last chance before IVF. This is what is saddens me the most. IVF always seemed so far off, something which was a total last ditch effort, and here I am. The Dude made me cry in my bath tonight, as he was telling me quite nonchalantly since he was off sick today googled both IVF options and adoption. Jesus. So here we are. Wasn't it just yesterday I got off the pill?