So Not Much to Say

edward-hopper-morning-sunFour Weddings and a Funeral has been on a lot recently and I have had flashbacks to high school swooning over Hugh Grant.  For the life of me, I cannot understand what I saw in him back then, with those silly glasses and that scrawny little frame of his. I need meat on my man, and he was positively anorexic in that movie.  Still, he was so … earnest.  Anyway, one of my favorite lines in the movie was uttered by Gareth (the gargantuan gay man who ended up being the subject of the lone funeral). He opined that the only reason people got married was to have something to talk about, after they had run out of all other topics of conversation. 

Sometimes, I feel that the opposite is true for Mr. X and I when it comes to this pregnancy.  We hardly mention it except in terms of, “if things are still looking good, we can go do ____” or “how is your nausea today?”.  I have absolutely no problem not mentioning it in polite conversation or even not thinking about it for long stretches of time.  Why? A big fat shout out to those of you who guessed Self-Preservation!  As I have detailed ad nauseum (no pun intended) here, I just can’t get too invested yet because there is still that chance, however small, that it can all end.

I was confronted with this problem today when I got an email from my dad.  It was so wonderfully supportive, letting me that he was thinking of us all during this time and that he specifically was sending good thoughts to the baby.  I wanted to think that he was referring to the dog or one of the kitties, but I knew this wasn’t the case when he specifically mentioned them later.  I wanted to blur out the word – I can’t bear to make that connection yet and it pained me to even have to think about it.  There is no baby yet for me. There is a pregnancy and this is what has allowed me to stay sane while navigating these treacherous waters where we sank twice before. I’ve only been able to string the words, “I” “am” and “pregnant” into a sentence twice since we found out. Obviously, I am not ready to make the leap to the ‘b’ word.

This of course, takes a huge topic of conversation out of circulation, but that is fine with me.  I know that talking about it, even remotely with optimism would cause little suspicious synapses to start firing in the old noggin causing more anxiety than a trip to the bathroom.  Instead we talk about our upcoming vacation to the northeast, the dreadful two days we spent without air conditioning before the system was fixed, work and weekend plans.  Or, we just sit in a companionable silence.   And that is just fine with me.

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Edward HopperThere is one topic that we have been discussing that is somewhat related – my depression.  It has gotten better, mainly because I finally admitted to myself why I was in such a funk.  I had apparently made the executive decision not to allow myself to look forward to anything lest I suffer the pain of disappointment, during this time when disappointment can be at its peak.  I mentioned this to Mr. X and gently asked if it was okay for me to look forward to some things (like a weekend or a good book) and he wholeheartedly agreed.  Once I made that connection, I was able to begin to see some light.  I haven’t completely climbed out of the trench, but I’m slowly getting there.

O-Bla-Di, O-Bla-Da, O-My-God

alfarmanI had my blood draw this morning for my third and final beta and all I can say is thank God.  I actually find it more stressful to go to the clinic now than I did when we were just cycling.  Part of that is because those people insist on throwing out the p word at me and saying, “I’m so happy!”  And, they see my pained expression and say, “Oh, I know, I know, but I am going to be happy.”  I also cringe because it’s a fairly open office and I hated it when I was a patient and would overhear such protestations of joy.  I can’t bear the thought of someone else having to deal with that, too, in the one place where they are supposed to be able to get away from it.

And, with this last blood draw I thought with a certain amount of satisfaction that it was going to be a good while before they would have me back for an ultrasound.  I mean, at least not until the end of July, which would give me lots of time to mentally prepare, right?

Wrong.

Next week.  They want to see if there is a gestational sac.  This is a new one for me. With Dr. Uterus, they practically bar the door until at least 6 weeks because there isn’t much to see.  But, they also didn’t do third blood draws, so maybe comparisons aren’t as helpful here. 

I have a week.  A week to calm my self down and find that mellow spot of meditation where I can still function.  Because I have to be able to function.  Hibernation, while attractive, is not an option.  And, I need to develop a method for coping with my anxiety because this may not be the end of the road and I don’t think my body can handle the up and down stress for a long period of time.  I also don’t want to drive everyone around me batshit crazy (except Mr. X.  I’m certain that he accepted this in our marriage vows).   Any suggestions for how to achieve a zen like calm in this kind of situation would be greatly appreciated.

I could have really used them this afternoon when I had to wait until 4 to get today’s results.  They were worht it, though: 15dp5dt beta = 846.  Doubling time of 44.4 hours, which while not as overachievingly spectacular as my previous 36 hours is still damn respectable.  Progesterone = 306, and yet, I still have to shoot myself in the ass.  Sing with me, “While my butt gently weeps…”

image: alfarman

Have Needles, Will Travel

I don’t think I could have planned a better distraction if I tried (although, the last time a planned distraction involved air travel, things didn’t go so well – but, this time it’s before any news of whether I’m pregnant or not). 

Later today, I will hop on a jet plane (ok, a Southwest flight) and head to a city of old friends for a convention and comped meals.  Mr. X will be in charge of the furry menagerie and I will not have to wake up to the sounds of a cat whining or feel said cat put all of his 13.5 lbs of butterball-ness on my full bladder while I’m trying to catch those last few minutes of sleep.  Instead, I get to be footloose and fancy free. Except for that whole no drinking thing.

image: Jim Sneddon

I have a note from Dr. Uterus to allow me and my needles to go through security.  Last time I travelled with my needles, the TSA people didn’t blink a collective eye.  So, I expect similar treatment this time.  I do have to figure out how to do my Wednesday evening shot – I usually do it at 6pm and will be in the air at that time.  I touch down at 6:45pm but by the time I get my luggage and get to the hotel it could be 8 easy.  Dr. Uterus said I did have some leeway on timing, but ack.  I am not above shooting up in the airplane lavatory (would that get me into the Injection Mile High Club?) but obviously, I’d like to avoid it if at all possible.  One good knock of turbulence and ouch. I’ll figure it out – I always do.  And, if I do end up doing the deed in the airplane lavatory, I will so have to blog about it!

I don’t know how much internet access I will have (or how much I will want to have) and so I may be out of commission entirely until I return on Saturday (just in time for Mr. X to leave for his travel on Sunday). 

Until then, my dears, au revoir!

So, Um, Yeah

I’m trying to avoid thinking about the Giant Elephant in my corner of the Internets.  You know, that thing that starts with a number and whose ending rhymes with ‘hate’ (how appropos).  You would think that since this is my 8th one (not counting the other pointless ones where I didn’t know if I ovulated and later learned that it didn’t matter because with my tubes blocked, no egg of mine was going to meet any sperm unless it was in a petri dish) I would have gotten used to it.  This isn’t really something you get used to as much as something you tolerate.

image: wendypants

I won’t lie and say that I’m blissfully ignorant of the tweakings and twitchings of my nether regions.  But rather than just register them and forget them in the space of one second (oh, was that my ovary?) like I do during non-major months, each is now followed by a furious round of The Is-It-or-Isn’t-It-Something-That-Is-Of-Any-Consequence-Whatsoever-Game.  And of course, I can’t stop because this is The Big One: the first time since my last miscarriage that we have a real shot at producing a squalling infant who will hopefully not inherit my nose.  Sometimes, I even allow it to escalate into thoughts of This Just Might Work.

And, then, I try to talk myself down from the ledge.  Hilarity ensues. 

I also can’t be blissfully ignorant that I am in That Period Which Must Not Be Named because I have to pretend as if I am pregnant.  So, it would seem that my attempt to stick my fingers in my ears and chant “la la la la” all day is not going to work.  After two false starts out of the gate where what I ate in the end had nothing to do with how things turned out – I could have drank like a fish both times and still had the same result – it now seems almost like this grotesque charade – no wine, no cheese, no caffeine, no baths, no eating dirt (didn’t do that one anyway), no exercise.

But, do it, I will, if there is even a small chance that I will have a live infant(s) in my arms nine months from now.  I still want it.

All or Nothing

I’ve always been an all or nothing kind of gal. Either I get all of it, or I don’t want any of it. For the boyfriends I didn’t marry (which would be all but one), I wanted nothing more to do with them. Either I’m working or I’m not, I’m doing infertility treatment or I’m not,

Either I’m pregnant or I’m not.

Spare me this in-between bull. It offends my sense of order, and more importantly, it is seriously cramping my ability to make plans in the future or to even think of the future in anyway other than with anxiety and fear.

I either want to be on the train with a first class ticket or get off of it entirely. I don’t want to be a passenger just sitting there watching other people get on and off. I want to go on my own adventure, far away from the train if need be.

And then, when I’m ready to get back on the train, I will have amassed a wealth of courage, patience, and everything else required to make the journey a truly meaningful one.

Right now, I’m in the baggage car and they can’t decide whether to let me forward or kick me off.
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These past few weeks have certainly been an exercise in learning that finality is a fleeting concept. I thought it was pretty open and closed, but as Dr. Uterus kept muttering at my last appointment, “I’m reminded that I don’t know everything.” He really did look annoyed by that.
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I also won’t know my latest status until Friday now. Dr. Uterus is a busy surgeon on Thursday and definitely would not be able to do the morning appointment we had scheduled. I had the option of going in tomorrow, but I’m much rather receive bad news on a Friday and have the weekend to really get over it than deal with it on a Wednesday and still be expected to function.
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As far as the symptom watch goes, still nauseous (although it’s better if I eat regularly), boobs are still sore and inflated, still having mild cramping, and since Sunday, I’ve just had some brown spotting.

If there was ever a time for distraction, this would be it. Any suggestions since all alcohol and baths are completely snatched out of my grasp (again)? Short of hibernation, I think I’m just going to have to get through it.