Archives for the month of: February, 2012

You’re kidding me, right?

So here I am, up at camp with my awesome students and some other awesomely kids from other classes. Fresh air, exercise, just what I needed.

Then this morning, a teacher from school came up for the morning and announced over breakfast that she’s preggers.

F

M

L.

This is the same teacher who asked me a few months ago whether I was pregnant, to which I responded by busting into tears and blubbering about how we were trying, blah blah blah. It was up there in terms of embarrassing moments, since I don’t know her that well and she realized as soon as she said it that it is NEVER an appropriate question.

So I’m back mentally in the fucking land of fucking infertility and it blows so hard.

Sigh.

-Camping Regular Van (who is trying hard not to cry right now)

Cycle monitoring – Cycle Day 2 – Duration: 3 hours

Here we go again. Cycle monitoring began today, preparing for our second round of IUIs (hopefully).

I went through the regular battery of assessments (blood, transvaginal ultrasound). J came with me this time and managed to nap through most of it. I was thankful to have him there, though. I sort of tore him a new one last month when I called after my appointment and he couldn’t talk because he was “too hungover”. He has since learned. Good boy.

My regular fertility doctor wasn’t working today (thank heavens, the man actually DOES have a day off!), so I saw the doctor who did my HSG test. This was kind of good for me, as it allowed me to ask questions that I was sort of afraid to ask my doctor. Namely, how did he come up with a PCOS diagnosis? I still wasn’t convinced. He showed me the results of the blood work from my AMH test (I think it was 4? Does this make sense?), and my antral follicle count was 54 (both indicators of PCOS). Also, I guess my left ovary is kind of a beast, so that was enough to convince me.

Then he started asking me about fucking facial hair again.

Ugh.

Anyway, he upped my Clomid to 2 pills a day (I think that’s 100 mg now), and talked about Metformin again. He said it took awhile to kick in, and J admitted we’re kind of desperate at this point, so if it’s going to help, we may as well try it. So I’ll add that to my meds cocktail this evening for the first time. It’s incredible to think that before all of this insanity started, I hadn’t seen a doctor in years and years. I was firmly anti-drug, definitely anti-big pharma, yet there I was today, buying an AM/PM pill box.

This doctor told me to be patient. He said I was young, and he promised me it was going to happen. No one has said that to me yet. He also acknowledged how hard it is to go through this, and to get the call with a negative pregnancy result. This meant so much to hear from a doctor. I nearly cried (but I was brave–I held it together!). I don’t know if my face showed my stress or irritation to be back going through all of this again, but for whatever reason, he somehow knew that’s all I needed to hear.

So…Metformin starts tonight, Clomid starts tomorrow, and Synthroid is ongoing. The good news? Not a suppository in sight. At least…not for a few weeks.

I’m off to camp with my students for the next 3 days. I think it will be good for me to be outside, though I’ll miss my dearie husband. I love him extra hard today for some reason.

-Soon-to-be-drug-filled-but-always Regular Van.

My mum came to see me a few days after I heard that our first month of medically supervised/assisted baby-making didn’t take. I think it’s pretty safe to say that I’ve been pretty freaking miserable since that phone call with the pregnancy results. I called J right after hearing, of course, and couldn’t talk through my crying. I called my mum after I hung up with J, and pretty much repeated the whole thing.

I have the best mum in the world, let me just put that out there early in this post so there are no misunderstandings. She lives an hour and a half away, but is perpetually ready to drop whatever she is doing to be by my side, should I need it. I figured everyone’s mum is like this, but as I get older, I’m realizing that’s not the case.

So she came to see me, and we went out for dinner. I kind of spazzed on her, and I’m sure I freaked her out when I started talking about how my experience being incapable of conceiving is like a continuation of an on-going battle I’ve had with my body and body image that started when I was pretty young.

She chalked up my emotional rant to “all those hormones” the doctor’s had me on. I think this was her way of expressing her incapacity to deal with what I was telling her.

I have always either hated my body to the point that I could hardly look at myself in the mirror, or tolerate it enough to not feel ill if I happened to catch a glimpse of it. Medically, I don’t think I’ve ever been overweight, but I’m always aware of how much thinner everyone else seems.

I hate that I’m like this. I majored in Semiotics and minored in Women’s Studies–I know how media is constructed and how messages are created. I can speak critically about this, but that doesn’t change how I feel about myself. I wish I looked like a model, and I have a hard time accepting that I never will. The fact that I don’t reflects a deep rooted sense of failure and guilt that I don’t measure up and am intrinsically flawed. Not being able to conceive is just another level, another piece of proof that my body is a failure.

I know this isn’t rational. I know it’s not helpful to think like this, or even productive, but there it is.

My body and I just can’t seem to get it together. I thought that at this stage in my life, early 30s, married, I would have come to terms with body image, and I think maybe I was starting to get there. I started gaining weight last year, maybe 10 pounds. I chalked it up to a crazy schedule that had me commuting at lunch time as I was working between two schools. I didn’t eat lunch last year. Like, at all. With my recent thyroid results looking slightly elevated, I’m thinking now that weight gain had more to do with hypothyroidism, but that doesn’t change how I look. I feel like a huge frigging whale, which is only aggravated by the seemingly weekly question by co-workers: “Are you pregnant?”.

No. Apparently, my body can’t get pregnant. So I’m just getting fat. Thanks so much for asking.

For the past year of trying to conceive, I’ve felt trapped inside of a body I hate that doesn’t even work how it’s supposed to. I’m afraid to try to lose weight in case that adds to the problems we’re already having with trying to make a baby. J’s been told repeatedly that he has super sperm: this issue is all me.

That’s a lot of weight to carry around. Pun intended.

-Jumbo-sized Regular Van.

And I’ve never cried so much or so hard in my life.

I know it could be worse, I know there are those in our IF community who are suffering so much more.

I am filled with anger and frustration and just sadness that so many of us good, good people have to deal with all of this bullshit while other people who are (frankly) undeserving will never experience any of this heartache. We deserve this, and it fucking sucks that we can’t experience it.

-Such a sad Regular Van.

This morning in CBC, there was a really interesting story about egg retrieval. The experiences of some of these women sound similar to what I’ve been reading in personal blogs, though the women in the story were donating their eggs to someone else.

If you’re interested, the story can be found by following the link, and then clicking on the podcast link at the right. Well worth a listen, though it didn’t helps paranoia that EVERYONE is talking about IF except those who are suffering tot hose who are close to them.

Here!

So Tuesday is the day I go to the clinic for a pregnancy blood test. My in-laws have been up this weekend, which has been a nice distraction from the fury of activity going on in my head.

So the question is…do I test at home before Tuesday? Or do I suck it up, wait it out, and attempt to carry on normalcy (ha!)?

What would you do? I am so terrified of the response that I’m going to get and I feel like testing at home prior would make me feel slightly more in control than I actually am.

Deep breaths, lady. Big, deep breaths….

Advice/opinions/commiserations are well appreciated!

-Regular “patience of a flea” Van.

So I’m midway through the infamous 2-week wait, and I have made a conscious effort to not fall into the symptom psychosis that I’ve suffered from in the past.

You know what I’m talking about.

It’s all of those internal conversations you have with yourself:

“That felt a little weirder than usual.”

“I think I remember reading that that could be an early sign of pregnancy.”

“Maybe I’ll Google it just to¬†see if maybe other women have experienced this, too.”

“Are my areola darker than usual? I know that’s a sure sign!”

…and on and on it goes…

There’s a meme going around the ol’ internets right now with a series of pictures and the captions “What my friends think I do”, “What my mum thinks I do”, “What I think I do”, “What society thinks I do”, and “What my clients/students think I do”, and “What I really do”. I think us IFers should come up with one!

What image would be in each of your meme squares?

-Regular “Trying to Occupy Herself With Other Things” Van.

Usually, I wait until I’ve returned home from school before I start my blog posts, but today, I’m a bit afraid that I’m going to lose my shit on some unsuspecting innocent soul during my commute home.

I thought it best to avoid that by letting it allllllll out here.

I hated yesterday. I don’t know why, I just hated it so much. My students were working my nerves, reports went home, I was dreading the upcoming parent/teacher interviews, etc. etc. Then J and I went to Ikea, which was its own special kind of hell for this infertile lady.

When pregnant bellies weren’t smacking into me, strollers were (okay, SLIGHT exaggeration). You couldn’t swing a cat without hitting a woman in some stage of motherhood (who swings a cat?!?!).

So I though to myself, “Self? Yesterday sucked a fat one, for some still unknown reason. Tomorrow will of course be better”.

Wrong.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me this week, but I am one miserable cow. I’m mean to everyone, I can’t maintain focus, I can’t do much of anything except cry (I’m so good at that!). I thought my funk was over, as I’d been feeling really good lately, and then this week came out of nowhere and I pretty much hate everything.

I know I’ve bitched and moaned about these stupid progesterone suppositories way too often for any reasonable person to care at all anymore, but they are not helping the situation. I am uncomfortable, I stink (sooooooo gross), and I don’t know if they are doing anything. J is in a constant state of arousal, and I just keep pushing him off me in absolute revolt (not at him, of course, but at how effing gross I feel/look/am acting lately).

Ugh.

I’m done complaining now, and am going to actively focus on the positive. Life has been pretty kind to me, and I should keep that at the forefront.

Hope you’re enjoying a super Valentine’s Day filled with loving.

-Crabby B Van

So…less than a week with the progesterone suppositories and they’ve already, shall we say, lost their shine (though if I’m honest, they never had any shine).

Any ladies out there experience these little gems? I have the great pleasure of shoving these tiny white bullet-shaped suppositories up there twice a day for 2 weeks.

Ew. Here’s where we get a little TMI, maybe…

The insertion isn’t even the worst. It’s the sporadic mini-gush from the nether region that is more than a little off-putting. Any Progesterone users out there who are experiencing the same thing?

Anyway, it’s been snowing here in Toronto all weekend (for pretty much the first time all winter!), so I went for a nice walk in the sun, then spent my afternoon making Valentine’s treat bags for my students. It felt good to do something that had ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with babies or IF. I need to do more of these kinds of things every day to retain any sanity I have left.

Happy Grammy Night, everyone. Sad news about Whitney Houston. Her “Whitney” album was the first cassette tape I owned. I got it as an Easter gift when I was in Grade 2 and loved singing along. Also, pretty sure my Grade 7 friends and I made entire tapes (front and back) filled with only “I Will Always Love You”. Good times…

-Regular Van.

Progesterone suppositories – Cycle day 15 – Duration: about 2 seconds, though much squinting and squirming

So it’s Day 1 of the progesterone suppositories (PS for short–cute!). I inserted it nearly exactly 13 minutes ago. The doctor gave me some info, but most of what he says I forget in a span of 30 seconds. I am not an auditory learner.

There’s all kinds of wacky information regarding PS online, with women talking about having to lie down for 30 minutes post-insertion. Who the hell has that kind of time? Not this lady, that’s for sure. I understand the fear of it coming out, though, hence the post title. I feel like this tiny thing is just swimming around all up in there.

I am for some reason reminded of Larry David…

Anyhoo…

I have been stalking fellow bloggers blog rolls to find great blogs, and man, have I found some. I have a deep appreciation and gratitude for the ladies who have made me laugh while recounting their personal stories of infertility. It’s so easy to lose yourself in this, and to sink deeper and deeper into depression (for me, anyway).

I’ve started my own collection of links to blogs that I think are worthy of note. Take a look.

I think it’s interesting that, save for one exception, no one I know knows of this blog, yet each day I see more people are reading it. I think that goes to show that those of us in this frustrating boat are seeking out community that isn’t necessarily our physical community. This is intensely personal stuff that we need to share, but sometimes it’s weird sharing it with those close to us. Sometimes, too, strangers have more in common with us than our close friends.

Thanks infertility sisters. You are a stellar and BRAVE bunch for sharing your stories.

-Progesteroney Regular Van.