The Letrozole/Femara worked! Yippee! (For you Googlers who are happening upon this blog for the first time, Clomid = no regular ovulation for me. So there is life after Clomid! (I hope) )
Despite the best efforts of Living-in-the-moment Ann, I’ve been a mess all week. It’s been difficult for me to make plans for the weekend, because I kept on thinking, That’s after I’ll know for sure whether oral meds are a total wash for me. What if I’m in a total depression?
Since Dr. Hot was on vacation, the other RE at the clinic, whom I’ll call Dr. Supportive, did the honors (today is CD13). First he checked my uterine lining, which he said looked great (I didn’t get specifics). Then he looked at Right Ovary. Nothing. Nada. Zip. It occurred to me to panic, but then I thought, Well, the last couple of times Left Ovary has done all the work, so maybe that’s the case this time, too. Sure enough, Dr. Supportive triumphantly showed me the big black blog on my left ovary. 17 mm. I was practically in tears, I was so relieved. He said it appeared as though I was in the process of ovulating already, so no need for an hCG shot. His prescription? Since we had sex last night, he suggested doing the deed tomorrow. (I quickly interjected, “But what about tonight?” He laughed and told me he was just about to say that.) I feel like a newbie with this whole trying-to-conceive thing, eagerly inquiring as to when I should copulate with my husband. Because, you’ve gotta remember, this is the first time ever that we’ve actually known I was about to ovulate. Ahead of time. This is the first time my reproductive cycle has been more than guesswork. Now, let’s just hope that we’re able to get our mission accomplished over the next few days. Then M and I will both be feeling pretty proud of our bodies.
My biggest concern now is my, er, “lady lubrication.” I was dry as the Sahara last night, but this morning things felt a bit, um, wetter. Maybe one of these days I might actually be privy to the elusive EWCM. It’s a rare species, and I’ve tended to doubt its existence, but by golly, I’m going to do my darnedest to coax it out of its hiding place.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
There are too many Anns in here
To add to my ever-increasing list of ailments, I got a urinary tract infection last night. Ugh. I was in tears, simply because I’m sick of having something wrong with me all the time. I decided I needed immediate attention and paged my poor RE because I was terrified this meant I would have to cancel my cycle. Also, I had read online that a urinary tract infection could be a side effect of Femara. Dr. Hot gave me a prescription for antibiotics and reassured me, slightly exasperatedly, that this doesn’t affect my cycle in the least. I think he thinks I’m crazy.
And, as it turns out, I am. I’m suffering from multiple personality disorder at the moment regarding my upcoming follie scan on Friday. Here’s what’s going on inside my head:
Living-in-the-moment Ann: I am going to get over my bladder infection, and do my work this week just like any other week, and not think about my appointment on Friday. Because what if it goes badly? I can’t hinge my entire week on a doctor’s appointment!
Hopeful Ann: Oh, but won’t I feel just fantastic when/if I find out I have one or two sizeable follies! And why shouldn’t I? I mean, it’s not as if Clomid was a complete bust—it just didn’t work quite as it should. Femara hasn’t made me crazy like Clomid did; that’s got to be a sign, right? And I’ve heard plenty of stories of PCOS women who tried Clomid and it didn’t work, and they tried Femara and got pregnant on their first try! It could happen! It could, it could, it could!
Pessimistic Ann: Yes, well, I know plenty of other stories of women who didn’t get jack-squat from Femara. What makes you think you’re going to be one of the lucky ones? You certainly haven’t been very lucky so far. Just look at the title of your blog!
Hungry Ann: I’m hungry.
Scientific Ann: Well, you know that Femara works in a completely different way to increase estrogen than Clomid does, blah, blah, blah. So your reaction to Clomid is completely unrelated to what your reaction will be to Femara. And, you have ovulated before, so you have the capability.
British Ann: So chin up, old sport! You could be in for a jolly good scan on Friday!
Pessimistic Ann: I’m not holding my breath. I’ve had so many disappointments so far, it’s hard to imagine things actually working the way they should. And I haven’t even “put in my time” yet. We’ve only been trying for 14 months, and most women with PCOS take longer than that.
Even More Pessimistic Ann: Well, but you’ve forgotten the possibility of a miscarriage. You could easily make your “quota” of at least two years TTC with a couple of miscarriages. Hahahaha—take that, Hopeful Ann!
Hungry Ann: Is it lunchtime yet?
And, as it turns out, I am. I’m suffering from multiple personality disorder at the moment regarding my upcoming follie scan on Friday. Here’s what’s going on inside my head:
Living-in-the-moment Ann: I am going to get over my bladder infection, and do my work this week just like any other week, and not think about my appointment on Friday. Because what if it goes badly? I can’t hinge my entire week on a doctor’s appointment!
Hopeful Ann: Oh, but won’t I feel just fantastic when/if I find out I have one or two sizeable follies! And why shouldn’t I? I mean, it’s not as if Clomid was a complete bust—it just didn’t work quite as it should. Femara hasn’t made me crazy like Clomid did; that’s got to be a sign, right? And I’ve heard plenty of stories of PCOS women who tried Clomid and it didn’t work, and they tried Femara and got pregnant on their first try! It could happen! It could, it could, it could!
Pessimistic Ann: Yes, well, I know plenty of other stories of women who didn’t get jack-squat from Femara. What makes you think you’re going to be one of the lucky ones? You certainly haven’t been very lucky so far. Just look at the title of your blog!
Hungry Ann: I’m hungry.
Scientific Ann: Well, you know that Femara works in a completely different way to increase estrogen than Clomid does, blah, blah, blah. So your reaction to Clomid is completely unrelated to what your reaction will be to Femara. And, you have ovulated before, so you have the capability.
British Ann: So chin up, old sport! You could be in for a jolly good scan on Friday!
Pessimistic Ann: I’m not holding my breath. I’ve had so many disappointments so far, it’s hard to imagine things actually working the way they should. And I haven’t even “put in my time” yet. We’ve only been trying for 14 months, and most women with PCOS take longer than that.
Even More Pessimistic Ann: Well, but you’ve forgotten the possibility of a miscarriage. You could easily make your “quota” of at least two years TTC with a couple of miscarriages. Hahahaha—take that, Hopeful Ann!
Hungry Ann: Is it lunchtime yet?
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Myth debunked
My friend J (remember, the one who is battling secondary infertility?) was recently lamenting the possibility that she hadn’t gotten the timing right on her most recent cycle. Turns out, she and hubby had sex the day before she may have ovulated. Me: “Well, that’s good, right?” She: “Well, we didn’t have ‘baby-making’ kind of sex.” Me: (wondering if she means oral sex) “Did his pen*is enter your va*gina?” She: “Well, yes, but I didn’t put my legs up in the air afterward.”
Huh. I have never, ever hoisted my legs in the air after baby-making sex. (Should I be? I wondered.) I scoffed at her, telling her it was an urban legend. She hedged, telling me I should ask my RE.
So I did. Just as he was walking out of the room, I shamefacedly asked him whether putting legs in the air would help at all. Swallowing a grin, he shook his head. “Sperm swim,” he said, and closed the door.
HA! Let that be a lesson for every woman who has ever lounged in this very uncomfortable position after each and every act of sex. Women of the world, lower your legs!!!
Huh. I have never, ever hoisted my legs in the air after baby-making sex. (Should I be? I wondered.) I scoffed at her, telling her it was an urban legend. She hedged, telling me I should ask my RE.
So I did. Just as he was walking out of the room, I shamefacedly asked him whether putting legs in the air would help at all. Swallowing a grin, he shook his head. “Sperm swim,” he said, and closed the door.
HA! Let that be a lesson for every woman who has ever lounged in this very uncomfortable position after each and every act of sex. Women of the world, lower your legs!!!
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
The grass isn't greener here, either
First of all, thank you for all of your well wishes! I'm loving this Commentathon--even though I'm not actually participating myself (hangs her head in shame).
Two years ago, when I was searching for a job in my newly-chosen field of public relations, I went through periods of anxiety and periods of peace. The anxiety came when I interviewed (or prepared to interview) for a job I really, really wanted. It continued as I waited for The Call post-interview and eventually waned when I accepted the fact that they were never going to call me for a second interview or job offer. The peace came when I didn’t have any interviews on the horizon. I could blissfully concentrate on my free-lancing career and not jump every time the phone rang.
The same is true of infertility. I was doing perfectly fine (except for my bronchitis, of course) this past weekend—until I discovered my period was beginning. Then, I worried myself to death that my cysts would still be around and I’d have to sit out yet another cycle.
Digression: I like to compare my cycles to the game Mousetrap. For those who don’t remember the game, you had to set up this elaborate Rube-Goldberg-like contraption so a marble could travel through all the stages and eventually cause a trap to fall on a mouse. My brother and I, however, were perpetually losing or breaking a piece. Break one piece, and the mousetrap is useless. That’s just like the menstrual cycle: When one thing is wrong, it throws the whole cycle off-kilter. In my case, my cysts were delaying the onset of menstruation. So, logic would dictate that because I menstruated, my problems were gone. The missing piece was restored, and the chain reaction could continue. But I wasn’t sure, and the uncertainty caused me much anxiety.
Now, I am half-dreading next Friday. That’s when I’ll find out if my follicles are, indeed, responding to the Femara. This is it. If they aren’t responding, it’s likely I will be moving on to IVF by the fall. (My doc thinks, and I tend to agree, that injectables without IVF may be more hassle than they’re worth for a PCOS patient, simply because of the high possibility of cancellation. I don’t mean to offend any of you who are on injectables; I’m just not sure it’s for me.) I’ve got my “interview” set up, and I HAVE TO make a good impression. Then, if by some miracle all goes well, I have yet another two weeks to wait until I find out if I got the job. (The nine-month kind.)
M summed it all up the other day when he asked me, “Can’t you just live in the moment?”
No, unfortunately, I can’t. I told him this is nothing compared to what I’ll be like during the first trimester if I ever actually get pregnant (evil grin).
Two years ago, when I was searching for a job in my newly-chosen field of public relations, I went through periods of anxiety and periods of peace. The anxiety came when I interviewed (or prepared to interview) for a job I really, really wanted. It continued as I waited for The Call post-interview and eventually waned when I accepted the fact that they were never going to call me for a second interview or job offer. The peace came when I didn’t have any interviews on the horizon. I could blissfully concentrate on my free-lancing career and not jump every time the phone rang.
The same is true of infertility. I was doing perfectly fine (except for my bronchitis, of course) this past weekend—until I discovered my period was beginning. Then, I worried myself to death that my cysts would still be around and I’d have to sit out yet another cycle.
Digression: I like to compare my cycles to the game Mousetrap. For those who don’t remember the game, you had to set up this elaborate Rube-Goldberg-like contraption so a marble could travel through all the stages and eventually cause a trap to fall on a mouse. My brother and I, however, were perpetually losing or breaking a piece. Break one piece, and the mousetrap is useless. That’s just like the menstrual cycle: When one thing is wrong, it throws the whole cycle off-kilter. In my case, my cysts were delaying the onset of menstruation. So, logic would dictate that because I menstruated, my problems were gone. The missing piece was restored, and the chain reaction could continue. But I wasn’t sure, and the uncertainty caused me much anxiety.
Now, I am half-dreading next Friday. That’s when I’ll find out if my follicles are, indeed, responding to the Femara. This is it. If they aren’t responding, it’s likely I will be moving on to IVF by the fall. (My doc thinks, and I tend to agree, that injectables without IVF may be more hassle than they’re worth for a PCOS patient, simply because of the high possibility of cancellation. I don’t mean to offend any of you who are on injectables; I’m just not sure it’s for me.) I’ve got my “interview” set up, and I HAVE TO make a good impression. Then, if by some miracle all goes well, I have yet another two weeks to wait until I find out if I got the job. (The nine-month kind.)
M summed it all up the other day when he asked me, “Can’t you just live in the moment?”
No, unfortunately, I can’t. I told him this is nothing compared to what I’ll be like during the first trimester if I ever actually get pregnant (evil grin).
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
There ain't no cysts on me
I woke up this morning with a feeling of impending excitement/dread. Today was the day. At about 1:30 this afternoon, Dr. Hot would give me either good news or yet another disappointment.
I went to work, and though I had lots to do (for once), it was hard to concentrate. I left the office for a professional networking luncheon, but my heart just wasn’t in the mood for schmoozing. All I could think about was my appointment.
Finally, I got to the clinic, my heart pounding furiously, and Dr. Hot walked in the room. I gave him a nervous smile and leaned back, trying to relax in anticipation of the slightly uncomfortable contraption forcing its way into my nether regions.
Was I waiting to find out if I was pregnant? Was I breathless in anticipation of news about whether I was ovulating.
No. I was simply there to find out whether I could finally START TRYING TO GET PREGNANT AGAIN! That’s all. How pathetic. That, my friends, is one of the reasons why it takes PCOS women so long to get pregnant—because we wait, and wait, and wait-- just for the opportunity to try.
I had unexpectedly gotten my period on Sunday (remember, I had two ovarian cysts), and was in the office for a baseline ultrasound. I was terrified Dr. Hot would say the cysts were still rather large and I would have to sit out yet another cycle. Instead, he sent me home with the instructions to start taking Femara. I smiled at him and said, “Do you realize this is the first time you’ve given me good news?”
And so the games begin. Femara, please don’t forsake me. To borrow from K, all I need is one good egg.
I went to work, and though I had lots to do (for once), it was hard to concentrate. I left the office for a professional networking luncheon, but my heart just wasn’t in the mood for schmoozing. All I could think about was my appointment.
Finally, I got to the clinic, my heart pounding furiously, and Dr. Hot walked in the room. I gave him a nervous smile and leaned back, trying to relax in anticipation of the slightly uncomfortable contraption forcing its way into my nether regions.
Was I waiting to find out if I was pregnant? Was I breathless in anticipation of news about whether I was ovulating.
No. I was simply there to find out whether I could finally START TRYING TO GET PREGNANT AGAIN! That’s all. How pathetic. That, my friends, is one of the reasons why it takes PCOS women so long to get pregnant—because we wait, and wait, and wait-- just for the opportunity to try.
I had unexpectedly gotten my period on Sunday (remember, I had two ovarian cysts), and was in the office for a baseline ultrasound. I was terrified Dr. Hot would say the cysts were still rather large and I would have to sit out yet another cycle. Instead, he sent me home with the instructions to start taking Femara. I smiled at him and said, “Do you realize this is the first time you’ve given me good news?”
And so the games begin. Femara, please don’t forsake me. To borrow from K, all I need is one good egg.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Bitchin'
I’m sick.
So what else is new? Honestly, I feel like my health has completely gone downhill over the past four months. Since February, I have had: hemorrhoids for the first time; a ruptured corpus luteal cyst that sent me to the ER in a panic; severe springtime allergies that have made it impossible to wear my contacts for the time being; an upper back injury, probably caused by playing large handbells for hours at a time, that sent me into the money-gobbling office of a chiropractor; and finally, my current ailment — bronchitis. I had a miserable day at work on Wednesday, stayed home on Thursday and am rasping my way through the day today.
I’m convinced everyone at work thinks I’m one of those people. You know—the ones who always find something wrong with themselves. But hell, I’m only 29!
It doesn’t help that I’m a wimp. I hate not feeling well, and I often make sure everyone around me knows it.
My mother is convinced that, should I ever become pregnant, I’ll have to quit work well before the baby is due because I'll be so sick and uncomfortable. I used to think she was full of it. Now I’m not so sure.
So what else is new? Honestly, I feel like my health has completely gone downhill over the past four months. Since February, I have had: hemorrhoids for the first time; a ruptured corpus luteal cyst that sent me to the ER in a panic; severe springtime allergies that have made it impossible to wear my contacts for the time being; an upper back injury, probably caused by playing large handbells for hours at a time, that sent me into the money-gobbling office of a chiropractor; and finally, my current ailment — bronchitis. I had a miserable day at work on Wednesday, stayed home on Thursday and am rasping my way through the day today.
I’m convinced everyone at work thinks I’m one of those people. You know—the ones who always find something wrong with themselves. But hell, I’m only 29!
It doesn’t help that I’m a wimp. I hate not feeling well, and I often make sure everyone around me knows it.
My mother is convinced that, should I ever become pregnant, I’ll have to quit work well before the baby is due because I'll be so sick and uncomfortable. I used to think she was full of it. Now I’m not so sure.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Social anxiety
Ever since I listed my “Eight Random Things,” I’ve been meaning to write a follow-up post. Specifically, I’d like to address No. 2: “I have a bit of a social anxiety disorder, though I don’t take medication or anything. I am constantly worried that a) everyone else has more friends, and definitely more close friends, than I do; b) I have said the wrong thing in a conversation with a friend/acquaintance; c) I’m the person at the party that you didn’t want to invite, but felt obliged to. I also typically get nervous before dinner parties/game nights/outings with anyone but my very closest friends. We usually have a great time, but I’m always nervous that we won’t, or that I’ll say the wrong thing. (I’m really not as much of a basket case as I sound like; I’m just being really, really honest here. And yes, I know that most of the time, it’s all in my head. I guess it all comes from having an extremely difficult junior high experience, when it WASN’T all in my head.)”
I was surprised to hear from so many commenters who said they, too, suffer from these same kinds of problems. It got me thinking: Are we all (women, at least) running around on this planet, scared to death of what other people think of us, convinced that we’re the only sad soul who feels this way? If so — man, if only we could all learn just not to care? To just shrug everything off?
As an adult, I’ve had a hard time making new friends. See, I expect certain things from a new friend — tit-for-tat, if you will. If I invite New Friend (hereafter known as NF) to dinner or some other social get-together, I will only make an effort a couple of times before expecting NF to do the same. If she doesn’t, then I automatically assume I have become the Leech. The Leech isn’t popular; she simply has a busy social calendar because she calls other people constantly. She almost never gets called herself. In my mind, in order to consider yourself a real friend, you must be sought after as much as you seek. Get it?
Because of a rough childhood experience (and, as silly as it sounds, the experience of having what I considered a good friend not ask me to be involved in her wedding at all), I have always assumed I am the Leech. Because, really, why would somebody else actually choose to spend time with me? Even if they don’t mind my company, I can’t imagine they would actually choose me over someone else. It’s not that I think poorly of myself; I just assume other people think poorly of me.
Recently, I have been shocked that a few friendly acquaintances have apparently been reaching out to M and me — reciprocating the “tat” for the “tit.” Yet I still can’t quite believe it. I will go over to their house, telling myself that they really didn’t want me there; they just felt obligated to make an effort. So I become nervous beforehand, convinced I will say the wrong thing and prove that I am not worthy to spend time with.
I look around at the rest of the world and see everyone with their “best friends.” Unconditional love. People who will never let you down. And although I have some good (out-of-town) friends, I’m not sure if I’ve ever had a “best friend.” Is that because of my personality? Or simply because I have guarded myself against getting too close for fear of being a leech and pressing too hard?
At one point, I convinced myself that once I had a baby, I would have limitless opportunities to make new best friends (can anyone say “play dates?). Yet, if I’m honest with myself, I can totally picture being incredibly jealous because Susie and her son Johnny seem to be spending a lot more time with Janie and her son Tim than they are with us. And so the cycle continues…
I feel sort of exposed, telling all of you about all the craziness that goes on inside my head. I promise, I really am a normal person most of the time; M and my mom are the only ones who get to hear about my insecurities. But I share this in hopes of helping someone out there who has the same self-doubting thoughts
I was surprised to hear from so many commenters who said they, too, suffer from these same kinds of problems. It got me thinking: Are we all (women, at least) running around on this planet, scared to death of what other people think of us, convinced that we’re the only sad soul who feels this way? If so — man, if only we could all learn just not to care? To just shrug everything off?
As an adult, I’ve had a hard time making new friends. See, I expect certain things from a new friend — tit-for-tat, if you will. If I invite New Friend (hereafter known as NF) to dinner or some other social get-together, I will only make an effort a couple of times before expecting NF to do the same. If she doesn’t, then I automatically assume I have become the Leech. The Leech isn’t popular; she simply has a busy social calendar because she calls other people constantly. She almost never gets called herself. In my mind, in order to consider yourself a real friend, you must be sought after as much as you seek. Get it?
Because of a rough childhood experience (and, as silly as it sounds, the experience of having what I considered a good friend not ask me to be involved in her wedding at all), I have always assumed I am the Leech. Because, really, why would somebody else actually choose to spend time with me? Even if they don’t mind my company, I can’t imagine they would actually choose me over someone else. It’s not that I think poorly of myself; I just assume other people think poorly of me.
Recently, I have been shocked that a few friendly acquaintances have apparently been reaching out to M and me — reciprocating the “tat” for the “tit.” Yet I still can’t quite believe it. I will go over to their house, telling myself that they really didn’t want me there; they just felt obligated to make an effort. So I become nervous beforehand, convinced I will say the wrong thing and prove that I am not worthy to spend time with.
I look around at the rest of the world and see everyone with their “best friends.” Unconditional love. People who will never let you down. And although I have some good (out-of-town) friends, I’m not sure if I’ve ever had a “best friend.” Is that because of my personality? Or simply because I have guarded myself against getting too close for fear of being a leech and pressing too hard?
At one point, I convinced myself that once I had a baby, I would have limitless opportunities to make new best friends (can anyone say “play dates?). Yet, if I’m honest with myself, I can totally picture being incredibly jealous because Susie and her son Johnny seem to be spending a lot more time with Janie and her son Tim than they are with us. And so the cycle continues…
I feel sort of exposed, telling all of you about all the craziness that goes on inside my head. I promise, I really am a normal person most of the time; M and my mom are the only ones who get to hear about my insecurities. But I share this in hopes of helping someone out there who has the same self-doubting thoughts
Friday, June 8, 2007
Weird science
First of all, I’d like to thank all of you for your wonderful comments. Ggop commented that my blog is a source of strength to her. Well, you all are a source of strength to me. It has made such a difference to be able to express myself in this blog for the past few months. It’s like having a diary that talks back to you! It’s important for me to be able to express my opinions, and important for me to hear your feedback and read about all of your journeys, too. For you Harry Potter fans, it’s like having my very own Pensieve to store my thoughts.
I commented on Samantha’s blog that it sounds like her BIL views her IF as a science experiment. Since I wrote that, I’ve been thinking a lot about my own “science experiment.” And, I am sheepish to admit that I am utterly fascinated by the science of it all.
As a writer/communicator, I’ve never been a big fan of science. I HATED labs in high school (I was always one of the last to finish), and I never got any pleasure out of an experiment working correctly. However, since I got the diagnosis of PCOS, I’ve been reading like crazy. I got a sick pleasure out of being able to tell my mom the other night, “I really need to find out if my doctor thinks this is a follicular or a corpus luteal cyst, because the last time I ovulated with the help of medication, I had a ruptured corpus luteal cyst.” Hell, two years ago I couldn’t even tell you how the reproductive system worked! I love it when friends show interest in finding out more about PCOS, because then I can display my vast knowledge. Because I work in healthcare, I have the benefit of seeing occupational health nurses during the day if I’m not feeling well. I have found myself educating even them on my condition and what certain signs might mean.
I’ve been pondering telling our small Bible study group about our IF (I’ve already told a few individuals). I know that a simple “M and I have been struggling for over a year to have a baby. Please pray for us,” would suffice. However, it’s hard for me not to go into details. I want to explain that there are actually specific things wrong with my body that make it hard to reproduce. I want to draw a diagram of the female reproductive system and show them how pretty my polycystic necklace is. I want to create a flow chart that shows how a chain reaction of hormones causes ovulation, and explain why my hormonal imbalance creates a kink in it.
But, that would be unnecessary. And kinda scary. And TOTALLY uncomfortable for the guys in the group.
So I’ll just keep my newfound lust for science to myself.
I commented on Samantha’s blog that it sounds like her BIL views her IF as a science experiment. Since I wrote that, I’ve been thinking a lot about my own “science experiment.” And, I am sheepish to admit that I am utterly fascinated by the science of it all.
As a writer/communicator, I’ve never been a big fan of science. I HATED labs in high school (I was always one of the last to finish), and I never got any pleasure out of an experiment working correctly. However, since I got the diagnosis of PCOS, I’ve been reading like crazy. I got a sick pleasure out of being able to tell my mom the other night, “I really need to find out if my doctor thinks this is a follicular or a corpus luteal cyst, because the last time I ovulated with the help of medication, I had a ruptured corpus luteal cyst.” Hell, two years ago I couldn’t even tell you how the reproductive system worked! I love it when friends show interest in finding out more about PCOS, because then I can display my vast knowledge. Because I work in healthcare, I have the benefit of seeing occupational health nurses during the day if I’m not feeling well. I have found myself educating even them on my condition and what certain signs might mean.
I’ve been pondering telling our small Bible study group about our IF (I’ve already told a few individuals). I know that a simple “M and I have been struggling for over a year to have a baby. Please pray for us,” would suffice. However, it’s hard for me not to go into details. I want to explain that there are actually specific things wrong with my body that make it hard to reproduce. I want to draw a diagram of the female reproductive system and show them how pretty my polycystic necklace is. I want to create a flow chart that shows how a chain reaction of hormones causes ovulation, and explain why my hormonal imbalance creates a kink in it.
But, that would be unnecessary. And kinda scary. And TOTALLY uncomfortable for the guys in the group.
So I’ll just keep my newfound lust for science to myself.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
The verdict
The good news: I think I know why I’ve had problems getting my period. I definitely know why I’ve had cramping on my left side for the past week.
The bad news: I have two ovarian cysts. They’re both about 3 cm, which Dr. Hot says isn’t too incredibly big. I have to take a month off before we can even think about doing another cycle. I know many of you have had cysts, and I’d be interested in hearing about your experiences.
More bad news: Dr. Hot says the cysts, which have been bleeding into themselves, probably developed because of ovulation. I’m not sure if they’re follicular or corpus luteal. The problem? The last time I ovulated (Clomid-induced) was at the beginning of April. Which means I’ve already had more than a cycle to recover, yet the cysts are still a problem. I could kick myself, because I forgot to mention at my appointment that the only other time I ovulated on Clomid, I ended up in the ER after a corpus luteal cyst ruptured.
In other words, my body has to throw a hissy fit every time it ovulates. Or at least, every time it ovulates with the help of an ovulation induction drug. The solution, it would seem, would be to ovulate on my own. Except, of course, that I can’t. So here I sit--waiting, waiting, waiting.
Sharah’s post about trying to find balance really hit home with me. I’ve been focusing on the endgame, and in the process, glossing over other parts of my life. I’ve stopped scrapbooking temporarily. Why? Because I’ve scrapbooked with my SIL and a few members of the Mommy Club recently, and now my hobby is inextricably linked to those unpleasant memories. All I can think about is what I’m not scrapbooking—pictures of my child. I told myself I would start scrapbooking again when I got pregnant.
So many things in my life have hinged on getting pregnant. I think to myself that I’ll be able to handle a July family reunion more easily because “I might secretly be pregnant by then.” Now there’s not a chance of that happening. My 30th birthday is in October. I’ve told myself it will be a much happier occasion if I’m pregnant by then. I told M we wouldn’t put any money into a Roth IRA until I’m in the second trimester of a pregnancy, because I want our savings to be accessible for possible fertility treatments.
I just can’t do it anymore. Yesterday, after an emotional afternoon at work, I went for a walk at home. It had been a gloomy day, but the sun was back to shining gloriously. I suddenly felt this tremendous peace, and tears filled my eyes. God is going to work it out, somehow. I have to hold on to that peace, and not dismiss it because I prefer to be miserable. I have to live my life with infertility in the background, not the foreground.
I’m going to try to make time to scrapbook sometime this week.
The bad news: I have two ovarian cysts. They’re both about 3 cm, which Dr. Hot says isn’t too incredibly big. I have to take a month off before we can even think about doing another cycle. I know many of you have had cysts, and I’d be interested in hearing about your experiences.
More bad news: Dr. Hot says the cysts, which have been bleeding into themselves, probably developed because of ovulation. I’m not sure if they’re follicular or corpus luteal. The problem? The last time I ovulated (Clomid-induced) was at the beginning of April. Which means I’ve already had more than a cycle to recover, yet the cysts are still a problem. I could kick myself, because I forgot to mention at my appointment that the only other time I ovulated on Clomid, I ended up in the ER after a corpus luteal cyst ruptured.
In other words, my body has to throw a hissy fit every time it ovulates. Or at least, every time it ovulates with the help of an ovulation induction drug. The solution, it would seem, would be to ovulate on my own. Except, of course, that I can’t. So here I sit--waiting, waiting, waiting.
Sharah’s post about trying to find balance really hit home with me. I’ve been focusing on the endgame, and in the process, glossing over other parts of my life. I’ve stopped scrapbooking temporarily. Why? Because I’ve scrapbooked with my SIL and a few members of the Mommy Club recently, and now my hobby is inextricably linked to those unpleasant memories. All I can think about is what I’m not scrapbooking—pictures of my child. I told myself I would start scrapbooking again when I got pregnant.
So many things in my life have hinged on getting pregnant. I think to myself that I’ll be able to handle a July family reunion more easily because “I might secretly be pregnant by then.” Now there’s not a chance of that happening. My 30th birthday is in October. I’ve told myself it will be a much happier occasion if I’m pregnant by then. I told M we wouldn’t put any money into a Roth IRA until I’m in the second trimester of a pregnancy, because I want our savings to be accessible for possible fertility treatments.
I just can’t do it anymore. Yesterday, after an emotional afternoon at work, I went for a walk at home. It had been a gloomy day, but the sun was back to shining gloriously. I suddenly felt this tremendous peace, and tears filled my eyes. God is going to work it out, somehow. I have to hold on to that peace, and not dismiss it because I prefer to be miserable. I have to live my life with infertility in the background, not the foreground.
I’m going to try to make time to scrapbook sometime this week.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
A post of despair
It's 18 hours until my RE appt. to figure out what the hell is going on with my lack of menses (12 days after my last Provera pill). My persistent cramps are getting worse. I fear something is going on in there that is not good. The cramps hurt a lot more when I poke at my abdominal region. I doubt it's AF, because she would have come by now.
I'm in a really bad place right now. These 18 hours can't go by quickly enough.
I'm in a really bad place right now. These 18 hours can't go by quickly enough.
When God closes a door, he opens a window
Wanna know a surefire way to get your mind off waiting for an AF that will never come? Have a window fall in on you.
Well, it wasn’t quite that dramatic, but yes, we currently have a double-hinged window lying on the carpet, rather than in the window frame like it should be. M is out of town on business, so I decided I’d be really productive and wash the windows last night (we have the type of windows that fold in so you can wash the outside). When I was on the last window, I was leaning on it at an awkward angle and it fell out of its hinge. Then, I heard a sharp “ping” and saw that the spring on the hinge had folded up on itself. Meaning I was screwed.
After 10 minutes, it was obvious I was never going to be able to reinstall this heavy, heavy window by myself, so I called for reinforcements—a neighbor man that I vaguely knew. He and I worked on it fruitlessly for about an hour, during which time M was frantically trying to search online for window manufacturers. Finally, we gave up, put some plastic on the window and I enlisted my FIL (who lives 35 minutes away) to stop by after work tomorrow. He’s a mechanical engineer (as is M, who was, as I said, tragically out of town), so hopefully he’ll be able to make it fit. In the meantime, I’ve tracked down the previous owner of the house to find out the name of the window installer. I love talking to him because he has a British accent. To all of my UK readers, I LOVE YOUR ACCENTS! You could be swearing at me and I would still be smiling.
Well, it wasn’t quite that dramatic, but yes, we currently have a double-hinged window lying on the carpet, rather than in the window frame like it should be. M is out of town on business, so I decided I’d be really productive and wash the windows last night (we have the type of windows that fold in so you can wash the outside). When I was on the last window, I was leaning on it at an awkward angle and it fell out of its hinge. Then, I heard a sharp “ping” and saw that the spring on the hinge had folded up on itself. Meaning I was screwed.
After 10 minutes, it was obvious I was never going to be able to reinstall this heavy, heavy window by myself, so I called for reinforcements—a neighbor man that I vaguely knew. He and I worked on it fruitlessly for about an hour, during which time M was frantically trying to search online for window manufacturers. Finally, we gave up, put some plastic on the window and I enlisted my FIL (who lives 35 minutes away) to stop by after work tomorrow. He’s a mechanical engineer (as is M, who was, as I said, tragically out of town), so hopefully he’ll be able to make it fit. In the meantime, I’ve tracked down the previous owner of the house to find out the name of the window installer. I love talking to him because he has a British accent. To all of my UK readers, I LOVE YOUR ACCENTS! You could be swearing at me and I would still be smiling.
Friday, June 1, 2007
A success story
No, not mine (I'm still impatiently waiting for AF--assuming I have any sort of uterine lining to shed at all). I'm talking about Becky! She and her husband are living proof that God answers prayers! Their past 24 hours are about as close to the stork-bringing-a-baby story as you can imagine.
Congratulations, Becky!
Congratulations, Becky!
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