My formula for happiness

Those of you who are married: When you were single, did you ever make a list of the qualities any man you married absolutely had to have? One late night, I sat in bed composing just such a list. My “non-negotiables” included a non-smoking Christian man who knew how to manage money. I was lucky; I got what I was looking for and much, much more.

My point is that I knew I could never marry someone who didn’t meet these criteria. It’s a simple formula: Husband = non-smoker, Christian and good with money.

Now, I find myself in a similar, non-compromising position. Happiness = pregnancy. The funny thing is, I now know from experience that pregnancy does not always = happiness. I remember days during my pregnancy in which I felt so blah I could practically scream. I felt that I was living vicariously through both a friend who was in the beginning stages of a promising relationship, and another friend who was about to undergo her first IUI. “Your lives are so much more interesting than mine,” I remember thinking. How foolish I was. If only my life could have remained boring for another four months or so.

Yet now, I look at my friends and family members who are pregnant and can't imagine they could have any legitimate reason for not being deliriously happy. They have what I want; shame on them for not fully appreciating it.

The area where we live is rather bleak during the winter, but fun and alive during the summer. Any other January I would be eagerly looking forward to June, when M and I would be able to take evening strolls around one of the many lakes in our county. Instead, I think, “How in the world can I enjoy the summer if I’m not pregnant by then?”

I want what I had. And depending on the day (or hour), I either view pregnancy within the next four months as a probability or an impossibility.

I know, I know—I shouldn’t be setting a time limit for myself. It’s incredibly unhealthy. But I feel like the world is passing me by. I was talking to a diabetes educator today (during a work thing) who told me that a PCOS woman in her 30s with her first pregnancy has a higher chance of gestational diabetes. “Don’t treat me like I intentionally delayed TTC,” I wanted to shout at her. “I was in my 20s when I first started trying! It’s not my fault!” (Before you get upset at this RN, understand that she wasn’t accusing me at all. I just didn’t like the facts she was throwing at me, and I’m a tad sensitive these days. She was actually a very nice woman.)

Now that I actually have a shot at being pregnant, I feel like the rest of my winter is defined by the results of that pee stick nine days from now. Positive pee stick = happiness. Negative pee stick = at least four more weeks of misery. (Hell, it’s like I’ve got my very own groundhog!)

I can’t remember if I felt this way before we conceived the first time. I know I certainly wasn’t isolating myself nearly as much, which, ironically, is a big part of my misery. I want my friends and family back. But the only way I feel comfortable with having them back is if I have that trump card in my back pocket—a new pregnancy.

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?

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.

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.

The Mommy Club

Treatment update: I called the RE’s office the other day and was disappointed to find out that he wants me to take metformin for the next cycle, and then I can start on Letrozole. This bummed me out because it basically means that my next baby-making chance probably won’t be until the summer. Then again, I know that starting met is important, and that it takes a while for it to be effective. I feel like I’ve done everything bassackwards by first doing three cycles of Clomid, then starting the met. Oh well. I know by my OPKs that I have high LH levels (although blood tests came back normal), and I’ve read that might be related to insulin. So who knows—maybe met will be the magic pill for me!

Last night, I attended a scrapbook party at my SIL’s office. Everybody there was a mother—except me. As I sat working on my page, I listened to my SIL and her friends discuss doctor’s appointments, temper tantrums, baby groups and the like. I stayed silent, because, well, I had nothing to say. I frequently feel this way when I talk to my SIL or other members of the Mommy Club. It’s like they’re all part of a sorority that has so far excluded me. There are countless opportunities for moms to meet other moms and subsequently schedule play dates and other social opportunities. They welcome each other, because they have a common bond. If I, however, showed up for Stroller Fitness (my SIL’s weekly exercise group), everyone would look at me a bit strangely, and whisper to each other, “What’s she doing here? She’s not a mom!”

I’m not saying that I only want a baby for the social opportunities—far from it. I just feel completely ready to be a cliché, to be a “soccer mom,” or a tee-ball mom, or a kiddie ballet mom. Yet that opportunity has not yet come to me. Instead, I’m forced to grit my teeth and smile as people say to me things like, “When you have kids you’ll understand.”

Please, someone teach me the secret handshake so I can join the club!

Does it suck to be you?

There is a musical currently playing on Broadway called “Avenue Q.” It’s sort of the antithesis of “Sesame Street” and stars 20- and 30-something puppets and humans with foul mouths. The opening song, “It Sucks to Be Me,” features the main characters singing about how much their lives suck. One character just lost his job, one wishes she had a boyfriend, two others are stuck in an intolerable roommate situation. Most of the musical is about how difficult life is for everyone. The closing song begins, “Everyone’s a little bit unsatisfied/Everyone goes ‘round a little empty inside.” It sounds depressing, but the musical is actually hilarious.

When I start to feel sorry for myself because of my infertility, I just think about that song, and about the people in my life. We’re all stranded in lifeboats in the middle of the ocean; our boats just look a little different from each other. Here’s a sampling:

--Our good friend S, a 29-year-old guy, just sent out a mass e-mail telling his friends that his girlfriend just broke up with him on the phone. Just a few weeks ago, when M talked to him about the relationship, he said it was going “really, really well.” I wouldn’t be surprised if he had been looking at rings. This is a guy who was formerly a “playboy,” but it seemed to all of us that he had finally found the right person with whom to settle down. Now it’s back to square one. In the meantime, he’s still substitute teaching because he lost his job a couple of years ago.

--My co-worker J was so happy she and her husband had finished their last payment on their minivan (they have two kids). Then, less than a month after that last payment, it broke down. Engine failure. Warranty expired at 100,000 miles, and they had 102,000 miles on it. It would cost $3,500 to repair it, so instead, they’re going to do a Band-Aid repair (about $800) and go shopping for another car. So much for saving money. They even considered canceling their upcoming vacation.

--My BIL (the husband of the SIL who talks about “when we have kids”) is a CPA with his own business. For three months every year, he lives in the office, working 12-14 hours, seven days a week. My SIL basically has to raise their toddler alone during tax season. This will be their life until he retires. It gets harder on her every year.

--My friend K has a degree in film from Northwestern University, but she hasn’t been able (or motivated) to find a job in her field. So instead, she works at a store in the mall and lives at home with her mom (she’s 29). Although recently, she found a new guy, so temporarily it doesn’t suck to be her.

--A year ago, a man at our church had a stroke/brain aneurysm. He was left severely disabled, and his wife and five young children nursed him until he died about six months later. Now, the wife is left to cope with raising her family alone.

When I start to feel sorry for myself, I try instead to think about all the good things in my life and all the reasons why it doesn’t “suck to be me.”

My dirty little secret

At our church, we have a special time at the beginning of the service for celebrations and prayer concerns. The church also keeps track of prayer requests in its monthly newsletter. M and I have only offered up a prayer concern a couple of times for relatives with health issues.

I have sometimes wondered, if we eventually go ahead with IVF, would we put our names on the prayer list? On one hand, it is an invasive procedure whose outcome is uncertain. Prayers certainly can’t hurt. On the other, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen someone’s infertility woes and procedures become the topic of church prayers. Why is this?

I can easily answer my own question: Because nobody ever talks about infertility until it’s over. That is, until the couple either decides to go on without children or adopts. I don’t add “or until the couple conceives” because many couples never tell anyone how difficult it was for them to have a child. And so the “veil of silence” continues. My co-worker (due to give birth any day now) and her husband conceived twins after three or four IUIs. Yet when people ask if they underwent ART, they say no. She only admitted it to me after I shared my own story. She says they’re very private and don’t feel that other people need to know. That’s their choice. But when they were going through three years of hell, how many misunderstandings or badly timed inquiries could have been prevented if anyone besides close friends and family had a clue what they were going through? Could they have been strengthened by other people’s thoughts and prayers?

We vent on these blogs about the annoying questions other people ask about possible children in our future. But if the other people don’t know anything about what we’re going through, how can we blame them for saying the wrong thing? It’s not a sin for a friendly acquaintance to ask when/if a couple plans to have children. It’s all part of the process of getting to know someone. If they continue to badger the couple, that’s a different story, but we infertiles are so sensitive, we bristle if someone even mentions babies.

Not that I’m any different. My SIL, who knows all about our problems, will occasionally talk about some sort of baby item she will give to us “when we have a child.” She’s not wrong in saying that. M and I plan on adopting if my ovaries turn out to be duds in the end. We WILL be parents, someday, one way or the other. Yet I don’t even like her talking about us as parents! It’s hard for me to even envision it, when it seems so far away right now. We are fortunate; M and I have only been married two years, so we haven’t yet reached the point where everybody who doesn’t know about our problems will be wondering what’s going on.

Still. I hope that if IVF is in our future, we have the courage to share our worries with our church family, who I know will try their best to help us carry our load. Infertility is not our dirty little secret.

A one-track mind

I used to be an interesting person.

I work in public relations, so I know a lot about what’s going on in the local communities and the city. I watch a lot of TV, so I’m well-versed in pop culture. I love theater, music, scrapbooking and philosophizing.

Yet these days I have nothing to talk about except infertility.

Friends ask what’s new in my life. I could share our adventures during our recent vacation to Florida, or talk about our continued work with our youth group at church. But instead, all I can think of is our struggles to have a child. And depending upon which friend or family member it is, they either a) don’t know we’ve been trying; b) already know, are probably sick of hearing about it and don’t really have much to say except they’re sorry; or c) already know and continue to feed my frantic obsessiveness by allowing me to go over the details yet one more time.

When did I become so self-indulgent?

When I psychoanalyze myself (yet another one of my hobbies), I realize that this is a pattern with me. I tend to dwell on the one thing in my life I wish I could change. When I was living in another city while planning a wedding with M, I fretted because I was ready quit my job and relocate to where he was living RIGHT THEN, rather than waiting until our marriage and the end of my lease. I was sick of my job and ready to move on to a new career. Then, when I finally moved to southeastern Wisconsin, I was frustrated because the job search was taking longer than I had planned. I thought to myself, All I want is a full-time job! And now, for about a year, I’ve been focused on having a child. At my church, there are very few “childless” married couples. I feel like “familyhood” is a club that I desperately want to be a part of, but which hasn’t yet accepted me as a member. So here I wait, in limbo.

Let me add here that I realize I haven’t been through nearly as much hell as many of you. I haven’t gone through multiple failed IVFs, or multiple miscarriages, or even had many cycles during which I could have legitimately gotten pregnant (actually, I’ve had one). But it’s fear that drives me. Fear that nothing short of injectables will allow me to reliably ovulate. Fear that we will break the bank trying IVF (I have very little infertility health insurance), and still won’t end up with a baby (or two). Fear that three or four years down the road, I will still be writing this blog about our attempts to start a family.

And that fear has taken over my thoughts so completely that I don’t have anything else to talk about.

I am no longer an interesting person.