Category Archive

My seventeenth charted cycle started on March 22, 2006. I was back in the game with a new donor after a four-month break, 6 failed IUIs, a miscarriage, an HSG, 2 donors, and almost of year of recording fertility data. I was starting to think it was never going to happen.

According to That Fertility Site, I ovulated on Day 12 (April 2), a Sunday, but the OPK didn’t give me a positive until Sunday afternoon. My temp rose only 2 tenths of a degree on Monday, but it rose nonetheless. I was disheartened, but I manually overrode the charting software based on the OPK and called the doctor. They scheduled me for 3:00 Monday afternoon. I had a student teacher at the time, so I took a half day and went home early to wait for the appointment. I needed the downtime. I was convinced it wasn’t going to work, that I’d missed the window.

My doctor was delivering a baby, so I was scheduled with the nurse practitioner. She had done my last IUI in November, and I liked her a great deal–she explained every single move she made, right down to opening the catheter, inserting the speculum, depressing the plunger. She did not hurt me, and when she was finished she made sure my cervix was not bleeding from the tenaculum. She told me my swimmers were abundant and full of energy. She was kind, and she made me laugh, and I left feeling calm and peaceful. But I was still convinced it wasn’t going to work.

I spent the rest of the week in a daze, staring at my chart, staring at everyone else’s charts, trying to find some small shred of hope and finding none. Nothing was different, nothing was out of the ordinary. I was financially prepared to do two more months, but I was already looking ahead to when those attempts didn’t work either, and I would be back where I started, but with considerably less money. Spring break started that Friday, and I actually managed to do other things–read, watch movies, eat [lots of junk], take Suzanna for long walks around the neighborhood [in my pajamas]. I was fighting a battle with myself–feeling myself falling into that sadness of a failed cycle, but trying to convince myself to focus on something, anything, positive. Positive.

On Easter Sunday I was planning to drive to my mom’s and spend the afternoon with my family. I have to confess that I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay in bed and feel sad, watch “Beaches” and “Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood” and “You’ve Got Mail” for the billionth time and lament about a seventh failed cycle. I had tested the day before (negative) and the day before that (negative), and on Sunday, 13 days past ovulation, I almost didn’t bother testing again. I showered, dressed, and with time left over I thought “what the hell” and peed on a pregnancy test. And then I almost forgot about it. I got my things together and was on my way to the car when I remembered it. I walked into the bathroom and nonchalantly picked it up, fully expecting to glance at it and then throw it away. But it was positive. Positive.

Positive! So I opened a different brand–a plus/minus type. Plus! Positive. So I drove to W@lgreens and bought a digital test. Pregnant! Positive. I could. Not. Believe it. I tried to be excited, but I was terrified. I had a positive once before. It did not last. But I gathered up the digital test and put it in an Easter basket for my mom–finally, an Easter basket worthy of The Easter Basket Queen–and headed out the door.

By the time I got to my mom’s a mere 45 minutes away, the “pregnant” reading on the digital test had vanished. I tried to body slam the voice that whispered “bad omen” in my ear. My family was excited by the news, but also cautious, I think. We didn’t talk about it much. In fact, I hardly talked about it all all, ever. I was too busy holding my breath.

I’m still holding my breath.

The IUI went fine. My favorite nurse practitioner did the procedure, and the nurse who did the specimen analysis said they were “swimming all over the place.” Now for the waiting.

Meanwhile, meet the key players.

Gone are the days of Joey + Geena. They had their chance, and they blew it. When I announced a few months ago that I was going on a trying-to-conceive break I referred to Ross and Rachel of “WE WERE ON A BREAK!” fame. During the down time I set about choosing a new donor. Among the profiles I received from the bank was a brown-eyed, dark-haired Mediterranean man who, according to the bank director, resembles George Clooney. On “ER” George Clooney played Dr. Ross. Ross! Ross and Rachel! A SIGN!

It’s only fitting, then, that my girls be renamed Rachel. Sorry, Geena.

Note: I do not look ANYTHING like Jennifer Aniston. I don’t look anything like Geena Davis, either. I just appreciate and am entertained by personification. Please play along with my little character fantasy.

IUI scheduled for 3 p.m.

I wasn’t going to tell you, but I knew you’d ask. You’re sneaky that way, you. And I couldn’t lie, couldn’t ignore your curiosity, especially after my paranoid hysteria fiasco of last week.

So now you know.

My temperature did not go up today. In fact, it dropped slightly. I’m pretty sure that means ovulation is approaching…right on time.

Those OPKs I mentioned–they all look pretty much exactly the same, including this morning’s. I would be embarrassed to post pictures of them, even though I know you wouldn’t laugh at me. I generally don’t even start using OPKs until day 11, which is today. I’m expecting a surge tomorrow or Monday.

I’m on my 3rd cup of Tazo Lotus green tea, and it’s 75 and sunny outside. I am still in my pajamas, and this does not make me feel guilty in the least, because I have already read an entire book and watched an entire movie today, and it’s barely two o’clock, so there will be plenty of sunshine left for me when I decide it’s time to venture out.

I guess what I’m trying to say is…the Bat Signal has been turned off and I’ve gotten a grip. Oh, and I love all my bloggirls for answering the call, even though it was more a “Chicken Little” call than a “Batman” call. My gratitude is immense.

It’s over. It hurt like hell. My doctor kept asking if I was okay, even as he continued inserting things that were larger than the space into which they were being inserted. It lasted about 10 minutes and resulted in three pictures of my CLEAR TUBES and SLIGHTLY TILTED UTERUS*.

Now that I’m no longer obsessing about the HSG, I’ve moved on to other things. Like my upcoming ovulation, which is–there’s no other way to say it–fucking with my head. It’s cycle day 10; yesterday, HCG day, cycle day 9, I discovered eggwhite cervical fluid. WTF? How can this be? I generally do not see EWCF until OVULATION DAY, and surely I couldn’t be ovulating on DAY NINE. My temperature didn’t rise this morning, but I’m thinking of going to bed right now, so that the morning temp time will arrive sooner and I can put my mind at ease. If you’re a fertility obsessor you surely understand the insane logic at work here. If I were simply tracking my fertility signs I would note the oddity and go on with my fabulously full and thrilling life, but as there is a vial of sperm at my doctor’s office as of 4:30 this afternoon awaiting a day 13 or 14 ovulation, I’ve retrogressed into a drooling bundle of nerves whose only discernible talents are Googling early ovulation, studying other women’s charts on Fertility Friend, and binge-eating Thin Mints.

You sane thinkers out there might be considering asking me via a helpful comment, “Have you enlisted the assistance of an OPK? Perhaps that might set the record straight.” Let me save you the time. Of course I have! Three times! And wouldn’t you know, last night’s looks just a little bit darker than today’s two. Have I missed the surge? Can you surge on DAY NINE? Holy. Freaking. Shit.

It’s a dark day here in Gotham City, girls, and I’m sending up the Bat-Signal. Please come to my aid via comments on your own experiences in this area.

*News to me, but apparently not distressing news. My doctor’s exact words: “Your uterus is a variant of normal and will in no way inhibit you from conceiving and carrying a child.” My interpretation: “Just like the rest of you, your uterus is totally freaking weird, but don’t worry, I’m sure your kid will turn out just fine.”

My HSG is scheduled for 10:55 tomorrow morning. I am anxious–the Great Unknown scares the shit out of me–and looking forward to having it over and done with so I can move on to the next phase of this whole conception thing, which incidentally will involve many of the same tools and motions as the HSG, except that then what the doctor will be shooting into my uterus might actually produce a kid.

Well, I guess this is the post you’ve all been waiting for. It’s the post I’ve been waiting to write, actually. It’s the one wherein I tell you that after six attempts and one failed pregnancy, I am still not pregnant, and it’s the one where I announce, Ross and Rachel style, that I am now officially “on a break.”

When I started this journey last January, charting and getting acquainted with the rhythms of my body, I was convinced that it would take no time at all once the inseminations began. Why wouldn’t I think that? Except for a brief time during elementary and early middle school, during which I actually came close to failing the fourth grade, I have always been an over-achiever. I “get” things quickly. Pregnancy, to me, would not be an exception. I remember reading about women who had been trying for months, who were on all sorts of drugs and had encountered all sorts of horrendous problems, and I just knew I was not going to be one of those women. Now, almost eight months, three Clomid prescriptions, six inseminations, and one miscarriage later, I realize that the Universe probably got a good laugh out of my attitude. What’s more important is what I’ve gotten out of it.

I’d love to say I’m more patient now than when I started, but that would be a lie, and there are already enough lies on the Internet as it is. What I am is more aware–of time, of my own humanity, of the immensity of my support system, and of the delicate balance that is life. This is not the end of my quest to conceive and birth a child; it’s merely a drop in the bucket, and my self-inflicted break will be an opportunity to regroup, renew, and refocus my energy…not to mention a chance to lose these five pounds I’ve gained, rediscover my muscles, work on new yoga postures, and enjoy the spirit (and spirits!) of Christmas.

In the meantime, I’m paying my doctor a very lengthy visit. It’s time for the usual tests and check-ups, but I want the works–if something isn’t working properly I want it fixed. If you’ve been in my shoes and you think there’s a test I should have or a question I should ask my doctor, do let me know.

And so you know, I’m fine. Really. Fine and dandy. I’ve already passed the lowest point–the point at which I was cursing the cramps that shook me wide awake at one in the morning, the point at which I could not shake the thought that had I not lost the pregnancy in July I’d be six months pregnant by now–and now I’m looking forward. I’m going to be SO happy for Emilin and Jen in a few months, and I’m keeping my fingers crossed for Calliope and Amanda & T and Bri, and I have no doubt that someday we’ll all be exchanging advice and telling stories about our kids on these very blogs.

Thanks for the support, friends. Now somebody make me a Cosmopolitan–I’m WAY behind.

Someone please assure me that I have not just decreased my chances of conceiving a child from the IUI I had this afternoon because I was crawling on my hands and knees in my wet, leaf-covered grass at 11 p.m. trying to coax my INDOOR CAT from underneath my back porch. Please tell me that the sudden increase in my blood pressure, heart rate, and anxiety level due to aforementioned cat’s escape into the great outdoors did not, in fact, slow the sperm, strangle my egg, or cause the lining of my uterus to disintegrate. And please let me know for sure that this er, cautious behavior is the behavior of a sane, balanced future mother and not one of those nuts who follows her child around 27-7 with a first aid kit and a pillow to cushion potential tumbles. Please, I beg you. Ease my mind.

Yesterday I–

It has been–

Let me start by saying–

See, now this is why I haven’t posted in a week. It’s been a very full week. I am not sure where to begin, and mostly I’m not sure I’ve processed everything the week has been full of, so I’ve avoided the blog. That is, until yesterday, when I received a comment from Jen on last week’s windy Thursday post claiming that the wind must have been so strong that it “blew away all of your words.” My, but I do love a smartass.

Let’s see if I can give you a brief recap. On Wednesday when I called my doctor to report that, no, I wasn’t pregnant, and yes, I was quite positive a new cycle had begun, I told the nurse on duty about the cramps I’d been having since six days past ovulation. Yes, that’s right–for over a week before I started my period I had mostly dull but sometimes pinching abdominal cramps. I was convinced they were the result of implantation and all that follows, but alas, no. The nurse scheduled me for an exam on Friday with my regular doctor to make sure my ovaries weren’t being invaded by cysts. My appointment was at 4:15; at 4:30 the triage nurse took me to an examining room, gave me the stunning exam ensemble, and told me the doctor would be right in; at 5:00 I was still waiting. Did I mention I was only THREE DAYS INTO A NEW CYCLE? I’ve never been more uncomfortable on an examination table. While I waited for him I stared at picture after picture of the babies he’s delivered in the past year, neatly tacked or taped to a giant bulletin board next to the exam table, while listening to what sounded like a giant bird ruffling its wings coming from the air duct overhead. When he finally arrived at 5:15, apologizing profusely for making me wait so long, he did the exam (oh, the humiliation!) and pronounced my ovaries “normal” in spite of the fact that I’d been having freaky pinching pain on my left side all day. I think my ovaries might have some sort of psychosomatic disorder.

In the days preceding my doctor visit I had been worried about my ability, or lack thereof, to reproduce since try #5 yielded no positive results, and I know the worry is not good for me. It’s getting old. So I made the decision that after try #6 I’m taking a break until the spring. I said as much to my doctor, and he was supportive but told me he hoped I wouldn’t have to “pull a Ross and Rachel.” I asked him if he would mind performing my next insemination in the back of an El Camino, with me stoned or drunk and wearing fishnet stockings and a tube top since that seems to work for a lot of the girls I teach. Without cracking a smile he said, “Does it have to be an El Camino? Because I think a Chevy truck and a turkey baster make a nice combination.” I do love my doctor.

He sent me on my way with a prescription for Clomid, and while part of me does not want to publicly announce the details of my next insemination, because I am trying really hard not to worry and obsess, I will tell you (as if you could not figure it out on your own) that it should be around next Monday or Tuesday. Your good vibes and positive energy and prayers are appreciated. I’ll let you know if the rabbit dies. Otherwise, we will not speak of this again. Amen.

~

The weekend progressed uneventfully, and on Monday morning I began my new twice-weekly 6 a.m. exercise regiment. Yes, that’s right, I am actually getting up at the ass crack of dawn and hauling myself to the gym. Amazingly enough, I’ve enjoyed this new routine so far, and I have not been a total zombie on the elliptical machine, and I’ve gotten to work even earlier than usual. Oh, and MY BODY HURTS.

~

And now for the biggest, scariest news of all. On Monday while Gayle was doing some work at her church, the secretary, who is a good friend of hers (we’ll call her J.), told her the story of a small boy named Corey. It seems that four years ago, J.’s sister’s son got a 14 year-old girl pregnant. He was 19 at the time and did not marry her, nor did he play much of a role in the child’s life. He has since married and had a daughter with his new wife; the girl he impregnated has since become a crack addict* (like her own mother) and often leaves her now four year-old son with J.’s sister (his paternal grandmother), or J. herself, for days and weeks at a time. He is skittish and timid. He will not get out of bed or up from the dinner table until he is told to do so, even if it means lying awake for hours or wetting himself, so afraid is he of getting into trouble. He has never been to the dentist, and only recently went for his first checkup since age 6 weeks. His father and step-mother do not want him. His mother and maternal grandmother do not take care of him. His paternal grandparents can’t take care of him. So J. and her sister have decided that Corey needs a new family. And that new family might be me.

I said here on this very blog that I could never be a foster parent, and I still believe this to be true about myself. If he comes to live here with me it will be for keeps; J. is aware of this and agrees, and she is gathering information and asking all the right questions of all the right people in an effort to make this a reality. Surreal, isn’t it? I could be the mother of a 4 year-old this time next week, or at least on the path to motherhood, and the really crazy part is that it feels like the right place to be. When Gayle called to report J.’s story something shifted inside of me, and it wasn’t that place that longs to bear a child–that place is still intact, and I won’t stop trying. It was something altogether different, and I couldn’t explain it if I tried.

I mentioned a few weeks ago that thanks to Joy I am now receiving a daily message from The Universe in my email box. Last Tuesday, when I was still convinced I might be pregnant, The Universe said, “True, not everyone is ‘meant to’ have their own. For many, even dreaming of such things is virtually impossible. Fortunately, you’re not one of those people. Prepare the way.” At the time I thought, “yes, this is it, I AM pregnant!” But I wasn’t. Then the call came about Corey. Today this message came from The Universe: “H., is it my imagination, or are you being ‘tugged at’? You know, by those feelings that tell you either to ‘have at it,’ with the zeal of a lion… or to finally turn the page - the entire page - not just dog-ear it. You know, ‘tugged at’? I thought so. Well then, may I suggest you act on it, as if nothing else mattered?” Whoa.

Just so you know, I don’t believe in coincidence. I’m taking a deep breath…I think the winds are changing.

*Corey is NOT a crack baby. As far as we know he is as healthy as he can be under the circumstances.

Not pregnant.

Thanks for all the thoughts, prayers, fertile vibes, etc. you sent for yesterday’s IUI. It went off without a hitch–hardly any pain in spite of the fact that the scary tenaculum made a repeat appearance. The nurse practitioner who did the procedure talked me through every step and distracted me during the unpleasant parts. I spent the 20 minutes after the procedure lying on the table envisioning myself surrounded by love and light, and I left feeling very positive.

The freakish doubts were waiting when I woke this morning, however, and I’ve been fighting them off all day. I’m telling myself this is completely normal, and I’m reminding myself that believing is half the battle, and I’d still appreciate those prayers and fertile vibes.

Stay tuned–another update to follow in about two weeks.

I have an IUI appointment in the morning at 11:30. Send fertile thoughts this way.

I am not pregnant. In fact, I started my new cycle a whole three days earlier than usual. I’ve never been early for anything in my life. I normally dislike being early; this is no exception.

I am tired and crabby.

I am addicted to decaffeinated tea–The Republic of Tea’s “Earl Greyer.” I know it seems impossible to be addicted to decaf, but this stuff is SO GOOD.

And I am just now getting warm after waking up to a 60 degree house this morning. Last night’s low was 47, but I refuse to turn my heat on just yet because I’m not ready for tripled natural gas prices.

I am already ready for Friday.

I told myself I was NOT going to talk about this. I promised myself. I swore it. But I can’t help it. I am a crazy woman. I should be following a truck with a huge sign on it declaring, “WARNING! WARNING! WOMAN WITH SPERM APPROACHING!!

I had my fourth insemination on Sunday morning. I completely freaked out on Friday because my Thursday evening OPK was darker than my Friday morning OPK and I was convinced I had missed my surge. Mind you, none of the other fertility signs were present, but I chewed on the possibility of another wasted cycle all afternoon, and then before bed I stuck it in my hair, because heaven forbid a problem remain manageable in my world. But on Saturday morning one of the other signs of impending ovulation miraculously (actually, it was not miraculous, as it happened just when it was supposed to, but it felt miraculous) appeared. Mucus is involved. I’ll spare you the details. Anyway, my Saturday morning OPK was vividly positive, and I called the clinic to schedule a Sunday appointment. Easy.

Right.

You wouldn’t know this about me just from reading my blog, but my cervix leans to the left. I was blissfully unaware of this six months ago, but now that I know, I say, why shouldn’t it lean to the left? The rest of me does! My reproductive system has to be liberal, right? Anyway, this anatomical truth is not a cause for concern unless a doctor is trying to reach my cervix and insert sperm into my uterus. Of my four inseminations, two were extremely painful because a prehistoric looking clawlike instrument had to be used to “coax” the cervix to center stage. I don’t know why the “instrument” (called a tenaculum, and doesn’t it sound like something The Robot would have warned Will Robinson about? “DANGER! DANGER!”) didn’t have to be used the other two times. Maybe my cervix is also shy?

I spent all of post-insemination Sunday lying on my couch or in my recliner trying to relax and get comfortable because having your cervix wrangled hurts. On Monday morning the pain was gone but I had some light spotting which I quickly dismissed; I’m sure it was due to the aforementioned pinscher of Torture that was used in the procedure. I went to work and went about my business Monday and Tuesday hardly thinking about the sperm swimming around inside my uterus, but on Tuesday evening I had a little twinge of pain in my left breast, and WHAM! Suddenly I am the Hester Prynne of obsession, surfing the net for early pregnancy signs, assessing my body hourly for changes, jerking to attention with each twinge. My red “O” hangs neatly on my flat chest, but I’m waiting for the moment when my breasts have a “Little Shop of Horrors” growth spurt (from the pregnancy hormones, of course) and push it out of their way.

And yet, I’m trying not to talk about it. I really am. Because the more I talk about it (or write about it or think about it), the more I obsess, and quite frankly, obsession is just a step away from psychosis. Obsession makes me think I’m having symptoms even when I’m not. Reading about other people’s symptoms is not healthy either–I suddenly have their symptoms on top of my own imagined ones. If I were making a film about my adventures in babymaking it would be called “Psycho[somatic].” The problem is, I’m thinking about it constantly, and it’s hard not to talk about it, but talking about it scares me. Talking about it gets my hopes up–also scary. I need to be hopeful without going off the deep end–enthusiastic and confident without having a Meg Ryan-in-”When Harry Met Sally” public outburst.

There is a Bruce Cockburn song that I love called “Open” in which Bruce laments, “I never lived with balance, but I always liked the notion.” Dude, I totally understand, but between my tingling breasts and those little twinges of pain I’m feeling in the uterus area, I’m going to have to find some balance or the next ten days are going to find me hoarding pregnancy tests and peeing on them on the sly a week early like I did last time, and I don’t think I can safely go there again.

There is hope for me, though. This is the weekend of the annual National Storytelling Festival, an event I attend every year. I always tell people it’s better than church, that it’s the most spiritual thing I do all year. Mostly people just nod and smile because they don’t get it–don’t get sitting around on folding chairs inside of circus-sized tents for three days listening to people tell stories through spoken word, song, dance, and sign language. It’s amazing, but you really need to go there to fully understand. It’s a good time for me to be going there, because I know once the first story begins I won’t notice my [real or imagined] symptoms anymore, and my brain will be left to do whatever it needs to do. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that what it needs to do is coordinate Geena and the boys and make a baby, but no more obsessing. After all, Geena is a kick-ass baseball player, a pirate, a secret agent, and the President. She doesn’t really need my help after all.

I don’t know about you guys, but I for one find it symbolic that Geena Davis’s new show “Commander-in-Chief,” on which she plays the Vice President-would-be-President, is premiering tonight, the very same night that my eggs, also known as Geena1, are making their way to Fertilization Central. I have spoken with the coordinator at my bank, Sperm Lady2, and she has assured me of a Thursday delivery; I have spoken with Peggy at the clinic, and she has instructed me about whom to call in the event of a positive OPK in order to guarantee a Saturday or Sunday insem; and I have spoken to my body, which, at this time, seems to be operating on schedule and in a normal fashion. My only dilemma is the sperm itself.

When I called to place the order for a vial of blue-eyed, blond-haired Czech sperm, Sperm Lady exclaimed, “I thought you wanted hazel eyes.” I replied that yes, I did, but at the moment I could not explain why I had picked blue-eyed Czech Man because I left my Sperm-o-File at home. She gave me the numbers of two hazel-eyed donors who have, and I quote, “crazy sperm.” I asked if that meant they were successful, and she practically shouted YES! I’m pretty sure I have profiles for the Hazel Men at home, and for all I know they are on my top 5 list, so as soon as I get home this afternoon, in the 18 minutes I have between work and grad class, I will consult my file and make a decision. I know it would be simple to stick with Czech Guy, but I just don’t think I should ignore “crazy sperm.”

1 Geena is now officially a plural noun
2 Her real name. Honest.

Today I called my clinic to find out when I would need to order my sperm, what number I would need to call with my OPK surge, etc. The woman with the answers is Peggy, and Peggy and I have talked several times before, but today Peggy was on another line so I got her voicemail. I listened carefully to her rather long message and then waited for the beep. There was no beep. There was a long series of instructions involving pressing this number or that depending on what you wanted to do: “If you’d like to leave a message, press 2. If you’d like to speak to the operator, press 0. If you’d like to audition for American Idol, press 88876897.” And so on. By the time all of the options had been recited, I had forgotten which number to press to leave a message. Two sounded vaguely familiar, so I pressed it, but by now too much time had passed and my call was back in the clinic’s phone system. Two had become an extension, and thank you very much, but I did not want to speak with Janet. So I pressed zero. The same operator answered, and I explained briefly that I had pushed the wrong button and that I still needed to speak with Peggy. Again, I got Peggy’s voicemail, and this time I was ready. I pressed two at the appropriate time and a voice said, “Leave your message after the tone [about time!] and then press pound.” I left my message and all my many questions, and as soon as I had finished speaking I pressed END. DAMN! I had forgotten to press pound! So I called the main number again. Thank God another operator answered. I asked for Peggy. I got her voicemail. I left a message. I pressed pound.

Twenty minutes later Peggy called back. She had gotten, not one, but three messages from me. The first contained no words, only static, but it is a safe assumption that it was my static. Peggy is nice and patient and did not even laugh at my technological idiocy and I am very grateful to have a nurse who is nice and patient, so I’m really glad that first message was just static and NOT what was going through my head at the time. She would have understood, though. She’s the one who called in my Clomid prescription!

There’s a Cheryl Wheeler song called “Is it peace or is it Prozac?” I find myself asking a similar question this morning: Is it Clomid, or am I a bitch? When I took Clomid before I started having odd dreams, and then I was pregnant and my dreams turned downright bizarre. I started a new round of Clomid yesterday, and last night I dreamed that I paid two kids–big strapping boys from my 4th period class–to beat up a woman that I work with, a really obnoxious woman who annoys me even on Fridays and holidays and days when I am not taking Clomid. It was a really vivid dream, and I remember feeling extremely satisfied when I saw the results of the ass-kicking in the dream. They really gave me my money’s worth, let me tell you. I slept like a baby and woke up quite happy. I am slightly alarmed by the dream and my resulting happy feeling, because I am a nonviolent pacifist who cringes at the sight of someone causing pain to another living thing. I would never beat someone up, or pay someone to do it for me. Of course, the last time I took Clomid I wanted to blow up the Black and Decker man because he wouldn’t give me a refund.

Yeah…it’s definitely the Clomid.

According to my Fertility Friend BBT chart, I should begin a new cycle today or tomorrow. That means in about two weeks I’ll be inseminating for the first time since July. I am excited and terrified. If life had a fast-forward button I would use it today. Uncertainty is a bitch. So is PMS. And cramps. And fertility charting. But without all of this, no egg, no pregnancy, no baby. It’s like riding a raucous roller coaster blindfolded while clutching a big box of Kotex, a vial of sperm, a BBT thermometer, and a calendar to cross off the days, and you never know how long the ride is going to last. Bitchin’, huh?

So I’m climbing aboard. I hope it turns out to be a nine month-long ride.

Well, I’ve done it again. It’s been almost a month since I’ve been here. Not that I haven’t had plenty to talk about, mind you, and maybe that’s the problem–there’s been too much to talk about. It’s hard to know where to begin. I’ll just start at the beginning. Worked for Julie Andrews and all those little Von Trapp children, didn’t it?

I’ll try to make this short and sweet:

Remember Joey and Geena? You know, my egg and her 30 million potential cellular soulmates who rendezvoused on July 2? Apparently there was some chemistry there, because they hooked up and started making a fetus–I got a positive home pregnancy test 16 days after insemination. But they must have had a falling out, because about 10 days later I had an early miscarriage. In between there was a series of low non-doubling betas (for the non-TTCers out there, that basically means the hormone necessary for a healthy, thriving fetus was not being produced fast enough, and there was a shortage of it from the start), as well as some nasty business with my former fertility clinic, the NORTH CAROLINA CENTER FOR REPRODUCTIVE MEDICINE. (When I write the letter complaining about the unprofessionalism and inhumanity I encountered at this place I will post it for all to see.) I’m happy to report that I have a new doctor and plans to try again in the next few weeks. Hopefully all is well with Geena the Egg(s), but we’ve said our farewells to Joey. You know, three strikes and all. There is new sperm, but it doesn’t have a name, per se. So far I’m referring to it as “Czech Guy.” Stay tuned.

Needless to say, the “I’m pregnant. No wait, I’m not pregnant” saga occupied a lot of my time and energy. Disappointment, sadness, anger (thanks to the clinic), and general physical discomfort can take a lot out of a girl. I spent a great deal of time on the couch reading and staring at the television. Oh yeah, and eating Sweet 16 chocolate doughnuts. There were a lot of doughnuts. Fortunately I watched and read some decent things, and even listened to some good music. I’m now in love with Coldplay’s new CD, as well as everything Jack Johnson has ever recorded. I re-read the entire Harry Potter series while waiting for a borrowed copy of The Half Blood Prince (which I read in less than 24 hours.) I also read The Mermaid Chair, The True and Outstanding Adventures of the Hunt Sisters, The Solace of Leaving Early, The Obituary Writer, The Color of Light, and the first few chapters of both Ya-Yas in Bloom and Kate Vaiden. I also watched (or in some cases, re-watched) “National Treasure,” “In Good Company,” “City Slickers,” “The First Wives Club,” “Notting Hill,” “Steel Magnolias,” “Racing Stripes,” “Miss Congeniality 2,” “Ocean’s Twelve,” “Frequency,” and about a gazillion re-runs of “Friends” and “Will and Grace.”

But even though I felt like my weeklong slug-a-thon was the right thing to do for my body (and probably my mind as well), I can only be a slug for so long. When I finally started to feel like a real person again I escaped my house, the couch, the TV, and yes, the computer. I thought a lot about all the blog posts I could have written, but I never wrote them. I just wasn’t ready to talk about any of this until now, and while there were normal things I could have written about, I couldn’t seem to get it done. I had writer’s block, which is just a simple way of saying “I have to process these many words in my head before they can become sentences so I can turn them into paragraphs, and processing takes time.” I think I’ve processed everything now, though, and it’s good to be back.

Note: This post was originally much longer and far more philosophical, but apparently when blogger.com schedules down time for maintenance purposes, there is no way to save what you have been typing for over an hour, thus causing all of your highly processed words, sentences and paragraphs to disappear. If only it were so simple to make the pounds I’ve gained from aforementioned lying around and eating doughnuts vanish from my ass….

It’s all up to nature now. The date began at 10. Only time will tell if it will result in a long term relationship.

I must say that I’m pleased with yesterday’s Geena Davis allusion, because today I saw an ad on TV for a new show in the fall lineup about a WOMAN PRESIDENT, and the Commander-in-Chief is being played by none other than Geena Davis. Again, just the kind of energy I’m looking for. In an egg.

“…you’re open 24-7-365, but there aren’t any doctors in today?”

Yes, friends, this is the gist of the conversation I had earlier today with the lead nurse at my fertility clinic. My OPK was vividly positive at 1:30 this afternoon; at 1:40 I called to set up my insemination appointment for later this evening, only to find that all the doctors had already left for the day. She scheuduled me for 10 a.m. tomorrow and assured me it would be fine, contrary to my hormone- and one-damn-crisis-after-another-induced panic. I’m entitled to panic: I WILL ovulate today; I always ovulate on the day of the positive OPK. Let’s hope Nurse No-Worries is right.

Now the customary two-week-wait (2WW as it’s called in Fertility Land) and all the neuroses it contains is being upstaged by the roller coaster ride known as “I Hope Tomorrow at 10 is Not Too Late.” I can only hope that my body and its new friend Clomid got together and produced at least two eggs, and I can only hope that they are strong, determined eggs who hang around as long as it takes the Joey the Sperm to get to where they are. I hope my eggs are a cross between Thelma and Louise and that other Geena Davis character from “The Long Kiss Goodnight” who refuses to die even after being shot, stabbed, set on fire, held under water for several minutes at a time, locked in a meat freezer, and blown up by an oil tanker. That’s the kind of energy I’m looking for today.

…and I’m afraid I’m gonna blow. Well, not anymore. I think the danger has passed and the damage has been done, but I must say, I was worried about myself yesterday. Here’s what happened. About six months ago I was shopping with my family at an outlet mall in Charlotte, which is a 90 minute drive from my house. While there I purchased two giant batteries from the Black and Decker outlet for my POS Dust Buster. I was dubious, but the man behind the counter assured me that these batteries were intended for ALL B&D rechargeable products, so I bought them in hopes that my handy mini-vac would do more than sigh pitifully and pass out every time I tried to use it. Later that evening I set about trying to install one or both of them, but I could see no possible way that these missile-like objects were going to fit anywhere inside my vacuum. In fact, I never even took a single battery out of it’s packaging–after trying in vain to access the very small battery compartment, and after getting all sorts of cuts and scrapes on my hands from trying to force the alleged battery pack from its hard plastic casing, I threw the Dust Buster on the floor of the garage. The battery pack came flying out, and attached to it was a warning: Danger–do not remove this battery! There you go. In retrospect I should have sued the Black and Decker outlet. That was 5 months ago, and I have since purchased a new turbo powered Dust Buster that kicks ass.

Yesterday I had a class in Charlotte, so I knew I’d be passing by the outlet mall for the first time since December. I had planned ahead, making sure to put the Black and Decker bag in my car, and then I proceeded to drive to Charlotte on a quarter of a tank. I pulled into the outlet mall lot on fumes that evening. You see, I paid 25 bucks for the batteries, and I was planning to use the returned cash to fill up my gas tank. But when the cashier opened the bag the receipt was gone. Now this sack of sh–I mean, bag of batteries has been sitting on a shelf in my hall closet since late December, and I know I didn’t ditch the receipt, so God only knows what happened to it (yes, I searched my car and have since searched the hall closet–nada). The Black and Decker policy for returns with no receipts is to assign the customer a store credit. Well, I didn’t want store credit, I wanted fuel. I tried pointing out the wall-o-batteries just like mine right behind the cashier desk (”Look, that’s what I bought. See, they’re 25 dollars.”) but that didn’t work. Enter the store manager, who said, and I quote, “You just need to look around the store and find an exchange.” I didn’t like his tone. I explained that I didn’t want to look around the store. He explained their policy once again. I explained that he could keep his batteries and his store credit, and I slid the batteries across the counter toward him. As I left the store I had an Ally McBeal moment where I imagined what would have happened had those cylindrical little missile-looking batteries actually been missiles. The explosion rang in my head until I got to my car, and then I sat in the driver’s seat and cried.

I’m not normally like this. I’d like to blame the egg-growing hormones I’m taking in an effort to get pregnant on my last remaining vial of “Joey” sperm, but that’s only part of the problem. The water in my teapot runs much deeper, and you know what happens when you put too much water in a teapot. Let’s consider the following:

• Last Saturday my youngest sister graduated from high school. She’s 17. My other sister is 19 and will begin her second year of college in August. They are, each in her own way, the answers to every prayer I ever prayed as a kid. I was an only child for 11 years, and I didn’t want to be, and they were worth the wait. I have loved watching them grow up, loved sharing our similarities and discovering our unique differences. They are beautiful and funny and brilliant. But I have not always felt worthy of the answered prayers. There are so many things I’ve missed, so many hours I let slip by, and now that they’re both on the short end of the road to adulthood I feel the weight of those lost opportunities in a way I never have before. My rational mind reminds me that there’s nothing to be done about the past. My heart hopes the future is full of new possibilities.

• On Wednesday I attended a funeral service for the five-month old granddaughter of one of my dearest friends. The baby, Alice, was recently diagnosed with what we all believed was a reparable heart defect, but last Wednesday her little heart just stopped beating. Both of her parents are from my town so they brought her home to the church where they both grew up to bury her. The sanctuary was so full that people were standing two deep along the outer walls. My friend, with tears streaming down her face, kept reaching up to wipe her weeping husband’s cheeks. I’m not sure what was harder–mourning the loss of an infant or watching my friend suffer. It was a difficult day.

• Sometime late next week I will use up the last of the sperm I purchased back in April. If this attempt doesn’t result in pregnancy I will be back to square one, and with considerably less money than when I started this process. That’s not to say I won’t keep trying, but I was painfully naive to think it would all work out on the first round. Now the clinic is talking drugs and ultrasound to make sure I’m actually producing eggs, a possibility which had never occurred to me. Why is it that the only people who get pregnant quickly are the ones fooling around in the backseats of old cars?

Needless to say, the water has been rising all week. Who knew that the manager of a Black and Decker outlet would be the boiling point for me? I am happy to say, however, that the long drive home did improve. After talking with a few pals who cheered me up a bit, I called an old friend with whom I normally only communicate via email. When she found out I was trying to have a baby she insisted that I call her so we could properly catch up, but when I called yesterday she wasn’t at home. Her husband, whom I’ve never met or spoken to at all, was quite possibly the nicest man I’ve ever had a phone conversation with, so genuine and friendly was our brief chat. No doubt he was just practicing the Southern Way, but he spoke to me as if we’d known each other for years. He ended the call with, “You take care now, and we’ll look forward to seeing you soon.” I was almost glad my friend hadn’t been home.

Later I put in a mix CD I’d made for a road trip a few summers ago. Songs I’d forgotten existed came pouring out of my speakers, songs I love and enjoy singing very loudly with the windows down and the sunroof open. (Note to Jen: I must add to my favorite songs list “9 to 5″ by Dolly Parton.) And while I was delivering a particularly energetic rendition of “You Make Me Feel Like Dancing,” an 18-wheeler passed me, and there in the open driver’s side window on the lap of a huge bearded trucker was a tiny miniature pinscher, its little head bobbing happily in the wind. It was one of the cutest things I’ve seen in a long time.

Today is a better day. I’ve been taking a lot of deep breaths. I’ve been meditating on my ovaries, sending them positive messages about making lots of eggs. I’ve been listening to fun music and watching the birds feed in my yard. Today my friend who lost her granddaughter is on her way to the beach, and I can think of no better place to begin the healing process. Next week I think I’ll go find a sister or two to hang out with, and hopefully that last vial of sperm will meet an egg and make a baby. But right now I’m going to go vacuum my kitchen with the Dust Buster that actually works and try not to think too much about how I basically gave Black and Decker 25 bucks yesterday and nearly sent myself over the edge. After all, my missile fantasy just may be worth that much.

I haven’t even made it through one full week since my last insemination, and already I’m wondering just how “early” that First Response Early Result HPT packaging means. I know it would be crazy of me to test now, but there’s no escaping the thoughts of temptation. So I’ve been thinking of ways to preoccupy myself. Here are a few activities that have real potential:

1. Have your husband, partner, boyfriend, girlfriend, mother, sister, father, brother, neighbor, water meter reader, or postman hide your home pregnancy tests (because surely you have more than one lying around) in really obscure places about your house and yard, and then spend the rest of the day looking for them. After all, how long has it been since you’ve participated in an Easter egg hung? It will be good practice for hunting eggs with your future child. When you’ve found them all (because surely you’ve purchased several of each brand and from varying price ranges), engage your husband, partner, boyfriend, girlfriend, mother, sister, father, brother, neighbor, water meter reader, or postman in a nice game of Pick-up Sticks. Again, more practice.

2. Sit in the warm June sun and read a good book until you are no longer thinking about peeing on a stick, or until the sun goes down, whichever comes first. FYI, calendula gel is excellent for sunburn due to overexposure. It can be purchased at your local health food store. Apply it liberally to sunburned areas. This particular diversion should not be used for several days in a row.

3. Practice a seated or reclined yoga meditation. Meditate for hours if necessary, but avoid doing a reclined meditation on a deck or porch that can be viewed by neighbors and passing cars. These people may not understand what you are up to and may be tempted to run over to you and see if you are okay, or, in extreme situations (96 degree heat, for instance), assume that you’ve experienced heat stroke and call 911.

4. Play hours and hours of Internet Scrabble. I’m starting to get an elevated sense of my Scrabble-playing abilities, so if anyone would like to email me a challenge, please feel free to do so.

5. Spend hours adding bells and whistles to your blog. Better yet, spend hours reading other people’s blogs.

6. Clean every inch of your house. Twice. More if necessary. Be sure to engage obscure cleaning tools, like lint rollers and ceiling fan dusters, and take this opportunity to find out exactly what those strange attachements on the vacuum cleaner do.

On that note, I’d best go vacuum my carpet. The telltale vacuum lines have faded, so it must be dirty. Right? Right.

Since school isn’t officially over yet, and since I haven’t yet had to slap anyone for making insidious comments about my career and/or salary, I thought I’d post a few things that have made me laugh out loud this week.

1. Since my first insemination didn’t take (for those of you just tuning in, please read the very brief mention of this “project” in yesterday’s post; I’ll address this issue at greater length in the near future), the lead nurse at my fertility clinic gave me some suggestions of things to do in order to get the timing right next time and make sure the sperm are waiting for the egg as she makes her arrival. Upon hearing this information, my friend Kate sent the following reply:

Good advice from the veteran OB-GYN nurses. It’s only right that the sperm should have to wait for the egg. It’s traditional. The sperm is all ready, waiting in the den watching football on TV while the egg is staring into her closet saying, “I don’t have a thing to wear to this shindig.” The sperm calls out from the den, “Honey, just wear your lumen. It’s time to rock ‘n roll!”

2. The school system for which I work has implemented an “Employee of the Month” program. This month’s recipient…well, read for yourself. There will be a prize for the person who can identify the irony in the following news release:

“An advocate for children.” That’s how co-workers describe Lettace Lindsey, a school nutrition assistant who was named Guilford County Schools’ Employee of the Month for June 2005. Lindsey serves lunch to students, most of whom she knows by name, at Alderman Elementary.

3. And finally, I discovered this link on a fellow blogger’s most excellent website. I must warn you–eating and drinking while perusing this site are NOT recommended. Also, pee first. And if you have skittish pets, put them in another room–you may frighten them.

Baby’s Named a Bad, Bad Thing

Now I have to go back to work (read: stare sternly at my freshmen English scholars in an effort to make sure they don’t communicate with one another during their state end-of-course tests, thereby rendering the 120 minute testing session “misadministered”).

Dear Loyal Readers (all 2 of you),

When I started this blog I fully intended to post weekly, and for a while I didn’t fare too badly. But then May happened. Whew. Public school employees have no discernible lives during the month of May. In theory it should be a happy time: school is ending, the weather is gorgeous, “sumer is y cumen in,” yada yada yada. Remarkably, however, it’s the second most stressful time of the school year for me. The other is December, by the way, but that’s another story. In May, all those things that should be “happy in theory” make me crazy. The end of the school year incites acute onset psychosis in most of my students. Gorgeous weather causes extreme irritability for those who are inside and can’t enjoy it. The approach of summer causes scores of people to say things like, “You have the best job,” and, “You are so lucky to have so much vacation,” and, “I wish I could get paid to sit around all summer.” (I’d like to see one of those people DO my job, by the way. I teach high school freshmen who think that it’s cute to put rotten raw eggs in the lockers the day before finals, and that farting aloud in class is entertainment at its best–and I don’t actually get paid in the summer…but I digress) .

And as if the normal stresses of May aren’t enough, I added some extra stress of my own. Remember the “really huge life-altering” thing I was saving up for a few posts back? Well, it’s becoming a reality. Specifically speaking, it’s hopefully becoming a fetus in the very near future. Yep, that’s right. I’m trying to conceive a baby. In a clinic. With frozen sperm affectionately known as Joey. So I’ve been a tad preoccupied with my own fertility. Quite the complicated science, what with measuring basal body temperature, checking the position of the cervix, examining cervical fluid, peeing on sticks, and having a very long, very thin tube inserted into–well, that’s really enough about that.

And therein lies the point of this post: I’ve thought about posting. Really, I have. But given my level of stress and my general state of mind, I didn’t feel that my posts would be, well, appropriate. There would have been, shall we say, “off color language,” for example. There were days in the past month, in fact, when the only word I wanted to say was F–oops, that’s just what I was trying to avoid! And who among [the two of] you wants to hear about my cervical mucus? That’s what I thought. So forgive my absence. I’m cleaning the cobwebs out of my “small corner.” And who knows, the first new post may well be the story of what happens when one too many people tells me how lucky I am to be a teacher.

Ever notice how a little extra money in the bank causes a girl to do some weird shit? Yeah.

So I have this pair of jeans that I got from the Eddie Bauer outlet, and they don’t fit. My plan is to exchange them for something colorful and summer-y. As it turns out, the new EB shorts line is quite colorful and summer-y, and we can all have a pair or two for just $35 a pop. (GASP! $35 for one pair of shorts! Let’s get two!) I picked orange and green (I’m sure the colors were named something much prettier, like “daylily” and “magnolia leaf,” because color identification is just another shameless marketing attack on the hopeless metaphoric). It is here that I must point out the dollar amount I was receiving in the jeans exchange: $19.99. Of course, I had already picked out a “colorful and summer-y” on-sale shirt that was a fairly even trade. But what self-respecting shopper can enter her favorite store without browsing? Enter the shorts. They were just the right length–none of that ass-crack thong-revealing shorter-than-my-underwear business. They came with cute little matching Girl Scout style belts in complementary spring colors. They made me think of July and cold beer and eating out at the beach. Most importantly, they slenderized my ass, and that, my friends, is the single-most significant factor when shopping for anything that is to be worn at, below, or even remotely near the waist (”I’m sorry, but that backpack makes my butt look big. Do you have something I can strap to my head?”). I left the store with an $84 sales receipt in my hand. And a cold sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

This is the part where I defend myself, because later I’m going to seem like a real nutcase, and I’m only slightly so. You see, I did a bridal portrait shoot recently, and I had an extra wad of money in my possession. I’m saving it for something special (stay tuned…that’s a story for another blog), and it’s not shorts. But I’ve always been one to reward myself when I had extra cash–a new outfit, a pedicure, an extra-large pizza and a six-pack of Corona Light. Seventy bucks worth of shorts. You get the picture. But even as I put my shopping bag into my car and pulled away from the scene of the crime, I was having second thoughts. See, this thing I’m saving for–it’s HUGE. Life-altering. It’s a far cry from shorts that slenderize my butt. I drove around the shopping center parking lot three times. In my head, using my limited mathematical reasoning, I decided I could buy four or five pairs of Target brand shorts for what I paid at Eddie. Also in my head were the following random bits of information: last summer I wore the same two pairs of shorts, one gray and one khaki, which are perfectly acceptable “summer-y” colors, by the way; it is currently March, average temperature 60, and I do not need shorts at this time; I do not own anything that would remotely match “daylily.”

Within an hour I took the shorts back. I lied to the nice lady behind the counter, told her I found something I liked better elsewhere. Which is true, in a way. I found my brain. It was hiding behind my checkbook.

Note: the aforementioned shirt, which was the original jeans-exchange item, is hanging in my closet, and it is filled with colorful, summer-y flowers. :o)