Twisted Ovaries

My Five Things

So Jamie tagged me (and she's having a hard time, so go say hi to her) and really-I got nothing but acupuncture and "we're starting soon" stories, so I'll play along. 

Five things you probably didn't know about me:

1) I used to be in a Passion Play in Glen Rose, Texas, called "The Promise".  A Passion Play-despite the bodice ripping sound of the title-is what you call a play about the life of Christ.  This I did only because it was $50 a show and I was an actress.  Ironically, I was one of the few atheists along for the show, and I would quietly read my biological anthropology books in the dressing room while the others had a prayer circle.  What's even more ironic is that Glen Rose is full of a varient of religion called "Charismatics", which means that they think the spirit of God overtakes them and speaks through them and to them.  This meant that any blocking and staging would go out the window as, invariably, a charismatic extra would get it into their head that God was talking to them and would thus wander on or off stage with no provocation.  It was good money at the time, though, and more often than not a good laugh (albeit at the expense of a charismatic).

2) In college I also ran a paint ball field with my ex.  I was a judge.  I got to be a bossy scary bitch, which I like to think was practice for my current work.

3) I read Catcher in the Rye and thought: Eh.

4) When I stay in hotel rooms alone I always have to check the bathroom, the closets, and under the bed whenever I re-enter the room.  I always worry that monsters have somehow gotten into my room (I also worry that there are cameras watching me from the smoke detectors, but we'll address my paranoia another day and thank you so much, Dateline NBC.)  Someday, I will grow up, and when I do maybe I'll like Catcher in the Rye.

5) I was the fourth stand-in for Reese Witherspoon's first role in film, a part in a movie called The Man in the Moon.   I'm not really a fan of La Reese's (something to do with the chin) and I never for a moment thought that 5 people ahead of me would pass on a film role.  They didn't.  Ergo she's divorcing Ryan Phillipe and I'm wondering when the veruca in my foot will finally go away, as well as debate my cervical mucus on a daily basis.

Voila.  There's my five.

And on the IVF front, the cycle, she is scheduled to start 6 January.

Tastes Like Ass

So the period came on late yesterday afternoon, with the vengeance of 100,000 scorned Nicole Kidmans saying: SHE got a fucking Italian castle and all I got was a lousy pair of flats?

And?  The cramps came on with the intensity of 1,000 suns.  I was doubled over, literally.  But the acupuncturist gave me a bottle of Dang Gui to try, one capful three times a day.  You think it looks like ass, don't you?

Yeah. 

Guess what it tastes like.

If you guessed "ass", then I have "Infertility: The Interactive Take-Home Board Game" for you as a prize.  It even includes the new category called "All the People In My Life I Can't Go Near As They're Pregnant and I'm Emotionally Unstable".

It's a good game.

To be fair to the Dang Gui (which not only looks and tastes like ass, it also smells like it, too) after you drink it you feel immediately warm inside as goes down (probably because "Dang Gui" is Chinese for "we got your money and gave you water from Love Canal instead").  I'll check tonight to see if I'm glowing bright enough to be used safely as a night light.  I'll be doing a Statue of Liberty impression (or as Aidan's son refers to it as: "That guy with the book and torch") and holding up the bottle of Dang Gui to light the way to the tampon selection.  It'll be like a mini-buffet, only I'll limit my selections to "Super-Plus Absorbancy" and, for the nighttimes, "Super-Plus-Holy-Jesus-I'm-Not-Kidding", or what I call the Bichon Frise tampons because really-it's just like stuffing a small dog up there they're so big.

I could probably just Google Dang Gui and see what's in there.

Hang on.

OK, so Dang Gui is angelica (which makes no difference to me, unless you're talking about frangelica, in which case I'll go get a glass.)  Dang Gui is all about the menstrual flow and warm happy hormones, apparently.  And-ooh!-it's a cure for the plague, too, so hey-I'll be in good shape while the rest of the world dances with the black death. 

I do have to say that since the acupuncture started, my periods are different.  For a starter, my period is only lasting 4 days instead of the 5-6 it used to.  And it's a consistent flow the entire time, before it just turns off.  Poof.  Done.  Previously, I was looking at 5-6 days of period then wearing a pad just in case, as my period used to like to fuck with my head: We're done now!  HA HA!  FOOLED YOU!  There goes that pair of knickers young lady!  I do still suffer from blood clots, but it's not as prevalent as before (I still am amazed that acupuncturists want to talk about clots with me.  Previously it was something I reserved for talking to Statia about.  Now, both the adupuncturists-the male one and the female one-are all about talking clots.) 

And I have become a believer for other reasons-two weeks ago I turned up at the appointment hungover to fuck (what?  I'm not pregnant, or anything.  My treatment doesn't even start for another 6 weeks.  I'm clear to drink, and the RE agrees with me).  I thought I was going to die.  I had showered and everything but I still smelt of champagne, it was coming out of my pores, I swear it.  When I laid down on the table I had to rest one leg on the ground to keep the room from spinning.  The acupuncturist grinned, popped three needles in my ear, and boom!  Believe it or not, the room stopped spinning.  Then he put one in between my big toe and second toe and I nearly came off the table it hurt so bad-the needles have never, ever hurt and I swore like a sailor.

"That's your liver point," he explained calmly.  "It hurts so bad because your liver is busy ridding your body of toxins."

Oh sure.  Likely story.

So anyway, yet another acupuncturist post filled with bodily fluids, but seeing as I'm not yet cycling, what can you expect?

And the good news?  My depression is over.  Now, I just calmly look forward to it all.

Prepping For My Prom Date While I'm Still in Junior High

My period is on its way-last night Aidan cuddled me from behind, and when he threw his arm across my boob I nearly reached out and smacked him-not because I'm not that kind of girl, but because it hurt like hell.  That, combined with the fact that I am inhaling every carbohydrate within a 5 mile radius let me know that it's nearly here.

So I rang the clinic to make sure everything was still on track.

Said clinic did indeed make me feel like an idiot-You're ok, Vanessa?  You're still going to cycle in January, Vanessa.  You're ringing....why?

I was actually ringing because I wanted to know if I needed to get my meds early-they close over Christmas and we leave two days after Christmas for an 11 day holiday, so I just wanted to be sure.  They asked me to come in in a couple of weeks, at which point I'd party with the pharmacist and get the party pack of needles.  Once again, we will start a cycle.  And once again, half of my eggs will be donated to another woman, who will be coming off the list and receiving eggs.

I remember when I told them that I needed a short break (we were on a break!) between cycles, they tiptoed around it-Are you sure you want that much time off?  We have a donee.  She's ready.  Perhaps a bit disappointed at the short wait, though.

And I do feel bad about that-I know that in some areas, the wait can be up to three years for eggs.  I know she wants to start, and start now.  I think when you've waited so long, when your number gets called you want it to happen NOW.  But there is absolutely no way I could have cycled over the holidays, and I knew that.  I knew that personally I couldn't have done it.  It's better for me to wait.  So I feel bad for her, but in a "this is the way it has to be" kind of way.

So, since we're in the same boat, that means the donee has to wait, too.

I wonder what it's like to be her-to be on a list, to be always on some kind of standby.  I wonder what it's like to get a call from the hospital, to hear that they've made a match, you wouldn't believe it, and the person whose eggs you'll get is a great responder, you'll have plenty to work with.  I wonder what goes through her head, and if she wonders what kind of person I am-does she worry that I run a whorehouse out of the back bedroom?  Does she stress that I may be the recreational crack user?  Does she think: God, I hope she's not really ugly.  If she is, I'll just say our child gets it from his side.  Or does she maybe not think about all of that?  Dunno.  If it were me, I'd wonder about her all the time, but then I'm pretty neurotic under non-IF circumstances, IF would send me into Woody Allen proportions.   

I am always aware of the other woman during the cycle.  The entire time I downreg and stim, I think about her.  I also definitely think about her during the retrieval, up until they tell me the egg count and how many each of us get (if there's an odd number, I get the extra egg.)  Then I don't think about her anymore, except to wish up a prayer to whatever god I have to hand that day, and wish her every possible hope of success and joy.  We're both on our own then, albeit still tethered by this thing called IVF, and this element called hope.

This is, also, the last time I'll be allowed to donate eggs.  Donations here cover the cost of the cycle (including drugs), so except for my FET (transfer and meds) and the cost of transfers (plus any tests Aidan has to have) we've gotten away with only having to pay out about £2000 for two cycles.  I do think I have one more cycle in me, should this one and any FETs after it fail.  As a couple, I think we can swing paying for one more fresh cycle, and then emotionally, physically, and mentally, we will be done.

Let's hope it doesn't get to that stage.

Here's to that other woman, looking at the Christmas decorations and thinking about January, too.

Infertile? Feeling Frustrated and Alone? Well Grab That Passport!

Ladies! 

Still infertile?  STILL?  You know, because infertility is like a zit on the ass of Gymboree?  Want the fetal equivalent of a half-used tube of Clearasil?  Because I have the answers for you!  I call it Infertile No More!

Thanks to my lovely assistant Statia (I'll take it from here, you go sit down. Here's some Halloween candy, too.), I was sent a link.  A link which really takes the "Just relax" adage in infertility and cranks it up about 1.21 jigawatts.  A link in which life wants you to not only need to bend over and grab your ankles, but you have to wear a plastic bag over your head as life fantasizes it's really banging Angelina Jolie. 

Ready?

OK-the title of the article* is:

Trying to get pregnant?  Book a procreation vacation

(I KNOW.  It's like the Conjunction Junction for uteruses!)

Seriously, it totally works.  See, Lucinda (you know Lucinda, right?  LUCINDA?  The smug pregnant in the article?) drank sea moss in the Bahamas and BAM!  Bun in the oven.  I mean, never mind that on holiday we all tend to have a lot more sex anyway, nooooooo.  It was the sea moss she had on her purpose bought Procreation Vacation that did it.  Definitely.   And I mean-poor Lucinda.  Poor, poor, pooooooooor Lucinda.  She had been trying for two whole months to get pregnant before booking the vacation.  Two whole months.

*Rips microphone off to swear a lot.*

*Continues grumbling under breath, something about "fucking cow" and "I'm going on 5 years of treatments"*.

*Smiles and puts microphone back on.*

Some of these vacations even help with intimacy issues.  So, like, if you weren't sure which hole the dick went in, they'll straighten it all out for you (ouch!) and help you ease your way to a home full of screaming babies.  You can also book the "Conception Cruise", where for a mere US $1800 you get to....ride a boat.  A boat owned by a Singapore sex guru.  Because as far as fertility symbols go, Kokopelli has NOTHING on a boat owned by a Dr. Ruth-like Singaporean. 

I mean, I only took regular vacations this year.  Look how badly I fucked up!  We went to the Cook Islands, New Zealand, Greece, Wales and Scotland, all of which are very relaxing, but we weren't drinking the sea moss!  We didn't have intimacy counselors!  We didn't get instruction for our conception options, we just drank a lot of white wine, shagged a lot, and planned on the next IVF cycle.  We could've paid 3 times what we did and truly demonstrated our commitment to having a baby.

So yeah.  What are you women doing?  Don't you know it's about the candles and the cuddling?  What, you thought it was all about temperatures and needles?  Don't you understand?  Don't you care about a Singaporean Sex Boat?  Where is the commitment?  We're all doing it wrong!  Just relax!  It's meant to be!  When it happens it happens!  I know this one woman, who when she started adoption proceedings, she got pregnant!  When God closes a door....And it's all about PROCREATION VACATIONS.

Procreation vacations...

Fucking hell.

I'd rather give Ronald McDonald a blow job.

*Idiotic waste of space and insulting article that preys on the tender and painful hopes of women here.

Drinking the Water

So we went to a wedding last weekend.  Said wedding was of a man who's one of my closest friends, but I didn't know a single other person at the wedding besides Aidan.  Said wedding was in the States. 

Thus we packed our bags, grabbed our passports, and flew to the States.  The flight over was a whole new version of hell that we'd never before encountered, but we made it.  We burned up a lot of money shopping (and most conveniently, a flight from the Carribbean landed just as ours did, so Customs ignored us and went for that flight.  This was good as each person is only allowed something ridiculous like $86 worth of goods per person, and we dropped that total amount at Kroger's alone).  We met a few fantastic people and I wore strappy shoes. 

It did strike me a number of times that I should be 15 weeks pregnant then, but, you know.  I'm not.

So this wedding?  It was in the South.  Now, I'm not having a go at the South because I spent most of my U.S. years in the South.  But the bride's family is very posh and well off, so this included the most feared element of the South-they were Southern, wealthy, and all about the family values.

In short?  More pregnant women and children than you can shake a stick at.

(Note: this does not mean I whipped a stick off the nearest Elm and went around waving it in the faces of children.  That's weird.)

The bride, whom we'd never met, did the seating arrangement.  She thought it would be a good idea to sit all the telecom people together at one table, since telephones can unite the world.  The truth is, although Aidan and I both work in telecom, we do have interests outside of our area of expertise.  Not so the chaps at this table.  The men?  Charisma bypasses, the lot of them.  Their wives?

All mothers.

All wanting to recount their labor experiences.

I shit you not.

I left the table and waited in the roast beef buffet line with Aidan, despite the fact that I'm a vegetarian and despite that fact that even when I was a meat eater, I never did of the roast beef.  I had to get away as Wife #2 recounted her second labor (out of 3) and it included "ridiculously easy labor" as well as "we have 3 already, I just can't stop getting pregnant!"

Aidan had to take my butter knife away from me as I idly started sawing at my own arteries about then.

So yeah.  Nice wedding.  My friend was deliriously happy. I had cute strappy shoes on. 

And fucking everybody is pregnant.

I should have my period in a week and a half.  At which point, the next period becomes the one that counts as we start the countdown for the next cycle.  I fluctuate between extreme optimism and extreme cynicism about our next treatment.  Maybe I should just drink the water, it seems to work for everyone else.