Small frightened mammal seeks women for good times, bludgeoning

Any of you ladies still looking for a mate?  In honor of Valentine's Day, I have exerted my most expert matchmaking skills to find the perfect match for you.

He's handsome.  He's organized.  And he's sensitive to boot.

Sometimes, I feel like a small, frightened mammal in the Mesozoic Era. But that mammal somehow managed to continue his line. Within the context of my  nature, I'll try to do the same.

See?

No fighting, ladies.  You can share — he's looking for 2-6 women of reproductive age.  He'll even pay for medical care during pregnancy "up to a reasonable amount."  That'll come in handy when you're having the 17 children he desires.  ("Why 17? I don't know. It just seems like a good number to have. I didn't say this earlier in the web-site because I didn't want to scare you away right off the bat.")

Speaking of bats, if the competition between wives for this ferocious hunk gets too fierce, don't worry: you can always just whale on the bitches:

Everyone in the household would keep a baseball bat under their bed to deal with possible burglars, intruders, and trespassers.

Convenient, no?

All this and he's intensely erotic...and circumcised.

All I can say is thank God I'm infertile.  And nearsighted. 

Eggs. Over. Easy.

Today getupgrrl goes for retrieval on her first IVF.

I believe she began the process with high hopes — we all do, or we wouldn't be able to do it at all. But it's been a turbulent, disappointing cycle for her, and while most of us breathe a sigh of relief upon making it to trigger, for her the sickening uncertainty persists.

It seems terribly wrong that someone so brilliant, big-hearted, and brave should have to endure still more sadness and anxiety. Grrl, I hope the decisions you have to make in the next few days are easy ones, felicitous ones, decisions made in excitement and joy instead of in despair.

And I hope they bring you exactly what you desire. Listen, I know the universe isn't any too interested in what I want — all right, already — but I want that for you, quite desperately.

That and a really good high during retrieval and afterward. I know that's not too much to ask.

Mother love

Mindy wrote:

I want to move in and listen to your stories, and I promise not to talk about my children. In fact, be warned before you click on my homepage that my blog is entirely about the kids and that you will likely hate me to the hilt before you manage to find the Back button and navigate off the page again...

Incorrect!

See, I like kids. I'm crazy about kids. I like mothers. And I especially like warm, perceptive, funny, wackaloon mothers.

I'm aware that many infertile women can't stand to be around attractive small children or fulfilled parents — it only emphasizes the lack in their own lives. I know it's hard to be reminded of what you don't have and may never achieve. If nothing else taught me that, the time I sat next to a new mother and her six-week-old infant while waiting to confirm the demise of my second pregnancy surely did.

But generally I don't suffer from that. I don't see everything through the lens of my own disappointments. Okay, almost everything, since I find I'm quite capable of relating anything to infertility. (Go on, try me.) But not that.

If there were a limited amount of fertility in the world, I might take other people's successes more to heart. If your having kids meant that I couldn't, yes, hilt-hating might well be in order. But my situation is entirely my own. No one else can resolve it, and no one's to blame for it. (Not even Ron Mitchell*, who gave me chlamydia in 1991 after meticulously palpating my breasts like he was looking for lumps.) So why should I begrudge you your joy in your kids, particularly when I want the same for myself one day?

If I thought I had no more options, I might feel different. Since I'm truly still hopeful, I can look at your kids and feel happy for you. Envious, yes, but happy.

...Having said that, let me also say that I too went through years of TTC and hearbreak and failed pregnancy, only to spend weeks by the bedside of a newborn on life-support, so I am not a blithely insensitive visitor. I wept at your stories, and spoke about our loss for the first time right here, so I feel a special affinity with the women who are supporting each other so gloriously here. I would be honored if you would let me visit and listen and learn.

Mindy, I'm so sorry for your loss.

All that I've written above sounds very gracious. But I'm really not so noble. While I like mothers in general, I confess I am biased: I really, really like mothers who've had to work hard to get there.

Welcome.
_______________
* Why, yes, that is his real name.

At least I know

Cyn asked:

Maybe it's just me, and Julie and the other ladies, tell me if I'm wrong...but isn't it MORE frustrating when these ART things go wrong (or just go SLPAT!) when you KNOW your body can get pregnant (whether or not you stay that way) so why the hell it isn't working now?

Well...I don't know.

Is it more frustrating to endure the disappointment of bad cycle after bad cycle when I know I can get pregnant? For me, nah. I now know my body can do part of its job, with one hell of a lot of help, and that may in fact be what motivates me to continue. If I hadn't gotten pregnant on my first two IVF cycles, I don't think I'd still be pursuing ART now — my past pregnancies are more inspiring than frustrating. Although they could well have been flukes, I prefer to see them as proof that perseverance may yet pay off.

At least you know you can get pregnant. I hear this a lot. And it's true. I do know that. I don't yet know that I can conclude a pregnancy with a healthy infant at the end, but I've already had more encouraging outcomes than many infertile women ever know. It's what keeps me going — the deep desire to feel that bone-deep happiness again, and the knowledge that I still have a chance at it.

I'd love to hear what the rest of you say. We all wear our hair shirts differently, after all. (I like mine with a V-neck, please, to showcase my rather opulent rack, and nipped in at the waist so you can see that despite all odds, I still actually have one.)

My work here is done.

That's it. I'm retiring. I have accomplished something.

I want to post a couple of messages I got last night.

First, from someone on her third miscarriage:

Hi Julie — just wanted to thank you for your posts in April of last year regarding your experiences with ectopic pregnancy and Methotrexate.  It's 2:30 AM and I'm sitting at the computer trying to determine why the cramps/abdominal pain are absolutely killing me when my doctor told me I'd feel "some abdominal discomfort."  They haven't prescribed me any pain meds suggesting I take "extra strength Tylenol" (and I guess I can self-medicate by chewing on a leather belt).

Although I'm sorry you went through such agony it is comforting to me to know that SOMEONE else is having the same bad experience I am.  I was seriously beginning to think I was the biggest wimp in the world when it comes to pain.

Of course she's not a wimp; she's a brave woman going through an almost intolerable ordeal. Plus, her doctors are sadistic jackasses.

Next came this one, which rendered me uncharacteristically speechless:

My sister wishes me to extend her heartfelt gratitude for your journal. Reading your stories...and the ones found through links...finally pushed me into agreeing to donate my eggs for her. [My sister], after battling breast cancer as a teen, had two miscarriages and a stillborn baby girl. All three pregnancies were positive for cystic fibrosis. [She] and I aren't genetic sisters — just steps — and I'm clear for all testable conditions.

I've had some ethical objections to fertility treatments — you've probably heard all of them before. Mostly I felt that infertility treatments and issues were a huge crock invented by the medical establishment. (I have issues with doctors.) I've been surprised to see the diversity of women experiencing infertility, and heartbroken to read the stories of those who couldn't afford in the first place or ran out of money halfway through treatments. We talk about sacrificing for your kids...I can't think of anything more honorable than trying everything, with enormous financial and emotional cost, in order to bring those children into the world.

[...]

I'm just glad that you helped me decide to help my sister.

Kickass.

I hope all of you will keep on talking — those with blogs, those without, those who post on message boards, those who go to Resolve meetings. All of a sudden I believe it really matters.

This morning's stream of consciousness

Okay. I'm going to call them. First I was going to do it on Monday, but I didn't want to sound too eager. On Tuesday I just didn't, no reason. On Wednesday I was going to do it early so that I could leave a message and not have to endure human contact of any kind, but I waited too late. Thursday I thought, Enh, what's one more day? And here we are on Friday. I'm going to call any minute now. I am.

But first I will sing a little song. You can't stop the music...nobody can stop the music!...la la la la la, la la la la la, la la la la la, 'cause it's ea-si-er to do! Damn those Village People. That movie was like a fever dream. No, I've had more coherent fever dreams. Worth it, though, for the deathless line, "Leathermen don't get nervous. Leathermen don't get nervous." And for the haunting sight of a coked-up Steve Guttenberg being hauled through Times Square on roller skates, unconvincingly grooving to his breadbox-sized Walkman. Good times. Good times.

I am really good at drowning out my brain. I'm going to call. I am! Oh, but first I need to burrow into the bathroom vanity so I'll know how many amps I have left from last cycle. And Paul's in the bathroom where I've stored it. It's a little weird. He seldom uses the master bath. (I like to say that like an English butler would in a thirties comedy. Mawstah bawth. I am quite possibly the most annoying woman on the planet.) Even in the middle of the night, he walks the extra ten feet to the second bath instead of stumbling two steps to the near one. Occasionally I ask him why he does this, because his toileting habits are a matter of intense interest to me. "I don't want to wake you up," he answers. From this I infer that I do wake him when I use the near bathroom in the wee hours. (Wee hours! Bathroom! Ahahahaha. Oh.) And yet...and yet...I do not care. The Japanese call it a benjo when they're being crude. Benjo. That's a nice name for a kid. I will put it on the list.

List. List. Make a list of what you need to tell the nurse. Follistim. Needles. A sharps container. Here is why I am stupid. I am stupid because I'm going to order from Freedom Drug this time instead of ivfmeds.com, despite the fact that the medication is much cheaper when ordered from a slightly dubious source located somewhere near the ass-end of Spain. Why? Because they ship needles. Because delivery is quicker. And because this cycle I'm feeling uncharacteristically superstitious. See, the last couple of cycles with drugs from ivfmeds.com went totally yard sale — dominant follicle, early ovulation. And while I'm sure the drugs they sell are the same as the ones sold by U.S. pharmacies, they're just different enough to freak me out. They come under a different name, which is not a big deal; they come premixed, which throws off the ratio of powder to water that my clinic prescribes; and they have a big label on them that reads, "For intramuscular injection," when I do them subcutaneously. So. Not taking any chances this time. Screw you, Gibraltar, and your foundering economy, too. I know it is stupid but I'm not in the mood to second-guess this cycle.

If it ever actually gets underway. I'm going to call in a minute. Paul's out of the bathroom but now he's on the phone. Thank you, baby Jesus.

Baby. Jesus. I'll never get one if I drag my sacrilegious ass like this. I am so goddamned reluctant to do this last IUI. Mostly I just don't want to go to that clinic again and stare at the hideous wallpaper border in the waiting room. Or glare at the poster titled, "Ultrasonography in Infertility Treatment and Early Pregnancy" while a cool breeze wafts across my unclothed undercarriage. Or be falsely breezy and cheerful as I'm led back to an examination room for the googolplexth time.

Googolplexth. Gosh. That's fun to say.

Today is cycle day 21. I know I ovulated late this month, so I don't expect my period for at least another week and a half. Even if it came tomorrow, I'd still have enough meds to carry me through until a new shipment arrived; I think I have at least 10 amps left from last time. ("Amps" is an anagram for "spam.") I can put this off for another few days.

Shut up, Julie. Call them, you jackass.

You know, it's funny: I don't remember their number. There was a time when I was calling them almost every day. But I am serious now about calling. I will look up the number thanks to the magic of the Internet. Hey, my clinic redesigned its site while I wasn't looking. The stunning originality! They used a picture of an egg being crowded by sperm. Why don't any of these sites use pictures we infertile people are more familiar with? An exhausted-looking woman fighting back tears. A grim-faced man furiously working to fill a specimen cup. An artful representation of the tool used to aspirate follicles during retrieval. Nooooo. We get a healthy-looking egg being successfully fertilized by a single sperm, with dozens of extras just clamoring to get in on the game. Somehow it just doesn't speak to me, you know?

No more excuses. I am calling them. I have the number. I know how many amps I need. The phone's not busy. I'm calling.

Oh, wait, look. Here comes the cat!

My favorite year

A year ago today I had my first egg retrieval.

I'd prepared myself to be a fit sacrifice: manicure, pedicure, careful depilation, the works.  Because the weather was bad and we didn't want to risk a delay, Paul and I had stayed overnight at a hotel near the hospital.  I wore my lucky fleece socks.  I was ready.

We were ready.  I wish I could capture the feeling of tenderness Paul and I shared.  We were careful with each other.  No, careful isn't the right word; that suggests fragility when in fact we felt strong.  Maybe reverent, maybe awed.  We knew this could be big.

Because this was before I became truly obsessed, I don't remember how many follicles I thought I had; I knew I didn't ask how many eggs we might expect.  Even then I had a pretty strong deterministic streak — we'd get what we got and move on.  But at that point Paul and I were still having sober but excited conversations about how many we'd transfer, and how we would handle subsequent frozen cycles if this cycle failed, as we reminded each other was likely.

But then we didn't understand how many frightening forms failure could take.  Although we read and signed the consent forms that warned of all the things that could go wrong — nothing retrieved, nothing fertilized, nothing survived to transfer, no pregnancy, miscarriage — we didn't give it a lot of thought.  We knew the most likely scenario was a garden-variety negative, and concentrated on preparing ourselves for that. 

Ah, the clean, close shave of Occam's Razor.

But we weren't thinking of failure as I lay gowned and tethered to an IV.  I took off my garish socks so that I could admire my pedicure — Essie's Scarlett O'Hara, my favorite, the kind of color you'd paint a motorcycle.  I annoyed Paul by singing Steely Dan.

I was in fine form.

When I was finally wheeled into the operating room, I was terrified — this was surgery — but composed.  I counted the spots that flecked the acoustical ceiling tiles and sang to myself as my follicles were aspirated.  It hurt despite the anaesthetic but I didn't care.  I could hear the conversation of the doctors ("Yeah, there's another one") and even felt tempted to participate ("Don't nick my aorta, okay?"), but, no, counted flecks and sang.

Paul busied himself filling a cup.  I assume he too was in fine form.

Afterward I was wheeled to the recovery room, where I was plied with juice I didn't want.  They wouldn't allow me to leave until I'd proven I could urinate, so I pounded several ounces of cranberry-flavored sugar water and waited for the inevitable urge.  While I waited, my doctor came in, patted my arm, and said, "Perfect stim.  We got ten mature eggs."

I peed like Secretariat, got dressed, and left in a fog of optimism and Versed.  We thought everything had gone beautifully.

A day later I was to learn that only one egg had fertilized.  Almost a year later I would learn that we hadn't, in fact, had ten mature eggs — we'd had only four.  Two weeks later I'd learn that I was pregnant.  And that's when I started my journal here.

You've come a long way, baby.

Note to self: Buy lottery ticket

Okay, still more proof that this is the February that does not suck:

Nurse: So how many vials of Follistim do you still have?
Julie: Nine.
Nurse: Okay, hold on a minute... [Nurse puts Julie on hold. Julie sings along with the Muzak, appreciating the rich irony of hearing Elvis Costello's "Radio, Radio" as performed by 1000 Strings]
Julie: ...And the radio is in the hands of such a lot of fools tryin' to anesthetize the way that you feel...
Nurse: Um, Julie?
Julie: [Clears throat] Yup!
Nurse: I just looked in the closet — we have ten amps of Follistim that will expire in April. You're welcome to have it.
Julie: Thanks! Oh, boy! Oh, boy! Oh, boy! [Remembers self, tries to act vaguely adult] I'd be happy to pay for it.
Nurse: No need. It would only go to waste otherwise.
Julie: [Vigorous hula of triumph] Great. Thanks! Now could you put Elvis back on, please? I need to have a word with him about The Juliet Letters.

The free amps won't be entirely sufficient. I'll need to order more at some point in the cycle. So what? At the moment I feel like the universe is smiling on me for at least these few brief days of the shortest month of the year.

Now if I know what's good for me I'll enter the Publisher's Clearing House sweepstakes, buy a Powerball ticket, audition for American Idol (flaming batons, check; spangled unitard, check), and hit Paul up for some one-sided oral sex. I'm feeling that lucky.

What do I know about me?

Have you heard the PSAs Planned Parenthood runs on the radio?

You hear a lot of different women's voices asking, "What do I know about me?"

"I know I'm ready." "I know I'm not ready." "I know I have choices." "I know my body." "I know I probably shouldn't be hittin' it doggie-style with that chancre-sporting Merchant Marine."

Okay, I made that one up.

The only thing I write about here is infertility. That's not because it's all I think about. I do have other interests — I simply discuss them elsewhere. I've tried to keep this journal focused, since it's my only real outlet for the powerful feelings (and lame-ass creative impulses) my infertility has inspired.

Yet it's precisely this focus that gives a skewed picture of who I truly am. I'm infertile, yes, but the whole of Julie is greater than the sum of her crappy malfunctioning parts. So for just one entry, I want to tell you a little bit more about the rest of me, if only to prove that I can go five minutes without the barest mention of my vagina.

100 Things About Julie

1. My name is Julie.
2. You knew that already, but you probably didn't know this: it's pronounced in the French manner.
3. I am well aware that that sounds pretentious. What can I say? I blame my parents.
4. Try it: /zhoo-LEE/
5. In my full name, there are two Xs.
6. One of them is silent.
7. I really hit the jackpot in the X department.
8. Not so much in the "names strangers can pronounce" department.
9. I only correct people when they matter.
10. I kept my last name when I got married.
11. I didn't want to lose a precious X.
12. Plus, I'd spent many long years making my signature attractive and illegible.
13. I didn't want to relearn it.
14. I've only been married for fourteen months.
15. I only got married, in fact, to shut people up.
16. ...Okay, and because we're lazy and didn't feel like drawing up complicated legal papers when it looked like pregnancy was looming.
17. There are worse reasons.
18. We got married by a drunk Justice of the Peace in our living room.
19. No one was invited.
20. I have some lingering regret about not cashing in on the chance to be given expensive linens.
21. ...But none about keeping it private and low-key.
22. I wore jeans and Polarfleece.
23. We shared cheeseburgers and shakes as our nuptial feast.
24. I adore a good cheeseburger.
25. I am an enthusiastic carnivore.
26. However, I do not eat weird meat (organs, tongue, head cheese, and the like).
27. I lost ten pounds on the Atkins diet but it bored the piss out of me.
28. I felt faintly stupid eating big slabs of pork but limiting my consumption of salad greens.
29. So I stopped.
30. ...And accepted pasta once again as my personal savior.
31. Carbohydrates and dairy fats are the twin pillars of the only religion I currently follow.
32. I was raised Episcopalian.
33. It's not a bad religion if you like to drink and get divorced.
34. Mormonism is.
35. My brother is a Mormon.
36. I don't have the nerve to ask him if he's serious about it.
37. Once when I was walking along minding my own business, I suddenly found myself surrounded by five Mormon missionaries riding bicycles.
38. That's some fucked-up shit right there.
39. I am not very respectful sometimes.
40. In fact, I have a well-documented problem with authority.
41. I've never been fired for being so damned mouthy, but I've probably come close.
42. Although I can be exquisitely diplomatic, it's hard for me to act like I think bad ideas are good ones.
43. Impossible for me to work well with people I think are stupid.
44. It's really best that I work mostly on my own.
45. I do have a job, believe it or not.
46. I enjoy it, largely because I can do it without pants.
47. I work at home.
48. In college I worked at home, too, as a phone sex operator.
49. I usually wore pants, but I'd lie when the callers asked what I was wearing.
50. Nobody gets off on baggy gray sweatpants.
51. Let's just say my love for swearing came in handy.
52. I was, ah, a little immoderate in college.
53. I had a lot of sex, took a lot of drugs, and nearly flunked out.
54. Best goddamn years of my life.
55. Um, that was a lie.
56. I finally changed my major to English — the path of least resistance — and graduated, surprising everyone, including me.
57. This was in 1993, when the Internet as we know it was just a baby.
58. Straight out of college I got a job tending that baby.
59. Since then I've never worked in any other field.
60. (I did not get rich in the dot-com boom, but I was also never laid off, so I pretty much broke even.)
61. I'm not qualified for anything else.
62. ...Unless advanced housewifery is now a paying gig.
63. I bake. A lot.
64. I garden.
65. I throw a damn fine dinner party. I have even mastered the delicate art of not getting any drunker than my guests.
66. I make things, mostly quilts, mostly for other people.
67. Very often for other people's children.
68. Like my nephews.
69. Domestic goddamn goddess.
70. Paul, who could happily live in a single room furnished with milk crates and concrete-block-and-plank bookcases, appreciates me for other reasons.
71. I met him online.
72. Hated him at first, but quickly changed my mind.
73. He is much smarter than I am, but never makes me feel stupid.
74. Frivolous, yes. Stupid, no.
75. We moved in together in Manhattan in 1996.
76. He was mostly concerned that he wouldn't like the cats.
77. There were three of them then.
78. We still had all three when we moved away from the city.
79. But then there were two.
80. Now there is one.
81. Too bad he's not the good one.
82. I'm a little embarrassed by how much I loved that cat.
83. Sometimes I had a funny way of showing it.
84. I don't always have good judgment.
85. But I will do almost anything for a laugh.
86. ...Including abasing myself before strangers.
87. I was on a game show twice.
88. First time was as part of their teen tournament; second was the tenth reunion tournament.
89. I lost both times.
90. But both times the guy who beat me went on to win the whole thing. I could have been a contender, if I hadn't, you know, sucked.
91. I doubt they'll ask me back again; I embarrass myself on camera.
92. The first time I talked about roller disco.
93. The second time I said I'd met a few guys as the result of my earlier appearance, but implied that one of them was gay.
94. When the guy in question sent me e-mail after seeing this, I deleted it without reading it.
95. My hairdo has improved, but I'm still the same old jackass.
96. The woman who cuts my hair now is a middle-aged Italian who refers to my hair in the plural. "Oh, they long today!"
97. Yes, they is, relatively speaking.
98. But short overall, as they has been for most of my life.
99. I've needed glasses since I was 18 months old.
100. And been cranky since a very early age.

Lone gunman

Any minute now I'll knock it off with the anniversary posts, but I just want to note that a year ago today, our lone embryo from IVF #1 was transferred.

It was, as people whose cycles have just failed like to say in bewilderment, 8 cells, no fragmentation, "perfect."

It had potential.

But I swear to you that if I'd known at transfer what havoc that little bastard was going to wreak, I would have squashed it under my thumb in its dish.