Catch up

I haven't been writing much lately, so I'll cram several days' worth of posting into a single entry, with my apologies for the disorganized structure, every bit as scattered as my thought processes these days.

...

About a week ago, I sliced off a good quarter-inch of fingertip. It is very common for me to suffer various uncomfortable mishaps while I'm on Lupron; whether it's a side effect of the drug or a by-product of my general spacey distraction I do not know. This was the worst Lupron-related injury I've sustained — the bloodiest and the most painful, because at the time I was cutting up lemons.

I am assuming Paul is experiencing a twisted form of couvade, because yesterday, using the same knife, he sliced off a good quarter-inch of his fingertip.

There are people who say that if men could get pregnant, the human race would die out, as they'd never voluntarily endure the indignity and discomfort of childbearing — I believe the scholarly anthropological term for this theory is the God, Men Are Pussies Principle. Is there truth to it? I can't authoritatively say, but I must report that when Paul sliced his finger open, it required a trip to the urgent care facility to see whether it needed stitches. When I sliced mine, I put on a Band-Aid and went back to slicing lemons.

...

My Lupron period began four days ago. Normally I would have had a baseline scan and bloodwork done on cycle day 3, but my local clinic wasn't staffed this weekend. I'll go tomorrow on cycle day 5.

I wish I'd posted about this earlier, because a friend wrote to me saying she was similarly delayed and concerned. I was concerned, too, even after talking to a nurse about it, so I hit up my friends inside the computer for some reassurance.

Apparently it's pretty common to delay the start of gonadotropins — you can wait up to a week after the start of the Lupron period. This is often done solely for the sake of scheduling. If the Lupron is doing its job, nothing's going on in there worth worrying about.

If the Lupron is doing its job. If I have no cysts. Approaching the first hurdle!

...

I had a cinéma verité dream last night in which I intercepted a top-secret communiqué from my former RE to my current one. Leave it to my wack-ass psyche to turn this whole boring process into a cloak-and-dagger thriller, complete with techno soundtrack.

This is a boring process. I've been feeling enormously detached this time around, not from the results but from the everyday slog of it all. I've done a much better job this cycle of doing my daily injection and turning my attention to other more interesting pursuits. When you get right down to it, it's just a five-second stab out of a 24-hour day. Not even I can obsess that much.

So detached am I that every evening, right around 9 and sometimes after, I'm startled to realize what time it is. This is in sharp contrast to my past habit of waiting in the bathroom, needle poised, counting down the minutes until the golden moment of injection arrives.

This is new. To my surprise, I'm finding that I'm not as tempted to dramatically reduce my interests as I've done during past cycles. There are women who quit their jobs in order to focus their full attention on treatment, claiming IVF is a full-time job. I suppose it can be, but I'm more productive, closer to relaxed, and generally happier when I consider it a hobby, a sort of 21st century macramé.

As a result, I haven't had much to say lately. When I'm not dwelling, not indulging my own tendency to navel-gaze, I'm writing less. The fact is, at the moment I'm not feeling anything new.

At the moment, I feel I've already said everything important. Been there, whined about that. You already know what I'm like on Lupron (cranky, clumsy, bandaged). I've exhausted my stockpile of funny jokes, unless you haven't yet heard what the 0 said to the 8, in which case you're in for a treat. I've already claimed every fear in the book, and invented some new ones just to make sure you're paying attention. For now, the novelty of treatment has worn off, and so has my interest in talking about it.

This will change in days to come as I begin the injectables and the results from daily monitoring, discouraging or exciting, begin to roll in. If nothing else, I'll be at a new clinic, with new doctors to develop a ferocious attachment to, new phlebotomists to fear and loathe, new examination rooms to redecorate. For now, if I'm quiet, please just assume it's business as usual. Boring old business as usual.

...

I have been getting my affairs in order.

I wanted to take care of some household obligations before I leave for New York. Since I don't know how long I'll be gone, I felt I should not leave certain things to chance. In the last two weeks I have:

• painted my office a glowing yellow-orange — approximately the cheerful color of pasteurized process American cheese food
  
• installed a new floor in said office, with Paul's able-bodied assistance, a big hammer, and plenty of swearing
  
• taken a truckload of old clothes and housewares to Goodwill
  
• cleaned out four huge flowerbeds and mulched same, skillfully avoiding touching anything that looks even remotely like an egg sac or larvae
  
• fed bulbs, fed plants, deposited biological controls against grubs, assured environmentally friendly but certainly painful death to slugs, and rendered tender spring plants unpalatable to deer
  
• planted two shrubs and six perennials, although the rule of thumb is that you don't plant in the Northeast until after Mother's Day
  
• requested and acquired an estimate for scraping and painting the exterior doors, windowframes, and garage doors
  
• scheduled an appointment to take the car in for maintenance — but cleverly timed so that Paul has to do the actual dropoff and pickup
  
• bought and sent a Mother's Day present to my mom

Before I leave I intend to:

• pay whatever bills come in between now and my departure
  
• have a pedicure, because I consider making my feet lovely the equivalent of girding my loins for battle
  
• bake a batch of brownies, some to leave here, most to take with me
  
• have a lot of sex, both to make up for lost time and to replenish reserves of husbandly good will

I am a very busy woman.

...

Today is Mollie's baby shower, lovingly planned by Kendra. If you'd like to see what I sent Mollie, you can check it out here.

Can you have it both ways?

Tertia wrote: "Is it easier being in or out the closet [about infertility and loss]?"

The comments feature some really thoughtful commentary on why people choose to tell or not. Some people tell because they want to reduce the stigma attached to infertility — a legitimate medical condition, not an embarrassing moral failing of some kind that should engender shame. Some women, remembering their own feelings of isolation, hope to help others feel less alone. And some are open and blunt in hopes of protecting their own feelings — going on the offense against a million hurtful comments made in ignorance. All of these responses apply to me, and to the reasons I write here.

On the other hand, a lot of women don't tell. Some fear added pressure from family members. Some can't count on people responding in a helpful way. Others keep quiet to protect their husbands' privacy. All of these responses also apply to me, and to the reasons I don't tell many people about our infertility.

Online, I've told anyone who cares to listen about everything we've experienced. On this blog, on others', on message boards, in chat sessions, I've been open to the point of painfulness.

Offline, I've told my immediate family — my parents, my aunt, my grandparents — about seeking treatment, but I don't discuss the day-to-day developments. I told only my parents and my aunt about my first loss; I told only my parents about the second. A few very close friends know bits and pieces; not even my best friend knows it all. Paul's family members know nothing.

I've told no one in my real life about this journal.

It says something revealing about me, I'm sure, that I can discuss my most intimate hopes, fears, and body openings with my friends inside the computer, people I've never met and probably never will, yet feel uncomfortable to the point of nausea at the very idea of telling, say, Paul's sister even something so basic and vague as "We're trying to have a child."

A lot of the time I feel like two separate people — one who communicates enthusiastically, even promiscuously, and the other who lies by omission every minute of the day.

To the Batmobile! Let's go!

Atomic batteries to power!   Turbines to speed!   Roger, ready to move out! 

My ovaries are quiet.  Though my uppity right ovary tried to have the last word by cooking up a collapsing follicle, its efforts were in vain.  "Not a show-stopper," pronounced the doctor.

My estradiol level is "just fine."

My endometrium is wafer-thin.

I am cleared to start injections on Tuesday.

This calls for a singalong!  Here are the words, in case you don't know them:

Duh-nuh nuh-nuh nuh-nuh nuh-nuh
Duh-nuh nuh-nuh nuh-nuh nuh-nuh
BATMAN!

[Go-go booted shimmy]

Duh-nuh nuh-nuh nuh-nuh nuh-nuh
Duh-nuh nuh-nuh nuh-nuh nuh-nuh
BATMAN!

[Exuberant shaking of not inconsiderable booty]

BATMAN
     BATMAN
          BATMAN

Duh-nuh nuh-nuh nuh-nuh nuh-nuh nuh-nuh nuh-nuh nuh-nuh nuh-nuh nuh-nuh nuh-nuh
          BATMAN!

[Drumbeat, rimshot]

I would make a terrible junkie.

Last night I did my first gonadotropin injection. And I used a dirty needle.

The last time I plundered the bathroom cabinet for supplies was in January. At the time I didn't have a sharps container, so I left my used needles in a jumble by the sink. For some reason I resheathed the syringes in their wrappers — something you are never, ever supposed to do because if you're a dumbass like me you could get hurt — and simply left them there. When we next expected guests, the time came to clean the bathroom and whisk away all evidence of cycling, so I simply shoved the whole drugstore back under the vanity, dirty needles and all. I thought I was being responsible by collecting all the used needles and putting them in the same paper bag for easy detection and disposal when I acquired a sharps container.

You know where this is going.

Last night, operating on the knowledge that my clinic provides fresh injection supplies in an anonymous paper lunchbag, I reached into the sack where I had neatly gathered all the used needles, pulled out a syringe with a flourish, and filled it with the speed and precision that are my hallmarks. (This only means that I didn't spray much of the medication, the precious, precious nectar, onto the mirror.) Something was wrong, but I couldn't figure out what until I'd emptied the last of the prescribed four amps. The mixing needle looked too short and too fine.

And of course it was.

Now, this wasn't a total disaster; you always change needles between mixing and injecting, anyway, so I wasn't in any real danger of plunging a filthy needle directly into the skin just west of my navel. And as used needles go, this one would have been relatively unsullied, having only been used once in the disease-free belly of a thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent girl who just says no.

But it would have been blunt. It would have hurt like a motherfucker. And with my luck, I would have ended up with every available flavor of hepatitis and gangrene. Bad enough that I let my purest gonadotropins be contaminated by the leftovers of four months ago.

You know, I might just start using those alcohol swabs again. Or paying attention to what I'm doing.

The things they carried

Clothing:

• Jeans (low-rise, boot-cut; Long and Lean)
  
• Pants (drawstring, loose, voluminous enough to smuggle a ham within their many folds)
  
• T-shirts (many black, one gray, one white, two pink)
  
• Underpants (cotton, modest, capacious, black and dark heather gray)
  
• Bras (heavily engineered, elaborately cantilevered, and cunningly flying-buttressed, in black and beige)
  
• Nightgowns (two, cotton knit, floral, for lounging — I shall not sleep in them because the hot flashes would only cause me to tear them from my body in a 3 a.m. panic)

Funny shoes:

• Polka-dotted satin flip-flops
  
• Red Chinese brocade sneakers
  
• Windex-blue brocade mules featuring many a wee pagoda
  
• Battered Tevas, lest I be otherwise mistaken for a chic and cosmopolitan New Yorker

Comfort items:

• Pillow (goosedown and feathers, semi-firm, sheathed in ivory pillowcase, 400-count Egyptian cotton)
  
• Framed photo of Paul and the kitten
  
• Polarfleece socks
  
• Crack pipe and rocks appertaining thereto

Sustenance:

• Almost-empty bottle of off-brand prenatal vitamins
  
• A dozen homemade rolls baked today by Paul
  
• A dozen homemade brownies baked today by me
  
• Thin Mints, courtesy of Mom
  
• Single airline-sized bottle of vodka, for emergencies...well, for one emergency. And only a tiny one.

Electronics:

• Laptop, laptop power supply
  
• Cell phone, charger, cradle for synching with laptop
  
• Digital camera, card reader for transferring photos
  
• MP3 player, charger, headphones
  
• Rechargeable batteries, charger for, uh, recharging
  
• Toaster to knock nonchalantly into the bathtub when I need a bit of homestyle electroshock therapy

Miscellaneous:

• Half a dozen books
  
• Two-inch-thick file of medical records and instructional materials
  
• Tylenol, with and without codeine
  
• Medication, syringes, half-full sharps container
  
• Too many anxieties to fit into the overhead compartment or beneath the seat in front of me

The waning pain and stain make Jane insane

After only two nights of medication, I am worried that something might already be going wrong.

Late Monday and during the day on Tuesday, I noticed a fullness in my lower abdomen when I'd use the bathroom. It felt just like it does when I have a ripe and juicy follicle prior to ovulation.

Tuesday night, Paul and I had sex — affectionate, rambunctious sendoff sex. Unfortunately it was also painful sex. My left ovary hurt.

Yesterday the pain wasn't as bad, but I had some pinkish staining.

I'm still having that this morning, though it has diminished and the pain is all but gone.

This morning I'm going in for bloodwork but no ultrasound. I suppose I'd better tell someone, so I'm calling the nurse. If it turns out to be nothing, no problem, all systems go, we can all enjoy a rich chuckle at this additional irrefutable evidence that I've lost my fucking mind.

We've all been there

Yesterday at the airport I was singled out for security screening, probably because I bought a one-way ticket the day before I traveled. (Gee, Julie, you think?) Now, on the one hand, it was stupid of me to pack my meds and needles in my checked baggage; theoretically they could have been lost. On the other hand, I am not sorry I didn't try to carry them on. The full-body patdown was bad enough without having someone paw through my personal stash.

Not only did I get patted down with gloved hands and wanded with a metal detector that made exciting theremin noises, I had to take off my belt, my shoes, and my jewelry. So compliant am I by this point that I also attempted to take off my pants, eagerly reassuring the TSA agent, "No, it's okay. The wand you're using will fit."

...

The hotel where I'm staying is frequented by IVF patients because the clinic is in the same building. My room is being cleaned right now by a petite, young-looking Latina.

P, Y-L L: You checking out today?
Julie: No...
P, Y-L L: Oh. The paper say you checking out today.
Julie: Nope! I'm here for about two weeks.
P, Y-L L: Ohhhhhhh! You come for baby?
Julie: I hope so!
P, Y-L L: [laughs] I got four. Too much!

...

Yesterday at the airport while I waited for my flight to board, I sat next to a woman with two small children. She was doing a beautiful job of keeping the older kid, a boy of about three, occupied with conversation and snacks, but the baby she carried was fretful and started to cry. She looked around apologetically at the other passengers as the baby's cries escalated into screams. A grandmotherly type smiled reassuringly and told her, "Don't worry. We've all been there."

And I guess we all have, on one end of that relationship or the other.

Sweets for the suite

Perhaps you will enjoy a short tour of my home away from home. I'm staying in what's called a junior suite — a large room with a queen-sized bed, a fold-out sofa, and a full kitchen. There's a table with three chairs where I can enjoy a tasty snack, and a bathroom with all the amenities where I can enjoy, well, all the amenities (or could, if the drugs didn't carry the unfortunate side effect of epic constipation).

This is my desk, equipped with laptop, beverage, medical records (for those spur-of-the-moment urges to rifle frantically through the highs and lows of the last year, which arise more frequently than I care to admit), picture of Paul, and a large bag of chocolates.

The chocolates come courtesy of Brenda, who is starting stims herself, and therefore knows what a girl needs. In her staggering generosity, Brenda sent not only the chocolates, which are emitting an aroma so seductive I'm getting a little high just sitting near them, but some leftover medication. A heartfelt and public thank you.

Now on to the bathroom. The imperial Chinese had their Forest of Pencils; I have my Thicket of Needles. (Why do I do this, these little asides? You'd almost think I wanted unsuspecting searchers to stumble across this page in their quest for information about Confucian attitudes toward learning. Won't they be just tickled?)

Here are the contents of my refrigerator. Caffeine-free Diet Pepsi, mousse truffée, a couple of raw milk cheeses (take that, immune system!), a container of lobster salad (one of the many culinary delights I miss on a daily basis), and lots and lots of drugs.

I am equipped to put on one hell of a cocktail party — I am showing promise as a budding mixologist, as long as your drink of choice is Diet Pepsi with a Follistim chaser.

You must be at least this tall to enter the waiting room

It's timely that Karen should write about this, because all weekend I've been thinking about the kids I saw in the waiting room on Saturday.

Wait, that's inaccurate. Actually I've been thinking about the women who were in the waiting room with me then.

On Saturday I sat near a couple who were not from around here. By that I mean that they were not speaking English and not wearing sneakers — obviously not American. They were accompanied by a boy of about three, I'd say, immaculately dressed, lively but impeccably behaved, and some luggage, also well dressed and reasonably docile.

The woman looked strained and harried. She was kept busy coming and going in pursuit of bloodwork and paperwork, so her companion, a patient and pleasant-looking man, took charge of the boy. Although the toddler spent most of his time quietly paging through board books (in French and Italian), occasionally he got fractious; the moment he opened his mouth to squawk, his father picked him up and whisked him out into the hallway.

What I am trying to convey is the fact that the boy was beautifully behaved; when he needed attention, his father acted swiftly to keep him from inconveniencing anyone.

And yet I didn't see one single woman in the waiting room willing to make eye contact with the child or his parents. It's not so much that they were sending infrared hate rays at the heads of the parents, hoping their sheer malice would cause a cranial explosion, although a few of them were. It was the determination to seem indifferent that struck me.

Now, please don't think I'm criticizing anyone who would prefer not to see children in the waiting room of an infertility clinic. I mean, my God, what could possibly be unreasonable about that? What appalled me, given the setting, was my own reaction, my almost irresistible impulse to engage the toddler, to make funny faces, to play peek-a-boo, to make him laugh. I remembered in time where I was, but I almost made a gigantic ass of myself — more gigantic even than usual.

Not, of course, as gigantic an ass as the man who later came in, who wore a fuzzy-headed, pink-cheeked baby strapped to his chest, gamboling boisterously around the room as if the kid were a sandwich board reading, "ASK ME ABOUT MY FERTILITY, WHICH BORDERS ON VULGARITY, AND MY TACT, WHICH VERGES ON NONEXISTENT."

But, no, that's not accurate, either, because there's no way you could fit so many big words on such a tiny, adorable baby.

Happy Mother's Day

I may be the only infertile crank alive who remains unfazed by Mother's Day.

It may be because I see it as a manufactured occasion, little more than a commercial spur to make us pay to say the things we could be saying for free every day of the year. It may be because no one goes out of her way to rub my nose in my infertility on a regular basis — a luxury I appreciate, believe me. It may be because I still believe that one day some small person will be serving me inedible breakfast way too early on a Sunday morning when I'd really prefer to sleep in.

Not that I slept in today. I stood fidgeting at the front of a waiting room packed with bleary-eyed women, trying valiantly to quash a crazy urge to yodel, "Happy Mother's Day, my barren pals!"

Wherever I go, I'm pretty much the life of the party.

For whatever reason, Mother's Day is not particularly painful for me. So for once I won't dwell on myself and my own longing to be a mother. For just a moment I'd like to celebrate my own mother. This story will tell you most of what you need to know about her:

My older brother and I both have poor vision. When he was six, the start of first grade coincided with his need to wear an eyepatch to strengthen the muscles in his uncovered eye. And we're not talking about a dashing pirate's eyepatch — this patch looked like a giant flesh-colored Band-Aid worn over the entire eye socket.

A child with charisma might have survived the savage teasing that was sure to ensue. I am not sure my brother, who already had three strikes against him in the form of plaid pants, thick glasses, and an extremely dorky first name, would have made it through intact had it not been for our mother.

Did she ask the teacher to punish any kids who laughed? Did she tell my brother to grin and bear it? Did she allow him to wear the eyepatch only at home to salvage his fragile sense of self-esteem?

No. She went to the drugstore and bought four boxes of eyepatches so that every kid in my brother's first-grade class could wear an eyepatch, too.

I want to be a parent myself largely because of what she's taught me about making children strong and happy. I couldn't hope for a better example.