"Oh, and then there was the smack..."

I read a lot of message boards about infertility and it always cracks me up when I see some nice lady say, "I was so sure that my beta test would be negative that I had half a cup of coffee. Well, it was positive! Do you think I harmed the baby?"

I just keep waiting for someone to post, "Man, that three-day tequila bender was a big mistake." Or, "I was so depressed that I went out and blew a syphilitic Haitian. Do you think it's okay?"

With all the drugs I did in my indiscreet youth, I'll be lucky if my eventual child isn't born with gills.

It's the drugs, I swear

In four days I start Lupron. In my mind, though, the cycle is already well underway. I'm already wound more tightly than...than...some excessively tightly wound thing...and obviously already suffering from the breathtaking cognitive lapses that plagued me last time.

Last time around, nobody told me that the worst side effect from all my medication would be that I'd lose my fucking mind. The drugs really should come with a warning label: While using this drug, patients should not operate heavy machinery. Or shower.

A quick flip through my journal reminds me that not only did I take the car up two one-way streets, jumped the curb at least twice, burned myself on the iron, nicked my hands with a chef's knife, grated my thumb into a pile of Parmesan cheese, and set off the smoke alarm so often it sounded like we were at DEFCON 2, I also apparently forgot how to use toiletries.

The documentary evidence seems to show that one morning in the shower, I shampooed my hair as usual, rinsed it, and picked up the conditioner...which I then dispensed into my hand and proceeded to rub all over my body. I couldn't figure out why it wouldn't lather.

Five minutes later, I applied hair product to my face, for that bouncy, manageable look that turns heads on the street.

"And I can't be sure," I wrote on February 21, "but I have the strong aroma suspicion that I applied deodorant only to one (1) armpit."

Pinhead

For the first time today the acupuncturist stuck needles in my face, a veritable bouquet of stainless steel sprouting up between my brows.

As the first one went in, I vanquished the temptation to yell, "Ow! My third eye!"

You can tell how committed I am.

What I thought but didn't say

Doctor: So how are you?

Julie: I can't even talk about it.

Doctor: You know, I can offer you better living through chemistry. Prozac?

Julie: No, thanks, but I am hearing a lot of good buzz about heroin...

Lupron achiever

I am only on day four of Lupron but I've been very productive. Here's what I've done so far:

• reduced my poor husband to tears
• caused several highway accidents
• cut myself shaving
• destabilized the yen on the world market

Tomorrow, if I can find the time between vandalizing the old folks' home and frightening the kids on the handicapped bus, I may very well annex the Sudetenland.

Listmania

Because I try to be organized, I have been making a multitude of lists. I have committed today's to writing — I can only keep mental track of so much.

Annoying things I do in the exam room while waiting for the doctor:

• obscure all drug manufacturers' names from the helpful posters that deck the walls
  
• turn the stirrup covers so that the comfy, fuzzy side faces out
  
• poke the top of the jelly-filled condom that sheathes the ultrasound probe so that cool and mysterious shadows appear on the screen
  
• sing a cheerful medley of Steely Dan songs loud enough to wake the dead

I only amuse myself

Things I have been saying expressly to annoy Paul:

• Do these embryos make me look fat?
  
• Will you please change the channel? Crappy sci-fi isn't good for babies during the first trimester.
  
• (Pause, intake of breath, wondering tone) I'm pretty sure I just felt stirrings of life.

I am full of good ideas

I had this great idea. Why don't the makers of the vaginal ultrasound transducer and the fine folks who brought us the Hitachi Magic Wand put their heads together? It could revolutionize pelvic imaging.

Think about it, won't you?

Math is hard

The longest wait in an IVF cycle is not the two weeks between embryo transfer and pregnancy test. And it's not the two weeks between a positive pregnancy test and the first ultrasound. No, the longest wait is between a negative pregnancy test and a post-cycle consultation.

I bet they've done extensive research on how long it takes a woman to stop being dangerous after a failed cycle. I bet there's a sophisticated algorithm they apply in every case.

"Let's see. This one's for Julie? Okay, we might need extra paper. Now, she's 32. Her estradiol level at trigger times her IQ divided by the number of disappointments she's suffered at our hands...multiplied by the square root of how much she paid us this time out...(scribbling sounds)...hmm, carry the 8...round up here...number of injections, cubed...average temperature of the ultrasound wand...(head-scratching noises)...check my math here, Bert...yes. Hmm. Interesting.

"Nurse? Nurse! Cancel all the appointments, close the office, lock the doors, and put on your riot gear. This one won't be safe for another month at least."

Love is in the air

I will be spending my first wedding anniversary in consultation with a doctor at Cornell.  Nothing more romantic than talking about sperm counts and cervical mucus with a total stranger.

Nothing, that is, unless you consider that the visit will also include a pelvic exam performed by said total stranger brandishing an ultrasound wand.

I wonder if I can get him to use a fancy condom on it.

You better shop around

I've been reading a lot of discussions about egg donation and how women go about choosing a donor. Some agencies provide pictures; others offer only a general physical description. Sometimes you're given test scores and grade point averages as proof of intelligence. If the donor has children of her own or has donated in the past, you'll be told about that, too.

But they don't seem to give the kind of information I'll really want if I end up using donor eggs. I would like to know:

1. Can she do math? I can't. Those story problems are a bitch. It would be nice if her eggs had some math in them. And then when the kid comes to me for help with homework, I can call her on the sly and whisper, "Quick! What's 9 times 13?"

2. The length of her second toe. Mine is longer than my big toe, giving my feet an unsettling resemblance to the antlers of one Bullwinkle J. Moose. We all want to give our kids a great start in life — why not begin with making sure they look decent in sandals?

3. Her literary tastes. Anyone who has enjoyed writings by more than one of these authors...
   • Stephen King
   • Maeve Binchy
   • Tom Clancy and his terrifying cadre of tireless henchwriters
   • Those Left Behind freaks
   • Drs. Atkins, Phil, or Laura

   ...is off the list. No discussion.

4. Can she turn the world on with her smile? Can she take a nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile? The ability to toss her beanie with palpable joy would be a definite plus.

Realistically speaking, though, the only thing I'd truly care about is her age. The younger the better, as far as reproductive potential goes, so I'd be keeping a keen eye out for someone who can sign the papers no more than thirty seconds after her eighteenth birthday. Barely legal, baby.

I don't know whether the donors get any input into who their matches might be. If so, I'm in a heap of trouble, unless some forward-thinking young woman out there likes formerly promiscuous irresponsible atheist drinkers who can't stop swearing.

Any takers?

Just a little off the top

I have learned something new. I have learned that some women get pretty for their doctors. Not only a good wash and maybe some hasty leg-shaving — which is as much as I ever do — but pedicures and bikini waxes to boot.

But I can't figure out why. Do we think our doctors are looking?

I can see how you might feel the urge to spruce up the place if you thought the person rooting around down there was actually interested. But I just can't imagine my doctor is. In his long career he's faced down vulva after vulva after vulva — so many that he doesn't even need to cast a downward glance while introducing the ultrasound probe. In fact, I'm pretty sure he could do it blindfolded, backwards, with one arm tied behind his back. Hell of a parlor trick. Life of the goddamn party.

Or maybe we're talking curb appeal. If I put out a nicer welcome mat and a couple of pots of geraniums, are my embryos more likely to decide that my uterus is a nice place to raise a family? One chipped toenail and there goes the neighborhood.

Or maybe it's part of some obscure pagan ritual. Maybe a neat pelt pleases the gods, but an unruly thicket calls down their mighty wrath, guaranteeing everlasting barrenness. Weren't human sacrifices washed, shaved, and oiled so that the gods might find them tasty? Maybe it's like that.

Look, if I thought my doctor actually noticed, I might be more invested in presenting a pleasing pubic picture. (I doubt it, but I suppose it's possible.) But he couldn't pick my pudendum out of a police lineup even if he had a crooked cop whispering in his ear. He doesn't even pronounce my name correctly, for God's sake. Why should I imagine he cares about my lovely, lovely crotch?

Jim Henson's whirling in his grave

I think it would have been a better idea for my doctor to hold this afternoon's post-cycle consultation in a conference room instead of an examination room.

Paul and I perched uncomfortably on plastic chairs, the chairs that have held up my empty jeans and crumpled underpants on dozens of occasions. The doctor wobbled precariously atop a wheeled stool, not unlike the one from which he presided over my in-office D&C. And before us loomed the table, stripped for the occasion of its paper sheathing, but still bearing those jaunty cloth covers on the stirrups.

You know the ones I mean. Sometimes they're fuzzy socks. Sometimes they're hand-knitted booties. In my doctor's office, they're sticky purple vinyl, kindly supplied by our friends at Ortho. I suppose they're intended to make pelvic intrusion a little more cozy.

I admit it: the presence of the examination table threw me. It made me uncomfortable. I mean, I couldn't really listen to a single thing my doctor had to say, because the whole time the poor man talked, all I could think of was how much I wanted to snatch up the stirrup covers and put on a rollicking puppet show.

For unto us a child is born. Oh. Wait.

In an inexorable torrent, this year's Christmas letters have begun to come in. You know the ones I mean:

Matthew's doing great in his new position as Chief Executive Widgeteer. He really likes the work and the people, though he misses the family when he's off on those frequent business trips to Butt End, IA.

Jane loves her full-time job as a SAHM to Madison, Taylor, Montana, and Dakota. She doesn't get much vacation time, but the fringe benefits are worth it! This year we spent our days in a course of exhilarating child-directed study of the environment — Taylor especially enjoyed catching tadpoles in the pond!

Et cetera, ad infinitum, ad nauseam.

I've been working on my own holiday letter. Want to take a look?

Season's greetings from Julie and Paul! It's been a while since we caught up — you know how hectic things can get — so we'd like to bring you up to date on how we've spent the past year.

January got off to a great start with a big jolt of Lupron. Julie says that smuggling the needles past airport security, shooting up in her grandparents' bathroom, and hiding the used syringes in the waistband of her underpants was the perfect way to ring in the new year. She had a few hot flashes and headaches, but then so did her grandfather, who was trying to adjust to the dose of radiation being used to treat his prostate cancer — so at least she was in great company!

February passed in a whirl of activity. Those 7 AM pre-dawn drives to the doctor's office sure gave Julie and Paul a lot of quality time together. Though Julie celebrated her birthday that month flat on her back with her feet in the air, exposing her pelvis to another man, Paul came through as usual, giving her a roomy pair of Polarfleece overalls as a gift. A great present, considering the uncomfortable bloating and painful ovarian swelling! At the end of the month, we had seven eggs to work with. Of course, only one fertilized, but everyone insists it only takes one!

At the beginning of March Julie and Paul left for a whirlwind trip to Las Vegas. I guess Julie was feeling lucky, because her first pregnancy test showed we'd hit the jackpot! Too bad our luck turned mid-month, when we learned the pregnancy wasn't viable — but at least we knew Julie could get pregnant!

March didn't exactly go out like a lamb, with two doses of Cytotec and a D&C, but in April we finally settled the matter once and for all with a whopping dose of methotrexate. Julie says the worst part about losing her first pregnancy was that she couldn't drown her sorrows in vodka! (Ha! Ha! Just kidding, folks!)

In May the cat had a great month at school. He got all As on his report card and was chosen student of the month! Not even his infuriating seasonal house-spraying could diminish our pride. Julie was heard to grumble that the school didn't send home a bumper sticker about that...!

June brought lovely weather to our neck of the woods, though Julie was a little too bloated by then to do much gardening. That's right! We were finally underway with IVF #2. Of course, Julie's body had its own agenda — when a single dominant follicle developed, the IVF was cancelled and converted to an IUI. Oh, well! At least Paul got to have his fun! (Just kidding, honey!)

But our Julie doesn't take no for an answer! Those fireworks you saw in the sky on July 4th? Those were for us. Much to everyone's surprise, the IUI worked — Julie was pregnant again! And this time none of that vexing tubal business, either. Once we saw the heartbeat on little Cellface, as we called it, we knew this one was a keeper.

Oops! Boy, were our faces red in August, when we learned it wasn't. Oh, well — like they say, easy come, easy go!

September was a lovely month here, with the leaves putting on their colorful annual show. The cat must have wanted to shed his own foliage, too, because he began pulling his hair out in large clumps, leaving it to drift across the carpet like gray and white tumbleweeds. The vet said it was probably stress — who knew a cat could feel stress, especially with such positive, upbeat owners?

Boo! Did we scare you? For Halloween, Paul and Julie dressed as anxious, exhausted, white-lipped patients undergoing IVF #3. It was a shriek a minute when the process revealed a frightful problem with Julie's egg quality. As October ended, we were wondering "witch" it would be: a trick or a treat? Would either of the resulting two embryos turn into a boy...or a ghoul?

The month of November began just like its name: with a big old "no." But we had other things to think about besides our own minor disappointment — our friends having babies, Paul's beloved aunt's death, and the likely death of our faithful feline friend, who had gone blind and lost his ability to walk. But we all know God never gives us more than we can handle! By the end of the month we were digging into a big turkey feast, feeling thankful for all the many blessings we've described above. More gravy, please!

December finds us ready for a holly jolly Christmas as we scramble to buy presents for other people's adorable moppets. This month brings Paul's 45th birthday (getting a little too old for international adoption, dear! Ha! Ha!) and we'll mark our first wedding anniversary. We'll also celebrate the season by asking Dr. Kris Kringle for a second opinion. No one will see Mommy kissing Santa Claus, but, oh, the things he does with an ultrasound wand...!

We hope this letter finds you and your loved ones happy and well. Here's to a joyful holiday season and a new year just as wonderful as this one!

Love,
Julie and Paul

Now that I look at it, I guess it could probably use a quick edit.

Things which were good now suck

I am outraged, outraged to learn that baby aspirin, prescribed to many women to assist in embryo implantation, is now compounded with artificial sweeteners!

I hadn't tasted baby aspirin since the olden days of my youth. Any childhood fever brought with it the thrill of Russian roulette: would we get the St. Joseph's for Children (sharp, orangey, and delicious), or would we get a spoonful of sugar mixed with grown-up aspirin and water (bitter, gritty, and so vinegary it felt like your tongue was shriveling under the onslaught)?

Okay, low-stakes Russian roulette.

On the assumption that, hey, it couldn't hurt, I bought a bottle today and popped one while I was driving home. Imagine my indignation when I recognized the cloying sweetness of aspartame. Why did they do this? Are they afraid baby aspirin will give me cavities? Do they know that too much sugar makes me a little bit hyper? Do they think I'm concerned about the calorie count? Or are they now angling for the low-carb toddler market?

What the hell is going on?

She's crafty

My period arrived this morning, a day early. Eager to let my, uh, creative juices flow, I have scheduled a day of crafts to celebrate. Just in case any of you lead a Brownie troop, I will share my plan here.

Fun and easy menstrual projects:

• Thumbprint hamster

  Supplies: Blood, paper, thumb, Sharpie.

  Procedure: Press thumb into blood. Press gore-soaked thumb onto paper, rocking thumb back and forth to assure even coverage. Wait for thumbprint to dry. With Sharpie, add a long tail, some tiny toesies, lovable-looking ears, cunning little snout, and three spiky whiskers on each side of face. (Evil slanted eyebrows optional.) With Sharpie, write, "Thumbody isn't pregnant!" Slip into doctor's mail slot.

• Spin-Art

  
  Supplies: Blood, paper, scissors, salad spinner, bleach.

  Procedure: Cut a pleasing shape out of the paper. A heart is nice, but you might also consider the silhouette of a uterus wracked with painful cramps. Place shape flat inside salad spinner. Dribble blood onto the paper. Replace lid of salad spinner. Send shape and blood for a short whirl. Remove shape and let dry. Sanitize salad spinner with copious amounts of bleach. Place heart under windshield wiper of doctor's car.

• Untitled installation piece

  Supplies: Blood, bucket, expensive automobile, cover of darkness.

  Procedure: Stealthily approach your reproductive endocrinologist's parking space. When coast is clear, decorate vehicle with attractive lashings of red and brown. (Some artists strive for a Pollock vibe, but I work more in the mode of Rauschenberg.) Watch carefully for approaching authorities. Scamper away as fast as your Pamprin-doped carcass will carry you.

It's a theory

I have a theory about why I'm infertile: I think my uterus may be situated on an ancient Indian burial ground.

Um, what birds and bees?

My friend T. just called to tell me her six-year-old daughter had asked her, "But, Mom, how does the sperm get to the egg?"

I told her she was lucky her daughter hadn't asked me.

"Well, Emily, the thing is, it doesn't."

Or maybe...

"The daddy sits alone in a grubby little room and frantically performs the secret handshake, while the mommy lies on a gurney drugged to the gills. Then a mysterious masked man introduces a needle the size of a shish kebab skewer into her bathing suit area. What? Wait, where are you going? Hey, why are you crying?"

Or, more succinctly...

"When a reproductive endocrinologist and my Visa card love each other very, very much..."

Any of you with children are welcome to give old Aunt Julie a call when it's time to have that awkward conversation. Or I suppose you could just buy a record, if you think it'd be safer.

how_i_feel_about_my_re.xls

I want to be fair.

My feelings about my reproductive endocrinologist are occasionally quite negative.  But I swear it isn't personal. 

In fact, on a personal level, I'm crazy about him. He's a lovely man who's shown me great kindness on many occasions, the sort of kindness I needed when everything went haywire: laughing dutifully at my feeble attempts at humor when most people would have been horrified.  He has never shied away from the questions, complaints, and occasional abuse with which I've ambushed him.  Although some of the decisions that have been made about my treatment have turned out very badly, I can't doubt the purity of his motives or the goodness of his intentions.

Based on a careful study of my journal entries (and recollection of a very few bizarre and smoking-hot dreams), I've concluded that the spikes of annoyance I've experienced over the last few months are really nothing personal.  I've found that the intensity of my feelings correlates directly with the success of a given phase of treatment.

Thanks to the magic of Microsoft, I have prepared a chart that proves this, including several important milestones over the last two years.  I feel it's quite persuasive.

Yes! Please send me 12 jam-packed issues!

There are many reasons that sitting in the waiting room at an infertility clinic might be a bit depressing. My clinic shares a waiting room with an OB/GYN practice, so there is a constant parade of pregnant women, each more blooming and happy-looking than the last. There is also consequently a related parade of tiny, tiny babies swaddled in Polarfleece, in the arms of proud-looking new mothers appearing for their six week postpartum checkup.

But that's not all. There's bad art on the walls. Now, I know you think you know what I mean when I say bad art. But you don't. You can't. Imagine, if you will, a palsied, slavering, lobotomized Doberman with a paintbrush stuck up his ass. Got it? Okay. That dog looks like Caravaggio compared to the reprobate responsible for these crimes against art. The subjects run heavily to animals among vegetation. One is some sort of great spotted cat, or maybe a hyena, amid a thicket of what looks like nothing so much as dark green pubic hair. Another captures a deer, or perhaps a flounder, peering over its shoulder apprehensively — almost a reproachful look back at its creator. "Why have you made me? I didn't ask to be born."

And of course there's the miasma of desperation that collects in the corners where the infertile patients huddle (well out of the pathway of the triumphant new mothers). If you were to draw a cartoon, you'd put in some thick, wavy hashmarks — stink lines — to depict the palpable sadness.

Those things are depressing enough, God knows, but today I discovered yet another reason to hate and fear this waiting room: the magazines.

Here is a list of the periodicals that were available for my perusal this morning as I waited:

• Parents
• Pregnancy Today
• ePregnancy
• Parenting
• American Baby
• Child
• Car & Driver
• Business Week

Number of times I have ever seen a woman paging through those last two: 0
Number of times I have ever seen a man paging through any of the first six: 0

Now sometimes I take in issues of The Economist or New Scientist and leave them prominently on the table as a low-key form of protest (having first carefully excised the address label). Today I didn't, and found myself without anything to read.

So instead I sat and wondered if there are any magazines out there for the infertile crowd.

You know. "Quick makeup tips to hide those nasty belly bruises." "Creepy global fertility rituals: What the Hell, give 'em a whirl." "10 good reasons to try very hard not to punch your sister-in-law's lights out."

I kind of doubt it.

But there should be. In fact, I'm considering launching one myself. Look for the inaugural issue in your mailbox in a couple of months.

Maybe I went too far

Yesterday the nurse who drew my blood told me this story as she swabbed my arm:

"A patient was in here earlier with her four-year-old son. He didn't mind the needles and wasn't fazed at all by the blood. What got him was the smell of the alcohol. His eyes got really big and he asked, 'Is that alcohol?' When I told him it was, he looked very concerned, and asked, 'Do you carefully put that away so that children can't get it?'"

And I thought, yeah, all the children running around unsupervised in the infertility clinic.

I said, "I hope you told him, 'No, we store it in a big open barrel surrounded by balloons and streamers and a big blinking sign that says, Bob for Prizes Here!'"

She laughed nervously and changed the subject.

Hey, look, people name their kids Brandy and Chardonnay...

Just on the infinitesimal chance that last night's connubial tussle produces a twin pregnancy, I am already prepared with names:

Vodka and Astroglide

Who says I'm a pessimist?

Spent too much time dicking around online: -1

When my friends want to comfort me, they tell me, "You'll be a great mother." The unspoken "...someday" doesn't bother me. I prefer to focus instead on the affirmation, the confidence that I might not ruin my children beyond repair. Not immediately upon returning from the hospital after their birth, anyway.

Because, see, I have my doubts. At bedrock I'm a very selfish person. I have moments of breathtaking irresponsibility. I care too little about what other people think, especially important people, especially authority figures. I'm careless about money. I still call my brother names, and I don't like to share.

I seldom floss.

Sometimes I try to look objectively at my fitness to be a parent. Some days are better than others. Today, so far, I appear to be coming out ahead.

Activity	Score
When awakened by the hungry cat, grouchily swatted him away, muttering, "Jackass, you can wait."	-5
Remembered not to use all of the hot water, conserving it for Paul’s shower	+7
Added to hot water reserves by flushing toilet during Paul’s shower	-2
Successfully soothed scalded husband, avoiding an inconvenient trip to the emergency room	+6
Put on yesterday’s clothes again today because, hey, I didn’t sweat much	-1
Carefully separated lights from darks before loading the washer	+3
Missed a red dish towel	-3
Did not rebleach the load, deciding that wearing pink underpants would not significantly undermine Paul’s masculinity	-2
Baked a batch of brownies just because Paul hadn’t had a treat lately	+6
Surveying the chocolate supply, said, "Fuck it," and used the Callebaut	+8
Said "Fuck it" aloud	-1
Ate breakfast, the most important meal of the day	+2
It was brownies…	-1
Four of them.	-3
Upon receiving new school pictures of every child I know, mounted them dutifully on the refrigerator	+3
Tossed the older pictures in the garbage instead of lovingly preserving them in acid-free lightproof boxes	-1
Paid the monthly bills….	+2
December’s monthly bills	-5
Swigged deeply from the week-old bottle of wine on the counter before tipping the remainder down the drain	-3
Had a week-old bottle of wine on the counter to begin with	-3

However, I cannot say what the rest of the day will bring. Every moment is ripe with possibility.

See you in Stockholm

Infertile women complain bitterly about how easily other women can get pregnant. No one is more grievously maligned than the poor misunderstood crack whore. "If a crack whore can get pregnant," goes the thinking, "then why can't a well educated, legitimately employed, legally married, thoroughly respectable member of society?"

Well you might ask.

Never one to leave a scientific puzzle unsolved, I have come up with the answer: Infertile women don't smoke nearly enough crack.

I'd say more about it but I've signed a non-disclosure agreement with Ferring, who have expressed great interest in my discovery.

Back to the old drawing board

I was discussing my newest theory with Paul the other night. I was driving, and he wondered why I insisted on cruising slowly through the crimey ghetto streets of our small New England town. "Why, I'm looking for crack dealers," I told him, squinting into the icy fog, trying to suss out whether one of those immaculate Victorian facades concealed a crack den, preferably one that welcomed newcomers and novices to the sport.

The only thing to do was to explain.

Paul is the brains of our operation. He quickly spotted the flaw in my theory. "I think," he said, "it's more likely to be a highly localized version of Murphy's Law."

"Explain," I commanded, slowing to a crawl so that I could peer into the big bay window of the painted lady in front of us. I was disappointed to see that the occupants were engaged in an activity no more nefarious than watching Fox News, a sure sign that they'd already consumed whatever crack they'd been able to acquire.

"Well, do you think crack whores want to get pregnant?"

Oh.

According to Paul's theory, which has supplanted mine in plausibility, crack facilitates pregnancy only in those least desirous of it. It follows that turning to crack would only render me less fertile than ever before.

This theory, while useful, has fewer commercial applications. I doubt the pharmaceutical multinationals will be clamoring to hear about infallible birth control for infertile women.

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded

Do you ever feel like the infertility game is rigged?

Here's your chance to play like a real high roller. Dole out the cash, line up your dainty silver shoe, and join me in a spirited game of Infertilitopoly.

Like the classic board game that inspired it, completing a single round of Infertilitopoly takes forever. And like the classic, you'll end up paying an awful lot of money to people you don't even like. And like the classic, you'll seethe with the urge to commit mayhem against those who are lucky enough to win.

You'll shell out the big bucks every time you land on those desirable blue properties right next to "Go": CCRM and Cornell at this printing, but subject to change upon release of the new CDC stats. You'll grumble in annoyance when you happen to land on the cruddy brown spots — baby showers for your sister-in-law and your least favorite co-worker. And you'll yodel with joy when your opponents land on the pink areas if you're holding the cards for First Response, EPT, and Answer!

Step right up and roll the dice. Choose a chance card or call your doctor. Join me, won't you? But I get to be the iron.

(Note to Hasbro: Please do not sue. I am poor as an indigent churchmouse and not worth even the postage on the letter from your lawyers.)

Donor egg

At one time, the two seemed so desperate to incubate an egg together that they put a rock in their nest and sat on it, keeping it warm in the folds of their abdomens.

Breakfast: the most important meal of the day

After last month's ovulation fiasco, I was curious to see whether I'd ovulate on time. In unmedicated cycles you could set your watch by my ovaries — at the tone, the time will be half past rupture — but I don't know what my body does the month after an ovarian onslaught, so I've been monitoring my fertility signals closely.

Today is cycle day 14. Right around this time, most women produce a slippery tide of what's evocatively called egg white cervical mucus, copious, clear, and stretchy. I, alas, do not, or at least not noticeably. The only times I have were when my estrogen level was artificially inflated, and then I made enough to feed hundreds of hungry brunchers.

Not having this helpful lubricant at my disposal puts me at yet another fertility disadvantage. But I am not discouraged, for some preliminary research tells me that I could turn to a natural solution to make my cervix more hospitable to sperm.

I am disinclined to try this because it sounds like a gilt-edged invitation to a raging pelvic infection. I don't think there's any such thing as fertile-quality pus, so I'm thinking I'll give this a pass. But as long as I'm truly taking charge of my fertility, I've come up with a few other items I might profitably engulf:

• an astrolabe to improve navigation conditions;
• a heat source to create optimal incubation conditions; and
• perhaps even some nice furniture to make the place a little more homey.

Look, these ideas are no more far-fetched than the prospect of shoving breakfast up my coochie. Side of toast? Bacon? How many bowls would you have to eat to equal the fertility potential in one bowl of Total?

Give it to Mikey! He'll eat anything. He likes it! Hey, Mikey!

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. 

It's the pictures that got small

In case you had to leave the theater momentarily to give yourself an injection or resituate an errant suppository, here is a list of scenes you may have missed from some of the cinema's most notable works.

Gone with the Wind (1939)
Scarlett suddenly realizes she loves Rhett after all, but only after Ashley has undergone painful reconstructive testicular surgery.

The African Queen (1951)
Spinster missionary Rosie (Katharine Hepburn) is initially horrified by the raw carnality of riverboat pilot Charlie (Humphrey Bogart). When he protests that his ill-mannered behavior is only human nature, she tells him with a chilly glare, "Nature, Mr. Allnut, is what we are put in this world to rise above!" The two later conceive a child through no distasteful physical contact with each other whatsoever.

To Kill a Mockingbird (1962)
Young Scout Finch suffers an early miscarriage on Halloween, utterly ruining her giant papier-mâché ham costume. To everyone's surprise, the mysterious stranger who saves her from hemorrhaging to death is later revealed to be noted reproductive endocrinologist Boo Radley, MD.

North by Northwest (1959)
While trying to elude a cropduster in a Midwestern field, New York ad man Roger O. Thornhill (Cary Grant) inhales enough pesticide to render every single one of his gametes chromosomally abnormal. In a surprise cameo, legendary director Alfred Hitchcock appears as the nurse who says, "Next," at the sperm bank.

The King and I (1956)
The proud Siamese king (Yul Brynner) confides in song to teacher Anna Leon-Owens (Deborah Kerr) that his entire brood of royal children are the result of a single medicated IUI. (See director's cut on the newly released deluxe DVD for expurgated scenes set in the palace NICU.)

Singin' in the Rain (1952)
At the close of the silent film era, romantic costars Don Lockwood (Gene Kelly) and Lina Lamont (Jean Hagen) struggle to make the difficult transition to talkies. When the young starlet Kathy Seldon (Debbie Reynolds) enters the picture, Lina believes her troubles are over — but gets her comeuppance when Don goes public with the shocking news that her boy/girl twins are the result of Kathy's selfless offer to donate eggs.

Potemkin (1925)
During a massacre by Cossacks, a young woman tries to save her baby by pushing its carriage down the long decline of the Odessa steps. As the woman is painstakingly making her way through a ream of colorful, heavily decorated "Dear Birthmother" letters trying to choose who shall care for her baby when it reaches the bottom of the stairs, she is shot to death by the advancing soldiers.

Gaslight (1944)
In this classic psychological thriller, a cold, suave killer (Charles Boyer) convinces his frightened young wife (Ingrid Bergman) that she's going insane by doctoring her home pregnancy tests so that they all initially read positive, but turn negative just moments later.

Citizen Kane (1941)
Rosebud was the name of the buxom centerfold in the 1940 Police Gazette Charles Foster Kane stared at, glassy-eyed, while furiously trying to fill a plastic specimen cup.

I in cyst

You know how I said I was giving my cyst perhaps a little too much input into my daily decision-making? Today it whispered most seductively, "Siiiiiign up your sister-in-lawwwwww to receive a freeeeee informationallll videoooooo about the Craftmaaaaaaaaatic adjustable beddddddddd."

Is there no end to the mayhem this thing will wreak?

The buddy system

If you've spent any time at all on infertility message boards, you are well aware of the insidious phenomenon of cycle buddies.

Cycle buddies are a group of women going through fertility procedures at the same time. They compare protocols, egg each other on in the manufacturing of symptoms, and engage in a not-so-subtle one-upmanship when discussing the dozens of eggs they retrieved or their stratospheric hCG levels.

Many of them will get pregnant. You, alas, will not.

Cycle buddies always — but always — have cute and cuddly names. The first part of the name is usually seasonal, temporal, or meteorological in nature. The second is often a friendly, cheerful adjective. The third is a noun of surpassing adorableness.

If you're feeling lonely and abandoned as you contemplate yet another ART cycle, don't despair. You, too, can join a group.

Tertia, this one's for you.

Three things that freak me right out

1. Dermoid cysts. An ovarian dermoid cyst is "a bizarre tumor, usually benign, in the ovary that typically contains a diversity of tissues including hair, teeth, bone, thyroid, etc."

   That's right. You can have teeth in your ovaries. You may not be able to make pretty eggs, but would you look at that gorgeous set of pearly-white choppers?! (I hasten to assure you and myself that the cyst that was and may still be monopolizing my right ovary is not a dermoid cyst. It may be the size of a Volkswagen, but I'm pretty sure it's boneless.)

2. Ovarian drilling. It's a surgical procedure often done on women with PCOS to reduce the level of testosterone in the ovaries, the desired result being the resumption of normal ovulation. The procedure itself doesn't seem all that alarming, but the name, the name! Ovarian drilling. It had to have been named by a man. A woman would have called it something descriptive yet non-threatening like electrosurgical ovarian perforation.

   Um. Okay, maybe not. But I doubt they'd call a male variant of the procedure testicular hot-wire hole-pokin'.

3. Mucus plug. The very phrase makes me do a full-body cringe, complete with a shudder of disgust. I'd like to imagine that it's something tidy and clean like a bathtub stopper or one of those neat newfangled rubbery wine bottle corks. But it's not. Oh, it's not. You can see a real one if you really want to...but I assure you, you really don't.

It's the thought that counts

Please enjoy some greeting cards for the rest of us.

Games to play at camp

Pin the tail on the donkey
Apply festive tassel to end of progesterone syringe ("tail"). Blindfold player. Spin player around until dizzy enough to vomit. "Donkey" (or "jackass," as the case may be) pulls down pants and leans over, gritting teeth, bracing self bravely. Player stumbles toward flabby, half-nude target aiming for upper outer quadrant.
Winner: Player who delivers oily payload to any spot even vaguely muscular
Loser: Traumatized and bleeding lumpy-assed donkey

Egg toss
Players pair off and stand two steps apart on pavement, facing each other. They gently toss an uncooked egg between them. Then they each step back, and toss the egg again. Action is repeated, with players moving farther apart, until every egg has been shattered irreparably and smeared across the burning asphalt. Now-useless eggs are pronounced to be of exceptionally poor quality. Players are firmly advised to purchase more expensive eggs from younger hens for the next game.

Hide and go seek
The person chosen as "it" ("pregnant and terrified in the first trimester") stands at base, hides eyes and counts to twenty. Players ("symptoms") choose ingenious hiding places, snickering quietly at their cleverness. When the person who is "it" reaches the end of the count, she calls out, "Holy shit, I can't feel anything!" and bursts into tears. "It" then searches frantically for vanishing "symptoms," clutching her breasts, weeping, as she runs.
Winner: Any "symptoms" who make it back to base without being intercepted by hysterical, sobbing "it"
Loser: Any "symptoms" caught by "it," who then viciously and mercilessly kicks them in the ribs until they spit blood for scaring her that way

Goofs

The other night I found myself transfixed by an episode of Law and Order. Actually, I wasn't truly transfixed; I was so awash in torpor that I could scarcely raise the remote control. Actually, I wasn't awash in torpor; I was immobilized by the hypnotic rhythmic bobble of Sam Waterston's head. But that's not important right now.

What's important is that I was watching Law and Order, an episode called "Scrambled." The episode opens with a woman lying conscious on a gurney, husband smoothing back her sweat-dampened hair, while an off-screen doctor's voice counts, "11...12...13...your ovaries are nice and supple."

Egg retrieval.

The husband is then instructed to go "do his part" — "There are magazines," the doctor kindly informs him, then returns to his delicate ovum-plucking.

We soon learn that in this elite fertility clinic, an embryologist has been killed by an intruder who has invaded the lab, conked her on the head with a tank of liquid nitrogen, and emptied a bunch of frozen embryos into the stainless steel sink.

Hilarity subsequently ensues.

As the minutes passed and the case unfolded, I found myself getting more and more incensed. I get so angry when I see the inaccuracies that riddle any dramatic treatment of infertility. This episode alone included the following egregious errors:

• Lieutenant Van Buren confides that her sister pursued fertility treatment. Detective Curtis, who is opposed to assisted reproduction, suggests, "Maybe she just wasn't meant to have a baby." Van Buren does not seize the nearest blunt instrument and cave in the side of his skull with a single powerhouse blow.

• The husband of the patient in the opening scene is lovingly soothing her instead of a) chewing his fingernails past the bloody quick; b) loudly and self-importantly fielding business calls on his cell phone in the waiting room; or c) worrying aloud about whether he'll be able to achieve erection and orgasm on demand.

  The patient is a) fully conscious; b) entirely lucid; c) in no apparent discomfort; and d) not raving deliriously about the desperate crush she has on the doctor who is, even now, perforating her vagina with dozens of tiny needle holes.

• The receptionist at the top-tier fertility clinic is warm and friendly, with a comforting motherly air. One gets the distinct impression that she returns calls promptly and passes messages on accurately.

• A couple have a daughter as the result of IVF. Nine years after her birth, they appear to have recovered entirely from the emotional and financial strain.

• Briscoe works with grim determination to ejaculate into a cup. Because Jerry Orbach is a consummate actor, his penis is convincing, responding to his panicked manual blandishments with realistic sluggishness, but the cup is marked with measurements in hectares instead of the more conventional mL/cc.

  Additionally, the room in which he is sequestered includes no toilet.

I don't know about you, but I demand more realism from my courtroom dramas.

How to get your husband to divorce you in one easy sentence

"I'm naming this baby Vercingetorix and there's nothing you can do to stop me."

Sing along with Julie and Paul

Five names that I can hardly stand to hear...

Julie: Hey, I thought of a good name for this kid. [Grandiose, sweeping name-in-lights-on-marquee gesture; portentous, booming tone.] Steely Dan. [Expectant look at Paul, quickly melting into a glare.]
Paul: No.
Julie: Charlie Freak?
Paul: No.
Julie: Josie! Peg! Aja! Rose Darling!
Paul: Babylon sisters.
Julie: Okay, okay. How about Doctor Wu?
Paul: Are you crazy? Are you high?
Julie: Wait, wait: Kid Charlemagne.
Paul: They got a name for the winners in the world. And, um, that's not it.
Julie: Call him Deacon Blues!
Paul: [Crooning.] Deacon Bluuuuues...
Julie: Oh, no! William and Mary won't do?
Paul: Congratulations. This is your Haitian divorce.

Why, you're radiant...with evil.

Last night I watched the opening ceremonies for the Athens Olympics. Well, I sort of watched, meaning I fast-forwarded at double speed. (Thank you, TiVo. You may rest now.)

I have had fever dreams more coherent than the spectacle I witnessed. Well, sort of witnessed, meaning I was also compulsively worrying at a hangnail at the time.

I looked up just in time to see the climax of one phase of the show: a young, slender woman voluptuously fonding what looked to be a bowling ball, carried at navel height. It was a bizarre enough sight that I unmuted the television, allowing TiVo the privilege of telling me what the hell was going on.

"— symbolizing the hope for the future: a pregnant woman," the Canadian announcer somberly intoned.

And I watched in disbelief as the bowling ball lit up.

Paul and I couldn't decide if it was closest to 2001, Alien, or Rosemary's Baby. It was exquisitely upsetting. I am left to conclude that the future hinges either on a battery-powered translucent bowling ball, or on a radioactive demon child sending signals to the mothership from the surface of our doomed planet.

"What the fucking fuck?" the Canadian announcer somberly intoned. I heartily concurred.

The only belly picture you'll ever see on this site

In case you're morbidly interested in the testicles of my cat, please enjoy a picture of his abdominal incision.

You can't say I'm not a sharing person.

Ticker picker

Karen mocked me yesterday for my nifty new countdown script, maliciously wondering why I didn't choose one with a stork or a big-headed cartoon baby on it.  Deeply wounded, I told her I hope she gets an equally cheesy ticker when her adoption is well and truly underway.  As I poked around the Internet in search of an appropriately saccharine picture to torment her with, it occurred to me that there should be a cheerful graphic for every precious moment in an infertile woman's journey to parenthood.  Here are some suggestions.

Number of months until the last cycle is paid for

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Sticks of butter consumed while in the throes of depression

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Post-negative Drunk-O-Mat

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Miles of fiendishly sticky red tape to fight through

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Gallons of urine fruitlessly deposited on HPT sticks

Wayback machine

It's 1978 and the first IVF baby, Louise Brown, is born. It is a year of wonder. But 1978 is also a year of turbulence, a year of wanton carnage and emotional violence.

I will explain.

In 1978, the Jonestown massacre occurs.

The Bee Gees' "Night Fever" is the year's bestselling single.

Harvey Milk is assassinated for being gay. Twinkies take the rap.

Serial killer Ted Bundy murders his last victim, then is apprehended in Florida.

The Unabomber sends his first mail bomb.

John Travolta cripples cinemagoers with a one-two punch right to the motherfucking groin with Grease and Saturday Night Fever.

The comic strip Garfield debuts in newspapers around the country..

And doctors are handing out these by the thousands.

[Many thanks for the graphics to a benefactor who prefers to remain unnamed.]

On burping

For Tertia.

Julie: Charlie's kind of hard to burp. It takes him a loooong time, and he fights it every step of the way.

Julie's mom: Are you sure you're hittin' him hard enough?

Hey, listen, she didn't kill me...

Sometimes I frighten even myself

Sure, this is sick...

...but I think this is probably worse.

Thanks to m. for the link.

And the Grammy goes to...

Cake, steak, take

There are some things I've been meaning to tell you:

1. When I was still slogging through the dark and carbless doldrums of the gestational diabetes diet, I valiantly tried to give myself a pep talk. "Why, this pregnancy thing is easy! Nothin' but blue skies ahead, I tell you. In fact, it's a goddamn cake walk."

   "Yeah," said Paul, "without the cake."

2. I do not like the term breast milk. It's a weird kind of synecdoche that makes me imagine disembodied breasts being processed like soybeans: soaked, crushed, cooked, and pressed for their rich and healthful juices.

   Yuck.

   Since breast milk seems to be the term of record, however, I think I am going to start calling the kind that comes from a cow steak milk.

3. The cat, barely a year old, is a little too playful to be trusted around baby-related implements. The nail clippers routinely end up on the floor. The pacifiers have to be washed many times a day because he's fascinated by the clicking sound they make when batted across the kitchen tile. And this morning he made off with my nipple shield.

   Here's what upset me most about that: even the cat has a better latch than Charlie.

Turns out you can judge a book by its cover

Infants and Mothers: Differences in Development, T. Berry Brazelton, M.D.	Your Baby and Child from Birth to Age Five, Penelope Leach
Baby requires support of an adult to stand	Baby stands proud and free, unpropped and unassisted (unless there's a concealed steel rod somewhere I don't know about)
Baby is modestly clad in sporty rugby onesie	Baby performs a ringing indictment of restrictive social norms by going naked and unafraid into the harsh, cold world of the bookstore
Baby betrays unattractive tendency toward homophobia by making a stereotypical gesture of limp-wristedness — perhaps an unkind swipe at the pinky-ringed doctor?	Baby signals gang members just outside the frame to come kick that playa-hatin' baby's ass, yo
Advantage: Leach

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What to Expect the First Year, Arlene Eisenberg, Heidi E. Murkoff, and Sandee E. Hathaway, B.S.N.	The Happiest Baby on the Block, Harvey Karp, M.D.
Cartoon baby drawn in an awkward perspective that seems to warp the very fabric of space	Real baby surrounded by an attractive pink aura of health and well-being
Baby's hairdo constitutes an unfortunate throwback to the darkest days of the overmoussed '80s, like mine at present	Baby's hairdo looks an awful lot like mine on its very best day ever
Baby clings to a stuffed bear as if it were a life preserver and he a floundering castaway bobbing in the briny drink	Baby embraces the calm but heightened consciousness brought about by the devoted practice of Iyengar yoga. Also, feet!
Advantage: Karp

---

Dr. Spock's Baby and Child Care, 8th Edition, Benjamin Spock, M.D., and Robert Needlman, M.D.	The Baby Book, William Sears, M.D., and Martha Sears, R.N.
Two babies; a manageable, streamlined number unlikely to alarm a feckless parent-to-be	Four babies; a shocking and profligate display of the repellent and uniquely American viewpoint that more is better
Babies touch to show their profound acceptance of each other despite differences in color and culture	Babies are so uncomfortable with the proximity of the Other that they stare determinedly off to the left, unwilling to meet each other's eyes and acknowledge their fundamental equality
Two naked babies' bottoms are adorable	Four naked babies' bottoms are downright gratuitous and probably got the photographer thrown in the pokey when he showed up to pick up his pictures at Fotomat
Advantage: Spock