File under love

So where was Paul while I was doing all this writhing and moaning?

Why, he was feverishly filling out extension forms for my income taxes so I wouldn't have to do my writhing and moaning in jail.

Love. That. Man.

Three's a crowd

Got word today that yet another friend — the third — is expecting a baby in mid-November.

No wonder none of my friends were available to commiserate as I went through IVF #1. They were all busy conceiving children of their own!

You beta, you beta, you bet

I hate to admit it, because to do so would reveal that I am, y'know, human, but I'm worried about Wednesday's blood test. Last time around, the first indication we had that something was amiss was the failure of my second number to double.

I keep thinking that if we can just clear that hurdle, I'll be satisfied with whatever happens next. This is, of course, a big, big lie. But it's all I can focus on right now, so it'll have to do.

I asked A., who's visiting now, to go with me for moral support. Maybe I didn't make my needs clear; she doesn't think she'll go, as it would be difficult for her to get up that early. Hey, thanks for the help, A.! I sure hope I don't wake you as I'm leaving.

Update: I did.

Wanted: new best friend

Today I was talking on the phone to my best friend. (How second grade is it that I actually have a "best friend"?) I was telling her we were planning a trip to New York to talk to some other doctors. The following is a faithful transcription of the remainder of the conversation.

Friend: Well, at least while you're down there you can go get a good haircut and have a decent meal!

Julie: Nah, I think we're just going to zip in and out. The day's festivities will include a thorough vaginal reaming, so I'm pretty sure my hairdo will be the least of my concerns.

Friend: Are you kidding? Listen, it's like having sex during ovulation: If you're going to be doing it anyway, you might as well have fun while you're there!

Julie: [shocked pause] Uh, so, um, how many times have you had sex during ovulation for the express purpose of baby-making?

Friend: Well... [embarrassed pause] Twice.

[She has two children. You do the math.]

Julie: So let's assume it's fun twice. Hold on a second while I crunch the numbers... Okay. I have had sex during ovulation approximately...120 times. That's not counting the months I was too depressed to try at all. And I admit it: the first two times were fun. It's the last 118 that sucked.

My friend suddenly remembered something she had to go do and got off the phone with indecent haste and obvious relief.

It must be awful to be my best friend.

Happy birthday

Today C. had her baby.

C. and I got pregnant the same week in February. Mine was ectopic; hers was normal and, I presume, more enjoyably conceived.

I tried to be angry or jealous when my pregnancy went south and hers progressed, as I take my responsibility as an infertile crank very seriously, but it never felt right. All I could seem to summon was a vague melancholy, and I find that's still true now; my feeling about the malevolent little embryo that tried to kill me is, how you say, ambivalent.

Even if I had managed to summon up all those twisted, roiling emotions that are supposed to be the specialty of infertile cranks, her simple kindness to me when pregnancy #2 was failing would have bought her my good wishes — she sent me a card, the only one of my friends who took the time to put stamp to envelope.

C.'s pregnancy was uncomplicated up until the last few weeks, when it became clear that the baby was breech and hadn't the slightest interest in turning. She was annoyed to learn she'd need a c-section only because she was afraid it would delay her return to the dojo, where she'd enthusiastically and vigorously kicked people in the face up until she was about 32 weeks along.

I predict that she was demanding a cocktail and a raft of sushi only minutes after the birth. Cheers to C. and her new baby.

Go, grrl.

Today one of my favorite co-cranks goes under the knife in pursuit of future fertility.

I wish I were in the operating room right now giving helpful tips to the surgeons.

"Says here the uterus should be pink. What you have there is really more of a dusty rose. I'd keep looking if I were you."

"Hey, shouldn't you be using a salad fork rather than a dinner fork? Were you brought up in a barn?"

"Wait, don't cut that! She needs her aorta!"

Thinking of you today, cranky grrl.

Happy birthday, again

The other two babies were born yesterday — the remaining two out of the three my friends conceived while I was experiencing my excellent ectopic adventure. I should be grateful that they were organized enough to emerge on the same day, sparing me two separate freakouts.

I wonder if I you can get post-traumatic stress disorder from situations like this. At this point all you have to do is start going on about pounds, inches, and duration of labor — or showing those pictures of an exhausted, triumphant woman holding a tiny, crabbed wean — and I start having sweaty palms and flashbacks.

I hope no one's offended when I dive under the table for cover and start hurling dinner forks and butter pats at the imagined approaching enemy, yelling, "This one's for the tube, motherfucker!"

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.

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.

If I knew you were bumming, I'd have baked a cake

For getupgrrl, from my kitchen floor.

You gotta believe

I have been thinking a lot about my friends inside the computer. Several of us are on the verge of something big.

Brenda's in retrieval right now (high as a goddamn kite, I hope). Later today I'm looking forward to an update from getupgrrl, if not on her follicle count, then on who got the last word in the impassioned, well-reasoned debate she had with her husband.

Tomorrow in South Africa, which is — oh, hell, I don't know, yesterday? today? Christmas? — in the US, Tertia gets the results of PGD on her 18 embryos. Also tomorrow, in a time zone I can relate to, Jo and I have a date in the stirrups (though not with each other, alas).

IVF success rates being what they are, it's extremely unlikely we'd all get pregnant if you limited your sample to the five of us. Instead I choose to believe that each of us will be in the lucky minority in our own highly specific group. For example, among 33-year-olds with endometriosis, slight male factor, two prior pregnancies, little to no sleep in the past 48 hours, and inner elbows that look like they've been worked over with a Garden Weasel, I'll be the lucky winner.

Magical thinking, I know, but please don't attempt to convince me otherwise — at the moment I need to believe.

I love Tertia.

AIM IM with Tertia
7:24 AM

Tertia: hi
Julie: morning, sunshine.
Tertia: how is bleeding?
Julie: hard to say. i think i saw some pink staining this morning. but who the hell knows?
Julie: there's not even enough of it to stain a pantiliner.
Tertia: wear white underpants so we can analyze it!!!
Julie: i don't OWN white underpants. what do you think i am, a granny?
Tertia: excuse me!!! i wear white underpants. what do you wear? thongs?
Julie: god, no. they are ass floss.
Tertia: comfort is key for me
Tertia: nice comfy panties
Tertia: am not v sexy when it comes to underwear
Julie: i wear plain old cotton in black or dark heather gray.
Julie: i just don't like white because i'm lazy about bleaching.
Tertia: my bra n panties never match
Julie: i used to like to match when i was, like, 20, and had the body to go with it.
Julie: now i feel particularly sporty if everything is just clean.

Tertia: how are you feeling? any symptoms yet?
Julie: yeah, i have some symptoms -- painful breasts the size of all outdoors, busy pelvis. OH, AND THE SPOTTING.
Tertia: my boobs do feel a little more sensitive, but could be my imagination.
Julie: mine genuinely hurt. how fucked up is that, when i'm glad they hurt?
Tertia: i am very very fat. oh god i'm jealous that your boobs hurt. cow.
Julie: i am even fatter.
Tertia: shit, v jealous now
Tertia: well hopefully i'll start puking before you
Julie: i'll trade the sore boobs for no spotting. how's that for a deal?
Tertia: no thanx
Julie: shit.
Julie: what kind of nbf are you?
Tertia: sorry. but thats a crap swap. think of something else
Julie: sorry, that's all i'm prepared to offer.
Julie: take it or leave it.
Tertia: um, leaving it.
Julie: whore.

Julie: the pisser of it is...
Julie: it's too early to get a heartbeat.
Julie: so i can't even have a scan to reassure me.
Julie: i'd feel better if we saw a tiny pixel flickering on and off...
Julie: but it's too early for that.
Julie: so i just spot a tiny bit, and i wait.
Tertia: thats crap. cos mind goes crazy with the spotting. and i dont care if they say its normal, it bloody scary (no pun intended)
Tertia: ok, so I'm 5w3d today. yes, too early. I am holding back until 6w3d to go see, cos want to see h/b
Julie: see, if i were you, i'd want to count the sacs.
Tertia: yeah but too scared wont see h/b and then will stress for another week convinced all is lost.
Julie: ahhhh.
Julie: well, you're smart to know what you can handle, then.
Tertia: i am being so sensible i dont even recognize myself. who am I?
Julie: stepford tertia.
Tertia: thats me. tertia roberts
Tertia: announcing my pg to the world at 9w
Julie: jesus, can you imagine?
Julie: i'll feel reckless if i tell people before the third trimester.
Julie: 30 weeks seems like a good time to tell.
Julie: enough time for people to go buy presents.
Tertia: i know. i'll have to tell people soon cos i'm going to need to start wearing maternity clothes soon i am so fucking fat
Julie: you can just tell people you ate an entire ibex or something.
Tertia: wtf is a ibex?
Tertia: or rather should i say an ibex?
Julie: i'm not sure but i've heard the savannah is just lousy with them.
Julie: can't swing a dead impala without hitting an ibex.

Julie: here's what i was thinking:
Tertia: ok go ahead
Julie: i'm going to tell friends/family if/when i get a heartbeat. we didn't last time, and then i lost it...
Julie: and it's like it never fucking existed.
Julie: they don't even know i was pregnant.
Julie: and that kind of tears me up.
Tertia: yes, thats crap.
Tertia: me too. after i see h/b i will tell the other 700 people I have not already told
Julie: we'll take out a full-page add in the wall street journal.
Tertia: ok, fess up. have you calculated your due date?
Julie: of course. like, five minutes after retrieval.
Julie: feb. 6.
Tertia: me feb 4
Julie: jesus.
Julie: doesn't that seem soon?
Tertia: no, its fucking ages away
Tertia: a fucking life time
Tertia: but i only did mine after 2nd beta. am much more restrained and grown up than you
Julie: yes, you are a paragon of maturity.
Julie: i would do well to emulate you.
Tertia: you would
Tertia: one day.
Julie: in all ways.
Tertia: no, not in all ways
Julie: except in the kitchen-torching department.
Tertia: not in the fertility front either
Julie: well, no. but you get pregnant an awful lot.
Julie: as do i.
Julie: so we're kind of twins on that.
Tertia: true. quite silly actually
Julie: me, 3 out of 4 cycles.
Tertia: spot the error

Julie: i violated myself with a q-tip to check on what was happening up in there.
Julie: i do know how to have a good time.
Tertia: you did not. azzhole. thats dangerous
Julie: i didn't go far, doofus.
Tertia: yes but introducing potentially germs!!
Julie: of all the things i've put up my vagina in my day, a q-tip is the least of my worries.
Julie: besides, i cleaned the q-tip real well with spit beforehand.
Tertia: good for you. spit works for every thing

Tertia: and what did the q-tip say?
Julie: q-tip says ANSWER UNCLEAR. ASK AGAIN LATER.
Tertia: what does unclear mean? pink? red? brown? could you take a photo and mail it? (ok not really)
Julie: q-tip actually said, "SLIGHTEST tinge of color. probably nothing to worry about."
Julie: last night it was brown. but not BROWN, really. the lightest beige you ever did see.
Julie: any ob/gyn would laugh me out of his office if i showed him.
Tertia: ok so you got to know brown is ok
Tertia: we hate any color but if it has to be a color then let it be brown'ish
Julie: but this morning on the paper there was a tiny hint of the palest pink in the universe.
Julie: so i don't know.
Tertia: what color is your tp?
Julie: white. IS there any other color?
Tertia: (just checking)
Julie: i'm going to get some black paper so that i can't consult it.
Tertia: and your soap?
Julie: soap? you use soap?
Tertia: sometimes
Tertia: when i run out of spit
Julie: jesus, you're finicky.
Julie: i wash myself all over like a cat.
Julie: my tongue gets tired.

Tertia: this one time (at band camp), i wiped my lipstick off with a piece of tp, threw it in the bowl and than had a pee. looked down and saw pink/red on tp and nearly had a fucking heart attack thinking it was blood
Julie: ahahahahaha.
Julie: band camp.
Tertia: i know. even i laughed at myself
Tertia: am hilarious
Julie: you are a motherfucking star.

Tertia: i hate cycle buddies. like this one chick has just sent me an email entitled "good news", I'm pg too. i'm like FUCK OFF BITCH. she was pg at
the same time I was with pg #2.
Julie: "good news! you suck! i don't!"
Tertia: i dont want to be her cycle buddy, it worked out pretty crap the last time
Julie: you and i are stuck with each other, looks like.
Julie: where else could we find other buddies with a similarly shitty attitude?
Tertia: it would be so nice to go through the whole pg with someone
Julie: i will do my level best.
Tertia: good for you. god, i feel nervous even saying that out loud
Julie: how fucked up is that?
Julie: totally.
Tertia: i know
Tertia: sad. v sad
Julie: we are damaged and weird.
Julie: but very, very sexy.
Tertia: totally. but not our fault
Julie: and funny as all get out.
Tertia: and clever
Tertia: dont forget clever
Julie: how could i?
Tertia: so sexy, clever and funny - what more do you want???
Julie: BABIES.
Julie: stupid.
Tertia: oh yes
Tertia: oops

Julie: is it too early for me to be feeling cravings...for codka?
Julie: vodka, damn it.
Tertia: LOL
Tertia: drunk already
Julie: it calms the baby down.
Tertia: i'll have a double codda
Tertia: codka
Julie: shut up, bitchface.
Tertia: fuck, can't even get it right
Julie: ha!
Julie: you suck as much as i do.
Tertia: at least am not drunk bitch like you
Julie: i thought you were mocking my typo.
Tertia: no, am geniunely stupid
Julie: i am a drunk bitch crack whore.
Julie: no wonder i'm pregnant.
Tertia: exactly. however, you did not shag in back seat of car
Julie: how do you know?
Julie: how do you know we weren't getting it on five minutes after retrieval?
Tertia: cos you are infertile
Julie: i am SUB-fertile.
Julie: so surely there will be five or six "oops" pregnancies in my future.
Tertia: you are SUB-versive
Julie: i am SUB-moronic.
Tertia: SUB-normal?

Tertia: nervous now. want scan now. want to see h/b. want live baby now
Julie: hey, i'm the nervous one today!
Julie: don't hog the spotlight!
Julie: you get to be nervous and fearful tomorrow.
Julie: today it's all me.
Julie: so calm the fuck down.
Tertia: ok, your turn. mine tom
Julie: good. it's a date.

Julie: i don't want to go give blood.
Tertia: why not? dont be a baby
Julie: i'm afraid they'll say my hcg hasn't risen enough.
Julie: and i'll be in beta hell.
Julie: aggggh kill me, please.
Tertia: shit, how scary. but if you go and its gone up nicely you'll feel so much better
Julie: true. so i will go. but i'll bitch about it all day.
Tertia: are you going to mark the form clearly this time?
Julie: shithead, that wasn't my fault!
Julie: it was totally THEIR fault.
Julie: the apes they have working in the lab.
Tertia: i know. tee hee
Julie: the phlebotomonkeys.

Tertia: i need a chocolate
Julie: i need a valium.
Tertia: chocolate coated valium
Julie: maybe you could wrap it in bacon, too.
Julie: and serve it in a martini, like an olive.
Julie: served with a two-month coma.
Julie: so i can wake up in week 13, bright and happy.
Tertia: 8 month coma
Tertia: no ok, 7 month coma
Tertia: see, you are going to be all happy from 13w and i am not. not sure if i can be your BF then
Julie: please. you know me well enough to know i will NEVER be happy.

Tertia: slight tingling feeling in boobs. good.
Julie: good! poke them repeatedly. and ostentatiously.
Julie: give your co-workers a thrill.
Tertia: shit, meeting chaps here, fuckers. can't they see i'm busy with personal stuff
Tertia: might speak later, good luck with blood draw
Julie: bye! thanks. eat chocolate.
Julie: poke boobs.
Tertia: not poke cooter?
Julie: that's my job.
Julie: and i take it seriously.

I love Tertia, part II

AIM IM with Tertia
4:03 AM

Tertia: azzhole
Julie: i am not an asshole!
Julie: i am, instead, an anus.
Julie: but i'm YOUR anus.
Julie: your own...personal...anus.
Tertia: anus horribilis

Still loving Tertia, though she clearly hates me

AIM IM with Tertia
4:52 AM

Tertia: so how are you feeling today? little less paranoid and insane?
Julie: MUCH less paranoid and insane. god, that was ROUGH.
Tertia: mini breakdown?
Julie: yeah, pretty much. the minute i saw the blood last week, i knew i was in for it with respect to insanity.
Julie: i couldn't wait one more fucking day for a scan.
Julie: how weak is that?
Tertia: you are pathetically weak and immature
Julie: i am weak like veal.
Tertia: and now? no more blood?
Julie: nope, not a scrap.
Tertia: how are boobs now?
Julie: acceptably sore, but not as bad as i'd like.
Tertia: no pukey feeling yet?
Tertia: you probably wont get ms you stupid slut
Tertia: will have to hate you

Tertia: my mother has this 'friend' who is very lordy (also v v odd)
Tertia: so this woman knocks on my door and asks if she can pray for me, never met her before
Tertia: so i feel too bad to say no, so she comes in my house and we sit down and she holds my hand and prays for me
Tertia: marko sniggering around the corner
Tertia: told him i was going to tell her to pray for him, he told me he would tell her to fuck off
Tertia: i feel too bad to say no to her, scared I am going to piss god off
Julie: i am laughing, laughing, laughing.
Tertia: told marko i was going to blame it on him, tell her that he says she may not come around
Tertia: he says no, what if she makes a voodoo doll out of him and stick pins in him
Tertia: so now we have a praying person praying on us
Tertia: can't get rid of her
Tertia: the other day we hid away and pretended not to be home

Julie: are you eating differently/better/crappier?
Tertia: more, and more often. have to eat and make sure tummy is never empty, cos empty tummy makes me v v sick, like retching sick.
Tertia: also try to eat protein more often, which i never normally do
Tertia: not a big meat eater
Julie: EAT MORE IBEX
Tertia: i did, i swallowed a whole one
Julie: i hope the horns and hooves didn't get stuck in your craw.
Tertia: no, but they hurt when coming out the other end

Tertia: my doctor's not that handsome but I have to think our relationship is meaningful or else I will just feel cheap
Julie: yes, i am sure my doctor and i have a deep and enduring relationship.
Julie: based on mutual respect, caring, and frequent visits to my cooter.

Tertia: lately you have been very unreliable about being online, might have to break up with you
Julie: like you could find another friend.
Julie: you're lucky i give you the time of day.

Julie: i made an ass out of myself in the waiting room the other day.
Julie: no surprise there, really.
Tertia: no suprise at all
Julie: there was this couple waiting. she went to the bathroom. when she came out, he had gone back to the exam rooms already.
Julie: i thought they were just there for an ultrasound or something...nice of him to come along...
Julie: so when she came back i told her, "your husband went back already," so she could go ahead and join him.
Julie: "i don't need to be there," she told me.
Julie: turns out he was wanking.
Tertia: OH NO
Julie: note to self: don't help. ever.

Julie: you are very superficial.
Tertia: i am
Tertia: its becuase i am so good looking
Julie: you are!
Julie: you're gorgeous.
Tertia: i can afford to have no personality
Tertia: dont need one
Julie: a personality only slows you down, really.
Tertia: am not gorgeous
Julie: well, you have a body that won't quit.
Tertia: well, maybe that. only cause i starve myself
Julie: i indulge myself and it shows. am curvy. small waist but huge rack and wide hips.
Julie: i am much woman.
Tertia: ah, but you have perfect woman shape
Julie: i do.
Julie: sexy earth mother type.
Tertia: just barren
Julie: a minor inconvenience, barrenness.
Julie: why, it's barely slowed me down at all.
Tertia: from the outside you look good
Tertia: actually false advertising
Tertia: paul should sue
Tertia: ask for his money back

Julie: i'm like one of those predatory insects.
Julie: you know, those bugs that LOOK like an innocent leaf...but then another bug lands on the branch, and then WHAMMO.
Tertia: i know, i'm scared of you
Julie: it is right that you be scared of me.
Julie: i am one scary muthafucka.
Tertia: in da hood
Julie: word to your lovely mother.

Julie: are you hoping for twins still, or on the fence?
Tertia: now not sure any more
Julie: a singleton would be a much easier pregnancy. no stupid-ass bedrest.
Julie: either way, you win.
Tertia: so kind of more at ease
Tertia: yes
Tertia: as long as there is one
Julie: aw, there will be. i am sure of it.
Julie: i mean, i can't guarantee it -- am not god, even though i feel like it sometimes...
Tertia: and you act like it
Julie: shut up or i'll smite you.

Julie: everyone kisses your ass.
Julie: i love it.
Tertia: sometimes
Julie: you are like the queen.
Tertia: i know. kiss my ring
Tertia: ha ha haaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Tertia: not that ring

Tertia: ate a piece of bacon now, feel like vomiting, poor babe.
Julie: your baby hates bacon, you child abuser.
Tertia: wait, just remembered have liquorice in cupboard, yay
Julie: licorice and bacon. a fine snack.
Tertia: with avo and feta
Tertia: but first pasta salad
Tertia: and dried mango
Tertia: a lite snack
Tertia: am not pig, oh no
Tertia: oink
Julie: hairy sow.
Tertia: not hairy. have almost no body hair
Julie: lucky. i have pubic hair that extends from sea to shining sea.
Julie: cannot wear a bathing suit.
Julie: i was thinking if we went donor egg i'd ask to see the bikini line of every potential donor.
Tertia: just shave it asshole
Julie: no, if i shave it i get these horrible red bumps and an ugly rash.
Julie: very sensitive skin.
Julie: same with waxing.
Tertia: so you leave it hairy? v scary
Julie: i do. it's scary. but not as scary as STUBBLE.
Tertia: how does the dr find any thing in there?
Julie: sense of touch.
Tertia: good thing
Tertia: better than sense of smell

Tertia: do you know you can get toilet freshener in an 'ocean' fragrance? who would want their toilet to smell like fish?
Julie: i want my toilet to smell like precisely NOTHING.
Tertia: exactly
Tertia: never have toilet freshner
Tertia: must tell you embarrasing story
Tertia: used to have one girl working for me who was a little slutty, ok very slutty, bright red lips, bleached hair etc. anyway, one day she came to work and i did n't see her behind me so i shouted out, 'who has sprayed that damn toilet freshener again?' it was her perfume
Tertia: oops

Tertia: hurry up monday
Tertia: is it monday yet?
Julie: i don't know. which side of the date line are you on?
Julie: is it christmas there?
Tertia: easter
Julie: motherfuck, i always get that wrong.

Julie: the other day the doctor had the wand lodged cooterward...
Julie: and we were talking about when we might see a heartbeat.
Julie: and he said something about "...hope and pray."
Julie: then he paused, and said, "...or whatever spiritual expression most closely conforms to your personal worldview."
Julie: i could NOT stop laughing.
Tertia: new age dude
Julie: big guffaws.
Julie: i practically shot the wand across the room.
Julie: i think he was embarrassed.
Julie: he said, "well, i don't know! you could be a buddhist."
Tertia: sweet of him
Julie: "or," i said, " a satanist."
Tertia: bad of you to laugh at him
Julie: so bad.
Tertia: bad girl
Julie: spank me.
Julie: i've been a very naughty pregnant lady.
Tertia: no thank, you have hairy bush
Tertia: scared of you
Julie: i am the wild woman of borneo.
Tertia: afro down there
Tertia: like lionel richie
Julie: truly.
Tertia: 80's music playing in the background
Tertia: dancing on the ceiling
Julie: SHUT UP.
Tertia: towelling sweatband in pubic area
Julie: shut up. now i am deeply ashamed of the way god made me.
Tertia: you should be. and dont blame god
Tertia: he gave you wax and razors
Julie: you are a very mean, small person.
Julie: weeping.
Tertia: me still laughing and pointing
Tertia: not caring if you are weeping

Roll call

I'm working on an excruciatingly exhaustive list of blogs by people enduring infertility. (I've chosen not to include links to password-protected blogs, as I'm assuming access to those is generally limited to people the writers already know.)

More selectively, and not arbitrarily, I've also included links to people pursuing adoption, facing pregnancy after infertility or loss, and raising a family.

Check it out — if you'd like to be included, or removed, or would like your description changed, please let me know in the comments here.

If you'd like to be included, please make sure you tell me what your description should be, unless there's one prominently displayed on your blog already.

And if there are sites on this list that are unfamiliar to you, poke around — they're worth reading.

Thanks.
          — The Mgt.

A busload of very old nuns

I want to thank everyone who's commented or sent e-mail with encouraging words and good wishes. It helps immensely. Very special thanks to C., who advised the following:

"No orgasms, sis.  When you get into bed at night and drift off to sleep, you may think only of busloads of very old nuns.  No more eating sexy food like ripe cheese or plums or anything, stick to oatmeal.  Make Paul stop losing weight because if he gets too buff you may have forbidden lustful thoughts."

Only think of nuns. Only think of nuns.

State of the union

The other day I was aroused by an unusual banging in my bedroom.

Wait, that's not right at all.

But it is accurate. As I sat in front of my computer in the next room, Paul was hammering noisily away. These days I spend enough time in my desk chair to have grown fine filamentous roots that snake into the mesh of the seat, so I was reluctant to get up and investigate. But my curiosity got the better of me. I yanked my taproot free and went in to see what he was up to.

He was dismantling the drawer units in our closet by whacking them forcefully with a rubber mallet. His plan was to reassemble the units so that mine would be the taller one, "so you don't have to bend when you're getting your clothes."

Yeah, it's like that.

Paul's competence is one of his most attractive traits. His kindness is another. I knew he was capable and I knew he was considerate, but each day I'm reminded again of everything I have to be grateful for.

Senseless

This morning I had my three-hour glucose tolerance test. While I sat patiently in the waiting room in the long intervals between blood draws, I was unable to avoid overhearing the conversation of the women at the registration desk.

Familiarity breeds contempt, I suppose, or at least a breezy nonchalance. Their tone was perfectly matter-of-fact, brisk and businesslike, this-won't-hurt-a-bit, even when discussing the most heartbreaking matters. "Her beta's only 62, so she's not going to bother to come in." "Yes, but the baby died." "Oh, when they miscarry, I just throw away their purple sheet."

They were not especially callous, I think; they were just getting through their day. Yet it shocked me — not their talk or their tone, but the fact that this is the stuff of their every workday. And how do you make sense of a world when such circumstances are commonplace enough to inspire anything but a shaken silence?

This is the silence I felt upon reading Sarah's posts on Cecily's blog yesterday and today. This is a world where such things happen every day, but never ever should.

How can this make any sense?

Without whom

I have a lot to say.

I'll post as often as I can, but it's going to take me a few days to get the whole story out. I don't even want to start without thanking everyone, everyone for the support and love that have surrounded us since this all began, but particularly over the last week or so.

I am uncharacteristically tongue-tied when I try to find the words to tell you what it means to me. Although I don't have time just now to answer many e-mail messages or properly thank you personally, please know that I — we — feel deeply grateful for every good wish, every encouraging story, and every one of your congratulations.

I'd thank Tertia and Danae for sharing my news with all of you when I was unable to, and those two, getupgrrl, and my friends M. and T. for keeping me from feeling so alone as I sent out 164-character dispatches from my cell phone while stranded at the hospital, but I get a little choked up when I try, so instead I will simply say, "Assholes," and leave it at that.

Scattered showers

For your enjoyment, I offer a view of the mountain of packages that awaited us upon arrival.

107 boxes. 25 bags. Paul counted. I cried.

I don't know where to start. I am so grateful, my friends, so touched and humbled by your generosity. Detailed and personal thanks will follow when we break out the box cutter. And that will be soon — Charlie's talons need clipping, and somewhere in that beautiful slew is a pair of teeny nail clippers, I just know it.

Now, on the subject of showers, let's talk about Tertia. Today at exactly 36 weeks, Tertia gave birth to Adam and Kate. If you'd like to celebrate with her, please visit the brand-new blog of the excellent Boulder, who's put together some great ideas on how to join the party.

I personally can't wait to salute one of blogland's favorite heroines icons assholes and her brand-new twins. Congratulations, T.

Shameless product placement

This morning, as most mornings, Charlie woke up hungry, smacking his lips and sticking out his tongue expectantly. I hurried downstairs, boy in one arm, and fetched an Avent bottle (sterilized, of course, as we are fastidious people). Back upstairs, I placed the bottle in the warmer. I unwound Charlie's flannel receiving blanket and peeled him out of his Halo sleep sack and his onesie, then lay him on the changing table pad, topped by its soft terrycloth cover, and began to change his diaper.

Last night's onesie went into the hamper. The old diaper went into the Diaper Champ. A fresh and toasty wipe was removed from the wipes warmer and pressed into service. I was able to deploy the new diaper at my leisure thanks to Charlie's stylish new Wee Blocks. (The Butt Paste was considered but deemed unnecessary, as the bottom in question is currently unafflicted.)

A sponge bath, then, since there was no time for a long wash in the infant tub with baby washcloths and a warm hooded towel. Next, a clean onesie. (Alas, he is too small yet for the one that reads, "I was worth the wait," but, oh, he is, he is.) And then the appetizing warm bottle, in tandem with the burp cloth.

Paul fed Charlie while I dutifully pumped, a task made much more endurable with a copious slathering of nipple cream. Then I crept in and applied the little tiny clippers and little tiny emery boards to Charlie's razor-sharp talons while he was distracted by breakfast.

After the mandatory burp, I finished dressing Charlie. I put him in a warm suit, since it's -10° out today. I am proud to report that he has graduated from some of his preemie clothes into newborn size and can now wear several adorable new outfits with signal flair. Booties and a hat completed his dashing ensemble (if a baby who's wearing a bunny suit could be said to be dashing).

Then it was time to bundle Charlie into his newly warm and fuzzy car seat for the drive to see — yes — the lactation consultant. Charlie charmed the pants off the consultant (and the bra off his mother) and performed beautifully. Full marks, kiddo.

Back at home, I eased him down onto the custom fitted sheet of his Pack and Play for his post-lunch nap, covering him with his fleece cloud blanket. Later, if he is very well behaved and doesn't give me any lip when we practice breastfeeding, he will have his first ride in the swing. And then perhaps a stirring reading from that dramatic classic, Goodnight Moon. After that, Paul and I will probably kick back with a movie, courtesy of the Netflix gift subscription — one with swear words, since they seem to comfort Charlie like nothing else. (I imagine he heard them often enough in utero.)

If I haven't mentioned your gift here, it's not for want of appreciation, I assure you. We're still opening boxes and exclaiming over your generosity, enjoying many presents immediately and setting others aside for later. We can't wait to use the baby gym, for example, but he's too little just now. We're looking forward to setting up his crib with the luxe new bedding, though his crib is still being built by my father. Tomorrow we're taking him to the pediatrician and the sling will go with us — I'm eager to use it but want to be sure his neck muscles are equal to the task. And as much as I might like to take Charlie's temperature a hundred times a day with the quick-read digital thermometer, it probably wouldn't be kind to do it until he's actually, you know, awake. The Target cards will most likely be spent on a dresser for Charlie's room, so that I'll have a place to store all his beautiful new belongings, and the PayPal donations will probably go for a series of infant massage, especially beneficial for preemies who need to be reminded that touch can be warm and soothing instead of clinical, pointy and painful. (Either that or hookers and smack or — I haven't decided yet.)

Paul and I are so grateful. Your kindness allowed us to set up housekeeping with Charlie immediately, instead of being faced with the impossible task of shopping once we'd returned home. You relieved us of a tremendous burden, letting us settle in comfortably and spend our time making Charlie welcome. This was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.

We are just so very grateful.

(Note: A few gifts arrived without any indication of who sent them. If you sent a sling or a bath kit with many potions and unguents in a snappy plastic case, can you please let me know in e-mail? I would like to be able to thank you personally.)

...

A special shout-out to Abby, who sent a picture of herself with the blanket she made for Project Linus. She kindly gave me permission to post this picture on the condition that it be accompanied by a disclaimer about her hair. I personally think her hair looks fine. Don't you?

If you've made a blanket, too, please consider sending a picture. I promise to embarrass you with it later.

...

Welcome, Hannah Eilene! You are already fiercely loved by your mother's friends inside the computer, as evidenced by the shower that's been masterminded by the magnificent Shelba, at a site designed by the excellent AndreaH.

Many, many congratulations to Julia and family. May blogland's baby boom continue.

Why, this blog practically writes itself!

Seems like lately I've seen a lot of posts asking readers for their input — you know, polls, surveys, requests for advice, that kind of thing. As I'm always one to hop on a bandwagon as long as I don't have to sit next to the stinky guy, I thought I'd turn to you all to help me solve these pressing problems I am currently facing.

Plus, you know, I work hard, damn hard, writing these posts, making it all nice for you and your friends, going out of my way to put on a touch of lipstick and a clean frock when you come home at the end of a long day at the office...

So you do the work today. I would appreciate it if you would answer one of the following questions:

1. Where can I find a short-sleeved V-neck T-shirt that will accommodate, not to say showcase, my opulent rack?

   Friends, at 20 weeks postpartum I am still wearing my maternity T-shirts. Pride compels me to assure you that they're the kind of shirt designed to sheath the pregnant body in a sausagey Lycra casing, and not the kind modeled after a circus tent, so they do not in fact swirl around my waist exactly like the hoop skirt of antebellum ballgown — only sort of. Still, I feel decidedly sheepish wearing them when I'm back in my pre-pregnancy pants.

   But my pre-pregnancy T-shirts no longer fit in the bust. What I need is a T-shirt that houses my majestic prow without creating an unsightly pucker across same. As long as we're going with the ship metaphor, it must also taper neatly at the waist instead of billowing freely like the topgallant of a three-masted schooner in the gale of high seas. Gap and Ann Taylor: great for waist, lousy for bust. Old Navy: generally a little cheaper-looking than I like. Eddie Bauer: tends toward the boxy. American Apparel: hahahahahahahahaha ohhhhh.

   Think shapely, not boxy; tailored, not sloppy; black or just possibly gray, not festooned with rhinestones and kittens, please.

2. What kind of stroller should we buy?

   It should be reasonably sturdy, with wheels that can negotiate a packed but unpaved path through a wooded park. It should not be so heavy that I can't push it up a steep hill while laden with approximately twenty pounds of baby without expiring from exertion. And above all, it should have handles that are long enough to be comfortably used by someone tall — adjustable, perhaps. Finally, it should corner like it's on rails, get at least 35 MPG/highway, have a handy cupholder, a 10-disc CD changer, a place to hang a pungent Little Tree air freshener, and a prominent expanse to display my bumper sticker that reads </bush>.

3. What should I serve for dinner this weekend?

   Due to the impressive array of food sensitivities our guests carry, these foods are forbidden:
   

   • wheat gluten in any form
     
   • aged cheeses, including cheddar and parmesan
     
   • chocolate
     
   • nuts
     
   • caffeine
     
   • any kind of food dye
     
   • any kind of soy-based item
   
   Due to Paul's sister's selective vegetarianism, I also must not serve:
   • meat

   ...unless it is the meat of a

   • fish

   ...which I do

   • not

   particularly care for.

   Finally, due to the immoderate enthusiasm of one of our guests, I should probably not serve:

   • booze

   ...though I cannot swear I will not slip away to guzzle some on the sly in the:

   • pantry
   • half-bath
   • coat closet
   • little warren I've created in the basement within a teetering pile of suitcases

   Anyway, my current dinner menu includes a can of tuna, some iffy off-brand mayonnaise, a handful of stale rice crackers, and the banana that is slowly blackening on the end of my kitchen island.

   Do you think that will stretch to serve twelve?

4. Does this post strike you as sort of...well...lazy?

   Yeah, me, too. I'm sorry and embarrassed. Really. The shame overwhelms me. I'm going to crawl into my dark little den of luggage now. If you need me, you can find me licking the inside of the soft-sided cooler that still smells of coconut rum, eight years after that trip to the Bahamas.

Thank you in advance for your comments, which will pick up the slack and make it possible for me to enjoy some quality me-time. I'll check back once I've run out of intoxicating residue or when I get my tongue caught in a zipper, whichever comes first.

The nuns on this blog are decent, I tell you

K. writes:

I have a dear, dear friend who is just a few weeks pregnant after her fourth in vitro. She had a hint of cervical cancer (bad Paps) in her early 30s, so it's a miracle she even has this chance...she's nearly 40 now.

Anyway, I really want to send her flowers, but am afraid I don't  dare...just in case.  How about a plant that says: "Here's something to mark this wonderful time in your life. May it grow strong for you along with your other project!"

But what if she loses her baby?!?!?!?!?!?!? I made a mistake once when a good friend who already had two kids got pregnant again. I took her a beautiful flowering plant with three big blooms on it. She was happy about it and liked it but then she lost the baby a couple of weeks later.

Maybe you could ask your readers for me. Help.

Okay, here's what I think. I think you should send flowers. I also think you should send a box of chocolates, a flock of doves, a singing telegram, a big brass band, a squadron of Shriners riding little teeny cars in speedy figure eights, and a gleaming new Mercedes with one of those giant shiny red bows atop it.

Come to think of it, a pizza might not go amiss, either.

I think it's right and fitting to celebrate this beginning with your friend. Sure, her pregnancy could fail — we're none of us immune — but I don't think that awareness should keep you from showing you share her hopes. I suspect at 39 with four IVFs under her belt, your friend has enough misgivings to go around, so I don't think yours should stop you from acknowledging the joy that comes with them.

I'm sure some would suggest that you'd want to be measured in your enthusiasm, that you should take your cue from the way your friend behaves about it. But I know I was grateful to the friends who embraced my pregnancies fully, even as they were failing, even as I warned them not to get all that excited. And if I'm honest, I'll admit that I felt a great disappointment in friends who hesitated to get happy, as if they thought a pregnancy was already doomed just because it was mine.

I can't say this for sure, but if you asked your other friend whether she regretted getting flowers from you before she miscarried, I bet she would say no.

Friends, infertiles, mothers, mothers-to-be, miscarriers, misanthropes, perverts searching unsuccessfully for "no crotch panty nun": what do you think?

When you write about Boston, and you will, be kind.

To Julia's account of our Boston weekend, I would like to contribute some specifics.

But first, if you offered suggestions on what we might do while we were in town, I thank you. If you offered to meet us and show us the sights in person, I thank you and wish we had accepted. You, however, should thank your lucky motherfucking stars, because Boston had it in for us, and I can't promise you would have emerged unscathed.

Friday

4:30 PM. I arrive at South Station brimming with excitement and verve. I exuberantly toss my stylish tam-o'-shanter in the air. Full of fresh-faced pioneerism, undaunted by the weight of my suitcase and undeterred by the dangerous clink of the liquor bottles within, I decide to take the subway to our hotel instead of a cab.

5:15 PM. Eleven flights of stairs and fourteen thousand lurching steps later, I arrive at the hotel, panting, sweating, and in possession of several brand-new blisters on my dainty doll-like feet. I note with approval the convenient proximity to "Boston's Home for Erotic Cakes, Sweets, and Novelties." I check in, go up to our suite, and immediately mark my territory by rubbing my scent glands on every obvious protuberance urinating copiously in a corner arranging the liquor bottles just so on top of the TV.

5:45 PM. A knock on the door heralds the arrival of Julia. I greet her seductively at the door swathed only in Saran Wrap, Marabel Morgan-style. I remember my mangy patches of unsightly freezer burn too late to conceal them. "Do not," she tells me through gritted teeth, "even mention the baseball game."

6:00 PM. We sally forth in a quest Spring, Emily, and Anne swore we would not regret: the quest for a chacarero.

6:55 PM. After a cab driver who did not know where Filene's was and politely suggested we get out of his car; a hotel valet who directed us not to Filene's but to Lord and Taylor; a long walk and some wrong turns; and a confusing set of directions from a woman who appeared to be sending us to South America to get an authentic Chilean sandwich, we do, in fact, regret our quest.

7:45 PM. The search for a restaurant that serves an appropriate caliber of both food and liquor finds us finally at a steakhouse. Our waiter repeatedly rests his hands on the back of Julia's chair and vibrates aggressively. "You've been Magic Fingered," I tell her solemnly. She brains me with a half-empty wine bottle, carefully, so as not to spill a single drop.

9:00 PM. I stand at the end of the meal, and quickly realize there is no way I'm making it anywhere on foot. My blisters have blossomed into weeping open sores, and with every step my shoes seem to tighten even further. I hobble to the door; outside the restaurant I immediately whip off my shoes. Barefoot, I tread carefully back to the hotel. I do not step on any glass or used needles, and, having dodged those more alarming hazards, I shove to the back of my mind my mild apprehension about stepping into a pool of, you know, urine or the dripping clap.

9:30 PM. I take the only photo of the weekend, a close-up of my chewed and bloody heel. Replacing my shredded Band-Aids with new ones, donning a different pair of shoes, and taking a strictly medicinal belt from my travel-sized bottle of vodka, I am once again ready to take on the town.

10:00 PM. No more than pleasantly tipsy, we arrive at Jacob Wirth's, as Cris suggested, to humiliate ourselves at the promised drunken piano bar sing-along. Upon entering, we notice two unsettling things: the lights are all on, and the liquor bottles have been carefully covered with a drift of Saran Wrap, Marabel Morgan-style. Julia wonders aloud if they've stopped serving. Nonsense, I opine, insisting that the booze has simply been carefully wrapped to keep it fresh and moist.

10:02 PM. Julia was right. We leave in high dudgeon — what kind of bar...? — unable to believe — ...ten o'clock?! — that they expected us to stay there and sing in public unobscured by darkness and sober. I try not to let my disappointment show, but in fact it did cost me great effort to memorize the lyrics to "Wildfire" and I am devastated not to be able to strut my pony-chasin' stuff.

11:00 PM. After Julia charms the figurative pants off a stern-looking bouncer outside a club we are far too matronly to enter — sorry, a club I am far too matronly to enter — we learn that there's a bar just a block down the street that is "grungy." That is more my speed, and as Julia genteelly nurses a beer I bolt down more vodka, barely pausing to chew it.

12:00 AM: We agree it is time to return to our hotel, where we may don our nighties, tuck up our hair in pin curls, and engage in a rollicking pillow fight. Or alternatively, we might put on baggy sweats, drink everything in the suite but the mouthwash, and talk. And talk. About everyone we know and many we don't. (Yes, whoever you are, we talk about you.) Which we do until 3:30.

After I tell her a story, Julia accuses me in a bored drawl of sucking all the life out of it. I attempt to beat her mercilessly with an empty bottle, but since it is a Lilliputian bottle from the mini-bar, I succeed in delivering only very small bruises and the most adorable wee tiny skull fracture. In revenge, Julia offers me a mint, into which I bite unwittingly; she cackles like a...um, great cackling thing as minty confectionery semen runs down my chin.

Since every great evening should end with either a drunken brawl or someone dripping something, I will now draw the veil across Friday, except to say that Julia slept here while I slept here.

Saturday

10:00 AM. Last night a room service breakfast delivered at 10 seemed a decadence that bordered on Caligulan. This morning, it seems sadistic. However, determined to soldier on brightly, I pop some Tylenol, chug some water, and tuck into my eggs-over-easy-side-of-bacon-white-toast while Julia watches from the sofa, looking vaguely ill.

10:30 AM. Julia has taken to her bed. Without showering, I put on last night's clothes. This is not as revolting a prospect as it would be if we'd actually managed to get a good drunk on; as it is, they reek not a whit. I wrench my feet into shoes, gasping at the pain, and venture out in search of a Coca-Cola for Julia — she calls it that! A Coca-Cola! — and less excruciating footwear for myself.

11:30 AM. I return, more or less triumphal, bearing a frosty beverage, an extensive supply of adhesive bandages, and a pair of pearlescent pink flip-flops (cost: $18 and a half-mile of walking). Julia sucks down her Coca-Cola with unladylike dispatch, I shower and apply unguents to my suppurating sores, and we eventually embark again, our determination to conquer Boston somewhat renewed.

1:00 PM. We do not, in fact, conquer Boston. It is worth noting that flip-flops are not the ideal footwear for exploring a city during a chilly rainstorm. With every step my feet steep longer in the toxic gumbo — excuse me, poisonous chowder — of the overflowing gutter.

2:30 PM. Drenched, embittered, and hungry, we settle on lunch at an Asian restaurant mere steps from our hotel.

4:00 PM. Suddenly we realize it is not, in fact, too early to start drinking, and beat a hasty path back to our room, where the wine and conversation flow.

7:00 PM. We change our clothes — do these pink rubber flip-flops go with my tiara and ball gown? — and strike out in search of dinner. Our destination is Meritage, recommended by T. I give our cab driver a very specific address, practically including GPS coordinates, and encourage him to talk volubly about baseball, causing Julia to stop speaking to me entirely, her patrician face stony in profile.

7:25 PM. As the frigid downpour continues, we are dropped off in what our cab driver promises is the vicinity of our restaurant. Huddling in a doorway, I call the restaurant to get directions, expecting to be told that we need only turn twice to the left, take two baby steps forward, and one giant scissor step to the north. Instead, I am told that it's "only" a 15-20 minute walk away. "Do you have an umbrella?" the solicitous gentleman asks. "No," I answer grimly. "Well, you need one," he says. I end the call and resolve to have him flayed upon our eventual arrival at the restaurant.

7:45 PM. Julia and I have headed off into the driving rain in, of course, the wrong direction. As I slog through puddle after puddle in my rubber sandals, I am certain I am contracting cholera. Julia is wrapped up in her pashmina looking like a debased Mary Magdalen. We are laughing. And laughing. We finally manage to signal a sympathetic cab driver, one I do not goad into speaking of baseball, who deposits us at last at our correct destination.

9:30 PM. We are between courses, irritated by the indifference of our waiter. Apparently he believes that pink plastic shoes are footwear for only the lower orders, and that the hair pasted flat to my skull by the rain is a sign of a general disregard for grooming. (Hey, he's got me on that one.) He blooms, however, into servility when I ask him where the ladies' room is. "Will you come with me?" he asks, spreading his arms in what appears to be a welcoming embrace, looking for all the world like he wants to heft me over his shoulder and bear me there himself. My imagination quails from thoughts of what other services he might perform once there. Instead, I ask politely, "Could you perhaps just tell me?" He does. Julia isn't listening, but then she'll have no need to know; she has already wet herself laughing.

11:00 PM. Finished with dinner, we trudge downstairs to the hotel bar. We are there for an hour and yet, when we get into a cab to go back to the Eliot, we are both as sober as alewives. (I know. I know. That's a fish. But as far as I know they don't tipple.)

11:30 PM. We are back in our sweats, dry at long last, and have tucked in to the remains of this afternoon's demi bouteille. I have bathed my feet and my gullet in vodka. We vow that we will never, but never take on Boston together again. Honest and unashamed in our defeat, we readily admit Boston has kicked our collective flip-flopped ass.

And so eventually to bed, not as drunk or as late as last night, since I'll be up early to rendezvous with Paul and Charlie.

Sunday

8:00 AM. The alarm clock next to my bed goes off. I shower, re-anoint my blisters, and pack my suitcase before venturing quietly into the living room of our suite. I pass through the French doors and creep towards Julia's bed to say goodbye — or gudbi, as Patrick would have it — before departing. I say her name, but she sleeps on. She looks so peaceful in her zippered footie pajamas, satin-edged blankie clutched to her pinkened cheek, her thumb having slipped wetly out of her slack mouth. I watch her for a moment, then leave a single red rose on her pillow. Then I slip silently out of her life forever.

So there you have it. I could overlook the part about being cold and drenched to the bone. I could even forgive the ostentatious snubs from cab drivers and maitres d' alike. But when two such accomplished lushes as Julia and I can't even get intoxicated...well, Boston is now off the list.

And yet: I had a marvelous time. I attribute that entirely to Julia's crackling wit and my own drive to seem, you know, cool enough so that she wouldn't slip away while I was in the bathroom, leaving me with the bill. I am fairly certain my feet have turned gangrenous — red streaks are bad, right? And yet. If it comes to amputation, I'll count it all worthwhile.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas

Three years ago at Christmas, Paul and I were excitedly preparing for our first IVF.

Two years ago, burned out from a year of disappointments, I couldn't face even the thought of trying to conceive.

One year ago, we celebrated Charlie's first Christmas.  We tried very hard to get into the spirit of things; on Charlie's behalf I made an ornament for the tree in the NICU, as did the nurses.  We were shaken by how close we'd come to  losing him, and our Christmas wish was ultimately a simple one: please let us take our baby home.

This year everything is different.  Everything is better.  And that's due in no small part to all of you, who've seen us through so much with support, encouragement, and kindness.  In your honor — Name: Ms. My Friends Inside the Computer — I've made donations to Resolve and the March of Dimes.

Merry Christmas.  Happy Hanukkah.  May your home be full of warmth, laughter, and light — if not this year, then soon.  May you take your babies home.  If not this year, then soon.

Here we go again

A year ago today, Charlie took a ride.  Paul and I drove him home from the hospital, one of us driving, the other sitting in the back staring very hard, unblinking, at the baby in the car seat, aiming "please survive" rays directly at his downy head.

After five long hours, during which time I pumped twice in the back seat, we were home.  It was an emotional homecoming — not only were we home at last with a baby, our baby, but our friends inside the computer had given him a welcome that brought me to tears.  In fact, it still does.

That online shower, the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me, was masterminded by Boulder.  Boulder, like so many of us, is trying, in her words, "to have a damn baby."

I want to help.

Once again, I'm making a quilt.  This is a quilt I began while I was still pregnant with Charlie.  I haven't touched it since, but it's long past time I finished.  It represents hours and hours and hours of work and thought, as each patch has been individually chosen for color and value.  The finished quilt will have over 1,000 pieces in it.  It is, I tell people, the quilt of my soul, and you can see a quick preview.  I'll be raffling it off here once it's complete, with proceeds to go to Boulder's surrogate fund.

If you'd like a chance to win, you can sign up here.  Chances will go for $5 each.

I am lucky, unutterably lucky, that Charlie came home, that he's grown and thrived, that he's gone from a sleepy five-pound blob to a happy giant who likes to play in the snow.  I want that for all of us.   I want it for Boulder.

Being Julia

My friends, it is time to move on.  Taking a page from Julia, whose breezy determination is a model for us all, I will wrestle the conversation into less turbulent channels by posting a recipe and a photo of a cute child.

This recipe is for what I call miscarriage cookies.  They are that good.  They have seen me through dark times on more than one occasion.  These cookies are magnificent on their own, better with a glass of port, and better still with a vintage Percocet.

Chocolate Fudge Cookies with Toffee and Dried Cherries
From Regan Daley's In the Sweet Kitchen

Makes 40 large cookies (or 4 dozen if you're using my largeish cookie scoop, or none if you eat the batter raw, which I have been known to do).

2-1/4 c. flour
1/2 c. unsweetened Dutch-process cocoa
1 t. baking soda
1/4 t. salt
1 c. butter, at room temperature
1 c. tightly packed brown sugar
3/4 c. granulated sugar
2 lg. eggs
1-1/2 t. vanilla
1 c. plump, moist dried sour cherries
1 c. bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, in chunks the size of the cherries
1 c. Skor Bits

1. Preheat oven to 350º. Line cookie sheets with parchment paper or Silpats.


2. Combine flour, cocoa, baking soda and salt in a bowl and set aside.


3. Cream together the butter and both sugars until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes. (I use a stand mixer with the paddle attachment.)  Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition and scraping down the side of the bowl as necessary. Beat in the vanilla. Incorporate the flour mixture in 3 increments, blending just until the dry ingredients are moistened. Stir in the chunky ingredients until they are evenly distributed.


4. Do what you need to do — baking one sheet at a time, changing the position of your oven racks, selling plasma to afford an expensive convection oven — to assure even baking.  Drop batter by heaping tablespoons onto cookie sheets and bake them in the middle of the oven for 15-18 minutes, or until barely set in the center and just firm around the edges. Cool on baking sheet for 3–5 minutes and then transfer to rack to cool completely, or stuff great molten handfuls into your mouth until your tongue is naught but a blistered, meaty slab.  Your choice.

There.  Now I can close and selectively prune the comments on the previous post, hopeful that we will all be too busy baking, drinking, or abusing narcotics to say any more on that matter.

Thank you all so much for your kind birthday wishes.  This morning I tried to remember how I spent my birthday last year, and I couldn't.  (Research reveals that I've blocked it out for good reason.)   This year is better in every way.  This is where the cute kid comes in.  Picture it, if you will...

Charlie books it down the hall towards the bedrooms, looking back over his shoulder to make sure I'm crawling after him.  I am, in the least suspenseful low-speed chase since OJ made a break for it.  I let him reach the bathroom before I do.  I hear the tumble of the spindle as he pulls a long ribbon of toilet paper off the roll.  I let him go at it for a moment, then scoop him up into my arms and threaten to indenture him to the Blue Man Group.  By way of apology, he makes a sweet and mournful sound through his PVC tubulum as I carry him back down the hall.

As Julia might say, isn't he sweet?

Shut up, Julia

Julia wrote:

I hate [my RE's nurse] and I am only slightly consoled by the fact that she was wearing jeans folded up to mid-calf in an attempt to convey "funky cropped" but succeeded merely in shouting "basement flooded with sewage." (Not that there is anything wrong with that. Happens to the best of us, after all. The sewage, I mean, not the pants. The foot-of-folded-wrong-side-of-the-denim-as-cuffs pants shouldn't happen to anyone.)

She's talking about me, you know.  While I am making a becomingly self-deprecating moue at her referring to me as "the best of us," I'll thank her to shut her Viognier hole right now.  Here's why.

Thursday morning found Charlie and me at the library, licking trains and irritably counting down the minutes respectively.  When Paul met us downtown at the appointed time as planned, he had news: our basement was flooded, awash in raw sewage.

Our house is set back from the road, down an incline from the street.  To tie into the city sewer system, we need to thwart gravity, using a pump to force our waste water up the hill.  I had never known of such an arrangement before we moved into this house, but to give you some idea of how critical this system is, I will tell you that when we first came here while house hunting, we noticed that the owner had no fewer than four sewer pumps lined up on a shelf, close at hand and ready for action should the need arise.

Now, those of you who are longstanding readers might remember that this is not the first problem we've had with our sewer pump.  It malfunctioned while Charlie was still hospitalized, and it gave out entirely last summer.  (Not flushing the toilets for a few days, limiting showers in high summer, and bailing out the bathtub with buckets was about as gay a lark as you'd imagine.)

Unlike those other times, though, this time the alarm didn't go off, the alarm that tells you your pump is malfunctioning, so stop flushing the toilets, already, you stupid gross toilet-using jerk.  So the overflow tank, which holds 50 or 60 gallons of waste water, had...well, overflowed.

Paul — taker-out of garbage, emptier of Diaper Champ — headed the early response team, and sucked up the majority of the, er, overflow with the shop vac.  Not to be outdone in the Toxic Avenger department, I then took up the standard with a mop, a bucket, a half-gallon of Lysol, rubber gloves, and a 24-ounce box of Cheez-Its to serve as my later reward.  I know I'm not the first to mop appalling tides of human waste out of a basement.  I may, however, be the first to have done it wearing an iPod, frog boots, and an Ann Taylor T-shirt.

And — shut up, Julia — my jeans folded up to mid-calf.

But it gets worse, and it's Julia's fault.  Not an hour after reading her taunt — I think that was a taunt, but because I want to be fair I will allow that it might have been a jeer — I heard the alarm go off again, only a day after the pump had ostensibly been repaired.  I apprehensively tripped down to the basement, pre-emptively frog-booted, and found another flood.

I can't prove she did it, but I'm pretty sure this is her fault.  But what's worse is that now I'll feel so unfashionable when I turn up my jeans to keep them out of the mire.  Thanks a lot, Julia.  Now let's just see what happens next time you ask me for reproductive advice.  ("Follistim is muuuch more effective if you inject it directly into your eyeball.  No, use the IM needle, just to be sure you get through all the, ah, eyeball-jelly.  Yes, of course I'm sure!  Who do you think you're talking to, some ill-dressed unshowered janitor?")

Puppies, rainbows, chipmunks, and Julia

Charlie is at my mother's, Paul is at home, and I am sitting in a hotel lobby loaded for bear.  My overnight bag carries vodka, ibuprofen, tampons, and a large box of Band-Aid Advanced Healing Blister Block Cushions, and I am waiting for Julia to arrive.  She just called and claimed to be lost in a cornfield somewhere. (She said she was planning to echolocate, driving toward the sound of my voice, but I don't know how well that will work since her connection dropped before I could get out a single "Marco."  If you are located anywhere in the Midwest and happen to hear a ghostly "Polo" carried on the gentle soughing of the wind, it's Julia.  For God's sake stop her and give her a map.)

This will be quick, because as soon as our rooms are ready I plan to go upstairs and short-sheet her bed.

1. For Halloween, Charlie was dressed as a dalmatian.  As soon as he went outside in his costume, he began to disport himself exactly as a puppy would: gamboling heedlessly; rolling in the clover; yipping with glee; and running down squirrels, snapping their necks with a single spasm of his strong young jaw, and violently shaking them from side to side within his grinning muzzle until they flopped as lifelessly as any understuffed rag doll.
2. This morning my period arrived unexpectedly.  This year has been strange.  For the first time in my long and distinguished menstrual career, my cycles have been irregular, skewed towards the short end.  This month's, for example, was a measly 23 days.  Now, I'm not a doctor or anything, but I'm reasonably sure it has something to do with daylight savings time.  Man, I hate that fucking fall back.
3. We are going to try one last cycle locally with my eggs as soon as it is convenient.  At this point it feels like I'm running on pure nerve, with no credible reason to expect success.  It is hard to accept that even with sufficient resources, technology, and masochistic determination at our disposal, it probably still won't work for us.  I do not look forward to finding that it's harder to accept that it didn't, past tense, period.
4. The quilt for Freweyne continues apace, if "apace" means "slowly but with steadiness,  seriousness of purpose, and only a few sliced-off fingertips."  Beth now has a travel date for her trip to pick up Freweyne, November 25, and the top will certainly be finished by then, although the quilting and binding will take additional time.  Here's where it currently stands: