I’ve stolen that shamelessly from May. She pulled from Shakespeare, but he’s dead and so cares very little what May or I do.
The trick here is that I am, maybe, going to try to knock myself up again. Clearly, this is not for public consumption. See the password you entered above. Ahem. Prior to hitting publish, there were six people to whom I’d spoken about this. Which seems like a lot when I count it up on my fingers, but really, for me, isn’t very many. I’m the girl who had her boss chase down the fedex guy to take his picture when he delivered my first shipment of sperm (*sniff* – so long ago…) to school. I’m still firmly in the camp of “share the story” because it might make other people feel less alone, but this go-round, or possible go-round, I’m just so damn tired of having to fucking explain everything. And, believe it or not, I am still fending off well-meaning comments about how relaxing/doing it “naturally” might work. From my peers. Picture me on my couch rolling my eyes.
I’ve resisted the phrase ttc for years now. Because post the Summer 2010 debacle (IVF itself wasn’t so bad, but Meghan leaving and the miscarriage pretty much sucked), I didn’t need to *try* to conceive anymore: it was already done. In vitro, if you will. But, as you may or may not know, I ran through all 10 of those embryos, plus an even dozen of donor embryos (What? Did you know? Right. I didn’t tell you.) and so now, if I want to continue on This Journey (N.B. skilful use of capitalization), I will have to, in fact, try to conceive. Again.
The jury (made up of one, rather hot, doctor) is currently out in just how to do this. Dr. Hot, because I call ’em like I see ’em, is an RE at the other hospital in town. I’ve stuck loyally with the public, research-y one, but now I have taken to heart my non-monogamous leanings and been wanded by Another Doctor. It feels like cheating, y’all. I do love my old RE. I do. But a second opinion seems smart, right? Justify my wandering eye for me, internet. No, really, I feel ok about it, but it still feels like cheating. Maybe because I didn’t tell him first.
Regardless, I had my wanding at the cheater RE’s and Dr. Hot was hot and also smart and clear and all those things and, wow, do private hospitals ever have fancier water coolers in their waiting rooms then public full-spectrum endocrine disorder clinics do. There is also a nice view of the mountains from said waiting room. Sorry I didn’t take a picture. But the radio (radio in the waiting room?!) was playing Cyndi Lauper, among other great and cheering songs, and so I was distracted.
To cut to the chase, my wanding showed 18 antral follicles. Whoa. So that’s good, according to Dr. Hot. She is currently refusing to weigh in with anything other than a desire for labs (re-do and new-do) and a saline infusion sonogram (the idea being that while my uterus looked good, back on the HSG films, maybe there’s been some strange goings on in there, post the miscarriages). After all that, then maybe things will move along.
Maybe. I was pretty clear with old Dr. Hot that I came to her looking for information, not necessarily for treatment. I told her twice that I was willing to hear anything – from “get the hell out of this office, you’ll never get pregnant let alone carry a baby to term” to “This looks like a fun challenge! Let’s go order so sperm!” We shall see what she says. (Those aren’t real quotes. There was no cussing. Dr. Hot and I don’t know each other that well yet.)
You’ll remember, or maybe you won’t, that my plan was to keep trying until I ran out of embryos or ran out of money. Well, I am out of both. But I just can’t quite give up yet. Not quite.
Once more unto the breach, y’all. Once more.
Oh, look. It’s me. How’re tricks in these months since we last spoke? Well, since I last spoke and you (all 1 of you) last listened.
Things in Starrhill continue apace: roommates come and go and stay (some good, some less so); the cats sit by the fire or chase each other up trees, depending on the season; the chickens squawk and get neglected (benignly!) and still produce enough eggs for home and to share. Of note: my upstairs bathroom is redone, which improves my quality of life immensely, and I have not acquired any new pets in the past 10 months, which I think is something of a record, but I did just buy a hammock.
But let’s jump to the now, shall we? Because it is, well, here now, like the new agey bumper sticker says. Other, better bloggers abhor lists, but I, well, I love a list. Much like I seem to love the word well. Let’s make it numbered and call it Things I Did This Weekend.
- Went to the market, not for the first time, but for the first time with LB. There were strawberries from my market bf, who always cuts me a deal. Then we had coffee at my house and Bernice availed herself of LB’s lap.
- Took the bus to Woolen Mills to drop off some lard I made from some fat from Red Row Farm and got to sample some goat’s milk and goat’s milk yogurt as well as have coffee and garden time with Elsie. That’s two small farm links in one item, y’all.
- Continued the ongoing dance of dominance with the lawn. One day I will come out on top.
- Took a nap in the hammock.
- Made a fire, because – WTF? – it’s freezing.
- Was accepted, officially, into the Australian Cat Ladies (which is a voice for Values, BTW), even though I am not in Australia. I am so proud! It’s an honor, really.
Still to come!
Have a bonus cat picture:
Ok, and another one:
A post a week for the rest of the summer?
Haha! And ha. And, yeah, right!
Aiming for once a week for the rest of the summer is do-able, don’t you think? I mean, I’m hardly working. And then perhaps I could also do things like clean up my blogroll, which is sadly out of date, and maybe log my lunch everyday. Really, I have no excuse.
It’s been a hard couple of years, y’all. But I think I am feeling better. Time. I’ve taken two years of it and now I am calling you, though not in the morning.
Here are things:
- it is hot as fuck here, again, and there has been no rain and the plum tree has lost about 1/3 of it’s leaves. Jim Waive saw fit to remind me that I like to freak out about the weather in July.
- I am gearing up for (yet another!) embryo transfer, avec steroids and lovenox, which is said not as if you planned on marrying an ox, but as if you started to sing “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” and then changed your mind and wanted to talk about vans and oxes.
- there is Neighborhood Dramaz. Really. More than one drama. One neighbor is concerned that my cats mistake her front flower bed for a litter box. Oops. Not much to be done but apologize and give her some eggs. Production has improved slightly since my last post, btw. Other neighbor, previously featured on Caved as a Serious Cat Person, is very upset that another neighbor has vicious sounding big dogs that are not supposed to be at his house but for some reason keep coming back. Written out, it sounds so silly, but she is truly distraught. To the point of sounding irrational. And the offending neighbors do nothing, which is the shame of it, I think. Starrhill is pretty tight; there are really only a few of us in the place and this is how we usually handle shit: if you’re upsetting somebody, go talk to that somebody, hold your damn hand out and try to make some compromise. I fear it has gone on too long for that at this point. And that the actual owner of the dogs seems to be the sort that thinks she doesn’t need to hold her hand out.
- LB and I are splitting a share from Appalachia Star farm again this summer and it’s pretty great. The tomatoes are about to come rolling in and I am very excited. In other food news, I have pots of herbs that I am actually using for the first time in years. It’s like being born again. Sort of. Being home to make a lunch is like being born again.
- I had another miscarriage awhile back – whee. This one didn’t hurt, which was nice. The sliver lining is that it put me up to the magic number of three miscarriage, which makes my insurance company willing to pay for the Big Giant Pannel of Autoimmune tests. I do love a good visit to my lab people.
- my old neighbor, who should just move back to Starrhill, solving all the Neighborhood Dramaz, loaned me the book about running everybody read like 2 years ago, and which I also happened to give my dad but never read myself, and for about 5 minutes I was all “I could run!” And then I laughed at myself. Because the part of the book about eating beans and tortillas is really much more up my alley than running.
- one of the search terms I just saw in my stats is tiny tits. Hahahahahahaha! Sorry, wrong blog.
I have been thoroughly enjoying Twitter and Instagram. We can blame that for my lack of blogging, but didn’t everybody have that particular crisis like 4 years ago? Only my laziness to blame, as per usual.
Oh, hello there, as my grandpa used to say. Hello. It has been some time hasn’t it? It has. And guess what? Three guess. First two don’t count. Yes! You got it. I’m still infertile.
But that’s boring, old news. Boring and old. Entertainingly, there is little else going on that is new and interesting. Maybe I’ll make y’all a list! I love a list.
- school: was good, challenging in the full sense of that word, but good. Challenging like cho-girl and I took a deep breath at the end and said “whew.” And also said, “damn, us, we do some good work, gold Montessori stars for us.”Also, I am working camp some this summer. Until noon, so it almost doesn’t count. The paychecks also almost don’t count either.
- home: also good, if less challenging. One of the remaining chickens went broody for damn near three weeks in June and so egg production is for shit. What this boils down to is that they aren’t getting the fancy organic local food this summer (see also paycheck as mentioned above), because I’m not going to spring for that shit if I don’t get enough eggs to give away. The cats are shedding with abandon, except for dear Louise who manifest her grief for her late brother by over-grooming rather horribly. Poor Louise. The kittens are big, but still kittens and Fifi is old and just as hateful, though sweet to me.
other random things:
- Super CLAW was last month and there are lots of other places on ye olde internete that talk about it, so I’ll just say that it was fab. And I got a shirt. And another shirt to send to my cousin, who is an official for roller derby
- Speaking of my cousin, I went to LA and it was great. Saw my afore mentioned cousin and we laid around in bed together taking and drinking coffee and she braided my hair for me everyday, like her mom used to do for us when we were little girls and we went to the beach.
- I had The Spring of Company, which was pretty much the biggest treat ever. In order of arrival, not importance: Anna with her delightful tiny fam, the Bionics, who have already blogged the trip, if you want deets, Hard Girl and her not so tiny fam, and then trailing at the end of May, aj , who sadly didn’t stay with me, but did come over for whiskey. Yay! Company!
- I am on the train for a super secret trip to Brooklyn. Well, not really secret, bt I didn’t tell lots of people I was coming up. Just a couple folks. I am going to lay around and read and eat and visit and not make myself crazy trying to see fifty bah-thousand people. But I’m going to go to the bra store. Woo! The bra store.
What else? Is that enough catching up for y’all? And by “y’all” I mean “the two of you that are still reading”.
Search engine terms from today:
soul mate london korean food 1 girl pee picture 1
See, I should have been writing all this weekend, since I am on bed rest and all. But nooooo. There have been Issues. So I am just writing now, and well, since it has been an age since I wrote two posts within a decade of each other, I will assume y’all are not surprised. But! Let’s get back on the horse, yes? Yes.
Commitment. It’s what’s for breakfast, as Bionic would tell you, if she were writing Caved, which clearly she is not, or else there would be things to read on here.
What would you like to hear about first? The bed rest or the Issues? I know! Let’s do a list! Other, better bloggers are a little touchy about lists, but I love them with a fierce and devoted love that is akin to my love for popcorn.
Here we go!
- I am on bedrest post an embryo transfer on Friday. Yes, I can’t seem to quit you, fertility procedures…. Do not ask about the state of my bank account; I don’t. This was and was not the aforementioned last ditch effort, which I mentioned afore. However, the wonder of the links in that post still stands.
- While I was busy receiving Friday’s embryos, which are certainly loving and giving, one of my cats was, I assume, hit by a car. Now, this is sad. It is. However, I’ll be honest and say that it is not nearly as sad as when other cats of mine have died. This cat, sweet pretty boy that he was, was only sort of mine. I’d taken him in to save him from a life in Manhattan, which his former owner thought would be horrible for him, and to judge by his love running about outside, I think she was right. So he lived here, although he quit coming in the house when the kittens arrived (WTF?! Kittens?). He ate on the front porch and was as friendly as you could want in a cat, galloping in from wherever he went across the street, rubbing his head against my leg. He was huge and black and gorgeous with shoulders like a football player. He would not keep a collar on. He would disappear for a day or so at a time, and loved to hunt. The bird population will not miss him. But my neighbor will. She loved him with a devotion people usually reserve for their own pets, and she has many, mind you. She is the one who found him and I might be the most sad about that. He is buried on the north side of my house, along with Bailey and Walter, Jr.
- Not to go from that to something else entirely, but Saturday morning, the toilet in my brand-new-fab-re-done downstairs bathroom started over flowing. All over my gorgeous new floor. And under the wall, into and across the hallway. Fun times! So I said “fuck bedrest” and started bailing the toilet because it was too full to plunge, and also mopping up the toilet water with every single rag I have and some throw rugs for good measure. It was horrid. And then the water level went up some more and I bailed the bucket into the sink and then bailed the toilet into the bucket some more, because the bucket was so heavy I was pretty sure I shouldn’t lift it. And the water I was bailing was *warm*. Which made me fear a huge systemic clog, since the washer was running. And then I cried and called my dad. Who came over and valiantly plunged and snaked and plunged some more, but in vain. So then I called a rooter. And called him again. And again and again. Also in vain. By 6:30, I gave up and called somebody else and he showed up and cleared the clog and talked my ear off. And then he left and I could pee. Whew.
So this has been the lest restful bed rest so far, although I have high hopes for today.
What else shall I tell y’all about? The new kittens? The down and dirty tale of exactly how my infertility goes these day with sub-topics like the draw of genetics and What Bitterness Means To Me? The roundabout of roommates? Links to some great blogs of families incorporating Montessori ideas into the spaces they make for their babies? The slippery slope that is me and tv via netflix?
You can always log your lunch while you think it over.