I made it through last week. I knew I would, in the rational long sighted way of things, but it felt pretty miserable trudging through. 14 hour work days, heinous menstrual cramps, too many things owed to too many people. But on the other side of it was this:
My nephew, my bulldog and my super hot wife snuggling on my couch. If that isn’t a reward for a job well done, I don’t know what is.
The other night it occured to me that this story, the one I am living, is no longer just a story about two girls trying to get knocked up without the right equipment; its a story about things not going the way you want, having to let go of some wants to accomodate others, about doubting your body’s ability to do what it is ‘supposed’ to. Its a story about infertility.
Is that a fair title? I don’t know. Technically, we’ve only been trying for 9 months – not even the full year required by most doctors to get a referral. But given my poly cystic ovaries and BFF’s poorly outfitted sperm, I think we qualify. I can’t decide if it is helpful or not to own that identity as ‘infertile’ – does it make me more hopeless or inclined to find my people? Does it sign me up for shit I don’t need in my head or provide an explanation for the frustratingly inexplicable? I don’t know.
More and more, I feel left behind. In ‘real life,’ on blogs, at BabyCenter, in my own crazy head . . .people who I started this journey amongst, or who came after, are on to the next thing. Out of the waiting and into the gestating. On to the baby. And here we are, still tracking temperatures and trying too hard not to read into every.little.thing. We are head down, trudging, waiting for a detour onto another path. Occassionally, there is something interesting on the side of the road, but otherwise, its been the same scenery for months now, and its growing old. I’m tired of telling people the same news, so tired I don’t even wait for their response anymore but shoot off ‘its ok. try try again!’ or ‘maybe next time!’ before they can get a word out. People offer to ‘talk’ but what would I talk about? Its not that I don’t appreciate the support or even want to take them up on it. I honestly don’t know what to say anymore except ‘it didn’t work. again.’ and, ‘I want this so badly.’
But, we travel on. Because we still believe (we must, or why do it?) that there is an end in sight and that end comes with a baby. Because there are still so many things to try before giving up. Because on days when the sun is big and warm through the autumn leaves, I do see it – the possibility.
After a frustrating few days trying to get a hold of whatever doctor could answer my questions, I finally was able to speak to the doctor who did my insemination, who said he’d be ‘my guy’ and I could count on him for communication and information. He prescribed metformin and upped my clomid dose to 100mg. I talked to him about the trigger and he mentioned this could be a possibility given my low progesterone and (likely) poor ovulation. The answers to that will come, I guess, closer to the follicle ultrasound next week. I’m at cycle day 6, started the clomid last night, the metformin today. Please keep my hormones and intestines in your thoughts and prayers.
A final high light from my weekend! So, I’m a Lutheran (and pretty into it, FYI) but (and?) I’m also hella irreverant and prefer my religion with a heavy dose of cynicism. This Sunday was Reformation Sunday. You may remember from your high school history class that Martin Luther, a monk, instigated the protestant reformation by posting his 95 theses on the door of Wittenburg cathedral, enumerating all of the shit he found objectionable about Catholicism. Reformation Sunday is when we Lutherans celebrate our crazy and lovable patron and sometimes sing songs about famous lutherans.
At my church (full of many other irreverant types) we have a board listing things like the attendance, how much money we raised, and usually at least one ridiculous number. Sunday it was ‘Theses: 95’ Feeling like it could use some updating, I added:
The important thing, you see, is that even in the midst of being such a bratty baby, I can still make myself (and my pastor) laugh.