It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Greenery, stockings and lights!

 

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We made our own wreath this year. Yes, everything on it is covered in glitter. As Liberace said, “Too much of a good thing is wonderful!”

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Tiny Christmas tree!

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And finally . . .when La and I decided we wanted to have a wedding ceremony/Gay Love Extravaganza Event, we didn’t go through the usual engagement rituals. We bought very lovely unmatched wedding bands to exchange during our ceremony which we have loved. Over the last year, we have talked more and more about having more traditional engagement type rings. Well, we found two MATCHING used (ahem, ‘pre-owned’) engagement rings for a price we could afford – so we bought them! Merry Christmas! Or should I say, Marry Christmas? They are off being sized and soldered to our wedding bands but we should have them back in a week or two!

 

The Swim Meet

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When La and I had our Big Gay Love Extravaganza Event (GLEE) in April 2012, we knew that we wanted our best friends there playing some significant roles, and we knew that we wanted our best friends in costume. Because that is how we roll. BFF and my best buddy served as our “Men of Honor” and were tasked with determining their outfits, with some guidance about style (20’s and 30’s vintage theater.)

BFF initially decided he wanted to wear an old fashioned bathing suit (ie: the jumpsuit shorty kind, often seen with stripes) and a boater hat. I was very excited for this possible costume, since it was both a perfect fit with the theme AND hilarious! Unfortunately, because of cost prohibitations and the inability to rent said suit, BFF went with a different, but still highly fashionable, choice.

I mention this because I think it is oddly appropriate.

This morning, the Texas Ranger called with the results of BFF’s semen analysis. The results? Aside from what appeared to be an ‘incomplete sample’ (although it wasn’t specified if that was because of a screw up or something else) – normal count and normal motility (ie: the quantity of sperm and their ability to swim forward at a normal speed) but a poor morphology.

Morphology is, for those of you not in the know, the shape of the sperm. Here are some possible shapes of human spermatozoa:

ImageThere seems to be a lot of disagreement about what constitutes a “normal” number or quantity of “normal” shaped sperm, varying from 14% to just 4%. BFF’s semen has just 2% of the sperms that are normally shaped.

So . . .if we were to compare sperms to swim teams (because, obviously): Joe’s team is well stocked with swimmer’s that can totally get from one end of the pool to the other, they are just mostly wearing crazy swimsuits and outlandish hats.

The suck of it is that swimmer’s with wonky bathing costumes on can’t get the job done when it comes to fertilizing the egg. They are just not well equipped.

So. What now?

We don’t know.

It continues to be very important to us to use BFF as our donor, as long as that is reasonable and possible. Its not about the sperm being free or easy to access (it never was, although that definitely helped.) Its about our relationship with BFF, and even more so, La’s relationship with him. In the current scenario, having BFF donate feels like the closest thing to having La contribute the genetic material for our kid. It doesn’t make sense in a rational way, but our hearts both know it to be true.

So, on the one hand, we want to explore avenues for making this happen with BFF’s sperm. Because our hearts want that deeply. On the other, there is the reality that the poorer the quality of the sperm, the less likely we are to get pregnant no matter the method. And the longer it takes, the more money we spend and the more heartache we incur.

On the upside, poor morphology with good counts and good motility is the best of the bad situations. From what I’ve been able to read, there is a reasonable chance of success using IUI with this method.

But questions remain . . . .

  • We had initially planned to wait on some of the diagnostic testing for me until after a few IUI attempts. Do we bump that up to make sure we aren’t playing with an even bigger handicap than we think?
  • How many IUI’s do we do with BFF’s sperm before we decided to use an anonymous donor from a bank?
  • Do we investigate using other fertility measures (like drugs) even though it appears that I am ovulating normally?

I realize no one can tell us what to do, but I would appreciate your input, darlings. I realize that many of you didn’t have to think about these things – you got your sperm in vials with counts, motility and morphology all guaranteed to be super-awesome. But maybe you can imagine? For those of you who are using or have used a known donor, or have a male partner – what do you think?

As if to add insult to injury, today I got a spot of pink when I wiped. I realize it may not count me out just yet, but it certainly feels like some salt in the wound. I’m 12 DPO today and have had similar spotting right around this time the last few cycles. My insistence on not tracking symptoms too closely means I don’t have a lot else to cling to, hope wise. I’d been planning to wait to take a test but will probably go ahead and pee on one tonight or tomorrow morning. It would be a lovely surprise, wouldn’t it?

We might be underwater, but I’m not holding my breath.

Doctor’s Orders

And so begins, possibly, a new era of the baby making saga.

Yesterday we went and saw a “full spectrum OB-GYN” Practice (ie: an OB/GYN who does some fertility work as well) who had been recommended to us by a lesbian couple who are also trying to conceive using a known donor. Due to a bunch of rescheduling mishaps, the appointment was with a different doctor than we had initially planned on seeing (that is, the specific doc recommended to us)

On Monday, during my lunch break, I looked around on the practice’s website and found the bio of the doctor we were scheduled to see. And I just about lost my shit. There, amongst his accolades and degrees earned was this:

“Raised in the mid-west from a strong Catholic family of twelve, Dr. Lennon has a sincere appreciation of traditional family values.”

Maybe this doesn’t phase you, but I’m going to go ahead and guess that many queers would have the same response I did. Which was to feel a deep and abiding fear strike deep into my heart.

Monday night, La, BFF and I made a plan of action for if the doctor ended up being a bigoted asshole. We decided to be calm, collected, professional and strong. We decided to not walk into the office with judgement based solely on this phrase, just as we wouldn’t want to be judged. But my heart still raced and I, admittedly, did try and choose a few incredibly brilliant come-backs for any potential shitty comments.

We showed up to the appointment – all three of us arriving at different times – and waited. I showed up a full half hour early, amped on a half caff americano spiked with sugar syrup. BFF showed up so late he had to be shown back to the room. La was, of course, perfectly on time.

The MA who took us back was great. She was prepared for there to be three of us (although there were only two at that moment, see above) and clearly knew who was who. She was kind, good humored, and funny. As soon as we sat down and told her BFF was on his way, La asked if the doctor was ok with us and how things were working. She smiled and said “OMG YES! This is the most liberal practice EVER!” And went on to report exactly how and why they were awesome. Cue giant sigh of relief.

Before she could finish taking my medical history, someone popped their head in and told us that the doctor had to go to a delivery and we could either wait for him or see one of the midwives. A little frustrated, we decided to see the midwife. Once the door was closed, the MA warned us that this midwife was the “most conservative” in the practice, but that we would be fine still and would get good information from her and then could continue seeing the original doctor. Cue sharp intake of breath. again.

The woman who walked in was a straight talking shoot from the hip middle aged woman in a breezy black blouse and white tennis shoes. “So, the three of you want to get pregnant, eh?” she asked immediately. Yes, we nodded. We do. “Well, tell me what you’ve already done and what you want to do next.” She was kind of scary, but in a super sweet way. Like a Texas ranger housewife.

I explained our 5 failed attempts at home insemination, detailing that BFF provides his sample in a sterile cup, brings it to us, we insert it with a needless syringe. That we do this somewhere between 2-6 times in my peak fertility period. That I know when to do so because I track my basal body temperature, my cervical fluid, my cervical position and use ovulation prediction kits.

“So, you’re ovulating?” She asked.

“Um. Yes? I mean. I think so? I mean, all of the evidence I have here suggests . . .” and then I pulled out the folder of my printed BBT charts and showed her. “This is what ovulation looks like, right?”

“Yep, looks like ovulation to me. Sounds like you work.”

I was confused at first. Did she mean that I was ‘working’ at understanding this? and if so, was that a judgement? Was she asking if I had a job? if so, that was a weird non-sequitor. Did she mean . . .it sounds like I am fertile?

“Um. Yeah. Yeah I guess I do.”

She then turned to BFF and asked if he had ever fathered a child. He mentioned the accidental pregnancy he caused when he was 15, and then mentioned that was a while ago. She asked him his age and did the math. “yeah, let’s get you a sperm analysis.”

“Once we do that, you all should do IUIs. You know what that is?”

Yes, we said. We did. But . . .

“Can you do that? I mean. Will you have to freeze and quarantine BFF’s sperm? Because everyone we’ve talked to has said . . .”

“What? Why do I care where you get your sperm?” The texas ranger asked.

“Well . . .its just . . .I mean . . .they’ve said some things about liability and . . .” At this point we launched into an abbreviated version of the sperm saga we have heard. That our GP didn’t care how we got pregnant but couldn’t help us with fertility. That the OB at the other practice didn’t care how we got pregnant but couldn’t help us with fertility. That the RE we got referred to could totally help us with fertility but could only do it with frozen anonymous sperm OR with the sperm of my *MALE SEXUAL PARTNER* and no it didn’t matter how many times this dudes sperm had been in me.

The Texas Ranger didn’t care. Nope. Not a bit. She explained that they could do IUI’s in the office with BFF’s sperm, which they could wash either there or at a nearby lab. No freezing. No quarantining. Sample that day. Bim bam boom.

And with that, the Texas ranger wrote a referral for BFF to get the semen analysis, told us she will call with result and, assuming at home try #6 doesn’t work and BFF’s team is ship-shape, we will do our first IUI cycle in August. It will likely be unmedicated and unmonitored, although the details weren’t discussed. If the IUI’s don’t work after two cycles, I will get an HSG and blood work done. And then we will go from there.

I got an increased dose of thyroid meds for my clinical sort of normal but TTC-high thyroid results as well. Score on that, since the GP wouldn’t up my dose since she only goes by the regular guidelines, not those established for women trying to conceive.

I feel more hopeful than I have in a while. I’m nervous about increased medical intervention, but also feel like it could shorten the waiting and take a lot of the load off of me. We still get to use the donor we adore, and while we will be paying more than free (or, actually, the cost of OPKs and bulk orders of syringes and cups) the cost is still quite low as these things go, and we have a benefactor who is willing to support some of the costs.

And, of course, there is still a chance it will all be unnecessary. That in approximately two weeks we will be pregnant and can return to the OB for a prenatal visit instead of an IUI.

Return from Paradise

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We are back.

If only everyone could spend a week in Cancun every time they have to wait to try again to make a baby. It really is an excellent way to stop thinking about the minutiae of getting pregnant and just really exist in the moment. I vote free beach vacays for all people TTC – every cycle you don’t get knocked up, you get to go away. Who’s with me?

Unfortunately, you can only suspend reality for so long before it comes crashing back down on your head. My usual M.O. is to have a mild-moderate panic attack on the flight home when I begin subconciously making the list of crap in my head. I staved it off until we were in customs this time.

But I have also managed to hold on to a teeny tiny bit of paradise. By this I don’t mean the white sand or water so blue you don’t remember its salt or a mojito whenever I ask for it. I mean bobbing in waves unaware of time, I mean moments without narrative or checklists or somethinganythingijustneedtothink, I mean seeing – actually seeing – all of the things around me, I mean looking at my girl’s face and feeling all of the big beautiful feelings bubble up.

So I’m going to try and float with these feelings, even in the midst of re-writing my work plan for the funder who it seems like I can never please, in the middle of managing money when an unforeseen expense or 30 pops up, and yes, right here smack dab in the center of trying to make a baby.

And we are smack dab in the middle of it, again. We arrived home on CD12 and I commenced peeing on things. I’m expecting to ovulate between now and Thursday and we did our first insemination last night.

BFF is currently living with us while he and BFFBF look for a new place to live. BFF got a new puppy (the biggest floppiest most adorable grand pyrenees named Yankee!) and the puppy is also living with us. Our house is kind of like Three’s Company on a farm right now, and yes its as ridiculous as it sounds. On the upside, we can do inseminations any old time we feel like it . . .which will probably be every other day until the positive OPK pops up, and then a few more tries.

ImageA few other notes . . .

On DOMA . . .Our Cancun resort didn’t have free wifi and pat of my vacation plan was to be as unplugged as possible. So, we didn’t find out about the Supreme Court decisions until we got home. And what a fuckin’ mixed bag, eh? I’m super psyched that DOMA was struck down and that same sex marriage will be federally recognized on some level. I’m also glad the shenanigans in California got addressed. I know that the DOMA ruling doesn’t entirely take care of the issues (I do happen to live in a state where a similar amendment has been enshrined in the state constitution) but I also think this is a sign that the BS is on its way out. Supreme Court precedent is a big f’ing deal, you know?

But OMG can we talk about the Voting Rights Act for a minute? That is BAD BAD BAD. The irony that this decision came at the same time as the Paula Deen scandal is just too much Americanism for me. Why are people not outraged about the VRA being dismantled in the same way they are ourtraged at Paula Deen saying the “N” word? For serious?!

And also . . .I really really really hope that now the marriage stuff is beginning to happen that the LGBTQ ‘community’ can start paying attention to the other million issues that really deeply impact queer folks. Like immigration reform, and health care, and homelessness. And I hope we care as much about those things as we do about the right to get married. I hope we give just as many shits about the way people of color just got totally disenfranchised as we do about the ability to file federal taxes jointly. Now that our relationships aren’t wedge issues, please let us keep standing on the right side of justice.

On Doctors  . . .

Tomorrow the triumverate goes to visit the OB/GYN. This appointment has been a long time coming. It was initially scheduled for three weeks ago, but has been rescheduled a million times (by both us and the doc) and it felt like it was never coming. Now that it is, I’m terrified. I’m scared of the possible homophobia (even though we have a referral from another queer couple using a known donor); I’m terrified of fatphobia (kind like this) and having to defend my body and my life; I’m terrified of finding things out that I don’t want to know about maybe why we aren’t pregnant yet.

But, I’m also hopeful. We have the opportunity to find out that everything is OK, or to fix things that might be getting in the way. We have a chance to ask a lot of questions. We have access to things that might support knowing, understanding, or making this happen.

One Down

Yesterday I was sitting in a meeting and my breasts were throbbing. As much as I have tried to stop paying attention to the minutia of my body, I couldn’t help from noticing the throbbing. And I got excited. Because that’s what we do, right? Look for throbbing breasts or extreme fatigue or maybe a touch of dizzy nausea and pray they will become worse or couple up with something else. Anything to tell me what I want to know without having to ask the question.

I came home and told La. She said, “isn’t it early?” Because my breasts always ache, but maybe this time they ached before they usually ache, or worse than they usually ache. But no. It was cycle day 24 and, if my prior record keeping is to be trusted, they always start hurting on cycle day 24. But maybe it was worse? More intense? Different?!

The truth is, I don’t know. The barometer of human feelings – never a very reliable instrument – has become increasingly fallible over the last 6 months. I’m not saying the throbbing *isn’t* different, I’m just not saying it is either. Because I honestly don’t know. I remember thinking, in the airport, at the tail end of the last wait, that my boobs hurt more than usual. But the thought is the only thing concrete. I can’t conjure up the feeling now. I can’t say with any accuracy that they actually hurt worse than the month before because the month before I was willing them to hurt too.

The reality that you just can’t know until you know just keeps crashing down on my head.

I said to La last night, when we were discussing when to take a test, that I just wanted *something* clear to happen this weekend so I would know without knowing. Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to – right? Its the same feeling that drives me to wait to the very last minute to take a pregnancy test. The same feeling that kept me from asking an ex girlfriend if she was cheating on me. Sometimes the world we make up is better than the one we know exists.

This wait has not been anxious. I’ve had a lot of feelings, sure. Just not anxiety. A few days after ovulation, I had a crystal clear dream of having a girl baby and naming her Dorothy. And that dream’s sweetness bouyed me with a feeling of just KNOWING this time worked, even though I also knew that was impossible to know. That lasted a few days before I resumed my general see-sawing and symptom spotting. One week down, one to go. Sometimes my calm is one of resignation. Sometimes it is one of serenity. Sometimes it is one of impossible knowing.

In the hope column for today: I almost fainted in the copy room an hour ago – had to catch myself on the table and squat down till my knees regained form and the dots dissipated. Since then I’ve felt near-nauseous. Not quite sick, just not quite well either.

Then again, it could just be allergies.

Blogging for LGBT Families: Always Enough

This morning, I read a lot of these “Blogging for LGBT Families” Posts and thought about whether I qualified or not. I know maybe that’s silly, but its true. “Family” often implicitly means “children” in our culture, and so its hard to feel like you count when you are sans babies, you know?

But then I started to think about how much family we have already. Like a lot of queers, our friendships have filled a space that family does for a lot of other people. Even when your family of origin is pretty cool with the gay stuff (mine is) you can feel not quite a part, just this side of fitting in.

Then I thought about last night. How La and I attended a wedding for a couple we don’t know well, but already feel super connected to. About how, after that, we sat with BFF on the couch and created the most absurd list of baby names ever and laughed and laughed. I thought about how the three of us ARE a family and we are making our family bigger and that a lot of people won’t understand the nuances and complexities of that.

I thought about picking the Bug and the Bee up from daycare, how the teachers asked if we were their Aunties and I didn’t hesitate to say “yes” because we ARE their aunties.

I thought about all the beautiful people with whom we have forged a family. This isn’t sentimental, its real. This is not “love ya like a sis” or “brother from another mother” passe hallmark shit, you know? Its serious business, making a family out of the pieces and parts that you are handed. Its a skill a lot of people don’t have, because they have never needed it. Its a skill people reject because they think its second best.

One of the best things about being queer is the creativity you are forced to embrace. I have long held that – regardless of whether this is a choice or not (a debate I won’t have now) – I WOULD choose this. I would choose it because it has offered me remarkable opportunities to think about gender and culture and society. I would choose it because it has afforded me the chance to make my family and re-think what that means.

So, today I am blogging for and about my family:

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This babe that I married, who is my very favorite.

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This man (and his badass partner) who are helping us fill in the biological cracks.

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This bestie, who is full of kindness and tender hearted beauty.

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This group of incredible people who care for me, call me out on my bullshit, make me laugh at myself, make me see myself, and see me.

 

This ex-girlfriend who  spends so much time making the world a better place while simultaneously having the clearest grip on reality of anyone I know.

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These furry buddies, who make my heart sing.

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These babies, and their mom and dad, who show up in incredible ways.

And more. There are more. Today, my tribute is to the knot of roots that connects us, to the families that protect one another when nothing else can, to the bonds we built without legal representation because sometimes the state can’t give us what we need. Today my tribute is to Queer Families built from heart love blood sweat tears and fists raised high in the air.

 

 

 

 

 

Holding out

I was planning not to post until after a full 14+ days had elapsed since ovulation. Why? Well, because there is nothing more obnoxious than listening to me try and spot symptoms when you and I both know that there are hardly ever symptoms to spot before an HPT is accurate. And now that I am becoming a somewhat old hat at this two week wait business, I’m so over telling anyone what’s going on with my ladybits in hope that they can magically predict what will become decidedly apparent in a few short (loooooong) days.

So, back up.
This past Monday I left Denver for Oakland, to participate in a training of trainers on a bad ass sexual health program called FLASH. As I may have mentioned, this made me nervous. Although maybe it shouldn’t. As it turns out, my bag never made it on the flight to Oakland, so I spent the first day wandering around Jack London square feeling sorry for myself and deciding if it was worth the BART ride out to target to get clean underwear or if I should just hold out for my bag. I are some BBQ and I enjoyed the magically Luke warm Bay Area weather and then I bought a toothbrush and went to bed. The next few days went quickly – full days of great training and dinner with colleagues and then with some friends who have moved to the bay.
Today was another day of training but this time it dragged. And now I’ve been sitting at the airport waiting for a flight ( my first was so delayed that I would have missed my connecting flight, so I was transferred to a later direct flight) and basically freaking out.

Today is 12DPO. For the last three tries, we have tested on this day, as the earliest day to get a pretty reliable result. This go around I decided I wanted to wait until the day my period was supposed to start, which is Sunday. I am quickly losing my resolve.

I have felt shockingly calm during this wait. I’ve also felt hopeful. I’m sure this is because we did new and different things and god knows how badly I want to be responsible for accomplishing this thing, even though I can’t be. Regardless, I’ve been hopeful. And it’s been really nice.

Today, I stuck my finger in my vag to check my cervical fluid and pulled out creamy type stuff tinged pink. To be clear, I rarely spot, although it has been known to happen. It’s usually really brown when it does, and it’s rare, like I said. So initially, I thought “maybe this is good news!”

However, subsequent trips to the loo have found me anxiously checking my fluid over and over and losing a little hope each time. And now, of course, I am feeling things that don’t feel hopeful – maybe some cramps, maybe some constipation, maybe feeling like I want to sob in the middle of terminal 1 because I’m so sad at how many babies there are everywhere and I have no ability to filter my feelings.

So now I don’t know if I can hold out. On the one hand, if I’m grasping at straws and this is “implantation bleeding” or some such nonsense, then tomorrow probably isn’t early enough to get a positive, right? On the other, omg I kind of need to have something substantial to hold on to right now and I don’t know if I can hold out. I figure I will have some clue tomorrow morning based on my temperature, which has always dropped the day before I bleed, in the year I have been tracking. If it doesn’t drop, I’m doing it. I’m peeing on a fucking stick.

I will happily take whatever advice, posi woo or general words of wisdom you have to impart. Sill hoping the fourth will be with us.

Looking down.

The night before we take a pregnancy test is the most conflicted I ever feel in this process. The waves of hope and misery, doubt and possibility wash over me in a sickening torrent. It’s a precipice I simultaneously want to jump from immediately and stand on the edge of forever.

Bon chance.

1DPO. I guess.

I’m not willing to make proclamations on anything related to my junk anymore, but signs are pointing to ovulation yesterday (a + OPK on Monday, eggwhite cervical fluid M-W and a temp rise today) so I’m gonna go ahead and call it.

Its been a helluva week and honestly, making babies has been the last thing on my mind (ok, not the LAST but much further down on the list than usual)

After quite a bit of back and forth, it was determined that my agency would take on writing a rather huge and pretty competitive government grant on behalf of the local department of education. This is great in a lot of ways, because we would be contracted to do a lot of the work and the bulk are things we already do well. I also don’t really trust the person who would otherwise be writing the grant, and I am a firm believer in the adage ‘if you want it done right, do it yourself.’

So, I’m doing it myself.

I am not a grant writer, although I have written them before and the task frequently falls to me because of how small our organization is and because I enjoy writing and do it well. But this one is some serious shiz. And maybe if I didn’t have a bunch of other stuff to do, an emotionally melted down graduate student in my office crying about her research project, and a bunch of colleagues from other places constantly sending me their opinions, I would feel awesome about it. Because this is the package deal I’ve been handed, I am feeling decidedly stressed the fuck out. This morning my computer crashed and I thought I was going to lose my shit. But I didn’t.

Its gonna be ok. And, in some ways, I’m grateful for the distraction. It would be nice if it were a little more calm a distraction though.

In 10 days, La and I will have been gay married* for a whole year! Because she is producing a show the night before, and I have a concert to perform the day of, we won’t be doing anything too fancy – we did get a smokin’ deal on a fancy hotel room and have a gift card for the restaurant in the place where we had our big gay love extravaganza event. Assuming my math is correct, we could also conceivably take a home pregnancy test that day, but I don’t know if something that loaded would be the best way to celebrate.

So, on to lucky wait number three we go!

An update to the great doctor saga – or, the day I talked to every department in the hospital that does anything with vaginas

Since our last episode . . .

1. Got a call on Friday from the maternal-fetal health dept (what?) telling me that they had received a referral for me to see Dr. B in their department. When I expressed confusion about who DR. B was and why I should be seeing her INSTEAD of Dr. C (‘the best we have’ doctor) the scheduling lady said “I don’t understand the clinical stuff but DR. B is the specialist, the super specialist, and you’re supposed to see her.” So, I cancelled with DR. C and made an appointment with Dr. B

2. Feeling confused and wanting to forgo any additional weirdness, I send an e-mail to my awesome GP (who is also on the advocacy committee for one of the LGBT orgs in town) and asked her to do a little informing to ensure the same shit didn’t happen. She said DR. B was great and of course she would send a head-up.

3. Today I get a call from maternal-fetal health telling me that, actually, Dr. B is not who I should see, that I should see a reproductive endocrinologist in advanced reproductive medicine because Dr. B only sees pregnant diabetic patients (what?!) so they can transfer me to ARM. Um. Ok. I guess.

4. Get transferred to ARM where I have to explain to the receptionist that I have done inseminations at home, approximately 10 times, before it was clear. (“Who did you IUI?” “No one. I did it at home.” “I’m sorry, WHO did you say did the IUI?” “NO ONE. My friend came over and jerked off in a cup and I put it in a syringe and put it in my vagina.” “Oh . . .”) I was finally allowed to make an appointment although the receptionist sounded confused.

5. Call the patient advocate people to complain. While I’m on the phone with them, ARM calls back and leaves a message saying that, actually, I shouldn’t see them, I should just go back to SA, the nurse practitioner who started this whole charade.

6. Call ARM back and explain that OB-GYN sent me to DR. B who sent me to ARM so can someone just fucking tell me who to talk to? Get a nurse on the line and she explains that absolutely! They can see me! They are totally the right department to see! But they don’t approve of known donor at home inseminations! Ok!? So then I spend a half an hour asking if they can still figure out what’s going on in the case of the missing menstrual period (or, really, the case of the delayed Ovulation, as its becoming clear is actually the case) and get treatment for that even though the way I am getting sperm into my uterus is not the way they want me to. Never get a very clear answer but determine that I am not likely to GET answers on the phone that day and decide to go see the ARM doc anyway. Where I will probably have to be very clear that I know the risks and that I just want them to determine if there is something going on with my lady parts that needs to be addressed in order for me to get knocked up.

The juxtaposition of this experience with the first half of my day is absurd, and disheartening. I continue to be unclear why in the world my BFF’s sperm needs to be quarantined when I have a more trusting and loving relationship with him than I did with many of the dudes I slept with during my wilder days (which is, apparently, the magic key to not having to go through the bullshit in ARM) unless its because some either a doctor or the government has to attach me to a man to legitimize my pregnancy. But more than that, I just want someone at the damn outpatient pavillion to listen to me long enough to know that I actually don’t even want their help getting pregnant right now – I just want to know why I went from having 30 day cycles all my life to suddenly not ovulating for 45 days.