Monday, December 13, 2010

You Wanna Know?

Okay, since so many of your responded to my last post with "Been there, done that, done worse." I have decided you can all handle the story I was going to tell. I am sure now that you will all get a laugh.

Saturday night Hubs and I allowed my best friend to baby sit (at her request [I'm serious]) and went out for a date for the first time in eons. We started out with a really tasty dinner at Son.oma and then headed to a couple's massage at a massage club where I am a member. I guess Hubs enjoyed his massage so much, it made him a little frisky. We have been so off-sync from each other lately, I welcomed his advances. So we played around a little bit after our masseurs left the room to allow us to get dressed. We didn't stick around for too long because we knew they were waiting for us on the other side of the door.

On our way out, I stopped to use the ladies. Silly me, I forgot to lock the door. Of course, I seriously didn't think Hubs was feeling THAT frisky. He was.

After we had been in there for a couple of minutes, there was a knock on the door. I shouted that it was occupied, and the person on the other side shouted, "Yeah, they're in there." Hubs and I both laughed, but he would not be deterred. A few minutes later there was another knock followed by, "Hey guys, we're closing." Shortly thereafter, we emerged.

I told Hubs I would not be able to go back for another massage for months and was afraid they had marked "Has sex in the bathroom" on my chart. He laughed and told me we should schedule another couple's massage for 3 weeks down the road and request the same masseurs.

The sad (or funny) thing is, I can't say that was the strangest place we've ever "done the deed."

Sunday, December 12, 2010

Wooooo Hoooo!

I wanted to tell you all a completely different funny story tonight. I had it all written up and ready to post, but then I wasn't sure if it was appropriate. It wasn't detailed or anything, but some would think that some stories are better left unshared. So instead, I decided to tell you a different, tamer funny story.

When I was in college, a boyfriend and I went for a drive up the canyon where we decided to park and make out. (No, there was no sex involved. I was a firm believer in saving virginity for marriage.) He drove a great big, red suburban that had the back seats removed. We started making out in the front seat, and then climbed gingerly into the back to continue making out in a more friendly position.

As we were enjoying each other's company a car pulled into the same circle as us. I started to giggle and said, "Wouldn't it be funny if that was a cop?" My boyfriend was outraged and said angrily, "No, it would NOT!" That made me laugh more. Just then there was a knock at the window. I could not contain my laughter. My boyfriend threw me a dirty look as he crawled into the front seat and rolled down the window.

The cop shone his flash light into the car and asked my boyfriend what we were doing. Gary replied that we were just hanging out. The cop then shined his light on me as he smirked and said, "Ma'am, I have to ask you if you are being held here against your will."

"Oh no sir. I am enjoying myself very much. Thank you."

The cop laughed and my boyfriend threw me another scathing look. He told us the canyon was closed after dark and told us he would appreciate it if we would clear out. My boyfriend was all too happy to oblige. He rolled up the window and I howled with laughter as I crawled back into the front seat.

"Don't you dare tell ANYONE!" He yelled at me. He was so embarrassed, although I will never understand why.

I laughed and said, "Mum's the word."

As soon as I got home, I ran to my room, grabbed my phone and called my dad. "Dad, I have to tell you the funniest story!"

My ex-boyfriend later went on to buy a purple Do.dge N.eon and date a robust girl. Thank heaven I dodged that bullet!

Monday, December 6, 2010

A Serious Case of the Mondays

To Do:

I rolled over sleepily to turn off my alarm clock. How could it be time to get up already? How could it be Monday already? Then I noticed there was a wet spot IN my bed. How could that be? I reached my arm out from under my warm covers into the cold morning air to feel if the wet spot had come from the top of the bed. My hand met with the culprit full on: dog vomit.

I had just pulled the comforter out of the plastic bag fresh from the dry cleaners the night before, and now every layer of my bedding was soaking with dog vomit. I swore out loud, pushed the covers back, realizing painfully there would be no hitting snooze this morning, and put one foot out of bed and straight into a cold pile of dog diarrhea. I swore again, only more loudly, as my dog scurried from the room.

It was dark and cold. I like to sleep with my window open, especially in winter. I hobbled on the heal of the foot covered in feces to the bathroom sink while holding the hand covered in dog vomit up. I washed my hand and then my foot in freezing cold water. Next I turned on the lights to survey the damage. There was a massive brown puddle all over the floor next to the bed with a trail leading out of the bedroom.

I swore again.

The worst part about mornings like this is trying to wake yourself up to be coherent enough to map out a good battle plan for fighting dog poo stains.

I made my way down the hall to find the faux carpet steamer cleaner (just add hot water), and the fight to find all of the bits and pieces began. Where had I put the cleaning solution? Why the deuce was it downstairs instead up upstairs where the cleaner was?! I hate myself in that moment. Where was the Re.solve Pet Stain cleaner? How was I ever going to get this out?! "Calm down. This isn't the first time you've gotten diarrhea out of the white berber. You can do it again."

On my way down stairs I noticed my dog is a complete maximizer, as she managed to cover some serious footage with diarrhea drizzle all throughout the house. All the way down the stairs (and in the middle, I might add), all around the dining room table (yes, she walked 360 degrees around the table), through the kitchen, and to the back door (where she undoubtedly realized she was done needing to go outside).

As I cleaned, I realized my dog was really sick. She never throws up. Diarrhea isn't a big deal, but the runs coupled with vomiting is a bad sign. I began to think of what she could have possibly eaten and wondered whether or not this would constitute a trip to the vet.

Flash back to last night when I gave my daughter a bowl of grapes. "Just make sure you don't give any to the doggies baby. They will make them sick."

Another profanity.

Grapes are toxic to dogs. As few as seven little grapes can kill a dog. They shut down a dog's liver. Luckily I knew this because I knew in that instant my dog was going to the vet to have her life saved.

Ten minutes after I should have been at work (I texted my PM an hour before to tell him I would be late and why), I was on my way out the door with my sick dog and newly soiled clean comforter. I wasn't too worried about my pooch because she was acting normal. Then I talked to the vet and broke out in a cold sweat. He informed me that they always seem fine in the beginning, but they get worse as the hours go on. It was a good thing I knew to bring her in.

At 11:00 I couldn't take the wait anymore and called the vet to see how she was doing. All of her blood work had come back good. I had gotten her there soon enough. She was on IVs to replace her fluids and was being given antibiotics intravenously. They didn't want me to come get her before 6:00 at night, so as to prolong her IV time and prevent the need for her to be kept overnight.

At 6:00 the Munchkin and I showed up to pick up a very happy-to-go-home Mags. I paid the bill, all the while thanking the heavens I had pet insurance that cut my bill in half. I then grabbed Maggie's meds and took her and the Munchkin home. Once there I had to go over the biggest stain in the carpet with cleaner one more time. Mags returned to the scene of the crime while I was cleaning. I looked at her and said, "All that matters is that you are okay."

Thank heaven today is over and my dog is going to be fine.

P.S. In case you are wondering, yes the picture above depicts my Christmas tree being shoved up a GE Engineer's backside. More on the story behind that later.

Friday, December 3, 2010

Babies, Babies everywhere...

... but it's still an empty womb for me.

The last couple of weeks I have been trying to decide what to do with this blog. Tonight, I got an answer I never expected. When I first started blogging, I had no idea really what it would become. All I knew was that I was going through infertility alone, but I knew I wasn't the only woman struggling with it. My mission then was two fold: find others who were fighting the same battle I was, and help anyone else going through what I was any way I could. My blog was and still is open to everyone. Over the years I've passed out the URL to friends, family, and coworkers because when I moved away from my home state, it also turned into a way for everyone back home to keep up on the going's on in my life. So it then served a third purpose. I then did something I wish I hadn't, but won't change now; I made my blog part of my Fa.cebook page. In doing so, I gave access to it to everyone who was on my friend list, and let's face it, we all have "friends" on FB that we really aren't friends with. For me it was that girl from high school with whom I was always competing in band over who was the better trumpet player. She now has access to my blog simply because she was ballsy enough to friend me on FB after all these years, and I am a big advocate for let bygones be bygones.

But tonight I am struggling with something I don't want all of my real life world to know. I am struggling with the fact that my period decided to show up three days early. Okay, it's not full on bleeding, but it's spotting, and that is the pregnancy death sentence in my world. Implantation bleeding does not happen to me. So spotting + cramps = BFN. That's not the part I don't want to share. I don't want everyone out there to know that right now, in this moment, I am so incredibly bitter. I am angry. I am so hurt. I hate this stupid broken scarred uterus of mine, and right now all I want to do is punch the daylights out of it. I want to snuff the life out of that stupid glimmer of hope that keeps nagging me in the back of my mind. Right now, I just want to wallow.

Yes, this is very unlike me, and part of it could be attributed to my stepping down another 5 mg on my antidepressants. I usually time the step down better so that it doesn't coincide with this time of the month for this very reason. However, I shouldn't be experiencing withdrawal symptoms yet.

Normally this situation would happen and I would take an hour or two to feel sad, and then I would let in all of those hopeful, positive thoughts. "We'll try again next month." "You're not really bleeding yet, maybe, just maybe it is implantation bleeding. I mean, your uterus has been really easily irritated since the surgery and spotting isn't uncommon from the slightest things. It really could be implantation bleeding. The fat lady hasn't sung yet." "I know it will work eventually."

Tonight, my bitter infertile knocked all of those hopeful thoughts down into the dust and proceeded to pummel them. "Sure we'll try again next month... and the next, and the next, and the next..." "It isn't implantation bleeding. You're an idiot. It didn't work." "Get the hint, you're broken."

I just want to break down and cry.

Then I think of all of the time I am wasting by focusing on any of this at all. How much I am missing of my daughter because I am too busy entertaining any of these thoughts in the first place. Tonight when I put her to bed, she giggled and wanted to play games, but all I could do was give her a half smile, tell her I loved her, and kiss her goodnight. I felt even more horrible in that moment, if that was possible.

I want to give her a sibling so badly. I am afraid I won't be able to. What kind of toll is my fight going to have on her if I can't let it go?

Tonight when my husband got home, for whatever reason, he decided not to be nice, despite the fact that we had been emailing back and forth all day and I had told him I had officially declared war on this day because of the way it started out (a story for another day). This was before I started spotting and before the spotting increased and went from brown to red. So when he was rude, I politely told him I didn't need that right now. Then I let him in to what I was feeling. I started to cry. He just sat there, focused on what he was doing, and ignored me. Ouch. Take three hits, one for him, one for me, and one for our relationship.

I realize he is tired of this. But guess what? So am I! He is my companion. I need him to support me every devastating month whether he is sick of it or not. This whole fight hurts me. And when he shuts me out like that, I feel so alone. I grieve alone. The best part is, he tried to go about the rest of the night like nothing had happened, which made it all worse. It makes me feel like he is saying my feelings are not justified, yet he has gone through this whole fight with me. They damn well are justified! It's not like I'm Anna Du.ggar crying because I didn't get pregnant within the first three months of trying. I have a history of infertility, severe endometriosis, PCOS, and now have a very scarred uterus. There is plenty of reason for me to worry about my ability to conceive.

Right now, I really hate that voice that says, "well at least you have your daughter." I am so grateful for my daughter, and having her definitely helps make these moments easier to bear. But right now, my hurt is so raw. It is yet another reminder that I am still broken. Always broken. A tourniquet can only do so much to stop blood gushing from a wound.

Yes, I know I will get back on my feet sooner than later. I will shortly be back to my optimistic, happy self, ready to take on the next month. I will chart out a new diet that will help with conception, get my fertility monitor ready, and all that jazz. But right now, I just want to wallow in my pity and grief. I want to wrap it around me like a blanket, and then roll around in it like mud. I want to feel it with my finger tips and inhale it's bitter scent. Because if I don't do this, I can't move forward. I need to not bottle it up. I need to feel it and let it out.

Infertility really sucks. Being an infertile sucks even more. But fear sucks even more than that.