One of a Million

Just one of a million reasons why I adore my husband? He spent the last few evenings putting up our outdoor Christmas lights and decorations and finally finished up tonight just before dinner. After we were through eating, he said, "Let's go drive around the block and look at our lights!" So I went into the laundry room to grab a sweatshirt and he just raced out the door to the car. When I got out there, I realized that he'd been in such a hurry because he wanted to have a Christmas CD playing in the car when I got there to make it perfect for me.

I do love him so!

Long Time No Write

I have a seriously busy day ahead of me but I’ve neglected this blog for so long that I wanted to give it some attention this morning. I can’t say why I’ve stayed away over two months. I’ve sat down several times to update you but for the most part I end up staring at the blinking cursor and moving on.

So much has happened the past few months.

We are almost through with the foster parenting classes that we’re taking through the state. As I told one of my girlfriends the other day, I leave every class both really excited and scared to death, wondering what I’m getting myself into. The source of the excitement is obvious. There are beautiful children who need loving homes and the kind of stable family we want to provide. The fear . . . what’s NOT scary in the process of fostering-to-adopt?!?!

Number one, there is the very real prospect of taking a child into your home, your life, and your heart for months or even years and then having a social worker pull up in your driveway one afternoon to take them away forever.

Number two, these children have often been through unspeakable things and come with serious baggage. Will O and I be able to deal with the aftermath of abuse and neglect, never having experienced it ourselves? Above all we don’t want to fail a child who has been failed over and over again already.

Number three, they tell you going into these classes that the state’s number one priority is to return a child to its’ biological parent(s). You have to be on board with that. The parent may have been abusive (sexually, physically, emotionally) or neglectful, but the state is going to do everything in their power to return the child to that parent. This is one of this things O & I are having the hardest time with. Yes, we understand that sometimes really good people make bad choices in a moment of anger or fall on unbelievably hard times and simply can’t care for a child properly. But there are some people in the world who are just sorry – who take drugs and beat the crap out of their kids and leave them to starve. In my opinion, they don’t deserve to have their kids returned to them. Ever. So we are going to have to work really hard to put those feelings aside.

Number four, even if a child can’t be returned to its’ biological parent, the state does an exhaustive search (and I mean exhaustive) for a blood relative, no matter how distant, who might want the child. Through the classes, I’ve come to understand why this is really important, but again it increases the odds that we’ll have a child we’ve fallen in love with removed from our home. We’re not in this to foster. It’s a wonderful thing – an INCREDIBLE thing to do, but we want to permanently add a child to our family. So we’re going to have to be really vigilant about only accepting situations that are in line with what we want for our family. It’ll be hard. I know myself well enough to know that I’ll want to jump at the first opportunity to help a child in need, whether he or she will ever be available for adoption. I have to remember that if we take a child into our home who can’t stay permanently, there will be no room for the child who can.

Number five, if you’ve read my blog for any length of time, you may remember two instances where we had to give away cats. The first was a cat we’d had for two years who was perpetually stuck in trees and had to be rescued by bucket trucks three times in one week. The second was a tiny kitten that we found on our porch and kept for a few days until O drove her to my friend in Kentucky who adopted her. You may also remember that I was really upset on both occasions, and that was about CATS! I don’t even like cats. I’m a DOG person! So I can’t imagine the absolute heartbreak of adding a child to our family only to have it taken away. How do people survive that? I know they do – I know I would, somehow - but I truly have no idea how.

All that being said, O and I are still convinced that this is the right path for us, so we’ve been working like crazy to get our home ready.

We painted one of our guest rooms a bright yellow, only to REPAINT it a softer, buttery yellow. (I’m not good at picking yellow paint – never have been.) It looks wonderful. The walls are covered with prints by my new favorite artist – Low*ell Herr*ero. He paints wonderful pictures of cows and cats and a few farm scenes. I thought that since we live on a farm, that that would be appropriate. The animals he paints are fun and whimsical and perfect for a child’s room.

O and I finished sanding and staining the bed that was made for his mom when she was 3 years old. It’s been in one of our barns for 50 years and needed some TLC. We also had to have a mattress made for it because it’s a ¾ bed – between a twin and a full. It’s perfect for the room.

We also sanded and stained an antique dresser that was O’s uncle’s, filled the bookcase with books, games, and stuffed animals, and I finished the quilt for the bed. It all came together just as I’d imagined.

We borrowed my SIL’s crib and put it in the room too, just in case we get an infant. It’s so strange to walk past and see a crib in our home. Sometimes I’ll go in and sit on the bed and look at everything in wonder. It all seems so out of place here, yet it’s something I’ve dreamed of nearly my whole life. I try to imagine a child running around the room, sitting at their little table coloring or playing games, or crawling into be to be tucked in at night. At the same time, I just wonder if we’re setting ourselves up for yet another heartbreak. The honest answer is that I don’t know. All I can do is pray and prepare as best I can.

A foster mom who has been helping at our classes every week made the suggestion that we start gathering a few pieces of clothing for each age/sex we’re interested in because very often there is little to no warning when you pick up a child, and you may get them in the middle of the night with only the clothes on their back. So, my mother-in-law being an avid “garage saler”, I tagged along to a few in the past weeks and am hooked. I’ve always HAD garage sales and knew that I sold really nice things at ridiculously low prices, but dang! So I now have a chest of drawers filled with really lovely, almost never (or actually never) worn kids clothes. I can’t tell you how strange it was to be folding laundry and run across a little sweat suit or a pair of Oshkosh jeans. Each time I’d stop for a moment and a little thrill of excitement ran through me. At the same time, I felt like an impostor. I don’t know – hard to explain.

The foster/adoption classes we’ve been taking are fantastic. I love love love the social worker who leads them, J. She is so knowledgeable and helpful, and seems to still have an enthusiasm for her job. Unfortunately, we had to take these classes in a county different from our own so this particular social worker won’t be continuing on and working with us to get licensed after the classes. We will be handed off to a social worker in our county who will do our three home visits and work to place a child on our home. There is good news and bad news re: our prospects.

Our county has zero foster homes available, so it’s pretty likely that we will have opportunities to take a child into our home pretty quickly. The drawback? Apparently our county doesn’t take many kids into care. I’m not sure why – that’s just something J mentioned to me one day. Of course when I learned that, I immediately started work on a “Plan B”. For this class we had to put together a scrapbook about us and our home, to show a child who might be placed with us. The idea is that knowing a little bit about where they’re going will make the transition easier. I spent several days on ours and filled it with photos of us, our home, the different rooms in the house, and shared a lot of the things we like to do. It was totally geared towards a child, asking lots of questions about his/her favorite things to do. I showed it to J, who has been with D*C*F*S for six years, and she said it was far and away the best scrapbook she’d ever seen. That made me happy! Anyway, my “Plan B” involves creating three or four more scrapbooks and distributing them, along with letters of introduction, to D*C*F*S social workers in the surrounding counties once we’re licensed. J already said she’d keep my name and number and contact me if something appropriate for us comes up. I figured there was no harm in letting other counties know that we’re out here, too. The problem? Our county has to “release” our home before a child from another country can be placed with us. The odds of them agreeing to release our home? About 50/50 from all I’ve heard.

Damn – can’t anything be easy?

Speaking of things not being easy, O and I had a very preliminary talk about possibly returning to IF treatments in the new year. We both want to feel as if we gave it a good shot before walking away and we don’t feel that way now. We never really got started, in fact. I have to admit, part of me is excited at the prospect. Another part – perhaps the bigger part, feels that it would just be opening up a nearly-healed wound. I can’t tell you how wonderful it’s been to be away from all that – blood draws, test results, negative pregnancy tests, ultrasounds, blah blah blah. I mean I don’t miss it AT ALL. No more feeling like a failure. No more scheduled sex. No more throwing good money after bad. Can you tell that I’m a looonnnnggg way from being on board with that plan? If we do decide to proceed with IF treatments, I’d do a few things differently . . . I would definitely find another doctor. While I feel like my doctor did everything she could to alleviate the fears her NP caused, I just have a bad taste in my mouth about the whole situation and wouldn’t be comfortable returning. Also, if we start cycling again I would not tell a soul. I don’t even know if I’d even blog about it. I’m not interested in input or opinions or expectant (no pun intended) looks. Mum’s the word (no pun intended, again!).

Also, we have stumbled on another option . . .

We asked a work friend of O’s to be one of his personal references. She was more than happy to fill out and send in the form for him. She also happened to mention that her cousin had a great experience with a particular adoption agency that really needs childless couples for birth parents to choose from. They apparently have a lot of prospective adoptive parents who already have kids but these birth moms prefer childless couples for the most part. From the time O’s friend’s cousin started the process, it was 9 months until they had a baby in their home. HOWEVER, this agency only sets up OPEN adoptions and I am frankly not sure how I feel about that at this point.

So much to think about.

Well, there is lots more to tell you about . . . our fall trip to PA and VA, my mother who keeps calling me with foster/adoption horror stories and telling me that I’m “obsessed” with having a child (let me just insert here, I do want to have a child in our home but I am the LEAST obsessed person you’re ever going to find re: that), the relative-by-marriage who was going through IF treatments and was chat-chat-chatty about it with me via e-mail only to completely blow me off – I mean COMPLETELY (We all know what that means!), Thanksgiving, the first anniversary of my TWO positive-yet-incorrect pregnancy tests (I still long to rake the boxes of Clear Blue Easy into the floor every time I pass them in Walmart.), holiday festivities, and on and on and on.

But I think instead of doing that, I’m going to just get this posted and come back another day. Thanks to those of you who are still checking in from time to time. Although I rarely comment, I’m still checking in on you too!

By the way, this photo was taken a couple of weeks ago on the banks of one of our ponds here at them farm. I guess drought has at least one benefit - it makes the leaves absolutely incredible in the fall!

My Life In Pictures (and a few words) 'Cause I'm Too Darned Busy To Write

Yard Sale-ing

(Anyone need some elegant junk? If so, come on by this weekend!)

Paint Choosing

(for the child's room)

Moo Cow Decor Framing

(also for the child's room)

Moo Cow Decor Framing, the Sequel

Quilting

Pumpkin Farming

(this one had to be picked early 'cause its' vine was damaged)

and Bed Sanding

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need a nap.

Brain Dump

I am so unbelievably ready for fall. I want cool breezes. I want to plant pansies and rake big piles of leaves to burn. I want to drink apple cider and carve pumpkins. I want to dig out my sweaters and decorate the house so it looks like autumn exploded in our den. (Okay, okay . . . so I did that a couple of days ago. It’s a tradition each year that when my husband plays in his country club’s golf tournament, I decorate the house for fall. Never mind that it’s currently 90 degrees outside.)

My happiness about our choice to walk away from fertility treatments continues to grow day by day. I can’t explain the weight that was lifted from my shoulders as I got rid of all things IF-related.

Goodbye Follis*tim! You sat in my fridge and taunted me for seven months. Off you go to someone who will actually make good use of you.

Au Revoir big bag of unused needles! Never again will you fall out of my medicine cabinet in the middle of the night and clatter all over the floor.

Adios huge binder of brochures, articles, test results, and treatment plans! You were enormous wastes of paper.

Ta ta online calendar where I tracked periods (or lack thereof), medication, and appointment dates! Hate you.

Ciao ovulation predictor and pregnancy tests! Hate you too.

And finally, a big GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE to months of hoping that I’m pregnant, only to have my heart broken every time! I’ll miss you least of all.

(Insert the dance of joy here.)

Life has been busy recently. O’s dad had hip replacement surgery a couple of weeks ago and for a while it seemed that one or both of us were either at the hospital or on our way to or from it. Happily, my FIL has done well in rehab and will be headed home tomorrow.

I went to our most recent IF support group meeting last week and was able to meet up with K., who I’d been e-mailing and talking with for a while. We’d hit it off immediately so I was excited at the prospect of finally getting together. She was wonderful – really generous in sharing all of the research she’d done on adoption. I liked her right away and knew we were kindred spirits the moment she pulled out a huge, beautifully organized binder just chock full of information. (I am a girl who LOVES a good binder with color-coordinated divider tabs. Makes me happy!) Anyway, I feel like I made a good friend that night and can’t help but be reminded that every once in a while, being infertile has brought some wonderful things into my life.

Our first step towards become parents through the foster-to-adopt program is complete. We filled out our initial paperwork and returned it to our social worker last week. We are so excited!

I’ve already talked to our social worked a couple of times. I’d been warned that I would probably have to chase her down for information but she’s been great so far – quick to return calls and to get our paperwork to us. An inside source told me that this is a very political process (HI inside source!!), and that kids are often placed based on who the social workers like most rather than who has been waiting the longest. So I am doing my darndest to be charming and competent, serious yet light-hearted, and as little trouble as I can possibly be. Can’t hurt – might help!

Plans are already underway for turning one of our guest rooms into a child’s room. I’ve chosen a paint color (always subject to change) – a pale yellow which should work for either a boy or girl, no matter the age. I’m in the process of sanding a bed that my MIL had made for her when she was three. It’s been out in one of our barns for decades, and she's excited that we’re cleaning it up and putting it to good us. It’s finish is pretty beat up, so I think I’m going to paint it a crisp white, along with a chest of drawers that was my grandmother’s. Usually I would throw a fit about someone painting over the original finish on an almost-antique piece of furniture, but I really love the sentimentality of our someday child using its’ grandmother’s bed and its’ great grandmother’s chest of drawers.

On top of that, I’m hard at work on a patchwork quilt to go on the bed. I chose patterns in red, royal blue, bright & pale yellows, and pale green. I want it to be warm and welcoming and happy. I am pouring a lot of love into it.

I sent an e-mail to our close friends and family last week letting them know that we were changing course on our quest to become parents. The responses were so loving and supportive. They didn’t have the mournful undercurrent that people seemed to have re: our IF treatments. I’m sure part of that is simply that people are mirroring back our own excitement about becoming parents in this way.

Gosh, there is so much to look forward to these days . . . the first college football game of the season on Saturday with our brand new coach, a visit from my dear friend K from New Orleans next weekend, cooler temperatures, our foster/adopt classes, a trip to Virginia & Pennsylvania in early October, getting a child's room ready, high school football games on Friday nights, and of course the holidays are just around the corner. Tra la la! Love this time of year!

Well, better scoot. I have to go water our pumpkin patch which, by the way, is actually producing PUMPKINS! I am a punkin' farmer. Who knew?!?!

Waiting For the Stars to Fall

Since last we “met” my fingers have been burning up the keyboard as I’ve scoured the Internet looking for everything I can find on the foster-to-adopt process. There’s certainly a lot of information out there which makes a overly-researching, overly-organized girl like me very happy. But I’m sure you can guess the first thing I went in search of . . . foster-to-adopt blogs. There are plenty to be found. In fact, I plan to spend this sweltering afternoon digging in to read some of them from the beginning, following these women from where I am now to that elusive and magical place called “motherhood”.

The main thing I learned this weekend is that we have A LOT to learn, but I already feel more knowledgeable on the topic and am eager to find out more.

Yes, I definitely read some horror stories but there were so many more that had happy endings. I truly believe that we are finally on the right path to our own “happy ending”.

O and I have had several conversations over the weekend about what types of children we feel would fit best into our family. He’s having a hard time with the concept of narrowing it down. He said it feels cold – like deciding what features you want on your new car. I agree, but ultimately we have to make the call. There are definitely certain situations we would be unwilling/unable to accept, so we’re thinking and talking and trying to work it out in our own minds.

I’ve already received our introductory paperwork from the state and have it filled out. The next orientation for the 10-week GPS (Group Preparation and Selection) classes in our county is mid-September. I called the county next to ours and theirs start next Monday, so I left a message hoping that it’s not too late to join that class. I am so ready to get started. As I’ve said in previous posts, I have felt that my life has been on hold for the past year. I am ready, ready, ready to get on with it.

We had such a lovely weekend. My FIL is having his hip replaced tomorrow so I thought it would be fun to get the extended family together for a barbecue on Saturday, since he won’t feel up to a big gathering like that for a while. I turned up the radio in my kitchen and cooked all day, making all sorts of fun things. (Triple Decker Strawberry Cake with Strawberry Buttercream Frosting anyone?!?! Mmmmmm!) We had a great time. I just love when our cute little house is packed to the gills with family and friends, people wandering around visiting, kids racing in and out the back door, and me taking care of all of them.

Then last night, O and I threw a bunch of pillows and blankets into the back of his pickup and drove into one of the pastures behind our house to watch the Perseid meteor shower. It’s so beautiful back there with the heavens spread out above us and the crickets and frogs singing up a storm. As we laid there holding hands, searching the skies and talking, I couldn’t help wondering if next year when the Perseids return, we’ll have a little one tucked safely between us, waiting for the stars to fall.

For the first time in years, I can honestly say that I believe the answer to that question is “yes”, and that makes me smile.

Pretty Damned Awesome

Oh what a difference a few days can make.

This time last week I was heartbroken at the prospect of sending away my little orphaned kitty, bemoaning the fact that I had nowhere to pour out all of my nurturing, mothering energy. Even as I wrote last Friday’s post, I was absolutely dreading the prospect of starting another round of pro*metrium and visiting the RE a couple of weeks later only to hear that I was unable to cycle yet again.

I got over the sadness pretty quickly. I’m not someone who can wallow around in unhappiness for long. I used to be a master at that some years back, but I found it tiring and draining and for the most part, a waste of time. It’s not that I don’t feel supremely unhappy sometimes. I do. It’s not that I don’t rage at the universe for the unfairness of infertility. I do. But I try to work through those things as quickly as possible and get on with my life. It’s a good life.

So by the time O (my SAINTED husband) left for Kentucky early Saturday morning with a SUV full of kitty paraphernalia and one bewildered cat, I was really happy that Bella was going to such a great home and was also relieved that I no longer had to wash up and change clothes several times a day to avoid my allergies.(For those who are interested, Bella made it safely to KY and has spent the week charming her new mom, exploring her new home, and trying to make friends with her 13-year-old “brother” who would just as soon hiss and swat at her as look at her. He seems to be warming up day by day, though.)

Although I was no longer “blue”, my head was still spinning with thoughts of motherhood and all the love that O and I have to give a child.

And you know what?

In all my thinking-thinking-thinking, I finally admitted something to myself that I’ve known for a long time . . .

From the beginning, doing IF treatments has never felt “right” to me. I can’t explain it – it doesn’t have to do with being upset that I needed the intervention of an RE or with the often-embarrassing tests and procedures we have to endure. It’s not even about the fact that we’ve had cycle after cycle shut down even before they could begin. It’s simply that I’ve never felt like, “Yes, THIS path is right for us. This is what we’re supposed to be doing.”

Once I realized that, I almost immediately knew what I wanted to do. After a couple of long conversations with O yesterday I contacted our county’s D*C*F*S to get set up with the foster-to-adopt program. In my heart, it feels absolutely, 100% “right”.

I know there’s a world of information that we have yet to learn about the process. I know that many of the kids available for foster care and adoption come with serious baggage. I know that the potential for heartbreak is all too real. (You saw how attached I got to a kitten I’d had for a week. Can you imagine me falling in love with a child only to have it removed from my home and sent back to its’ biological family?!?!? “Devastation” wouldn’t begin to describe it!)

But both O and I are on board and excited at the prospect of providing a loving home to a child who so desperately needs and deserves it. Of course, it’s possible that as we get further into the process, we might change our minds and realize this isn’t the path for us. I may very well take a few months off from IF treatments and return to the RE determined to give it 100% again.

However, I am delighted to tell you that this week I have:

1. cancelled my consult appointment with a new RE.

2. arranged to pack up and Fed*Ex the 7 vials of follis*tim that have been in my fridge taunting me for months to a darling fellow blogger who will put it to good use

3. stuffed the 3-ring binder filled with all things IF (brochures, test results, articles, business cards, etc.) into a desk drawer where I don't have to look at it again for a long, long time

4. felt as if I’ve been able to exhale for the first time in almost a year.

Most importantly, I truly feel as if we are exactly where we're supposed to be on our path to becoming a mommy and daddy . . . and that is pretty damned awesome.

Possum Tears

I’ve been wondering for the past couple of days just why it is that God doesn’t want me to have a little one (of any species) in my life to love and nurture.

Our struggle to have a child has been well documented and probably doesn’t need further comment at this point, but what you may not know is that I am a life-long animal lover. My mom had two Shetland Sheepdogs when she met and married my dad, so I was born into a home with pets. My first dog was a crazy (and probably mentally handicapped) poodle named Peggy who came to us when I was four. Sure, she would occasionally corner me on the patio and growl if I moved, but mostly she was sweet and loving. I could fill pages with names and stories of all the animals that brightened our lives and ultimately broke our hearts along the way.

Our family was one of those that considered their pets a true part of the family. They lived in the house with us. They shared our sofas, our beds, our lives. They were never allowed to run loose. Their needs were factored into the decisions we made. It wasn’t unheard of for us to stay up tending to a sick dog rather than leave it at the vet alone overnight. A bit extreme, perhaps, but that’s the way we were.

When I graduated and moved out on my own, I purposely didn’t get a pet. I was often gone, working and traveling and just being a young. I knew that I didn’t have time to devote to properly caring for a pet.

Somewhere along the way, the allergies I’d had as a child returned with a vengeance. When I had testing done, I was found to be severely allergic to cats and moderately allergic to dogs. I’d suspected it, but it was hard to hear because I’d hoped to get a pet once O and I got married.

About a year later, a young mama cat had four kittens in one of our barns and they decided to call our place home, so we’ve been caring for them ever since. But because of my allergies, I have to wear a mask to pet them, and then immediately wash up once I come inside. I love them, but I can love “on” them like I want to. Plus, they are roamers, returning home mostly to eat, so they don’t really need me.

Last month we tried to get an outside dog – a 3-year-old boxer mix named Bo. Bo went back to his owners a couple of days later because my asthma was acting up.

Then last Saturday afternoon, I walked around the side of our house and there was a tiny black and white kitten sound asleep on our back steps. It took one look at me and raced into the woods. I couldn’t find it so I went inside, hoping it would return because it was clearly too small to be on its’ own in such a big world. Sure enough, when O got home from the golf course a few minutes later, we peeked out the kitchen door and we could see crazy kitty fur poking up over one of the steps. O said, “Are you sure it’s a cat? It looks like a dead possum?” and Possum was born. We tried to corral her and O ultimately grabbed her by the tail as she was squeezing into our heating/ air conditioning unit. She was terrified and starving and I fell in love. Our vet said to give her kitten milk replacement and pedia*lite until he could see her on Monday, so I sprung into mommy mode. I can’t even tell you how malnourished she was. You could feel all of her bones and she was lethargic and couldn’t even meow. Poor little one.

We made her a “home” in our large pet carrier and put her on the porch under a ceiling fan. I held her off and on all weekend, and fed her the milk replacement and some canned cat food which she ate like a little pig. Almost immediately I noticed a difference. She was more aware of her surroundings, meowing a little bit, and grooming herself. And affectionate?!?!?! She would butt me with her head and flop over onto her back to have her tummy rubbed.

The vet told us on Monday that she was about six weeks old, and weighed one pound two ounces.

It was immediately clear that we were going to have to find a home for her. She’s just too small to be turned loose outside right now. A raccoon, a coyote, or even a large bird could easily have her and be gone with her in a second. But if we keep her caged until she’s larger, she’ll be completely unprepared to live outdoors and take care of herself. There’s also the matter of how our outdoor kitties will react to her. They are pretty territorial. And of course, with my allergies she can’t come inside to live with us.

Happily, one of my dearest friends has agreed to take her. She already has a 13-year-old cat whose kidneys were damaged during the pet food recall of several months ago. She thinks it will be nice to give him a companion, and has named her new kitty “Bella” – very fitting. My sainted husband will be spending his Saturday taking Bella to her new mom in Kentucky, about an 11-hour round trip drive. I, of course, can’t go. Damned allergies!

Though I am thrilled that Bella will have a wonderful home, I am so sad to have to send her away. She has been such a bright spot in my life. I’ve loved spending time with her, sitting in our rocking chairs with her, playing with bits of ribbon, rubbing her tummy as she looks up at me with big green eyes. I’ve even enjoyed giving her medicine to her and getting up to check on her early in the morning. For the past week, I’ve had a little creature to love, to care for, to nurture. And tomorrow morning she will leave and my heart will break . . . again.

So here I sit feeling like a failure. My body won't create a baby to love and nurture and care for. That same body refuses to allow me to even properly love and nurture and care for the little creatures that come my way. My mothering instincts are so strong, yet for some reason God doesn’t seem to want me to use them. Sure, I get fleeting opportunities now and then, but they never stay. They never ever stay. I don’t know why.

Some days it doesn’t matter as much. I throw myself into caring for myself, my friends and family, and especially my husband. But really, there is only so much nurturing that a 46-year-old man needs.

As O pointed out a few days ago, I’m doing everything I can to change this situation. I’m seeing an RE. I’ve also just started shots in hopes that eventually my allergies will be cured. That’s all well and good, but I am so tired of hoping for SOMEDAY.

Oh, and to add insult to injury I just got a call from my gyn. My period is 7+ weeks late so I went in for a beta HGC yesterday to confirm that I wasn’t pregnant before starting my next round of meds. I’d peed on countless sticks and knew my body was just screwing around with me once again, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a tiny bit of hope. Silly silly me, to have hope.

Another negative. Another dream gone.

Today I feel barren. I’ve never been able to say that before, but I do.

Oh well, I guess I'll go hold tiny Bella before she goes away too.

Extra! Extra! Read All About It!

Back in January O and I decided to let the most important people in our lives know that we were struggling to have a child and were seeing an infertility specialist. We were tired of dodging questions and trying to keep track of who knew what.

So one evening I sat down at the computer and poured out my heart in a letter which we e-mailed to our very closest friends and family. Towards the end of that letter, I wrote the following:

“The one thing we ask is that you please not share what we’re going through with anyone. Infertility is such a personal thing. It’s awkward talking about it with those closest to us. It’s absolute torture to have to discuss it with anyone else.”

I was very specific about that request because we live in a small town where everyone knows everyone and gossip spreads like wildfire. I wasn’t interested in our pain being fodder for anyone’s idle chatter.

Even having spelled that out, in the past few months I’ve still been caught off guard several times by people who shouldn’t have known anything about our IF but clearly did, and who were simply bursting to talk about it.

That has happened twice this past week.

The first was an e-mail I received from my husband’s cousin’s daughter. O and his cousin are almost like brothers, so of course we included him and his wife when deciding who to share our IF with. Well, apparently they chose to forward our e-mail on to at least one of their daughters. Her note to me began:

“I know that several months back you sent us all an e-mail concerning some pretty private information about your journey to have a child.”

Ummm, no. I actually DIDN’T send you an e-mail. I sent it to your mom.

She was actually lovely. She’s going through infertility issues of her own and wanted to share the address of a message board that she’d found really helpful and supportive. I very much appreciate the gesture, and that she chose to reach out to me.

Then last night O and I went to a concert. It had been a long day. I went for allergy testing and was there for 3 ½ hours being poked and prodded and stuck with needles, so I was looking forward to getting together with friends, sitting on the lawn of the tiny little park where the concert was held, and listening to the music as the sun set. We were there with our best friends, and a couple of their friends joined us. We’ll call the “friends of our friends” David and Susan. I’d met them once before, 3 ½ years prior at a Superbowl party. They have a son who is 2 ½ and he was there with them – just a darling redheaded bundle of energy. Of course we talked about him for a few minutes, and then Susan looked at me and said, “So, are you and O still trying to have a baby? I heard you’re having some problems with that.”

Are you fucking kidding me?

She too was very nice, saying that she was “sure it will happen” for us. To be honest, I have no idea what else she said because I was too pissed to pay much attention.

PISSED!

I can only assume that the people who have chosen to open their BIG FAT MOUTHS and share our personal, private struggle with others simply have no idea of the pain they cause. I am shocked by it, though. I guess I shouldn’t be, but I am.

Perhaps instead of trying to keep all this under wraps, I should just put my journalism degree to use and write an article for the local paper announcing it to the world.


Local Couple Can’t Seem To Get Knocked Up

Wednesday July 25, 2007

Dateline: Big Fat Mouth, Southern State

A local woman is shoving thousands of dollars up her ha-ha in an effort to do what most others find effortless, conceive a child.

Handsome Husband and his wife Infertile Myrtle have spent the last year or so hoping, wishing, praying, and trying to have a baby. They have tried potions, positions, and prescriptions, but to no avail. They have sought out the help of experts who have poked, prodded, extensively studied their bodily fluids, and stuck cameras in their special places. Yet, Infertile Myrtle remains as barren as ever.

Though they have no child to hold in their arms, they do have a year’s worth of wonderful memories. Handsome Husband had a particularly intimate date with a specimen cup. Infertile Myrtle has been sent screaming from the doctor’s office twice, fearing she was riddled with cancer. Let’s not forget the morning that they had not once but TWO false positive pregnancy tests that left Myrtle crying in her car in a Target parking lot. How about the side effects of the drugs Myrtle takes, where she is either wanting to eat, wanting to cry, or wanting to eat while crying? Fun is had by all! And oh the joy of realizing month after month that Myrtle’s body has malfunctioned once again.

Husband and Myrtle realize that many in town are inordinately interested in this, their private business, so they will be holding a town meeting on the 31st at the Big Fat Mouth Senior Center. Come prepared for an evening of fun when their personal heartache will be discussed ad nauseum. There will be a slide show, a question and answer period (PERIOD - HA!!!), and a suggestion box where you can tell Husband and Myrtle exactly what YOU think about their infertility. Of particular interest will be a craft segment where Myrtle will share how she built a doghouse entirely out of used pregnancy and ovulation predictor test sticks. Don’t forget that the Big Fat Mouth High School Band Parents will be selling hot dogs and hamburgers as a fundraiser for their trip to Daytona, so bring your kids (the younger and more adorable the better), bring your appetite, and bring your opinions to INFERTILITYPALOOZA ’07!

So Tired

Yes I know it’s been a while. There just hasn’t been much to say on the IF front since I took my last pro*metrium. If you’ll recall, they doubled my dosage in hopes of generating an extra-special-super-size period within ten days so that maybe, just maybe I could finally start injectables. Well, flash forward exactly four weeks and nothing. Absolutely nothing. Breathtaking isn’t it? And the most ironic part? I am desperately hoping that I’m NOT pregnant.

My asthma flared up a little bit about ten days ago after a failed attempt to get an outside dog. (We won’t go into that.) It wasn’t too bad – no wheezing or coughing, but I definitely felt tightness in my lungs so I went and got a steroid shot and a prescription and while I was there they did 2 chest x-rays to make sure I didn’t have bronchitis. I didn’t, and the asthma was very mild so I was feeling back to normal within a couple of days. Since this was only the second time I’ve needed treatment for asthma as an adult, I can’t complain too much.

So . . . period 21 days late + 2 x-rays = one worried me. It’s just so damned ludicrous.

Anyway, I am pretty sure that rather than being pregnant, my body is simply protesting the high dose of pro*metrium. When they gave me a progest*erone in oil shot a few months ago, designed to cause the mother of all periods, nothing happened then either. Or perhaps it’s the steroids. I poas on Friday and it was negative, so I’ll give it a few more days and see what does or doesn’t happen.

I am so tired of all of this.

Big Blue Eyes and Hope

First, THANK YOU for all of the wonderful advice I got re: my last post. I have, for the moment, decided to remain with my current RE and see how things go. She went out of her way to try and undo the damage her NP caused and I couldn’t ask for more than that.

But to be perfectly honest, I’ve been thinking about discontinuing infertility treatments. Or perhaps better stated, I’ve been thinking about discontinuing trying to START infertility treatments.

I’ve been seeing my RE since January and have yet to get the okay to even begin my first round of injectables. Being told month after month that my body has failed once again has taken its’ toll. As I’ve sat on the sidelines watching my friends and “blog buddies” go through cycle after cycle, I’ve felt less and less reason to hope that that will ever be me. That, along with last month’s unwarranted cancer scare has simply left me exhausted and wanting to throw up my hands and walk away from the whole thing.

I love my life. My marriage is wonderful. We have fantastic friends. I adore the home we’ve created together here on this beautiful property. We are healthy. Our families are healthy. O has a great job that he enjoys and that allows me to stay home if I so choose. I am forever excited about some project or other – cooking/entertaining, gardening, writing, photography. I am even considering starting my own food business. I am happy.

So a couple of weeks ago as I took my pro*metrium and crawled into bed one night, I laid there and wondered if pursuing infertility treatment was even worth it. I’ve had months of disappointment, of money spent, of taking drugs that will do who knows what to my body in years to come, of absolutely dreading each RE appointment. I have very little hope remaining to balance it all out.

Do I believe that I’ll ever be able to cycle? Do I believe that O and I will ever be parents? I guess my answer to both of those questions has come to be “probably not”. I’m starting to believe that it simply may not be in the cards for us.

Last weekend O and I attended my family reunion. It’s our yearly opportunity to get together with all my mom’s crazy fun relatives and visit, laugh and eat way too much. My favorite cousin was there with her family, including twin boys who are 1 1/2. They are darling and social little creatures who worked the room and charmed everyone they encountered. As lunch was being served, one of them wandered over to our table and became enchanted with my digital camera. I turned the viewfinder completely around so he was able to see himself upside down on the screen. As we say here in the South, it absolutely tickled him to death. His face just lit up every time he caught a glimpse of himself. Needless to say, we became good friends and I enjoyed every minute of the time I spent with him.

Afterwards, O and I did some antiquing in my hometown and we had a lot of fun, but my thoughts kept returning to that darling little boy. Even as my head was telling me that I’d never be a mom and that I should give up and walk away from the whole infertility mess, my heart and that little boy’s blue eyes urged me to just hang in there for a little while longer and see if maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance for us. So I’m still here, still trying to get off the bench and into the game, still trying to find some hope to sustain me as the next RE appointment looms . . . for a little while longer.

Just Sit Right Back . . .

. . . ‘cause boy do I have a tale to tell.

Yes, I’ve been MIA for the past couple of weeks. (Thanks to those of you who noticed and tried to track me down, by the way.) I’ve been too upset/nervous/angry to sit down and compose my thoughts into any sort of coherent post until this afternoon.

To give you some background, about six years ago I was treated for uterine hyper*plasia. That is basically a pre-cancerous overgrowth of cells in the uterus due to not having regular periods. I spent my 20’s and early 30’s rarely having periods and not really caring about it. Less fuss, less mess. Yes, I might have heard something about women who don’t have periods developing uterine cancer but I was definitely of the “that will never happen to me” mindset. When I was 33, I started bleeding almost constantly, sometimes heavily and (TMI ALERT!!!) was passing huge clots. Scared the shit out of me, as it should have. I went racing to the gyn who did a biopsy and determined that I did, indeed, have the pre-cancerous cells associated with hyper*plasia. She put me on monthly Pro*vera to generate periods and to try and thin out that thick uterine lining. It took six months of Pro*vera and regular biopsies but eventually the lining was thin and the hyperplasia was gone. At that time, my gyn told me to remain on the Pro*vera and as long as I had a monthly period and no spotting or clotting between them, I was good to go. BIG HUGE sigh of relief!

That experience was one of the best things that could have happened to me because it completely changed my relationship to my health. I no longer let things slide. If I’m concerned about something, I go see the doctor. I am a much healthier person as a result and of course, I'm fanatical about having a period each and every month.

ANYWAY . . .

Flash forward to two weeks ago. I called my RE’s office on Monday morning to set up a day 3 blood draw and ultrasound for later that morning at the satellite office where I'm seen. Until that day I’d always been pleased with the care I’d received from the staff and the nurse practitioner who did my exams.

As you may remember, we’ve been unable to start injectables because the lining of my uterus is too thick – not dangerously so, but still thicker than the RE would like so that’s the first thing we check when I go in for my ultrasound. On that Monday, the nurse practitioner, who we’ll call “Totally Tactless”, was in the middle of the ultrasound when the following question came out of her mouth:

“So let me ask you this, how is it that you KNOW you don’t have cancer?”

Excuse me? You have something crammed up my ha ha and while peering at your little screen ask me how it is that I KNOW I don’t have cancer?

You can imagine the terror that shot through me at that moment.

So I explained (for the tenth time) about what my gyn had said – that the biopsies from several places in my uterus had come back perfectly clear, that the hyper*plasia was gone, and that as long as I had a period and wasn’t having any spotting or clotting between cycles, I was fine. TT responded with the following:

“Well, I wouldn’t feel good about that unless you had a D&C and biopsied ALL the tissue. And this is just me talking but if my lining were this thick, I’d be in for a D&C this month. You are a walking time bomb!”

FYI, my lining is the exact same thickness as it was when my gyn started us on Clo*mid back last fall. At that time she said I fell within a normal range. Also FYI, my lining is .4 cm LESS than it was when I started seeing the RE, so it’s not as if we’ve had some radical change from ultrasounds past.

I honestly don’t remember much of the rest of the visit – something about scheduling a SIS (saline infusion sonogram) and a D&C. Needless to say, I was completely numb and totally terrified as I left the office. While still in their parking lot, I called my gyn and got her first available appointment for a couple of days later, hoping and praying that I didn't have cancer.

Thankfully, my gyn wasn’t terribly concerned. She said that it was extremely rare for hyper*plasia to return while taking monthly hormones, that having a biopsy was an extremely good indicator as to the health of the uterus, and that she’d be glad to do another biopsy to alleviate my concerns. So she did. She also suggested switching to another RE practice if I was unhappy with my current situation. As I left her office, I made up my mind that I was definitely going to make that change. I truly don’t think that TT was trying to scare me. She seems like a nice person, and I’m sure she’s quite good at what she does. That being said, there was absolutely no way in hell I ever wanted to be seen by her again. Ever.

So I called my RE to have my records transferred and decided to have a conversation with the practice manager about the whole situation. It was not my intent to get TT into trouble but here’s the bottom line:

I am one of the least emotional IF patients you’ll ever find - I just don't have as many emotions wrapped up in the whole process as some others seem to. That’s not to say that O and I don’t want to have a baby. We do, but we don't have all our eggs in that basket. So my concern is that TT is going to inadvertently say something equally tactless to another, more fragile patient and is going to cause some real damage. After all, I spent years in the medical field, have confidence in my gyn, and have no current problems with bleeding but she scared me enough to send me racing to my doctor to see if I was eaten up with cancer! I didn’t want her to do that to anyone else.

So I had a very frank discussion with the practice manager. He was extremely apologetic and thanked me for letting him know what happened. He also said that he was sure my RE would want to talk to me and asked if she could call at my convenience. I told him that wasn't necessary but that I’d be happy to answer any questions she might have.

Not two hours later my RE called. I’d only seen her for about 30 minutes on our first visit to her clinic back in January, so it was a bit strange to be talking to her. She too was very apologetic and assured me that while TT hadn’t meant any harm, she knew I must be scared to death. So she made the following offer: If I wanted to, she would clear her schedule for the following day and I could come in for the SIS, which she would perform. (A SIS is a simple procedure done in the RE’s office. They inject saline into the uterine lining causing it to “fluff out” a little bit so they can see the shape of the uterus and can tell if the uterine walls are smooth or if there are any growths on them.) If they found anything, she would take me right down and do a D&C, which they would then biopsy, all in an effort to alleviate my fears. I was pretty blown away. I’ve never had a doctor offer anything like that before. So I took her up on it, just to get answers more quickly.

We drove to her office in Birmingham completely certain that I’d be having a D&C right after the SIS. But guess what? My RE came up between surgeries, did the test and proclaimed that everything looked fine and that my D&C was “one surgery she’d be happy to cancel”. She even hugged me as she left the room. She did say that the lining is still too thick to cycle, but she doubled my Pro*metrium prescription and we’re hopeful that will help. (Until then, those of you within a 50 miles radius of my home are urged to secure your food supplies. I am in the midst of a major oinkfest.)

Finally, I called my gyn’s office this afternoon and my biopsy results were normal. I was pretty certain they would be, but you never know. So I’ve finally been able to breathe a big, huge sigh of relief for the first time in a long time. I am so grateful that all is well but at the same time I can’t help being angry at the fear and uncertainty of the last two weeks.

So here’s my dilemma. Do I stick with this RE (and see another nurse practitioner in Birmingham instead of TT at the satellite office) or do I switch to a male RE that several of my friends use and seem to like? I really prefer a female but I can’t help having a bit of skittishness regarding my current RE practice.

Help! What would y’all do?

Thanks in advance for your wisdom, and for not falling asleep during this exceedingly long post.

It's a Sunshine Day

(To those of you who read the title of this post and are now unable to get the Brady Bunch song "Sunshine Day" out of your head [like ME!!], I'm so, so sorry.)

I've spent most of the day outside working to clear out everything in a flower bed that O's grandmother planted decades ago. It's overgrown and in need of a huge makeover. So with the help of a shovel, a rake, and 22 "rainbow" knockout roses, I hope to have a new bed planted in the next couple of days.

A few minutes ago I wandered around delighting in our yard and how happy all the plants seem to be, even in the midst of this drought we're in. So I thought I'd share.

geranium barrel, back patio

backyard - hosta, fern and impatien shade bed

my work in progress

backyard - hydrangea, hosta, and impatien bed

our front yard

Green Light

As unhappy as I was this time last month, that’s how happy I’ve been the past week or so. I am 100% back to my old self, and the Reglan-induced anxiety and depression are now just a painful memory. I must admit that when I was in the midst of all of it, a part of me wondered if I’d ever be able to pull myself out of it. Yet here I am, enjoying the heck out of my life again. I am so grateful.

Our Memorial Day weekend was so great. We didn’t do anything of major proportions but rather stayed close to home working in the yard, laying in the hammock, sitting out in the sun doing a bit of reading, and of course barbecuing with family and friends a couple of times. We just got an honest-to-goodness picnic table (which I am ridiculously excited about!!!) so we ate out under the trees every chance we got. Food always tastes better when eaten outdoors. I don’t know why. Food also tastes better when the reflux that’s been plaguing you for three months is FINALLY under control. Can I get an AMEN?!?!? So I allowed myself to indulge a little bit, fixing homemade coleslaw, macaroni salad, baked beans, chips, hot dogs, and the most incredible caramel apple pie, served a la mode of course. Mmmmmm, I think I gained a pound just writing about it!

I talked to the psychiatrist and RE yesterday and both are on board with resuming our infertility treatments, so we’re jumping back on the IF roller coaster with the arrival of my next period. I am hoping that, like last month, I’ll have a good period all on my own without taking pro*metrium or pro*vera. We shall see, I suppose. But it feels good to have the green light again. I am so ready to throw myself into this process and see what happens. I’m at the point where I just want to know one way or the other if having a biological child is a possibility for us. If it’s not, then I’m ready for us to get on with the rest of our lives.

I am . . .

married to the love of my life.









a southerner through and through, and proud of it.










a gardener with a green thumb inherited from my father & grandmother.










a wanna-be writer with ideas for the “Great American Novel” swirling around in my head.







someone who never wants to lose touch with the joy and wonder of being a child. I still love to splash in puddles, blow bubbles, swing, and play catch in the front yard.












a life-long lover of photography.









blessed with incredible parents and in-laws.

ridiculously sentimental, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. (This is a heart-shaped candy box that my grandfather gave my grandmother when they were "courting". It's one of my prized possessions.)












a worrier.












a collector of American country antiques.








a TV viewer with questionable yet varied tastes: Judge Judy, Kathy Griffin, American Idol, Deadliest Catch, Dirty Jobs, Ghosthunters, CBS Sunday Morning, Fox News, and ANYTHING on Bravo and the History Channel.












a Republican.









surrounded by fantastic strong women who I am proud to call "friends".

a woman who, as of today, has lost 130 pounds in the last 14 months.

a cleaning machine when I am worried or stressed.








a proud American.








currently trying to decide whether or not I am going back to school.












a dog-loving mom to three outdoor cats.










hopeful that one day I’ll be sitting at this desk listening to tiny little toddler feet racing around on our hardwood floors.











a work in progress, and always hope to be.

Coming Out of the Dark

Wow – it’s been a long time but until now I haven’t felt strong enough to write about what I’ve been going through the past few weeks.

As I mentioned in my last post, I have had reflux for a while. It’s miserable to feel as if someone has you by the throat, even if you KNOW what it is and you KNOW you’re still going to be able to breathe and swallow. Bleck!

After trying OTC meds, I went to my family doctor who put me on two things, one for reflux and another medicine called Reglan. Basically, it empties the contents of your stomach quickly so that the quantity of acid you produce remains low. Within a couple of days of starting it, I spiraled into a horrible depression with severe, severe anxiety. I had never experienced anything like it before. I was bereft and hopeless and truly thought I was going to die. I couldn’t make sense of it at the time because I am happier and more content than I have ever been in my life.

I took Reglan for six days and am beyond grateful that an ER doctor took one look at me and had me stop it immediately. He informed me that it was rare but that Reglan can cause depression, suicidal thoughts, and extreme anxiety in some people. I, of course, was completely unaware of that at the time. I simply thought I was going crazy.

Even after stopping the drug, I was still struggling. My family doctor said he could give me something for depression/anxiety, but I decided to go see a psychiatrist instead. One of the first things he told me was that he believed Reglan was an “evil drug and should be pulled off the market immediately”. He said that most likely it had affected the serotonin levels in my brain and that it would just take a while for us to get those straightened out. I’ve been taking a mild anti-depressant (my first experience with that) for about a month and am feeling better. I’m still not at 100%, but at least I’m not at 2% anymore.

I saw a gastroenterologist a couple of weeks ago and he said he’d seen people have complete mental breakdowns while on Reglan. I have no doubt that I would have been one of those people. I don’t have the words to explain how scary it was. It was like waking up in a nightmare and having no idea how to get out.

My husband was so incredible. Sometimes all that got me through was him sitting and holding me for hours at a time. He rearranged his work schedule to be home during the worst week. He went to my doctor’s appointments with me, and drove me everywhere for a while. I know he was baffled by what was happening. I didn’t understand it myself and it was hard to even remotely convey what I was experiencing. It must have been as terrifying for him as it was for me.

As to the reflux, I’ve had an endoscopy (camera down my throat) and some testing on my gall bladder and everything has come back clear. No hernia, no gall bladder problems, just plain old GERD, or reflux. So that’s all good news. Now it’s just a matter of finding the right drug to treat that. I’ve been on Nex*ium for a couple of weeks and it seems to be helping some. We shall see.

With all I’ve been going through, of course the IF treatments have been put on hold. Ironically, I got my period in the midst of all this – an honest-to-goodness, five-day, not-drug-induced period. I haven’t had one of those in years.

For now we’re content to leave treatments on hold. I want to make sure that this depression/anxiety and reflux are completely under control before even THINKING about trying to get pregnant. The follis*tim in my fridge expires in August, so that’s kind of my deadline for deciding one way or the other – subject to change, of course!

So that’s my last month or so in a nutshell! I wanted to thank those of you who left comments or e-mailed letting me know you were thinking of me and missing me. It meant a lot to me.

MIA

I feel like shit - worse than I've ever felt in my life.

I have developed severe acid reflux. I know what you're thinking - a little indigestion, heartburn, burping? Nope.

My reflux presents as an almost-constant tightness in my chest and throat (think heart attack without the pain in my case). I can swallow fine and my only breathing difficulty is that the meds are causing a huge amount of air in my stomach so it's hard to get a good deep breath, but it is BEYOND disconcerting to live with this 24-hours-a-day.

My heart is fine, thankfully, but it looks like I probably have a hiatal hernia which is causing the reflux. (That would also contribute to me having to sometimes strain to get a good deep breath.) I have an appointment with a gastroenterologist on Monday to get to the bottom of things and devise a plan of action.

I've been on reflux meds for a week but unfortunately they often take 4-8 weeks to work so I haven't seen much improvement. All I HAVE seen are the side effects of the medication which include nausea, stomach pain, and unbelievable anxiety.

Put simply, I have never been more unhappy or more miserable.

I have a mortal fear of surgery but at this point, it the doctor thinks I need surgery to resolve this, bring it on! This is an awful way to live.

On the IF-front, AF showed up right on time after my most recent round of prometrium but I didn't even make a CD2 appointment for an ultrasound. There is no way I want to pursue IF treatments with this going on.

As I told some friends via e-mail earlier today, I tend to go MIA when I don't feel good or am scared about something, so don't be surprised if I'm not around much. I'll be back soon, though, hopefully with good news.

Till then . . .

Today We're All Hokies

God Bless

Chicago Cubs Attitude

The approach of yet another holiday seems to be shining a bright light on our childless condition once again. It’s difficult enough as an infertile woman to navigate a world filled with daily “baby bombs” (shower invitations, adorable toddlers at the grocery store, birth announcements, pregnant women everywhere), but for me the most difficult times are when holidays roll around. I guess it’s because I am like a little kid myself about holidays. Love ‘em! Love everything about them. Love to decorate, love to have people over, love to cook seasonal foods, love to watch holiday movies.

Tomorrow is, of course, Easter. We’re having our parents and some dear friends over for lunch. I’ve had a great time devising a menu and tastefully decorating our home. (Some might say that it looks like the Easter Bunny threw up all over our den. I disagree.) It will be a lovely day, I’m sure. But do you know what I really wish was happening here tomorrow?

O and I would wake up early, complaining about how darned COLD it is as we put on our coats and rushed out to hide eggs before our child woke up. We have acres and acres to work with, so we’d spread eggs far and wide, tucking them under bushes and in the crevices of trees.

Our child would stumble into the kitchen rubbing her eyes and stop dead in her tracks as she saw the basket the Easter Bunny left for her. After a quick breakfast, we’d scamper to get ready for church, and I’d put her in one of those deliciously frilly little dresses that made me feel ever so fancy when I was a little girl. And though I vowed never to do it to my child, I’d probably throw in one of those pairs of white gloves that my mom used to torture me with on Easter.

Off to church we’d go and when we got home, our families would be arriving to watch the big Easter egg hunt. I would take a million pictures. O would hold our child’s hand as she wandered around the yard gathering up her treasures (because when you’re a kid, bright plastic eggs are TREASURES!). Afterwards, we’d all sit down to eat, talking and laughing about Easters past, unable to imagine what we did before our child came along.

I know that reality would probably instead involve freezing to death, tossing a few eggs around the backyard because we were running late, unfortunate stains on frilly little dresses, resounding screams as we tried to put on and keep on the white gloves, and boredom after finding the first three eggs. But isn’t it a NICE daydream?

Oh well. I guess I’ll take a Chicago Cubs attitude about the whole thing . . . maybe next year. Until then, I’m going to have a wonderful Easter with the people I love most in the world and I wish the same for you.

And that little daydream of mine? I wish that for you too.

Surprise! (No, it's not what you're thinking!)

It seems as if I may have received a belated birthday gift this morning.

My long-awaited yet sorry excuse for a period arrived on Friday. It was nothing to write home about, pretty much three days of spotting. I waited to see if things would “pick up” but they never did so I reluctantly called my RE yesterday and left a message explaining the situation. I told them about the steroid shot that I suspect screwed up my cycle blah-dee-blah-blah-and-I’m-hoping-we-can-do-another-round-of-pro*metrium-and-give-it-a-chance-to-work. I didn’t want them to start singing the D&C song.

I was hoping they’d simply call in a prescription for more pro*metrium and I’d be on my way with the next cycle but noooooo, they wanted to see me for an ultrasound and perhaps an SIS (saline infusion sono*hysterograph) to see what was going on.

So maybe, just maybe I got my panties in a bit of a twist about it. I spent much of last night in imaginary conversations with my RE that went a little something like this:

ME: Ummm, Dr. VA, I haven’t had an actual period since my Valentine’s Day ultrasound where y’all pronounced my uterine lining “too thick to procreate”. To the best of my calculations, no period = no improvement. So what you really want is for me to drive 3 hours round-trip so your nurse practitioner can take one look and say, “Yep, lining’s still too thick and that will be $147 please”.
Dr.: Well . . .
ME: Seriously, do you really need money that badly?

Dr. VA: Of course not. It’s just that . . .
 ME: . . . and another thing! I had a great period the first time I took the pro*metrium. It didn’t work this time because of the steroid shot I had. Why do I suddenly now need more testing when we haven’t given this medication a fair shot at working?
Dr. VA: Well I . . .

 ME: . . . and what about the fact that I had hyperplasia several years ago and my gynecologist was able to resolve it with medication rather than expensive testing and surgery? Is she just smarter than you? Hmmmmm?
Dr. VA: (offended squawky noise)

 ME: . . . and if you think that the second time I lay eyes on you is going to be in an operating room, you have another think coming!
Dr. VA: I don’t think . . .
 ME: That does it! I’m switching RE’s! I’m going to find someone who actually LISTENS to their patients and isn’t completely money-hungry! DAMMIT!
Dr. VA: (calling for security)

See, just a tee-tiny bit upset.

Of course, I never actually said any of those things to my RE or anyone else but instead put on my big girl panties (which I had to untwist) and marched in this morning for my ultrasound.

And you know what? My lining is significantly improved.

Last time it was 1.6mm in one spot and 2mm in another. Today it was .98mm.

I have absolutely no idea how that happened.

I’m still not where they want me to be but I’m making progress and I’m happy with that. I start another round of pro*metrium tonight. No SIS needed at this point.

So I guess that maybe, just maybe the doctor does, on occasion know best and that sometimes your unbelievably uncooperative body can actually surprise you. Not quite the birthday surprise I was expecting, but I’ll take it.