And a comma.

In another ironic twist, I've been prescribed Provera to bring on my period. Silly, naif that I am, I had always assumed that the lack of a period in the baby-making process was a good thing. In this case, not so, not so. So I await my period. No "spontaneous" pregnancy for me. (How she did laugh when she realized that a "spontaneous" pregnancy in my case means one achieved without a doctor, an embryologist, a nurse and a catheter.) Even more hilarity ensued when I realized that, if all goes according to plan, my 2ww will fall during Christmas. (Or given my last marathon stim session, I'll be transferring during Midnight mass.) Fa la la la la la.

I'm ready to get this show on the road. In the last year, I've had two fresh cycles and one frozen. I never, never, in my wildest dreams expected to be getting ready to go forward with #3 (or #4 depending on how you look at it.) Other than my age, there are no significant issues that should preclude this from working. I don't get it. But slowly, I'm beginning to realize that I'm not supposed to get it or control it or force it into being, I just can do everything I can and accept the outcome. I'm working on it.

The last couple of weeks have very much driven home how little control we have. This economy is throwing many lives into disarray. Those who were secure in their livelihoods a year ago are now dangling in uncertainty. It's affecting our family and our friends. Ourselves. It's tough to get upset about losing money in the stock market when others have lost their jobs. Selfishly, it's a good lesson for a girl who many times in the last year has thrown up her hands and said "why me. Why pick on me??"

So, enough for this disjointed post. I blame it on the hormones. (Personal responsibility only goes so far!)

End of Sentence.

The first day of my last period was September 21, 2008. Sunday. Today is October 27, 2008. I have had no period since September 21, 2008, which was one week after my last failed IVF. That's 37 days. I'm not pregnant because the peestick I christened on Friday says, most emphatically, I'm not pregnant. I have been instructed to take my last birth control pill on November 18 in preparation for my third and final IVF. One can't begin taking birth control pills until one's period arrives. I have felt crampy and headachey and blah-y for the last two weeks. No period. I wore white pants after labor day yesterday. No period. Seriously, what the hell?

Possible Reasons:

1. My body is on strike. Holding out for more favorable treatment and higher pay. No negotiations. No crossing the picket lines. I start eating my vegetables, exercising regularly and getting regular spa treatments, body returns to work. Normal bodily functions ensue. Body to Melanie: You're not the boss of me, scab. Melanie to Body: Uh, no shit.

2. Body and Mind are in collusion. Mind tells Body that shots are right around the corner. Mind reminds Body of physical effects of shots. Body points out that Body only recently healed from last round of punctures. Body reminds Mind how crazy Mind gets when shots ensue. Mind grows angry. Body follows suit. Body and Mind become co-conspirators. Melanie screwed.

3. The mighty infertility forces ("MIF") realize that lack of a period was never a factor Melanie factored in. With unbridled glee, the MIF punish her for making plans in advance and otherwise attempting to assert control over the MIF. Once sufficient angst and wringing of hands has occurred, MIF will allow the red surge. Cue evil laughter.

4. See previous post. Bitch slap from fate.

Tomorrow I visit the RE. More then.

On Hiatus and then a question mark.

And now I'm back. Last week, I was at a conference in Austin, TX. The kind of conference where the lack of natural sunlight transforms you into a subterranean burrowing mammal with small covered eyes. And it was with a bunch of lawyers. I hate lawyers. Monday of this week more than made up for it. I played in a golf tournament at Valhalla in Louisville, where the Ryder Cup was held this year. It was spectacularly beautiful. Even the errant shots and occasional whiffs (okay and scattered F-bombs) didn't take away from the beauty of the day. Not to mention the guilty pleasure of playing golf on a Monday. And drinking a beer at noon.

I will be starting another cycle in November. That is, I will be starting another cycle if I ever get my period. No, no, I'm not pregnant. But I am 7 days late. I've never been 7 days late. I've been a consistent 29-30 day cycle-er for many a moon now, but for some reason, I'm 7 days late. I can't start taking BCP if I don't get a period. Strangely, I was never late after any of my IVF cycles either. I can't attribute it to stress or travel or weight gain/loss, so I guess I'm flummoxed. Or, I'm going through menopause. And wouldn't that just be the final bitch slap from fate? (I should just link back to my gazillion posts on how infertility always, always throws you a curve ball.)

Any thoughts?

High School Reunion

Infertility gets old. One year into "active" infertility, which I define as seeking pregnancy with the assistance of at least three medical personnel at any one time and culminating in the insertion of a catheter, I find that I'm tired, oh so tired, of the subject of infertility. E2 levels and linings and number of follicles. The hope, the plunging defeat. And God love all of you who are just starting out, but I'm tired too of the "I just know the first one will work"optimism of the newly actives. The excitement and fear when the first huge box of meds arrives. The sense of accomplishment with the first successful shot. Give me a puppy to kick.

Infertility drives home the adage that too much of anything is never a good thing. I remember vividly, painfully my first love. I was 16, he was 18. He was the kind of boy your mother warned you about and the warning was delicious. He was often at arms length, sometimes tantalizingly close, but never mine. I was painfully, hopelessly smitten and he broke my heart. It took me years to get over him. Years to realize that the challenge, the "just this much out of my grasp" was the real appeal, not the boy. At that age, I didn't, couldn't, fully see the damage I was doing to myself in my relentless focus on something I couldn't control. We know, don't we, that the only thing you really lose is yourself.

Infertility is a lot like my first love. A lot, but not quite.

Unlike with my first love, my goal here isn't simply to win the challenge, cross the finish line, collect $200, ha, I showed you, fate! (Although yes, it does piss me off that I can't accomplish something I've worked so hard for, but that's another post.) The similarity is what happens when you lose yourself.

Infertility. Heartbreak. Desire. You set your sights on something and you work like hell to reach the outcome. Sometimes the desired result is firmly outside of your grasp, other times it's a whisper of a maybe; you can feel the possibility in you. Then it's gone. Leaving the inevitable "why can't it be me" or "what did I do wrong?" For some of us, the weeks turn into months and the months turn into a year and you find yourself sorting through the cupboard of your heart wondering what's missing. What part of you have you neglected in your pursuit of something over which you have absolutely no control?

I can offer no poignant or even insightful conclusions here. Just a dawning certitude that I've been neglectful of me. My unyielding focus on an outcome has crowded out some of the Melanieness that I need to feel whole. And balanced. And, well, sane. Ok, and not a bitch.

And by the way, I saw my first love again several years ago.

He was so not worthy of me.