Stop stepping on my toes and let me lead.

I'm going to put Schraft's, A Walgreens Speciality Pharmacy, on speed dial. More Lupron, please. Yes, just use the credit card you have on file. Another Sharps container? Well, yes, I guess I'm going to need that. How many syringes? How many have you got? Oh, an additional 10 will be fine. Do I need anything else? Sister, you have no idea.

The biggest complaint I have about infertility, other than the obvious, is the lack of control. I have no idea how this is going to end up. No idea. And while I wait until ultimately it becomes known to us what the outcome will be, I put a sizable portion of my life on hold. It wasn't clear to me how much until today. A few weeks ago, I thought today was the day I would have my FET. Sure, I recognized that it could change by a couple of days, but I marked it out on my calendar. Told my boss and clients that I was having a "procedure" and planned for a couple of days of emails, Little Debbies, the food network and, dear God, please George Clooney on HBO. Except, it wasn't to be. No "procedure." I'm healed! Hallelujah.

There's no guarantee, I now see, that February will be the magic month. Or April or June or 2008. Can we plan a week get away in May? Dunno. Any number of things could be happening. Cycling. In between cycling. Knocked up, in which case I don't think I'll be going to the beach, thank you very much. New York next week? Sure, let me get my doctor's note so I don't get thrown in the pokey for carrying needles of mass destruction on the plane.


Let me be honest. I've grown accustomed to having some measure of control over my life. I've worked very hard to get where I am. I've stumbled and fallen but also soared. I've had heartbreak that suffocated my soul and crushing, senseless, overwhelming joy. And I've learned from it all. I'm self sufficient. If E were to leave me for a nubile young thing and assuming the authorities never found his stinking decaying corpse and the dagger with my fingerprints impaled through his heart, I could financially and emotionally take care of myself (after much counseling of course)...and a child.

I simply don't have control over this process. I would love to think that something, anything I do will change things, speed things up, affect the outcome. Inhale essence of seaweed? You got it. Sip extract of rhinoceros sweat? Gladly. Insert dung beetle suppository? Ah, let me see the research first. I just don't get to lead this dance.

And if, as an English playwright said, "Grace comes often clad in the dusky robe of desolation." I'm not there yet either.

For another exciting episode...tune in next month.

It was the damn pregnancy tests. I knew I should have just left them on the shelf for the nervous, twitching 18 year old lingering back on aisle 12 in Target. It was a sign. But no, I had to brazenly lean down to the ladyparts section of the "feminine" aisle and pluck up the last box of EPTs with impunity. I'm an adult, I rationalized. I pay taxes. I want to get pregnant. I can buy pregnancy tests because I am a tax paying, pregnancy wanting adult and must be prepared when I need to test after my lining plumps up like a Chia Pet and my blastopops are transferred into the promised land.


It was the wrong move. I tempted fate. I counted my non-hatched chickens. I got cocky. I got cancelled.


My uterus eeked out a miserly lining of 6.2. Traitorous bitch.


I was given the choice if I wanted to go forward, but my RE advised against it. Why not instead try a greater dosage of estrogen and get it up where it needs to be next month? I've only got two on ice, so she wants to get it as close to perfect as possible. Makes sense. This is going to work, she says.


I'm ok. Disappointed. But ok.

I think shopping will help. But not at Target.

What the?

My lining is only 5.9. I've got the trifold, but it's a waste with only five point nine. What the? In November, my lining was a cushy, fluffy 8.8. I've been instructed to show up Saturday morning for a meeting with the dildo cam to see if it's any better. If not, my troubles were for naught this month and we'll have to give it another shot next month. (Bad pun...so not funny).

5.9. Pitiful.

The dog ate my homework.

At the risk of jinxing any credit I've got built up with the Gods of Fertility, I must be frank: I'm not sure I'm buying this acupuncture stuff. My Monday visit, well, I didn't like it. It started off ok. Relaxing on the heated massage table. Fluffy robe. Soft lights. Pleasant conversation. (Sounds like a great first date.) First needle...between the big toe and innocent second toe. That thin, webby expanse of tender skin...pierced by a lance. @#$%^!, how is it possible a needle the circumference of an eyelash can hurt so damn much? My hsg trigger shot was like the Easter bunny compared to this. And it kept getting worse. The needle to the abdomen drew blood. Drew blood! I have a sharps container full of syringes pierced directly to my abdomen with nary a drop of blood and this. This! I had needles between my toes, in my ears, the top of my head and my abdomen. I felt like a cat suspended over tub of water. With a hair dryer.

And, well, I'm nervous. Tomorrow is my lining check. I've been on Lupron, estrogen pills and an estrogen patch for two weeks and tomorrow is my first visit with my RE. I need to make a real confession. I have not been a model infertile. I've been sloppy with my instructions. Detail-oriented? Not really. Disciplined? Ahh, no. I would not hire me.

• I did not increase my estrogen as instructed on cycle day 6, but waited until CD 7. It was not my fault. The instructions were unclear.
• I believe I was to have stopped my Lupron today. I can't be held responsible though because the coffee stain on my instructions blurred the wording.
• Yes, I am drinking coffee.
• I did not decrease my estrogen as instructed today because...the dog ate my instructions.
• My estrogen patch was changed more frequently than instructed because the salt water kind of corroded it.
• There were times when I did not give myself the Lupron shot within an hour of the time I took it the day before. Again, not my fault, there was a time change coming back from the beach.

Accountable? Me? I guess not.

I'm fearful that tomorrow at my appointment or promptly thereafter, I will be fired. Or held back a grade.

I believe I need a drink.

And a smoke.

Behind the gym.

Peel me a grape, I'm infertile

I went to Target yesterday. With a big list. Toothpaste, contact solution, toilette papier, lightbulbs, Advil...pregnancy tests. No need, of course, for pregnancy tests right now but I will need them in a couple of weeks after my FET. I'm going to learn about the yes or no right here at my home turf, thank you very much. I'm doing this as much for my fellow infertiles at the clinic as for me. It wasn't pretty last November.

Checkout at Target. Toothpaste. Scanned. Contact Solution. Scanned. Pregnancy tests. Scanner: "Oh, honey are you pregnant?"
Me: blink. "No."
Scanner: "Oh, are you buying this for a friend?"
Me. blink, blink. "No."
Silence. Standoff. Resume scanning.

What a dumb thing to ask a perfect stranger. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. It was wildly insensitive and hugely inappropriate. I immediately mounted my moral high horse. I would never be so insensitive and callous and .... Except, I have been. Recently. Not too long ago, a co-worker was showing me pictures of her two year old. She was proud that she got her daughter to sit down and allow a picture to be taken of her in her birthday finery. And I said, "I love her little birthday mullet." I really said that. Instead of gushing about how cute she looked, I focused in on a two year old's hair. Silence. It was an insensitive, thoughtless thing to say and I meant absolutely nothing by it. I just said the wrong thing.

And it got me thinking. Am I beginning to define myself by my infertility? Lately, I'm far more likely to focus on the insensitive things others have said in passing than the many gifts of friendship I've received. I turn rabid every time I hear "When you have children..." or "you'll know when you have children." Yet, 9/10 times the people saying these things have no idea about my situation. And the remaining 1/10 isn't just trying to stick it to the infertile. Though I have confided in very few people, by damn, I expect everyone to be sensitive enough to, well, consider every single life event I could possibly be going through and simply stop saying stupid things. I'm a tender flower, you know.

What it really boils down to is that feeling sorry for myself is becoming too much of a commitment. I'm spending inordinate amounts of time and energy walking on eggshells around me. Lordy, I'm no fun to be around anymore.

Bring me the smelling salts.

Damned if you do.

I hate to say this. I really do. It pains me to put this out there. I'm gonna say it anyway.

This is too easy.

I know, I know. I know. But, I don't feel like I'm doing anything. Two pills in the morning. Estrogen patch. One tiny little Lupron shot a day. Repeat. With the fresh IVF, it was: shot in the morning, shot at night, estrogen patch, estrogen pills, monitoring every couple of days, please, please let me have some decent follicles, blood work, introduce third shot, progesterone, antibiotics, more progesterone, no exercise, more bloodwork, please let those little eggs divide and conquer, one final big shot in the ass.

I haven't even gone for my first ultrasound yet. I feel...fine. Normal. Dear God, I have no complaints. This is no way to live.

It's just there was so much activity for my IVF in November. I had responsibilities. I had things to do and get right. I had milestones. As agonizing as it was to have to wait to see if my follicles were developing or if I was overstimulating or understimulating, I was involved in the process. I was cheering them on. Go, follicles, go! I blushed with pride the bigger they got. And, ok, it didn't work out.

Which, I guess, gets me back to here.

You're damned if you do and damned if you don't with infertility. You have no control over the outcome. I can do everything right, at the right time, with the right attitude and yet have no control over the outcome. Infuriating. I can choose what I eat for dinner and if I drink too much red wine. I can choose not to buy those really expensive shoes that will match exactly one outfit I own (bought 'em). But I can't choose when or if to have a baby. And that really pisses me off.

A lighter shade of pale.

Ah, the halcyon days of your first IVF. Carefully, gently, patiently spreading your drugs on the counter atop a clean towel. Bottle of rubbing alcohol and cottonballs close by...the alcohol swabs provided by the pharmacy just seem so insignificant. Mixing your drugs with the care and delicacy of a chemist. Preparing the syringe, just so. Gentle wipes of the alcohol swabs to the needle, the vial and of course, the exact area where the shot will be administered, which will never occur one minute before or after the exact same time it was administered the day before. Wait too long to administer the shot--more than 5 seconds--must reswab the skin area. (those nasty germs will swarm to the precise postage size area of your belly within seconds, you know.) Discard used syringe in the Sharps container. Heh, heh, I'll never fill this thing up. Replace meds in their proper place. Mission. Accomplished.

Round two.

Meds still in the box. No clean hand towels. Lupron, 10 ml? Please. Challenge me, will you. Syringe out of the plastic, inserted into vial, filled to the correct amount or thereabouts and removed from vial...under five seconds. Alcohol swabs? Superfluous. It's all sterile anyway. Grab a scrunched inch of belly flab, insert needle. Done. Repeat sometime around sort of close to the same time tomorrow, give or take. Dispose of syringe in Sharps container...later. Leftover syringes have kind of an edgy, out there look. Bathroom Heroin chic.

The bloom's off the rose, people.

During my rose colored spectacles days, the shot giving process was almost sacred. I wanted to be home. I wanted to mix my menipur in my bathroom. With the towel. And the alcohol swabs. And then I would waltz down the stairs, Scarlett O'hara-esque, minus the green velvet curtain dress, "darling, I have it all under control." E and I left a party early honoring him, him, during IVF #1 because I had to give myself a shot. At home.

How the worm turns.

We got back from vacation last Saturday and found the car battery dead in the parking lot of the airport. It was time, ok past time, for my shot. Did she go back to the airport, find a bathroom, close herself off in a stall, mix the meds and administer the shot? Uh, no. She shot up in the front seat of said dead car, whilst on the phone speaking to AAA and in clear view of airport security. E's protestations were met with "It's your fault we don't have jumper cables. Besides, I've got a damn doctor's note."

So, yes, this is very different than November's attempt. The bloom is off the rose. I hope that it works, but I'm not picking out bumper pads from Pottery Barn Kids. Please don't get me wrong. I'm not pessimistic or fatalistic. I assure you, I wouldn't drop the equivalent of 1/2 dozen really, really nice pairs of shoes without a fervent belief that it could work out. I just can't walk through this with the same rose colored spectacles, beautiful that they were.

This time, I'm going for a lighter shade of pale.