Venus of Willendorf, who I pray to every night. Just kidding!Oh, I almost forgot to regale you all with my medical odyssey! I know, I know…you’ve been chomping at the bit, staring wide-eyed at your monitor fretting about my next update. Or you’ve been living your life and I this blog has not come into your consciousness for weeks. You know, either/or.
Again, and I feel like I need to reiterate this because I feel like a bit of a schmuck talking about my tubes, but I’m discussing this due to scar tissue left behind due to my Crohn’s. Oh, and the fact that I love to air all my dirty laundry. (In truth, I actually do not spill every detail and possess a tad bit of decorum – there’s no point in embarrassing me or Matt any further, and the poor lad puts up with enough.)
So here we go: I will be going on Clomid for three months. If that doesn’t work, I am turned over to a fertility specialist and they bring out the big guns (read: artificial insemination, IVF, ugh). Clomid is the first go-to for women dealing with possible infertility. It’s cheap, non-invasive, and has few side effects (deteriorates your uterine lining, can make cervical mucus a hostile environment for sperm, or you can form cysts, but hey, who’s counting?!). Clomid stimulates ovulation and will regulate my longer-than-long cycle. Women I know who were on Clomid said it made them extremely emotional, which I’m intrigued with, considering I already cry 4.5 times a week (I have not told Matt about this possible side effect as I think he’d be scared).
You take Clomid – which is in pill form – days five through nine of your cycle, then have sexy time days 10 through 18 (every other day). And when I say “sexy time” I mean, “Matt, get up here NOW! This is gonna be all wham bam thank you ma’am, and don’t try any funny stuff.” (There is nothing sexy about anxiously trying to procreate, peeing on sticks every day, and monitoring your ovulation. It’s very calculated and I just want to go to bed.)
Look, you gotta say it like it is. I don’t mince words, and “miracle of life” has been replaced with cold, hard science. People say, “Make it romantic. You’re creating a new life.” Well, been there, done that – eight months ago. Now, excuse me, I have to go urinate on a stick.
Again, and I feel like I need to reiterate this because I feel like a bit of a schmuck talking about my tubes, but I’m discussing this due to scar tissue left behind due to my Crohn’s. Oh, and the fact that I love to air all my dirty laundry. (In truth, I actually do not spill every detail and possess a tad bit of decorum – there’s no point in embarrassing me or Matt any further, and the poor lad puts up with enough.)
So here we go: I will be going on Clomid for three months. If that doesn’t work, I am turned over to a fertility specialist and they bring out the big guns (read: artificial insemination, IVF, ugh). Clomid is the first go-to for women dealing with possible infertility. It’s cheap, non-invasive, and has few side effects (deteriorates your uterine lining, can make cervical mucus a hostile environment for sperm, or you can form cysts, but hey, who’s counting?!). Clomid stimulates ovulation and will regulate my longer-than-long cycle. Women I know who were on Clomid said it made them extremely emotional, which I’m intrigued with, considering I already cry 4.5 times a week (I have not told Matt about this possible side effect as I think he’d be scared).
You take Clomid – which is in pill form – days five through nine of your cycle, then have sexy time days 10 through 18 (every other day). And when I say “sexy time” I mean, “Matt, get up here NOW! This is gonna be all wham bam thank you ma’am, and don’t try any funny stuff.” (There is nothing sexy about anxiously trying to procreate, peeing on sticks every day, and monitoring your ovulation. It’s very calculated and I just want to go to bed.)
Look, you gotta say it like it is. I don’t mince words, and “miracle of life” has been replaced with cold, hard science. People say, “Make it romantic. You’re creating a new life.” Well, been there, done that – eight months ago. Now, excuse me, I have to go urinate on a stick.
PS: So no one feels sorry for Matt and thinks I embarrass the lad, please know that before publishing this (okay, right after) I asked Matt to read this to see if it would be okay to post. His response? "Nah, I'm not embarrassed. But you misspelled schmuck: it's "schmuck" and not "smuck"."
When I saw that creepy statue thing, I immediately thought of that Brady Bunch episode where they were in Hawaii and they had that weird Tiki thing that was supposedly bad luck or whatever. Weird. Don't name any of your children after Brady Bunch characters, unless its Kitty Carioll the doll that Cindy had.
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