Thank you, 2011

What a difference a year makes.

Last Christmas we were nursing our failed IVF wounds, and this year we celebrated with our one-month-old daughter.  That is some crazy stuff right there.

The more I speak about infertility (and I do because I'll never understand how the whole thing got so taboo, and I'm not one to hold back if you've noticed) more and more couples come out of the woodwork saying they did/are having trouble themselves.  How the heck did this biological imperative become so damn hard?!

Matt and I decided we won't shy away from telling Annie how she came to be: we want her to know how very badly we wanted her to be here and how modern medicine played such a substantial role in her existence.  I want her to know about the long drives to the clinic, the crazy scenarios we found ourselves in (me constantly in  the stirrups, Matt having to, uh, give numerous samples in the clinic's multiple "male specimen rooms" complete with ample porn selections), and how we waited for the embryologist calls after the IVF extraction telling us how our little blastocysts were growing.  On our first IVF attempt nothing divided past the two-cell stage, but Annie's cycle resulted in many beautiful eight-celled little buggers.  In a way, this is her first baby picture:

I often wonder if the right or left blastocyst came to be our daughter.  The whole thing is mind-boggling.

It's not lost on me how very fortunate I am.  In terms of infertility our stint was not exceptionally long: we tried to conceive for a year and nine months before hitting the fertility jackpot with our positive pregnancy test.  We started right outta the gate from my April 2009 surgery (literally - I remember asking my surgeon - and I swear this on all that is holy - "Can my surgery incision, like, bust open with a growing baby stomach?").  I am obviously not cut out for a career in medicine.

After a solid six months of TTC ("trying to conceive" for the fertile bunnies out there) we went to our ob/gyn who performed a few tests and put us on Clomid to regulate my cycle.  After a solid year of TTC we met with our reproductive endocrinologist.  And then after two monitoring cycles (one sans meds and one with), four medicated IUI (intrauterine insemination) rounds, and two IVF rounds I had a bun in the oven and about 10 fertilized cells in the freezer.  It sounds so easy when I put it like that, but I will never forget the tears that cling to this process.

I recently saw this PHOTO ESSAY ON INFERTILITY on Slate, and I cried like a baby paging through the author's account of her journey.  The slide with medications piled high on her kitchen table?  I still have a stockpile in my closet and just recently threw out the refrigerated stuff during my eighth month of pregnancy. It's hard letting go of thousands of dollars of meds - even if they're expired and I'm already pregnant.  The photo of her sticking herself in the car?  Check!  I distinctly remember sticking myself in the car in a dingy parking garage in Philly.  The place had cameras set-up all around and I remember thinking the footage probably looked like I was doing something pretty nefarious as I stabbed my stomach roll.  Everything about the essay rang true: the damn ultrasound wand (we knew one another in a very intimate way), the near daily blood draws and subsequent nurse phone calls going over all my levels and dictating next steps.  When you're going through infertility the game plan can change almost daily: the medication dosage is constantly tinkered with or now they need to see you tomorrow morning for monitoring when you, say, have a morning meeting.  (I can say a lot of things about my last job, but I'll leave it on a positive note and just say this: they gave me the utmost flexibility during my unending appointments, and for that I am grateful).

I'm not sure why I'm writing all of this.  Partially I'm just taking stock of how far Matt and I have come.  Partially it's in response to a few conversations I've had with other women TTC: this process is absolute drudgery and there is no time when it's more pronounced than during the holidays.

I want to wish everyone a very happy new year, and I hope anyone who may be reading this who is going through infertility will find solace in the possibilities a new year can bring: I know 2011 has flipped my world upside down in the best way possible.

Here we are today lounging on the couch; Matt took this photo to show off Annie's swanky new sock monkey pants her Aunt Priscilla knitted for her.  That kid is gonna be such the little hipster.

New Beginnings

I've wanted to write this post for quite a while, and I've thought about the tone in which I'd write it, or the language I'd use and all of those writer's flourishes that dance on so many of the blogs and pieces I adore. But now that pen is to paper (or, in my case, fingers to keyboard) no fabulous cheekiness is coming to me. No play on words or goofy sentiments, either. So, with that, I will say this, plainly but full of love, hope, and giddiness: I am pregnant (I have to say it again: I am pregnant!!!) and Matt and I couldn't be more happily terrified.

We have entered our second trimester and are due mid-November. We learned of the pregnancy the second week of March, with very little pomp and circumstance. I went for my blood test on a Friday morning (a week after I was laid off), and Matt planned to come home around 2 pm to take the results call with me. They always call after 2 pm, but that Friday the phone rang at 12:30 pm and the nurse said - I remember so clearly - "So, ya ever have a positive pregnancy test?".

We didn't celebrate that night, or the following few weeks. We tempered our expectations - my progesterone and estrogen levels were woefully low and I was being propped up on several supplements. But, my beta numbers (hCG - the pregnancy hormone) kept rising, and then we had an ultrasound and saw the yolk sac. Our next ultrasound we saw a smudge in the yolk sac. On our next ultrasound the smudge was now a shrimp, and was larger and had a heartbeat, and now, many weeks later, our smudge is a baby the size of a lemon who kicks, punches, and makes us hold our breath every time we see him or her on the ultrasound monitor.

As the weeks progressed, I felt more free to believe everything would be okay. I visited baby forums, read no less than 200 reviews of strollers on Babies R Us and Target.com and last week, as we entered our second trimester, Matt turned to me and said, "We have so much to do before the baby comes; we have to make a list!" There is always risk, and it is still early, but we've finally exhaled, and we have never been more happy.

Matt, being Matt, has named the baby "Cletus the Fetus". "How's Cletus today, K?!" Me, being me, usually snottily retorts with, "Well, our CHILD weighs an ounce, so it's not like I feel him wiggling around in there." Matt wants a boy, but only because he doesn't know what to do with a girl. He is scared of them and their pink and lace and temper tantrums. I have no gender expectations, but I do hope he or she has Matt's kindness, patience, joie de vivre, and perfect health, and what I'd like to think of as my strong sense of self and sardonic humor. I'd also like them to not inherent Matt's hairiness - well, that goes more so if the baby is a girl.

When it rains, it pours. I'm starting a new job in Philadelphia after Memorial Day (yes; it take a lot for that to be second-rate news!), and although nervous and a bit overwhelmed, I think I'm really kickin' ass these days. Of course, there are some hiccups: today my ob/gyn told me I really need to to control my rocketing weight (oops - I finally looked at the number on the scale after many appointments of eyes squeezed shut and, sadly, I have to admit, a few tears were shed), and then there's the whole thing of the world ending tomorrow on the 21st. Just when things were really starting to look up...

In my "real" life I am still keeping this news to close friends and family and there will be no Facebook announcement (now or later), but a few readers have reached out individually, and I'm so glad I can now share the news with everyone on the blog. I owe you a world of gratitude: however cheesy this sounds, your support and comments were rays of sunshine in my inbox, and I can only hope I can return the same happiness you have given me.

Greek Dip with a Dollop of Grief

There is not much more demoralizing than applying to jobs that cap out at half your current salary (and that isn't too high), and still not getting a call.  I know, I know - "Welcome to the recession, Kathryn!" I say in a droll voice.  It's a race to the bottom in terms of benefits and income, and still jarring to see 30K admin jobs in Philadelphia that require an advanced degree and 5-8 years experience.  It's things like this that make me just sit and stare at my computer screen, exhale, and cry.  And I'm technically not even unemployed.  How's that for such a pathetic sense of self-pity?  My last day is this week but we're still waiting for the axe.  We just want to know.  We want finality to it all.  We want to leave the building with purpose.

I had my IVF transfer yesterday and was told to rest.  When I feel tears coming on I take deep breaths, curse my soon-to-be-former CEO and eat jelly beans.  I'm like a badass seven-year-old.  On a good note, the transfer went fine as did this cycle.  And fine is just what I need right now.

We froze 10 fertilized eggs, and implanted two eight-celled critters in my uterus yesterday.  Saucy and sizzlin', I know!  It was the most fruitful sex I've ever had.  Sorry - I lack a sense of boundaries when it comes to my nether regions.  But in all seriousness: this may be the closest to being pregnant Matt and I may ever get. And that's a startling thought.

After a morning of whimpering over admin jobs I'm not qualified for, I'm determined to relax.  And by relax I mean eat a big bowl of chana masala, light my lavender candle, and watch some Whose Wedding Is It, Anyway?.  I also think I'll share a delightful little ditty of a recipe I made a few weeks back for our neighborhood get together.  I know, I know - I never even mentioned it!  It came and went and it was a lackluster week: I was sick, found out I'm losing my job and we just started our fertility meds for this cycle.  I had grand visions of kicking culinary ass at this thing and showing these neighbors what us Hopkins can whip up, but life got in the way and I made due with a big veggie tray and dip, some bought tomato pies, and this number: a layered Greek dip (stole shamelessly from Closet Cooking).  There was still too much food - everyone brings a dish so I don't know what the heck I was worried about anyway.  I always make too much food; it's just my way.  Anyway, who doesn't like leftovers?

So here is a super simple Greek dip comprised of hummus, tzatziki, and diced cucumbers, tomatoes, feta and kalamata olives.  I want everyone to notice my artful arrangement, because, really, it's all I got at this point.  Since I piled high all the fixins', you can't really see the hummus, but it's there and makes the basis of the dip.  In the middle is a good cup of tzatziki, and then I sprinkled the rest like a feign.  It made a great presentation, and an excellent alternative to a staid ol' layered taco dip - you know what I'm sayin'?

Layered Greek Dip

courtesy of Closet Cooking

(Note: I did my own "non-recipe" recipes for the hummus and tzatziki but you can find links to both here.)

• 1 1/2 cups hummus
• 1 cup tzatziki
• 1 cup tomato (diced and mixed with 1 tablesoon lemon juice and 1/2 teaspoon oregano)
• 1/2 cup cucumber (cut into small pieces)
• 1/4 cup red onions (diced)
• 1/4 cup feta (crumbled)
• 1/4 cup kalamata olives (pitted and coarsely chopped)
• 1 handful mint (chopped)
• 4 whole wheat pitas (cut into triangles and toasted until just crispy)

Directions:
1. Assemble dip starting with the hummus and stacking each ingredient on top of the last.

Winter's Thaw

A friend told me that after the hard times, good will come again. And the worse the times, the better the outcome. So I cling to this – how could I not wrap myself in this sentiment? – and I look ahead. Left foot in front of the right, Monday into Tuesday, 2010 into 2011.

And I know I don’t live a hard life, and my hardships are just pin pricks to those who do suffer, but I find myself, maybe once a week, saying: “Are you kidding me?!” Each setback is a minor defeat, but as a whole body of work, it starts to eat at you. And by this I mean: I am tired.

Matt and I learned that our failed IVF cycle very well may not have been my lousy eggs' fault, but the fault of a cleaner that was used on the floor around the lab the same weekend I had my extraction. Three other women experienced the same thing: eggs that divided and, then, stopped - plum tired and puckered out. Who else does this happen to?

Relief is now anger. I had worked so hard these last few weeks to start the process of, well, maybe just moving on. It's easier said than done going into IVF with no or little expectations: right now I feel detached but by my second monitoring appointment I route for each egg, and get giddy when the number of them climbs to 4, 8, 12. My calls to Matt while leaving the appointment, my drives over the Betsy Ross Bridge. My mom's lucky socks, given to me at Thanksgiving, that she wore during both of her easy labors. I wore them to my last appointments, to my extraction, and had them on while we drove to our transfer appointment that was canceled. And now they are washed and ready to go again.

But when Matt and I were at the circus I saw a lesbian couple with two beautiful, adopted African-American daughters, their hair in braids and pink cotton candy sticky in their hands. And it was at that moment, coupled with so many others, I knew I would be able to let go and define family on our own terms.

And I knew whatever the outcome, through tears and shots and my mom's ugly taupe knee-highs, it'll all be all right (even if I have a good cry getting there).

Looking To 2011

I’m loving the quietness of work this week. Most of my team is out, I have my music on, and occasionally work friends pop their head into my area for a refreshing holiday tete-a-tete. We whisper because it’s so quiet.

The holidays were festive and fanciful, but I felt not all there. This sense of sadness and loss (over one measly failed IVF cycle – I know) has left me shaken. One down, one to go. On the verge of tears is my perpetual state and I cannot say enough about Matt. Poor Matt, who is going through this too, and who holds me at night and lets me have my “And you know who I saw on Facebook who is pregnant now too?!” moments, has taken this – all of it – in stride. We are perfectly matched because I am brash and high-strung and can tumble from happiness to tears in .2 seconds and he is, simply, the most even-keeled, pleasant, and optimistic person I know. Nary in a bad mood, his goodness (to me, to others) doesn’t surprise me anymore. He says I color his life…and I suppose that is one way to put it. How very fortunate I am.

So it’s interesting to see this happy-go-lucky guy upset too. When we found out this cycle wasn’t going to work I cried and cried and later exclaimed, “Aren’t you going to cry too? Aren’t you upset?!!” and he informed he did cry – I guess I was too weepy to notice. He still says everything is going to work out, and still talks about us having children, but now adoption references sprinkle these conversations more and more. I say I’m scared because that process if far from easy, and so long, and expensive, and what if we aren’t chosen, and what if it always falls through for us, and …and…and. With resoluteness he holds my hand and says it will happen, and he makes me believe it.

They say this process and all its ugliness (the emotions, the money, the stress, the hormones) deepens the cracks in any marriage, but I have not experienced that. With Crohn’s, I feel wholly alone. Yes, he chides me when I eat something on the “no” list, or asks if I took my medication, but the pains that make me question if I’m leaving this blissful period of “remission” are only felt by me. Heck, it’s nice not to be alone in your misery. We both want children so badly so there is nothing but tenderness when anything baby is mentioned. (And the occasional groan as he submits eyebrow-raising baby names, from the likes of “Willard” to “Samson” – I kid you not. He has since lost his naming rights.)

It’s with this mishmash of emotions I look forward to 2011. I know we have it good (or at least that's what I tell myself every day to ward off the tears), but I’m hoping for resolution. And for greatness.

And The Beat Goes On

"The English language lacks the words to mourn an absence. For the loss of a parent, grandparent, spouse, child, or friend, we have all manner of words and phrases, some helpful, some not. Still, we are conditioned to say something, even if it is only "I am sorry for your loss." But for an absence, for someone who was never there at all, we are wordless to capture that particular emptiness. For those who deeply want children and are denied them, those missing babies hover like silent, ephemeral shadows over their lives. Who can describe the feeling of a tiny hand that is never held?"
~Laura Bush


I don’t want to be schmaltzy or melodramatic – and I never thought I’d have a Bush quotation on this blog! – but I thought Laura Bush’s comments in her recent memoir summed up – so accurately – how I feel. And I cry every time I read it.

Matt and I had such high hopes for our IVF cycle. I tried to temper my enthusiasm but didn’t sleep Thursday into Friday – the day of our egg retrieval – and was giddy on the drive to New Jersey. During my ultrasound before the procedure they saw 22 eggs – 14 of them ended up being viable and I jokingly said they better be “big and juicy” and the ultrasound tech and I laughed. Everyone I came into contact (oh, those poor nurses, the embryologist, the two anaesthesiologists) heard me chirping way about how this was my first time, and I had lots of eggs, and everything looks good, right?! And then there I was in the procedure room, in stir-ups, oxygen in my nose, an IV in my hand, and the doctor walks in and says, “I’m concerned about your estrogen levels; they are at 900 and they should be around 1500,” and then I was asleep.

I love anesthesia. Perhaps that’s an odd thing to say, but I love the peace of it. I’m never nauseous or groggy afterwards - just rested. I always try to pinpoint exactly when I go under – on Friday I said with verve, “I can still hear you!” and they responded “Not for long!” and that was the last thing I remembered. I woke up and they were helping me into a wheelchair, and then into the recovery bed, telling me they extracted 14 eggs and I was happy - even with low estrogen (which affects fertilization) I thought some of those had to fertilize and heck, let’s go get some lunch, which we did.

On Saturday they called to tell me eight of the eggs had successfully fertilized and they were freezing four. On Sunday they called and of the four remaining, three were still viable at the two-cell stage. It was then I started getting nervous: why haven’t they divided any further? But our ET was scheduled at 9:30 the following morning, and we left at 7:30 to beat the traffic through the city and I joked about how I was going to run Matt ragged while I was on bed rest and how – if this all worked – we wouldn’t tell our child they came from a stork, but a petri dish (we find this endlessly funny), and with that we crossed the Betsy Ross Bridge into Jersey.

I received a call when were five minutes away: our eggs have not split since yesterday, and they were still only two cells, and they were not likely to ever split again. Our transfer was canceled. On the phone with the embryologist I was almost chipper – or at least pleasant. I motioned for Matt to turn the car around, hung up, and then cried. I’m not going to say I have it awful, because I don’t. I’m not going to say how horrible my situation is, because I know it isn’t. But I will say I sobbed – big, loud snot-filled sobs full of anger and frustration and worry, and didn’t stop until we were ten minutes from home. At first we said we’d go to work to take our mind off it, but as I started crying – staring in my closet at work ensembles –we decided we’d spend the day at home, exchange our Christmas presents, and just be.

And we didn’t lay in bed and wallow: we went out to lunch, mocked Oprah during her “Favorite Things” episode (we were particularly aghast one of her favorite things was a $120 can of popcorn and then $200 leggings – really?!), and made dinner. Work today has been harder: I could not smile or make chitchat through a holiday lunch. My head is heavy and I am exhausted. With one cycle in the bucket, we know we only have one left. We don’t know what this all means: will this always happen? How common is this? Can we change the protocol to combat this? What happened to my estrogen levels on that last day? Statistically, how viable are those four frozen eggs because it costs a hell of a lot of money to thaw them? I have so many questions but our appointment isn’t until January 7th. We are going to take the next month off. We first wanted to plow through – to be done with this whole process by early spring – but I’m tired and defeated. This process is dehumanizing: every other day I’m at the office, in line for an ultrasound, in line for blood work, legs spread, arm extended. My menstrual cycle has dictated our last six months. Every other afternoon I wait for the call with my blood results and next steps. Every other morning I drive the hour to the office. Every night and morning I take my oral medications, my shots. Hell, I’m beat.

Matt keeps saying we have each other, and I know that is so true, but that doesn’t stop me from every day wanting so much more.

Here Goes

It’s been a whirlwind week of doctor visits and medications, phone calls and directions. Tomorrow I will be going in for our egg retrieval / beginning of fertilization process. We have 15 viable follicles, which is excellent – given my age I responded well to the medication. For once, my body totally kicked ass!

I’m honestly much more anxious for this than my re-sectioning surgery last spring. Once that decision was made, I was at peace. We have so many hopes and “what if’s” this time around coupled with finite chances. I’m trying to temper my optimism because what if I wake up tomorrow and I learn my eggs are duds? Or many of my follicle sacks were empty? Or things aren’t fertilizing well? It’s hard to make yourself have low expectations – frankly, I think it’s a bit futile because I was eyeing cribs at Target this week and dreaming up nursery layouts, all in a hazy baby bubble in aisle 14.

What will be, will be. I know we’ll make it through it, whatever the outcome. It’s actually nice to go through this during the holiday season: High spirits? Hope and joy? Sounds just about right.

Scrambled Eggs

Last Monday night, when I got the go-ahead to begin my new round of meds I loaded my pen like I was told, attached a syringe, and plunged the thing into my belly.  Just like an insulin pen, you determine how much medication you want to dose out, dial the pen to that number, and then push.  Like the dutiful student I did this, but nothing moved.  "This thing isn't working!" I hollered at Matt.  You need to turn it, he said. Starting over, I removed the syringe and inserted it again.  Still didn't budge.  Then again two more times sticking it into a different part of my stomach flesh.  I don't think you're suppose to constantly remove a syringe and then re-insert it, but hell, I was tired and frustrated and a little more dimpling on my abdomen wasn't going to hurt a thing.  Finally Matt grabbed the pen out of my hands, inserted it, and well, turned and pushed down.  "Like this, K," he said, irritated (which says a lot because this boy does not get irritated).  Oh.  Okay.

And so we have begun our IVF medications.  Because of my questionable mental capacity, Matt now gives me my shots every morning and night.  "Get up, get up, get up, it's shot time!" I say as I nudge his back, already on my feet and dressed. I think Matt finds this particularly annoying as I get up a good hour before his alarm crows but I tell him, "This is how you become involved in the process!"  "Umf," he says.  He then scurries downstairs to the refrigerator for the meds and hands me an alcohol wipe as he attaches a syringe.  His eyes are still closed for most of this.

Every ultrasound tech I have says some variation of the same thing: "I don't know how they're gonna get to that right ovary!"  Apparently, the thing is practically ensconced in bowel and I'm known as the "Crohn's girl" at the office.  Actually, it's more like this: they stick the ultrasound wand in and then say, "Ohhh...you're the Crohn's girl aren't you?" as they fumble around to find the things and then say I'm "gassy" for the fifth consecutive time.  I relayed this to the doctor who told me to relax, the ovaries drop when they are full with follicles and anyway, they can sort of move things around in there when I'm on the table.  If worse comes to worse, they can go through your abdomen for the retrieval (they usually go through the vaginal wall which I think is just as unsavory).

I have 12 eggs that are or will be a viable size and several more that are too small (but I am hoping they catch up between now and the egg retrieval).  That's a good number but, of course, I wanted to push the envelope and get closer to 20.  Of the eggs extracted there is no way to tell at this point which ones will be - for the lack of a better term - grade A and actually fertilize. 

I return tomorrow for monitoring (blood work and an ultrasound) to see how those suckers are growing, but right now my egg retrieval (ER) may very well be this Friday or Saturday. My embryo transfer (ET) could be anytime from 2 - 5 days later, with two days of bed rest following.  By then it will almost be Christmas, and I'm thankful for the hoopla and distraction.  And, frankly, I'm sick of this baby-making business!  (As I'm sure you are too!)  Here goes! 

Drop It Like It's Hot!

I don't go for artistic subtlety in my clip art.

Yesterday I got Matt to say we can have another dog if we can’t have a child. True – I was crying and I think he wanted me to shut-up before the Eagles game – but I’ll take what I can get. (And I don’t think I’ll want another dog, but I like to threaten him with it, as in, “All you do is code! All day and all night! Well, if you want to code all day long then I can adopt another dog!”) True, one thing has nothing to do with the other, but I don’t work like that.

Our last IUI result was negative, which of course was expected but I still secretly hope nonetheless. I protect myself by making jokes, brushing off the possibility of pregnancy, but every ting down below makes me stop. And hope. Usually I don’t change my habits after an IUI – if I want to lift a heavy bag I lift it. If I want to drag my bajunk-a-junk on a short jog, I do it. This time I didn’t do any motions that straining my mid-section but, alas, it didn’t work. The upside? At least Matt carried my laundry downstairs.

I’ve been doing well with everything until this week. This week it all hit me: the cost, all the injectables, and what I’m putting my body through. I learned that getting $1,000 worth of meds free was getting three days of meds for free. I need a 10 day supply. Things like that make you suck in your gut and never exhale.

I spent two hours on Wednesday on infertility forums looking for cheap meds sold by women who got pregnant, or who stopped trying. The price differential is staggering, but I didn’t feel comfortable buying who-knows-what and taking that risk. I’m sure that will change a couple months down the road and this becomes old hat. Although, of course, I hope it never does.

An inordinate amount of stress and pain in infertility derives from the cost of it. It’s with this in mind that I want to disclose the money factor – the crux of this insurmountable mountain – that has taken my breath away (oh, and I WISH in the good way!).

My infertility practice has “affordable” rates. The cost of full-stimulation IVF (sans meds and all the extras, and there can be a lot of extras) is $6,500. The practices down the street from me are $10,000. That is why I drive. Anesthesia is separate and comes to $550. The medications are anywhere from $3,000 to $4,000 per stimulation cycle (the cycle when they extract your follicles, or, eggs). So, one cycle of IVF, for me, is a cool 10K. That doesn’t include if they find out the sperm cannot penetrate the egg and they have to perform ICSI, which is the intracytoplasmic sperm injection of eggs, at a cost of about $1,100. If I am fortunate and have frozen fertilized eggs, each subsequent cycle with those eggs will be about $3,000 for the medical procedure. At the end of this year my insurance will no longer cover my myriad of monitoring ultrasounds and blood work, and I will have to buy a “package” of 16 services for $1,300. This will hopefully be stretched to last two cycles.

So, you can see, even oodles of money will only get you so far. We refuse to go into debt so we will spend what we have and then – it’s over. We then start saving for adoption. And I type that so easily: “we refuse to go into debt” but how tempting will it be – if it doesn’t work – to say, just one more cycle? One more try because this could be it? And that’s what terrifies me. The emotional tug and pull. I can only hope – if we are not successful – that I am so tired of the poking and prodding, the needles, the driving, that I am at peace with saying, “No more.”

We are not spendthrifts, but when I look at all of this I wonder why we didn’t further alter our spending habits this past year – how can you not? If we didn’t go on our two mini-vacays and I stopped buying that stupid aged Parmesan, and I didn’t go to the gym, and banned Target, could we have saved almost another $5,000? $10,000? Matt reminds me that’s no way to live, which is why we’re starting our budget after the holidays. So come January 1 if you see me buying those heirloom tomatoes or the organic coffee, or good god just heading into Target, give me a good strong slapping so I'll come to my senses. I'll thank you for it.

Going the Distance

Driving back to the office, the city ahead.

23W to 202N to 76E to 676E to 95N to 73E. That is my route to the fertility practice. Through a national park, into Philadelphia and then out, and then over the Betsy Ross Bridge to New Jersey. The ride is a solid hour on the weekends with no traffic and up to an hour and 45 minutes amidst the morning rush. And each month, in tandem with my treatments, I accelerate and break, accelerate and break until I am there.

I drive for a good doctor and above all, a good price. I am priced out of a fertility practice around the corner in Philadelphia’s tony Main Line area. Matt and I have been preparing for this: all our money – our meager nest egg, scrutinized by me again and again – will go toward IVF. And for this I know we are fortunate.

The practice I frequent is always busy, always moving new women and more women, but all with the same problem. At first I was overwhelmed because there is a protocol for everything: a blood line and times to meet the blood run. Ultrasound sheets. IVF and Non-IVF call-back sheets. Call-backs listing Estradol, Progesterone, LH and FSH. The endocrinologist, the techs, the billing department. All the injectables: HCG, Lupron, Braville and it goes on and on. The nurses’ names: Carol and Karen, Jackie and Jacelyn, Diane and Deandra. And then there is me: “Kathryn H.?” They call my name.

I spent the last six months getting to know the practice. I’ve had two months of monitoring, four IUI’s, and if my count is correct, I’ve made at least 30 blood runs. And in the fertility game, I’m a neophyte. A newbie. Six months is nothing and I haven’t been even had IVF. So many woman have moved from one practice to another, with disappointment after disappointment in tow, wants and yearnings that never cease. That is not for me. Fertility treatments become your morning, noon, and night – and I have a little, quaint life – a husband, a dog - I want to get back to.

And that’s what I told our doctor during our IVF consult yesterday. I want to be aggressive because I don’t know if I want to be here six months from now. We will be going all-in, and with my age, she hopes to harvest 15-20 eggs, and if we’re very lucky, maybe 12 of those will fertilize. Every IVF cycle requires four mature, fertilized eggs and they pick the best two to place in my uterus. And then the others are frozen and we wait. That is a good scenario. They may harvest only two, or perhaps no eggs will be viable, but it’s time to try.

Thank you for reading, and I look forward to sharing the journey.

IUI to IVF

I’m so happy to announce it here: Pink is pregnant. Yes, as in the singer. One more thing: damn her.

Matt and I have been talking about the jump to IVF, and have been wishy washy about whether to try a couple more rounds of IUI (artificial insemination) before we moved on. IUI is affordable. It’s easy – a few shots here and some pills there and wham bam thank you ma’am. He’s been hemming and hawing like a regular ol’ horse when it comes to IVF, but last night I opened an email from one of his family members about Thanksgiving, and it detailed five (five!) births with photos that occurred over the last year. It really was lovely, but we were watching It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and my laughs became sobs (and I think blubbery snorts, but frankly that’s a bit embarrassing).

We decided then and there that yes, it was time to bring out the big guns.

It’s little things like that, that get me: simply being around others' children, discovering a Facebook “friend” was pregnant (two minute cry) to sitting around a table with women who are talking about their children (and they all – all – have children). That warrants a couple more minutes on the woe-is-me-ometer. I even got mad at Celine Dion when she announced she was pregnant with twins. I know: I’m horrible. But I don’t hate any of these women – I’m just plain old envious. Women who say “it just happened” or “we weren’t even really trying” are a giant enigma to me: who is this breed of woman? What do they do that I don’t? How can I be like them?!?! I can only hope their fertility will rub off on me.

In December it will be 1 ½ years of trying. I don’t think I’ve ever tried so much or so long for anything: I mean, I’m an inherently lazy person. Recently I’ve found it hard to sit down and even watch a movie, so you would think this has been trying, and it has – but hasn’t. My doctor appointments are so routine to me. I also see the same two ultrasound techs and I love them as we gab and investigate what, exactly, is going on in there: we both giggled last week when she said it looks like I have a good egg reserve and I exclaimed, “Well; we gotta get those babies to HATCH!” This is all down as I’m naked waist-down and she has her, uh, instrument, in me. (I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have an ailment that didn’t require me to undress from the waist down. Doesn’t an allergist appointment sound pleasant? Or an ear, nose and throat doctor?)

One thing that does scare me is knowing that IVF may not work, and we have finite chances. Getting my monthly “negative” call after an IUI is one thing, but after you put all your eggs (HA! LITERALLY! God I kill myself sometimes.) in one basket – that must be the lowest low. I already thought-out a plan for Matt to execute if it is negative that I conveniently entitled, “Babies Are Stupid, Anyway.” It will involve Chinese take-out. Lindt chocolate, and some jewelry (I’ll leave the picking out for him, but lord knows I want it so bling-y and shiny that it blinds me from my sorrows). Just kidding. Well, mostly. You know me: I’ll probably just settle for the take-out.

The highest highs and the lowest lows

When you are on hormone supplements you have highs and lows.  Very high highs and very low lows.  Take this weekend, for example.  We went apple picking, country drivin', and I unilaterally decided we will have a fabulous mosaic tile backsplash (I didn't get around to the project specifics, but I spent a good 30 minutes in the bowels of Lowes so I think that's making good progress).

Then, last night, Matt brought home the wrong bread.  I was making roasted cauliflower soup and had asked for a French baguette.  He brought me a short, stout sour-dough loaf.  I was enraged.

My rage can take on many manifestations, but this particular variety was: cry, scream, plea (for a new loaf), and yell some more.  I'm not proud of these moments.  My face gets puffy and red. Mascara runs down my neck.  And I am at my worst.

Someone else I know going through fertility treatments described the very same thing: crying, screaming, and a terrified husband holding his breath for the next rampage.  My descent started with bread, went to "You have NO idea; why don't you just GO AND PLAY SOME GOLF and live your EASY life!" and went to, "F--- kids!  I just want a goddamn PACK OF DOGS!"  I really said this.

That's not to say Matt is all good and no bad.  Boys, on a whole, can say supremely insensitive things and not even realize it.  Yesterday Matt said he will make a "sacrifice" and be "okay" with one child.  It was a relatively innocuous statement, but I was at my brink, and I was incensed.  "Boy, at this point, you WILL be ELATED with ONE child!  And you say you're sacrificing?!?!  You get to sit at home as I drive to all these doctor appointments and spread my legs!  You are STILL IN BED when I've been on the road for an hour!  So I'm SOOOO sorry you are sacrificing!"  Again, I really said this. 

Matt then went outside with our dog, and I cut up my cauliflower for the soup, alone.  Twenty minutes later he peaked through the front door, and there I was, sitting on the couch thumbing through a catalogue.  It was almost as if this was a normal Tuesday.  We then enjoyed our soup, and yes, even the bread.

IUI Insanity

This morning, at my bi/tri/whatever weekly ultrasound/blood appointment I learned this month's round of IUI (intrauterine insemination, aka artificial insemination) failed.  Everything looked good on Friday and I was scheduled for Sunday morning.  Sunday is tricky: they perform IUI and IVF procedures but there is very limited staff present, so I was not given an ultrasound to ensure I ovulated.  We took it that I did, or was about to, because of my ultrasound and blood results from Friday.  Matt also gave me an HCG shot Friday night to induce ovulation.  This morning I went to the doctor to make sure all was well, and wouldn't you know it, my (now huge) follicle was still hanging out in my ovary.  It's now past maturity and not viable.  Matt and I can't run home and have sex in the hopes it drops today because my cervical mucus (yes - very sexy) is hostile due to a side-effect of my medication (the medication that grows that sucker of an egg).  So you're just left feeling hopeless.

I called Matt on the drive into work, crying.  I always cry in the car now: first of all, it kills two birds with one stone because I cry nearly everyday, and really, with television shows premiering these next few weeks, I don't want it to intercede with my trashy tv viewing.  Crying in the car is perfect because it also gives you a limit on your self-pity: you have to stop by the time you arrive at your destination.  And if you're going to work you can't get too blubbery because you're wearing mascara. 

I cried because I was sad and frustrated.  And that's the beautiful and tragic thing about infertility: each cycle is independent of the next, so you grow hopeful (again) and invariably are disappointed (again).  I cried about all the appointments, the money spent on the medication and the procedure, and I cried because, damnit, this positively, absolutely, 100% sucks.

But there's definitely some beautiful moments in all of this.  Matt and I are closer because we're going through the up's and down's together (although I wish he was probed half as much as I was).  We tack on a lunch or breakfast out with our weekend appointments.  We've retained our humor (hard to believe with my recent posts, I know).  And we know we'll be parents, somehow, someday.  Until then, we have no problem doting (just a little too much) on our dog, Penny.

Lazy September Days

I suppose when you’re out of options, you’re much more willing to leave your comfort zone. That’s how I found myself laying on the acupuncture table for the fifth time this summer. That’s right – I have an acupuncturist. And I really don’t know what’s become of me.

Infertility has thrown me for a loop. I haven’t written about it for lack of news, but because it’s just sad and in my haze of self-pity I couldn’t muster the strength to be witty. I wish I could be stoic in my grief, but I am not, and I hoot and a holler any chance I get. This does not make me a fun house, dinner, or anything mate. Matt and I did IUI (inter-uterine insemination, or commonly known as artificial insemination) for the past two months (to no avail as of yet). We will try again (and then move to IVF) but my last "I'm so sorry; you aren't pregnant" call was a surprise: not because of the news, but because sitting at my desk at work I put down the phone and just…cried. And I can’t fully articulate that feeling of emptiness, and I was expecting it to be negative at this point, but with all this effort – the meds, the monitoring, hell, even the acupuncture—I suppose I was holding out more hope than I realized.

So sluggish and sad (and, come on, curious) I made another appointment with the acupuncturist.

I am completely, utterly, out of my element in the acupuncturist’s office. I feel awkward and think odd hippie-ish thoughts like, "You should really eat wheat germ" even though I don't know what wheat germ is, or "Why don't you ever wear your Birkenstocks?". I know nothing about Hinduism or Buddhism except that Buddha statues are very “in” right now and Richard Gere is friends with the Dali Llama. I have no spirituality in my life, but I want to believe so badly in all of this, so I just nod vigorously when my acupuncturist, one of those gorgeous women in wispy linen and no make-up, says I have major blockage to my heart for my energy isn’t in line. Who knew?

So this is what I have been doing when I haven't been writing: and the truth is, most of the time I'm doing nothing, lazing at home watching Netflix. But I find I need that time more and more - that time of nothingness after work and before bed - to get my head in the game for the next round to face tomorrow. And the day after that. Because I'm not quitting anytime soon.

A Delicate Dance

“Wow, you’re a gassy one. Look at those intestines!” the ultrasound tech said as she searched for my specks of ovaries. They can never find my ovaries, which skirt the ultrasound wand and shrink behind organs and scar tissue. I also imagine them the size of shriveled peas – greenish, wrinkly orbs –so I’m sure that can’t help matters.

This is our third cycle with the fertility specialist. Getting my blood drawn yesterday the nurse asked how I was, and I replied, “Oh, you know, the usual,” and she said, “This is old hat already, isn’t it?” and she was right. Like the drive to work, I arrive at my doctor without knowing how I got there. The crease of my right arm is perpetually black and blue from needle pricks, and I can fill out their insurance and call-back forms with my eyes closed. Somehow along the way I even memorized my insurance ID, a long code of letters and numerals that I recite like my social security number.

Sometimes I think, “Why are we doing this?” With my Crohn’s, IC, and everything else that has run amok, why? With the strong possibility of passing on an auto-immune disorder, why? With overpopulation, American super-sized carbon footprints, a future and quality of life I worry about – why? I have no other answer that it is a biologically selfish need. That we feel we’d be good parents, have the love and resources to raise a child sensitive to others and the world around him or her. And that my body – my breasts, my hips – ache to do what they were meant for.

Sometimes I feel we can’t win. I read articles on the population crisis, or numbers of unemployed, and comments linked to these articles chastise “the breeders”. And I can’t deny: I raise my eye at large families, too. I, too, learned about carrying capacity in 11th grade and vowed never to have more than a couple of children. But still. It doesn’t feel right – it feels I’m doing something wrong. Then I read commentary about the rise in fertility drugs and how these families should just let nature take its course. “It’s called survival of the fittest; there’s a reason some women can’t get pregnant,” they’ll say. Today I read an article regarding the lax regulations in adopting Haitian children after this year’s earthquake. There was no due process, no checks and balances to ensure these children didn’t have families. It’s an admittedly questionable situation, but readers chimed in and said adoption is nothing more than child trafficking – a child-hungry, rich, Western convention to exploit the children of developing nations. "And how dare you take these children from their culture and language!" they cry. And I know all of these things aren’t true, but they have nuances of my own insecurities in all of them. I feel defensive and judged. And I start questioning everything.

What about the people who just want to nurture one child? Is it wrong to want my body to work as it should? To have the ability to do what so many others may take for granted? So now when I disclose to anyone our course – the fertility drugs, the doctor visits – I’m quick to add, “But we’re not looking for a gaggle of children – just one!” and laugh.

The business of having a baby is a delicate dance.

Morning Drives

Having a child is not something I ever thought I'd do automatically, and I clearly remember in college spouting how much I "hated" (oh yes, hated) kids. Friends said I'd change my mind, and I said with piss and vinegar, "Watch me!"


So how did I end up with my legs spread in a doctor's office for the fourth time this week?

I've never been a baby person. Women in my office squeal and fuss when a baby makes an appearance. I generally hide at my desk until it's not socially acceptable and then I acknowledge the baby with an awkward, and very adult, "hello". (It's so forced I might as well offer a Victorian, "And I bid you a good day, Sir," after fluffing their peach-fuzz hair and returning to my desk.) But something shifted in the last five years. Although nonchalant (and still teetering on awkwardness) on the outside when I cross paths with a baby or small child, internally I'm flush with longing.

It's funny how things like this creep up on you.

Matt is wonderful with kids and always wanted them. I've been a slower adopter. Early in our relationship when he asked what my intentions were, and I nodded and said, "Well, sure, sometime in our mid-thirties or something." A year or two later that number changed to thirty (arbitrary but at the time it was a far-off date, with time only slowly ticking toward real adulthood). Somewhere between now and then, and between getting sick, we thought we might as well grab the bull by the horns, and have a go at it (interestingly enough, I was the one who pushed for the earlier date). That was over a year and a half ago; so much for grabbing the bull by the horns.

I've never been someone who said "things happen for a reason". That's a bunch of phooey nonsense and insulting when you think about all the pain in the world. But it's impossible not to think that, well, maybe I shouldn't be reproducing. Let's just say this: no one is going to be buyin' my eggs anytime soon. Those things are train wrecks laced with problematic genes. The only thing I can perhaps offer is a proclivity to sarcasm and a vocabulary that could guarantee a decent SAT score. Hell, that's even questionable.

So I was thinking about this - all of this - the other morning. Why are we doing all of this? On Monday at 6:30 pm it began raining hard. Big, fat drops that didn't stop until late the next morning as I drove 1.5 hours to the doctors and 1.5 hours to work. Many roads were flooded and closed, but I was determined to get to the doctor. It's quietly become the most important thing in my life. And lying naked from the waist down has become the position most synonymous with this longing.

Before and after ovulation I'm monitored almost daily. How is my follicle (egg) growing? What are my LH, FSH, Estradiol and Progesterone levels? Everyday I submit to these blood tests and every afternoon I receive a call with the results from a new nurse (there must be two dozen of them in the practice).

"You sure are a sluggish one," the latest nurse offered as I still didn't ovulate by Day 20. I'm still grappling with these terms, these numbers, and have been too tired to do the research. My numbers are too low, my FSH isn't surging, and I'm taking supplemental progesterone. But a very quick primer (all per Wikipedia):

LH (Luteinizing Hormone): A hormone produced by the anterior pituitary gland. In females, an acute rise of LH called the LH surge triggers ovulation [2] and development of the corpus luteum.

FSH (Follicle-Stimulating Hormone): FSH regulates the development, growth, pubertal maturation, and reproductive processes of the body. FSH and Luteinizing hormone (LH) act synergistically in reproduction.

Estradiol: A sex hormone. Estradiol is the predominant sex hormone present in females. It is also present in males, and at a higher level because it is being constantly produced. In females it is only produced 3 out of 30 days of the cycle. It represents the major estrogen in humans. Estradiol has not only a critical impact on reproductive and sexual functioning, but also affects other organs including the bones.

Progesterone: A C-21 steroid hormone involved in the female menstrual cycle, pregnancy (supports gestation) and embryogenesis of humans and other species. Progesterone belongs to a class of hormones called progestogens, and is the major naturally occurring human progestogen.

My foray into fertility has more shots and ultrasounds (In only two months! A mere fertility novice...) than I can write in this post: don't worry, it's more to gross you out with later. (Especially with an account of the post-coital test. Now that's when things start getting saucy!)

But through all the headache, heartache, the long drives to an affordable doctor, and impediment to work this is what we want - so very much. And that I can't explain or rationalize. It's a biological impulse that's taken me by surprise. A longing to love and nurture that I wasn't expecting. All from a girl who no more than 10 years ago hated children.

I have to chuckle: how's that for life taking you by surprise?

"It's Pronounced 'Zhal-bare's!'"

Come to think of it, he does look a little sickly here.

It’s been in the 90’s every day this week, and that can only mean one thing: my thighs have been sticking together more than usual. The things resemble two giant ham hocks – delicious but true.

But enough with my meaty thighs, although I know it’s a rather titillating subject. Let’s talk about something even more sultry: MY THYROID! I have come to the not-very-informed medical opinion that there is something wrong with each organ or gland in my body. I am now on a quest to prove it. I received a call from the nurse at the fertility practice, and I am borderline hypo-thyroid. My mother is hypo-thyroid so I immediately called her and cursed her genes. I then went online to see what the symptoms were so I could really milk it to Matt and get out of making dinner – I mean, my poor thyroid needed a rest!

The symptoms of hypothyroidism are fatigue and sluggishness (so maybe I’m not inherently lazy?), constipation (uh, no), a puffy face (and maybe that’s not due to the Oreo problem?), unexplained weight gain (see: “Oreo Problem”), brittle fingernails and hair (true fact: I have already eyed – on more than one occasion – Raquel Welsh’s wig line with relish), and depression. You see, my thyroid was tested because hypothyroidism can hinder a woman’s fertility.

Now, this borderline hypothyroidism isn’t a very big deal (I have bigger fish to fry, although I’m just plum tired of taking pills and being a pathetic specimen of a healthy human being), but I decided to go home and be really obnoxious about it. Because that’s what I do.

Unfortunately, just as I was going to log-off at work Matt IMs me with the results of a routine blood test he had at his PCP last week. “I have Gilbert’s Syndrome”, to which I replied, “Who’s Gilbert?” “NO,” he said, “it’s pronounced zeel-bare’s. I have increased bilirubin!” Nevermind he didn’t know what bilirubin was when I asked him, except, “something having to do with the liver.” He then said it’s just “awful and horrible” living with such a disease and thank goodness it impairs (supposedly) your memory so he “doesn’t have to remember the pain of living with it.” Oh, then he told me he was playing tennis with his dad after work and logged off. (Don’t worry: he then resumed his complaining when he got home.)

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “What the heck is Gilbert’s Syndrome?” Let me tell you: it’s the most inconsequential syndrome in the world. Don’t you dare pity this boy. It’s as if Matt felt left out by having a healthy body, and searched for a condition with really no ramifications that he could “have” and then complain about it. Here are a few choice words and phrases from the Wikipedia article regarding Gilbert’s: “harmless” “does not require treatment”, “asymptomatic”, “individuals with GS….[have a] significant decrease in the incidence of coronary artery disease” (the horror!), and “no clear adverse symptoms”.

To give you an example of what I put up with now, you know, having a husband with a newly-discovered quasi-fake condition that doesn’t impair his life in the slightest, here is an unedited IM transcript:

Kathryn: how is your Gilbert's Syndrome today?
Matt: I think I'm having a flare up
Kathryn: really? why is that?
Matt: I'd detail more, but I don't want to ruin your day
Kathryn: maybe you can't think of a fake symptom to tell me
Matt: there's nothing fake about it
Matt: I can't always recall, because my brains to foggy from this heartless disease
Kathryn: how will you go on? how can you live a full life now?
Matt: I know
Matt: it's terrifying
Kathryn: did you tell your family yet? you'll have to sit them down to deliver this devastating blow
Matt: true
Matt: maybe you can tell them
Matt: I don't know if I have the strength


Nancy and David, I have something to tell you: Your son has a harmless condition with no medical ramifications. (Well, maybe mental, but certainly not physical.)

My Nether Regions Get A Lot of Action

I’m sick of being sick. Not anything like “woe is me” (although I have my moments), but I now have two conditions that involve the nether regions (if we’re including infertility), and by golly, there is nothing savory about that.

I am on progesterone supplements, or, as a woman of my standing likes to call: “vagina pills”. Classy. I insert them three times a day, one of the times in the mid-afternoon at work. Some people get coffee at 3 pm. I get down and dirty.

My latest ultrasound showed…nothing. No eggs (or, they call them follicles). Which makes me think: “Can a woman shoot blanks?”

It did show some scar tissue and small puddles of liquid from my Crohn’s. Now, instead of viewing my pelvic cavity as a desert, I tend to think swampland.

Due to my work trip, I missed a critical monitoring week, and have to start over again. This enraged me as my long cycles tend to transcend seasons, so at this rate we’ll figure what’s going on sometime near Thanksgiving.

Infertility is very easy for the guy – when did a guy ever bristle when he was told he needed to have sex? I’m sure even giving a semen sample is rather enjoyable. I hate men. They get higher salaries, more clout, and they can pee anywhere.

Oh well, I guess we get them in the end since we tend to live six years longer. Nevermind they can be lonely years in a body that doesn’t work too well. That’s what I cling to as I swagger to the bathroom with, yes, those vagina pills.

Patience Is Not My Strong Suit

I'm not really sure when the progression from playing house became full-blown adulthood. Living in our apartment Matt said being an adult is paying a mortgage, but three years ago when we acquired that monthly vestige of adulthood, he said no, no, it's definitely when you have kids. He had no answer for people who chose to rent, or chose not to have children.

But sitting in an office on Friday night, listening to a fertility doctor dictate a letter into his recorder about our case, I sat back, with my husband next to me, and thought, "So this is it; this is being an adult." At some point we crossed over: maybe it was then, or maybe it twelve months ago when we decided on having children.

I never, ever thought I'd be here. When I'd hear stories about failed IVF attempts, or women trying for years, I'd sympathize and think how lucky I was that woman trying wasn't me. But here we were, a year later, being told my ovaries were peculiarly small and Matt's situation wasn't looking too much better.

New words are entering my lexicon: progesterone supplements, FSH levels. IUI. I've been told so many times that "you'll be blessed with a child when the time is right" or "take a long weekend somewhere". These people invariably have children, and now, almost in a perverse way, I feel validated. No, it won't happen "when the time is right" or if we go away, and no, Godly intervention won't help either. Matt and I are pragmatists. We are not religious (although I've thought about praying but decided against it because if there is a God, he/she will surely realize what a selfish twit I am that I haven't prayed in 12 odd years, and all of the sudden decided only to smack my hands together for my own, baby-makin' good).

Above all, this is a medical matter. Ninety-three percent of couples our age conceive by the six month mark. Of those who don't, only 15% of those couples conceive in the next six months. Obviously, something is not right.

Our fertility visit was thorough. That really is the best way to describe it. We were there from 6:30 until 9:30 pm. Matt had his semen and urine tested, and I had an ultrasound, blood test, and an examination. We met with the doctor twice: before the tests, and after. I came with copies of my medical chart: details of when they first found the abscess deep in my gut, notes on my three months on Clomid, a write-up from my HSG. I told him about my Crohn's, about the scar tissue, about the surgery. When he said my ovaries were quite small for my age, and ruminated that perhaps scar tissue at one point had restricted their blood flow, I envisioned dried-up and hollow pea pods - a fertility wasteland.

We have many tests to do before determining next steps, and much medication to take. Writing about this now, I'm upset, but recounting it to a friend Friday night I laughed it off - of course we're sub-fertile, I mean, did I expect this to be easy?!

And sometimes I'm fine, it's all fine, and we'll make a go of it and trust ourselves to the shots, the blood tests, and all modern-day medicine has to offer. And other times I catch myself crying. A women I barely know had been struggling with having a second child for quite some time, and I saw her last week, but now with a swollen belly. It was at the gym, and my legs stopped swinging on my elliptical machine and I just watched her as she made her way to the locker room. And I felt betrayed.

I closed my eyes and told myself to just concentrate on Diane Sawyer on the television in front of me. To just watch her as she spoke about top kill, and the sheets of oil in the Gulf. I know that's a real tragedy, and not this.

But I couldn't help it, because infertility is a club swaddled in embarrassing emotion (jealousy, contempt, pity), and I was envious she was leaving, just as I was getting my bearings.

Chocolate makes everything better

Today I got my period: on day 41 of my cycle. Trying to have a baby is like holding your breath for over a month, only to exhale and start it all over again the next. I wish I could be nonchalant about this, but somehow along the way starting a family has become everything to me. This sort of longing gets into your bones. It starts coloring your decisions. Which is probably why Matt just returned home from picking up chocolate (with nary a complaint). When he saw the tears I think he knew instantly lots and lots of chocolate would be involved (the stash: Andes mints, a Cadbury bar, and mousse...I'm already in a happier place).

With the odds stacked against us (I don't start Clomid until this upcoming cycle, and sheesh, we had a negative home test) we knew - rationally - heck, I probably wasn't, but that didn't stop me from looking at crib combos on Target.com this afternoon, or Matt demanding (oh lord, I hope in jest) - if I was pregnant - that we call him/her Cletus...as in "Cletus the Fetus". (I cannot make this stuff up.) Even with my positively screwed up reproduction system (hell, whole pelvic cavity) and a staggeringly long 36-day cycle, 41 days should only be reserved for pre-menopausal women. But I'm looking at the bright side: at least I'm getting a chocolate bar out of this. And yes, maybe I will have that drink.