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Posts Tagged ‘FET#1’

Argh.

No period.  Perhaps the Lupron has just sent my entire system into menopause.  Maybe that’s it!  No more periods for me, ever!  I mean, hell!  I don’t get to enjoy the usual perqs of being a woman of childbearing age – ie: bearing a child – so why shouldn’t I get to enjoy the big benefit of the change of life, eh?

*sigh*

Crampy.  Cranky.  If I had to guess, I’d say it was today, but I was wrong yesterday, despite my best efforts at ‘bringing it on’.  I guess I’ll just have to wait.

Which we all know I’m not particularly good at.  

Sipping my decaf, ready (no, I’m lying, I’m not even a little bit ready) to go back to work.  ugh.  But I’m going.  Don’t want to be laid off, now, do I?  

And I do have that week off coming up.

And next year will have lots of scheduled time off, which is a wonderful thing.  Hey, if I get pregnant in a couple of weeks, have a due date around New Years (yeah, this also means my dreams of a Christmas Day due date are fucked, too,) then I can, essentially, schedule two years worth of vacation time for 7 months.  I could be taking a lot of time off.  Of course, if I don’t get pregnant, all that vacation time is going to get used for things like adoption seminars, doctor appointments, etc.  Not nearly as much fun.

Otherwise?  Nothing really happening.  I’m off to work, after the obligatory dogwalk.  Wish me ruined underwear from a deluge of blood, wouldja?  This is getting ridiculous.

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Still nothin’

Very frustrating, waiting for a period.  I think I need to come to terms with the fact that all this arseing around with my reproductive innards has completely messed up my previously perfect 28-day cycle.  

Which I find annoying.  I loved being able to plan my life 6 months in advance, and not have to worry that my period would be showing up while at the beach, or while wearing a white dress.  

Now, of course, I’d change into a white dress (if I had one) just in the hopes of tempting it to show.  

Yes, I’ve anthropomorphized my menses.  Whaddaboutit?

Today’s a “dog-to-the-vet day” for vaccinations, rabies shot, lyme shot, all kinds of sticky things that will probably make her feel like blech for the rest of the day.  It’s a “chicken pot pie day”, since youngest stepdaughter is home from PR today and I’d like to tempt her to stay here tonight instead of hightailing it for her mother’s place.  It’s also “spend three hours on the phone with the Metro Transit Authority day” because I bought my expensive unlimited 30-day card yesterday, and then promptly dropped it (or had it lifted from my bag).  Put me in a foul mood yesterday, but I’m more cheerful now that my credit card co. has informed me that MTA will reimburse for this sort of thing.  So I haven’t lost this month’s transportation budget, just a few hours on my day off.  Believe me, these cards are pricey enough that it’s a bargain.  

And that’s about it.  Lupron headaches have begun, though they’re not as bad as they could be – ie: I am still able to function through the pain, and I can fall asleep even while in the grip of said headache.  More website tweaking today, and then perhaps a bit of writing if I’m really feeling ambitious.  

Well, that, and running to the bathroom every hour or so to see if anything’s happening yet.  

Grrrr.

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Happily ever after.

I read this morning that two blogging-friends are still getting bfns at 9dp3dt and my already crumpled-up heart is getting a bit soggier in response.  I know it’s not about what’s fair or what’s deserved.  It’s not about who’s owed anything by the universe, or even about who’d be a fantastic parent.  It’s not about who wants this the most.

But, damnit, it SHOULD be.  It should be all about who wants this – who needs this –  about who keeps putting their whole life on hold for the mere possibility.  It should be about who would make terrific parents.  It should be about wanting and praying and begging and weeping, damnit, and by those standards, we should all wake up to miraculous pregnancies tomorrow.  

It should not be about who’s got the resources – emotional and otherwise – to try just one more time.  It should not be about non-cooperative body parts.  It should really not be about stupid dumb luck or the lack thereof.

It’s times like this that I really wish I were religious (although times like this might drive me away from religion, I’m thinking.)  It would be comforting to really be able to believe that all things happen for a reason, that this is the best possible outcome.  It would be wonderful to believe that there’s some big overarching plan etc. etc.  Instead, it’s just bad luck that so many wonderful, deserving people have to claw and fight their way to parenthood, and it sucks.

I’m angry today, just really pissed off that not only have I “met” so many of you wonderful women (and men) only because we’re all in the same crappy, leaky, nearly-out-of-fresh-water lifeboat; today I’m pissed off that I can’t think of the right things to say about news of another bfn.  I leave comments, because I know how much comfort it gave me to know other people were sorry about what was happening when it was me, but I know nothing I’m saying can make even a tiny bit of difference and I hate that.  

I want to celebrate with y’all, not try to come up with words of solace.

I want to read about your uneventful pregnancies, pain/fear-free deliveries, and joyfully exhausting days with a newborn.

I want to make plans for our toddlers to have play dates together.

Damnit, I want us all to live happily ever after. Is that really too much to ask?

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…were the weapons of choice in my scary-ass nightmares last night.  Really sharp melon-ballers, I should specify, I suppose.  Trust me, it was a nasty dream.  And I kept waking up, assuring myself that no melon-ballers, sharp or otherwise, were anywhere near me, and then I’d drowse off again and be right back in cantaloupe hell.

Whafuck? 

See, I don’t have nightmares.  I generally remember my dreams (and just be grateful that I choose not to torment you all with day-by-day accountings of them!), and they are almost always fun, weird, linear, logical, interesting, etc.  I love to sleep because it, um, means I get to go to dreamland, where things are, well, nice.   

Nightmares totally suck.  

Not much else going on here.  Waiting for a period, hoping it stays on schedule so that my days off actually provide some benefit for proto-sproglings’ womb environment.  Only a week left until my next bloodwork, US appointment.  I have so missed those early morning schleps to the clinic.  Hah.

Seriously, I’m off to work, I’ll try to nap on the train.  If you happen to read news reports of a woman freaking out on the M-line in Brooklyn and accusing her fellow passengers of attacking her with a silicon spatula, you’ll know I’m still in the grip of loopy-ron.  Explain my situation to the good doctors over at Bedlam, would you?

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Deep Breath

Lupron is still treating me gently, for which I am appropriately grateful.  Still doesn’t feel like it’s working, though.  Which makes me a bit nervous.  I’m so ready to be getting ON with this cycle.  Long cycles suck – I’d never realized how good I had it with short cycles, before.  This is the pits.  Plus, I’m starting to second-guess my days off and wonder if my transfer isn’t going to happen during that week, after all.   Maybe I timed it totally wrong, and I’ll still have to take days off the next week?

Deep breath.

Truly, at the moment, there’s nothing going on in my reproductive world, save that two bloggy friends are waiting to find out if this cycle worked out for them.  I’m hoping so much that it did!  I love this community, I love getting to cheer on other folks going through what I’m going through, and as much as I enjoy their “Trying to Conceive” blogs, I’m looking forward to their “Pregnancy” and “Childrearing” blogs just as much.  Mo & Will, and Lisa, we’re all rooting for you!

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Not much crazy yet.

A bit, since I can’t seem to turn my brain off, and since my particular form of Lup-iness seems to take the form of resentfulness – if you’ve pissed me off any time in the last 20 years, be assured that I’m thinking of it right now – but really, for the most part, I’ve felt ok on this.

Which must mean it isn’t working.

Now I’m back to that weird place of waiting for a period, of eagerly looking forward to a period.  Which just feels fucking wrong, you know?  Blood = no baby, except when you’re doing this artificial crap, when it means that you get to prorgress to artificial step two.

Argh.

In an attempt to distract myself from the limbo-Lupron-land where I now reside, I’ve been thinking of – what else? – baby shit.  Well, maybe not actual baby shit, except as it relates to “how to deal with a baby who’s just spread shit on the walls out of spite” or “how to assure that baby-shit is contained in non-toxic, cloth diapers”.  More specifically, I’ve been ruminating over How I’m Going to Raise this Child to be a Paragon of Health, Virtue and Pleasantness.

Ahem.

Did that sound pretentious?  I hope it did.  I also hope you picked up on the singular pronoun there.  Not “How we are”, but “How I am”‘.  The thing is, I really suspect that the boy and I are going to have some knock-down, drag-out fights about child-rearing.  I know what you’re thinking.  “Sprogblogger,” (you’re thinking), “Why haven’t y’all used all this no-baby-yet time to iron out all your differences on the idea of how to best bring up Sprog?

a)  Because that would totally jinx the process.  Geez.  Everyone knows if you buy baby furniture or discuss parenting techniques before Sprog is actually in your arms, you go to the end of the baby-making-line and have to start over again.  Duh.

But also, if I’m really honest, it’s because b) I’m not really up for that fight just yet.

See, the thing is, the boy has co-raised three girls.  And none of them are ax-murderesses, or completely anti-social (though the youngest one comes close, sometimes.)  But, the fact is, I have my own very distinct ideas on how to raise a child.  A respectful, resourceful, independent child.  Values that perhaps his ex-wife wasn’t as keen on as I am.  Values that I absolutely insist on passing on to a child of mine.  Then there’s the whole breastfeeding thing – ex-wife was anorexic and, not surprisingly, therefore unable to produce enough milk to feed any  of her kids.  I am – ahem – nowhere close to anorexic and anticipate ample lactation as my mother & grandmother did before me — hell, I was leaking milk during my miscarriage at 11 weeks. All good, but breastfeeding will mean nighttime feedings.  So his ideas about ‘let the baby cry it out’ aren’t going to fly.  Not to mention the fact that many of his childrearing techniques are 18 – 25 years out of date.  It’s like anticipating how-to-raise-a-kid fights with your mother-in-law, except with the man you share your bed with.  Oi.  So I anticipate many fights.  And I’m not looking forward to that “who really knows better” thing coming up, either.

Because, infertile hag though I am, I will be mammi, who always knows best.

*snort*

Talk about putting the cart before the horse…  Let’s just concentrate on getting the baby home, and then I’ll stress over whether or not attachment parenting (and cloth-diapering – is right for us.

Though it is fun to have something new to angst over, for a change.

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I spent way too much time yesterday trying to track down the touring schedule for these statues.  If they had still been in New York, I was ready to go touch them.

I am so ashamed of myself.

Not because I gave in to superstition, but because I gave in to superstition not three days after ridiculing the folks in the neighborhood where I work for staying home on a “bad luck day”.  Which is, really, no crazier than believing that touching a carved piece of wood could have any impact at all on my old eggs and recalcitrant uterus.  Not to mention the boy’s less-than-primo sperm.

I am a bad person.

(But if I hear that they’re coming back to NYC anytime soon, I’ll let you all know how long the line was to touch ’em.  Because, you know?  At this point, I’ll try anything.)

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