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Posts Tagged ‘Follicular cysts’

10:00 am

and if I’d kept my original appointment, I’d’ve known by now if the evil evil cysts have left the building.  Of course, if that were the case, I’d currently be blogging about how little I enjoy the company of Dr. Bigshot, with probably a bit of a whine about ‘why oh why didn’t I wait!’ if the news was not exactly as I hoped it would be.

Which is why I’m at my kitchen table, watching the boy cook cream of wheat (yum!), and not looking forward to going in to work at 1 – new crepe shop in the neighborhood, notwithstanding.

Had a lovely weekend – the third in a row that hasn’t been split.  Meaning the third in a row that I haven’t had Sunday and then a random day off during the week.  Which is how my library works.  Which sucks if you’re old and decrepit like me and need more days off to feel like you’ve had any day off, because the first one is all used up with, well, sleeping.  It’s been lovely.  Makes me twice as sure that I need to find a new job – one with professional hours and – hey! – professional pay, too.  My library system is at the bottom of the national rankings for pay, and at the top of the rankings for turnover.  Yes, the two are somewhat related.  And, as my co-workers and I are like to whine:  “I did not get a masters degree to be treated like this!”

But, my health insurance is completely covered, and it covers IVF.  Once this final try is over, though, just watch how fast I bolt away from this job!  Of course, in this economy, any bolting I do will be in slow-motion while I search desperately for another job.  Unless, of course, I somehow manage to catch pregnant.  (oh how everyone laughed!) In which case, I get to stay at home with sprog and live a life of SAH luxury.  

You know, laundering cloth diapers actually sort of sounds like fun today.  Something is definitely wrong with me.  

Have I mentioned how little I’m looking forward to going in to work today?  Seriously, this was a nice weekend, and I don’t want it to end.  Walked the dog (well, took the dog out on the ice for a drag/spin/utterly hilarious butt-on-sidewalk move.)  Cooked a pot roast.  And strawberry shortcake.  Watched much Star Trek.  Got some decent writing done.  Moved all the blogs I read to an RSS feed reader (yay for efficiency!)  Cleaned my desk.  Patched the dog bed, (since the dog decided that it looked tasty enough to eat.)  Scolded the dog.  Hardly obsessed at all about infertility, lack of baby-in-life, etc.  In other words, a nice weekend.

Hanging tough til Thursday, which will be the appointment of truth.  Or at least the appointment of “guess you can start using patches today” or conversely, “looks like it’s going to be another month, at least.”  Maybe I should install a ticker in here somewhere.  Ticker til my next appointment.  

Egads.  Give me something to do that’s baby-related, before I lose what’s left of my estrogen-flooded mind!

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Because I seem to be incapable of not self-analyzing every twinge and symptom/lack thereof, I am going to announce that I feel quite confident that those horrible cyst-things seem to be gone.  At least as far as I can tell.  No more bloating, no more pain, and my moderate “don’t eat donuts for breakfast & Christmas cookies for lunch” diet is producing the desired results.

Which is a bit of a damned relief.  

I have, however, been rueing the fact that I have to wait until Thursday to have this confirmed by my RE.  Wondering if I should, in fact, try to bump up my appointment, just go in for a blood draw on Monday.  “Oh, you mean I wasn’t supposed to be in ’til Thursday?  Well, since I’m here, maybe we could do it anyway?”  But since I’m finishing up a winter cold, I’d rather not scare my doctor away from starting me up again, if that’s in the cards.  (Well, that, and I have this recurring fantasy that maybe, just possibly I might be able to get pregnant on my own (ok, on our own – I don’t have a Virgin Mary complex or anything), and wouldn’t it be fantastic if we managed it this month? And if that were to be the case, it’d be a shame to ruin it by going in before the imaginary pregnancy was detectable…)  

Still drinking coffee though, so I’m not as optimistic – or as giddy – as it sounds.  

I dreamed last night that the DHEA I’m taking made all my hair fall out, (instead of just thinning it as it undeniably has.) Not a pleasant dream, but it did reinforce my earlier claim that there’s nothing I wouldn’t do, at this point to keep the attempt-to-have-a successful-pregnancy-dream alive.  In my unpleasant dream, I was grimly going about from store to store looking for cute hats to cover up my cue-ball ‘do, and muttering under my breath, “I better end up with a kid at the end of all this bullshit.”

From my dream-self’s mouth to dream-god’s ear.

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…I’d guess that these pesky cysts are close to deflating?  bursting?  What the hell does a finished follicular cyst do?  Whatever they do, I’m not nearly as tender as I was, and nowhere near as bloated.  So that’s a good thing.  Makes me hopeful that things might be getting back to normal.  

Yes, that’s right – I’m officially feeling hopeful that I might get the go-ahead next week to start using the estrogen patches to get going again.  And yes, I realize that hope goeth before every single big-ass disappointment, (and there have been a few of them) but I’m still hoping.  It’s a way of life, and I’m too old to give it up now.  

I’ve been thinking a lot about this propensity of mine (and, I suspect, of some of you) to hope for the best, even in the face of overwhelming odds.  A good friend once described me as an idealistic cynic, and I had to agree with that assessment; even more, I think I have to apply it to how my brain approaches infertility.  

I expect the worst.  I have plans drawn up for how to dispose of my various worldly belongings should I eventually die without issue.  I know where I’ll retire if, by that point, I’m all alone in the world.  Even back when I had no reason at all to believe that I’d have any trouble at all getting pregnant, I looked into ART, because, well, simply because it pays to be prepared for the worst.  Because if you know (and even expect) how bad it can be, then you’ll never be taken by surprise.  Shitty attitude, but truly the way I approach many things in life.

But at the same time that I can know in my heart that this enterprise is doomed to failure because, well, because I’m me, and good things do not happen to me – not when I really really want them, anyway – I am also, paradoxically, utterly convinced that this time might be the time it actually works out ok, the exception that makes the rule, the lightning strike that comes out of nowhere and sets the birthday candles ablaze without melting all the frosting off the cake.

Maybe it’s the same sort of feeling that motivates even statisticians to play the lottery?  Hope vs. conviction.

Or maybe it’s just that my definitions of what “works out ok” means have changed so drastically that they’re barely recognizable anymore.  I distinctly remember saying, when we first started talking about eventually having a child, that I would never be one of those women who, you know, did that whole test-tube baby thing.  That was just too much.  

Hah.  Seven self-administered injections a day, anyone?  Let’s talk about “too much.”

And now at the start of 2009, I’m staring at the prospect of buying another woman’s eggs to use in a grand science experiment to create a baby, “Yeah?  So what about it?  What do you mean that sounds odd to you?  Hell, maybe we can use donor eggs, and then, if it turns out I DO have the womb of death, maybe we can hire a gestational surrogate to carry the baby to term.  What?  You got a problem with that?”

At this point, I can’t actually fathom a length to which I would not be willing to go.  This is the first thing in my life that has really and truly thwarted me on so many levels – not least of which is my inability to pretend like it just doesn’t matter.  Don’t get me wrong – I’ve been thwarted before, but always, I was able to “sour grapes” the whole thing and decide that I didn’t want to go to law school, and wouldn’t even if I could afford it; I didn’t want to have a writing career if it meant living in a situation I couldn’t bear anymore.  But this?  Almost 2 years since we started trying, almost 5 years after I realized I was going to have to leave my first husband if I ever wanted a baby, I still want a baby more than I want anything else in the world.  In fact, I worry sometimes that I want motherhood more, simply because I know that I might not be allowed to have it.  

But on reflection, I’m not enough of a masochist for that.  If anything, I may be more aware of how much I want to be a parent, but these interludes of crises are not making me want the experience more.  They’re just making me want to get through the crises so I can get back to real life.  Real life with a baby, thank you very much.  

And, as much as I bitch and moan about everything these days, I am also thanking whatever deity might be listening that I am dealing with infertility now, and not in 1969.  At least I have a few more options to run through before I have to call it quits.  At least I still have a chance of walking away from this crapshoot as a winner.  

What did I start talking about that inspired this rant?  Oh yes – hope.  Feeling hopeful in the face of overwhelming odds.  And yes, I’m feeling hopeful.  Cystic ovaries and all.

Take that, Fates.  So there.

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All I can say is that if this is what women with PCOS feel like most of the time, I am in awe of their powers of endurance.

Bloated, sore, hesitant to move too quickly lest something bump up against my oh-so-tender innards. Leery of the dog leaping up into my arms, as is her wont, because she might misstep and put pressure on the aforementioned innards. Frustrated by the lack of weight-loss, despite rather strict rationing of, say, any kind of calories.

The DHEA is keeping the worst of the moodiness at bay, but I can feel it there, just waiting to erupt in great, heaving sobs of weepiness.

I want my body back.

(waah!)

Oh, and

I took the 43 Things Personality Quiz and found out I’m a 

Healthy Self-Knowing Tree Hugger

Not only that, but 0 of the 31,056 people who’ve taken the test are like me! It might suck to be me sometimes, but at least I’m not easily, ahem, reproducible.

(Because I can never resist the easy pun.)

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Yep, Mo, I’m right there with you.

I’m hating all sorts of things about myself and my body these days, and I hate that, too.

In fact, I hate hating infertility.  I’ve always rather liked being a girl.  Except for a minor departure from form in High School, I’ve always rather liked my body – stocky and sturdy & therefore completely unfashionable though it is.

But now?  I’m tired of feeling betrayed by my body.  Of being thwarted in something so basic by my own innards.  I’m tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Again.  And again.  Just lob the whole damned closetful at me, will ya?  Let’s get it over with! 

I know it’s not the end of the world.  It’s just a setback.  Just like infertility is just a setback.  Just like IVF; and missed miscarriages that eat up six months of my rapidly-dwindling, so-called fertile lifespan; and fucking ectopic doomed pregnancies; and poor responder-ness; and every other goddamned thing is just a setback.  I know that.  But right now, my cysty-ovaries and I are wallowing.

*deep breath*

I’m tired of wallowing, too.  So here goes – my non-wallowy post for the afternoon: 

It’s been snowing all day, big fluffy flakes that aren’t sticking, but are driving the temperature down enough that it’s pleasant to be inside with an overactive furnace.   I love snow.  I wish it snowed more in Brooklyn.   My folks – in Arizona, no less – have been snowed in for a couple of weeks at this point.  Granted, they live at close to 8000 feet, so they deserve it, but I am very jealous.  Very, very jealous.  I miss my woodstove.

Ok, other good things – I went to a new place in the neighborhood for lunch – Burek Pizza, and I’m still not sure if Burek is the name of the owner, or a description of the ‘pizza’.  There were no signs, no menus, and a little old tottery woman brought out a piece of whatever-it-was, wrapped it to go, and took my money.  “Yugoslavian pizza” she said, though I thought it tasted more like a meat tart than a pizza.  Delicious, whatever it was.  I’ll be going back.  This is one of the things I LOVE about NYC – weird little food places.  I love eating interesting food, even if I don’t know what to call it. 

My favorite crazy guy at the library, who claims to have a direct line to God, came up to me today to let me know that he has renewed his prayerful efforts on my behalf.  I’m torn between tolerating him only because he is a gentle and pleasant crazy guy, and being spooked by his perception.  When I was pregnant the first time, but before I even knew it, he told me he would pray that the angel he could see hovering over me would stay with me forever.  He apologized a month later – while I was waiting to miscarry – because he said he obviously had not been able to pray hard enough.  Equally obviously, the crazy-man was not privy to my IVF situation, he’s just perceptive.  Either that or, you know, he might have a direct line to God.  So anyway, today when he offered me prayers for health and happiness, which, I admit (though not to him) that I could use a bit more of both these days, I simply said ‘thank you’, and told him he’d be in my prayers too.  He and I might not mean the same thing when we talk about praying, but I do wish him well. 

My husband, when he heard the news about the new setback, wondered aloud if we should just jump directly to a donor egg cycle to try to spare my body any more hormonal manipulation.  This is a sweet thing for him to offer, since he’s been sort of freaked out by this idea in the past.  Unless my doctor orders it, we won’t do this – we’ll exhaust every option in its own time and not skip ahead, but it was a supportive thing for him to say.   He got it right today.

I am also going to tell you about the conversation I just overheard between my annoying Russian co-worker and his family in Russia.  Full of tears and recriminations (I am assuming, by the tone of his voice, since it was – obviously – in Russian.)  This guy is really aggravating, and he knows it, and he knows that we are not friends, but he and I were alone in the office and on his way into the kitchen to eat his borsht after this conversation, he said quietly without even turning around, “I’m all alone on New Year’s Eve and it’s all my fault.”  And my heart broke for him just a little bit, even though he still irritates the hell out of me. 

But now I’ve written enough for today.  I’m going to finish up my shift, then go home and get gently and weepily drunk on good wine.  Hope y’all have a good new year – we deserve it, each & every one of us.

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“That would be a follicular cyst.  Oh look there’s another.  And another on your left ovary.  Have you been in any pain?” asked my doctor.

(Um, as previously mentioned, I’ve been calling it ‘pelvic discomfort’, my definitions of pain having been sharply redefined over the last year.)

The upshot is that there will be no new IVF cycle for me any time soon.  New appointment in two weeks to see what’s up with my cyst-studded ovaries. 

I’m tired of this game.  Can we play something else for a while?

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