Posts Tagged ‘Nellie’


Um, 3 perfect 8 celled embryos implanted, 3 perfect 8 celled embryos to freeze.They kept me lying down for almost an hour afterwards, and doublechecked my Lovenox prescription, since no one seems to know who actually prescribed it.  I have a photo.  3 embryos inside me.  Yes, we’ve been here before, but I’m feeling so damned hopeful this time.  Thinking gestational thoughts from here on out.  Maybe eating ice cream if I warm up at all.  With a pickle on the side.

On the downside (because there always must be a downside, because I am who I am) the dog ate a dvd from the library while we were gone.  Oh yeah, and spread a giant brand new box of pantyliners from the front door, downstairs, into the bedroom.  This after eating the shoes yesterday.  Despite the boy’s soft heart, the dog must start going into the crate when we’re both away.  This is getting too nervewracking – and freaking expensive.  Now I get to watch for sharp little shards of dvd casing to puncture her intestines.  Or rather, I get to watch for the results of same.  

I’d rather be analyzing uterine cramping, thank you very much.  Fortunately, I am woman.  I can multi-task.


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Getting introspective, as is my wont at the end of an old year.  Well that, and drinking heavily, because, hey, why the hell not?  It’s downright fucking amazing how introspective a gal can get after a few pints of Guinness.  

Seriously, though.  I don’t think it has much to do with the time of the year, and I’m not drinking anywhere near as much as my brain would prefer, because there is the possibility that my doctor will let me start my next (final?) IVF cycle on this cycle.  Which, if I can still trust my body’s signals, is going to begin any day now.  I mean, he wants to see me on Day 2, which is right on track for baseline measurements.  And he knows – and approves – of my eagerness to get this babymakin’ show on the road, so if he can give me the go-ahead, he will.  

But of course, I’m also nervous that it won’t happen.  That my hCG levels will hover indefinitely at a useless level like 8 and will refuse to budge any further.  I’m nervous that maybe even if I can start up again this month, that I shouldn’t.  Jeezus, what if this happens again?  I guess I know the answer to that: if it happens again, I go in for surgery and they remove the embryo-magnet formerly known as my right fallopian tube.  But still – what if?  

Yeah, if I’m honest, my introspection is really taking the what-if form of self-torture to new depths.  What if I do?  What if I don’t?  What if we just skip the next little while and go straight to a donor egg cycle?  What if even that doesn’t work, maybe we should just skip straight to adoption preliminaries, I mean, really, given my track record, why do I think any of this will work?  Hell, I’m not even thinking that adoption is going to be simple for us.  

Maybe it’s not “introspection” so much as it is “wallowing in fear and agonized nervousness.”  And with no concrete target to focus on, it’s more of a “greasy fingerprints-of-anguish contaminating every clean dish in the kitchen” sort of deal.  

Yeah, that’s feeling a little more honest.

And then part of me – still dealing with the honest part, mind you – is wondering why the hell I’m not even grieving over this miscarriage anymore.  I mean, shit, it’s not even complete yet.  This time last miscarriage I could barely get out of bed, and here I’m blithely planning my next IVF cycle and wondering if I’ll look funnier as a pregnant lady than I do as a non-pregnant lady.   Is it true that you can get used to anything, and that I’m well on my way to being someone who’s used to losing pregnancies?  Ah, fuck.  

Yesterday we enjoyed another episode of wondering if the dog was going to die.  She has developed the bad habit of, er, eating the crotch out of any underwear left in her general vicinity.  Which I try really hard not to do in order to keep the dog’s innards healthy, (but also so as not to disgust the tidy boy who wonders, sometimes, if I was raised by wolves.  Messy wolves.  Messy wolves who can’t remember where the laundry room is.)

And I’d like to refute him with something sparkling like, “I do so know where the laundry room is” but the fact is that the day after I found a crotch-free (and not in a fun, sexy way, more in a gnawed and raggedy way) scrap of cloth in the middle of the floor, another pair must have gotten shoved under the bed when I undressed because it sure got overlooked on my daily trek to the aforementioned laundry room.  Which means she ate two pair of panties in less than 24 hours.  Which meant that I spent yesterday with an anxious ear pressed to her distressed and gurgly abdomen wondering if her intestines were blocking up and twisting and necrotizing even as I documented the sound effects.

Which made me question my fitness to be a mother.  I mean, if I can forget to remove underwear from the dog’s immediate environs, what am I going to forget to keep out of Sprog’s way?  Live electrical cables?  Bite-sized turtles straight from Chinatown?  E-coli contaminated petri dishes?  

One more thing to bargain over with the invisible cloud being.  “If you let me have a real live baby, I promise to not ever even bring one of those turtles home, let alone leave it somewhere a small person could inhale it.”  Ditto the electrical cables.  I don’t even know where a person would pick up a petri dish of E-coli, but I promise to be really really careful about that one, too.  


I think I’m going to go check under my bed one more time.   Maybe leave myself a trail to the laundry room made out of socks or something.  Mama-wolf would be so proud.

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Very sad face.  Very sad walk.  Very sad doggie.  

We’re cuddled up on the bed together, and I’m typing this with one hand, the other hand having been claimed as dog-pillow, and not grudged at all.  If having skin within easy licking reach makes her feel better, I’m all for it.  She’s been getting as many biscuits, and as much cuddling as she wants (and since she’s a whippet, that’s a whole lot of biscuits & a whole lot of cuddling.)  Her poor Nellie-belly looks horrific, honestly, all puffy and Frankenstein-stitched.  And she acts like she’s in agony.  

(Which she probably is, but my last dog was this amazingly stoic, stern dog who never admitted to being bothered physically by anything – not even the massive tumor that killed her before we ever knew it was there, so stoic was she – so I got used to thinking of the surgery to spay a female dog as a pretty routine, easy in&out sort of thing.  It didn’t bother Sydney at all…)

 Nellie has no such scruples about sparing my feelings.  She squeals when she jumps off the bed and squeals when she jumps up on the bed (for obviously, only the people-bed will do when she feels this lousy.)  And every so often she shudders out a sigh of a breath in her sleep that sounds like her heart is breaking.

Which makes my heart break.

And yes, I know that spaying a dog is important.  I know it’s to her health-benefit in the long-run.  I know I signed a contract stating that I would have her spayed when I bought her from the breeder.

But my heart’s still sore that my Nellie is so uncomfortable.

As for me, I’m actually doing ok.  The teenaged boys were great today, bringing me a chair when one of them noticed that I was looking a bit pale.  Good kids, every one of ’em.  And they did a great job with the mice.  (I’ll post the recipe later, when I can include pictures.) 

And despite the pallor, I had no spectacular pain today.  I’m spotting a bit of old blood, but nothing new or cramp-inducing.  I go in for another hCG test tomorrow to verify that my hormone-levels are still dropping appropriately (and please, anyone who’s listening, let those levels be dropping appropriately!) and then I should be able to get back to once-a-week hCGs for a while.  If I can avoid the meth. shot, I should be able to start this process up again as soon as I’ve zeroed out.

At least that’s the plan.  (Listen very carefully & you should be able to hear the Fates laughing at me…)

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No one really knows, but we’re going with “it’s looking good unless you hear otherwise from us regarding your HCG numbers.” 

And, since my HCG detectors (otherwise known as my not-even-a-little-bit-sore-at-all breasts) say that my numbers have plummeted over the last 48 hours, I’m not worried.

No, really.  Not worried at all.  Not even a little.


Actually, he did a pretty thorough (ouch) exam, and said everything looked just the way he’d expect it to at a normal day 2 past a chemical pregnancy.  I don’t think he’s concerned about an ectopic, so therefore I’m not feeling too concerned, either.  My body is definitely casting this one out on its own, and I haven’t had any weird pain.  Thank god.  This is a rough period, but nothing unbearable. 

Let’s see, in other news, my doctor reminded me that I have a beautiful uterus; even though the rest of my innards might be fighting us on everything, Ms.Uterus is on-board & ready to go.  (I reminded him that my uterus would prefer being fabulous to being beautiful.   Beauty – even in internal organs – never lasts, y’know.)

Not much else to report until 4 o’clock when I should get my numbers and find out if I’m starting stims tomorrow.  If I can start tomorrow, this is going to be an easy-peasy cycle.  No Lupron, and only one Menopur injection per day instead of two.  He’ll prescribe the slow-down med later, apparently.   And I’m back on prednisone, as of tomorrow.  Grr.

Speaking of growling…The dog ate the cap off the boy’s toothpaste sometime in the night.  To punish him for putting her in the crate during dinner, I’m thinking.  Poor Nellie.  Part of the problem is that we haven’t been able to find her big bag o’ rawhide chew-treats since youngest daughter’s Thanksgiving party.  And I’ve been too busy to get to the pet store for another bag.  So her chewing-muscles have been sadly underworked.  Plus, you know, transfered frustration.  If chewing up a tube of toothpaste made me feel as relaxed as it does her, I’d be stealing Crest, too.  You go, Nellie!

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lazy day

I didn’t do much at all today.  No, that’s not true.  I did quite a few things, it’s just that – for a change – the day didn’t revolve around work or baby-makin’.  A day off work, and I’ve been pretty damned stressed out by work and other injustices lately, so I spent my day off lazily.  Walked the couple of miles into Red Hook, visited Brooklyn’s much-touted Ikea for the first time.  (and, oh my god if that place isn’t strange.  Nifty cheap minimalist Swedish shit that somehow manages to look sort of creepy at the same time.  I’m definitely going back soon.)  Wasn’t intending to buy anything, but walked out of there with a pineapple plant – with a wee, bitty pineapple growing out of its top –  and something for the dog.  Then I continued on to Fairway, which is the biggest supermarket in the city and reminds me of my lost suburban lifestyle.  Then I walked out to the pier and stared at the statue of liberty for a few minutes. After I carried my groceries and Ikea-treasures home, I didn’t try to write.  In fact, I didn’t do much all day except buy food and cook.  Which was wonderful.  I have that much of my father in me – when stressed out, I want to prepare good food.  Eating it is nice, too, but it’s the preparation that eases me when I’m angsty.  

So I roasted a duck and made a garlic gravy.  Mashed taters and a salad.  And the boy – who would just as soon have had chicken & baked potato – ate it manfully and pronounced the duck tasty and the potatoes nice, “but isn’t the carmelized garlic gravy just a bit too sweet?  wouldn’t the salad have been nicer with just a bit of vinegar and oil?”

Maybe, but that’s not the point.

(I make him sound ungrateful and he wasn’t.  I think he liked it well enough, he just doesn’t understand that it’s not even how it tastes that’s the most important, it’s the kitchen zen that gets me off when I’m in a mood like this.  If it hadn’t been stepdaughter’s birthday last week (German chocolate cake) and my birthday next week (fudgey double-chocolate cake), there would have been some serious baking going on today.  Probably good for my waistline that I settled on a single fancy dinner instead.)

And I liked the gravy, though the recalcitrance of our food processor had me tearing out whatever remains of my hair.  

And then we watched “First Wives Club” on dvd.  While we were giggling, Nellie-the-whippet was apparently downstairs eating a hole in the mattress cover while the sheets were in the dryer.  Oi.  What am I going to do with this dog?  I actually bought her a sheepskin at Ikea today because they were cheap and soft and I thought – silly me – that nothing would be more tempting for a dog that likes to chew things up than a piece of dead sheep.  But no!  Poly-cotton mix stretched tight over a mattress is much more appealing.  If you’re Nellie.  

Nothing IVF-related except injections & ingestions between now and Sunday.  Sunday’s appointment is an 8am one, so I’ll be yawning on my day off.  Otherwise?  Nothing new to report, save that someday I’d like to teach my son to cook just like his granddaddy taught me.

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That is the sound of a woman who is not, for a change, bleeding.

At all.


I would have given a lot, over the summer, to have found myself writing those words, but right now?  All I wanna do is start this damned cycle AND go to Calgary.  Is this really too much to ask?


Ahem.  (deep breath).  

Ok.  Everything could still be ok.  I have tomorrow off, and we don’t have to leave the house until about 3:30 on Thursday.  So, I could, conceivably (so to speak) go in for my baseline measurements on Thursday am and still have time to get on the plane in the pm.  I can bring my meds, and wait for the message that tells me what to take & how much.  I am, after all, an old pro at injections.  So really, as long as something comes through for me tomorrow, there’s no problem.   

Nope, no problem at all except I’m likely to die from anxiety long before Thursday, the way I’m going.

ARRRGHHHH!!!  Why can’t anything about this be easy for a change???

I did meet my new boss today, and she seemed very understanding about my situation.  I almost suspect, because of something she said, that she may have gone through IVF as well.  There really are an awful lot of us out here, which is both very sad and very encouraging.  I should add that she has a 5 year old daughter – hence the encouraging bit.

On the even-more cheerful side of things, although the dog DID drag a sweater (of his) and a wool scarf (of mine) downstairs into the bedroom to keep herself company while we were both away this afternoon, she did not actually eat either item.  This is definite progress.  Definite, much welcomed progress.

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Day 7. A good day.

And here’s hoping for the beginning of my cycle tomorrow.  

I’ve been on the Climara patches for a week now.  They’ve totally ameliorated the DHEA effects, as far as nasty taste & inclination to eat anything not nailed down.  Still losing hair in the shower, but not so much.  Face is clear, as it usually is pre-period.  Don’t know if it’s just natural cycling or extra hormonal goodness going on there.  But I’ll take it.  

Spent the day introducing the dog to the wonders of the beach.  She hasn’t opened her eyes since we dragged her home.  I’ve never seen her so delighted – or so tired.  She ran back and forth between us as we spread out on the beach, ears flapping, tongue lolling, utterly happy with herself for figuring out the game.  If owning a whippet is like having a toddler, I can’t wait to have a toddler  (though perhaps without the bedspread destruction feature included).  We went and bought DVD shelves to be delivered in about three weeks.  Had to pass on a delivery date the week of November 9 since I’ll be dealing with way too much medical stuff then to be worried about “who’s going to be home for the delivery guy.”  But I’m pleased to have bought furniture together (our first married purchase!) and even more pleased since it means all the dvds & vhs tapes I brought to this partnership will finally be accessible in the room where we watch tv, instead of being down a few flights of stairs in the basement.  

Then home to catch up on blog reading and laundry.  Boy is making spaghetti upstairs, and the whole house smells of sausage and oregano.  Good things, all.  

Again I say, “If every day could be like this, I wouldn’t have much left to ask of life.”

A good day.

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