Not that there was much doubt after 1 definitely negative home pregnancy test and 1 kind of cloudy off-brand home pregnancy test (no more Meijer-brand HPTs), but we got the blood test results back about 45 minutes ago, and I am definitely not pregnant this month.
According to the plan, we try again in Jan, but V and I will be out of town when I ovulate, so that pushes us back to February for our first try with Clomid. I’m looking forward to going off the progesterone and not worrying about drinking over the holidays, but 2 and 1/2 months seems like a long time to wait before we can try again. I’m glad we have Rosie and Buffy for distraction.
*For those not obsessed with TTC (trying to conceive), BFN stands for Big Fat Negative.
Last night for dinner I made a muffuletta sandwich and minestrone soup. For the sandwich, I used a round loaf of bread that Mel made Sunday evening. It was perfect because you have to hollow out the bread to stuff it with the sandwich ingredients. I was able to take out most of the guts without puncturing the bread. The bread soaked up the vinaigrette without getting soggy. For the soup, I used the turkey stock that Mel made from her parent’s turkey carcass. It’s really good stock, which makes it easy to make a good soup.
I never bargained for the emotional roller coaster that trying to conceive would be. I never imagined that I would find myself classified as infertile in my doctor’s files, have to take injections, vaginal suppositories, experience part or all of a fertility work-up, have to go in for multiple medical procedures on a monthly basis to achieve pregnancy. I thought my only barrier to producing a child was the chosen absence of a male partner.
This is a strange and sometimes lonely place to be. I have feelings that embarrass me, some that I can barely share with Vanessa. I resent mothers, particularly youthful mothers. It hurts to see them at the grocery store– one baby napping in the cart, another child toddling along beside. I resent young pregnant women in the mall, out at restaurants, at the doctor’s office. Sometimes I feel like they are flaunting their bellies– rubbing it in my face that they can shelter a life, and I can’t. If they’re not being malicious, they’re at least taking for granted the precious gifts that have been given to them– probably didn’t even ask for children. Never tried as hard as we are trying, paid what we are paying, got stuck with a needle over and over again in the pursuit of children.
My mother suggested once that perhaps this isn’t happening for us because it’s not supposed to. I hung up the phone, but that idea stays with me. Not long ago I caught myself wondering whether God sent us Buffy as a consolation prize– good enough to care for a dog, but not a human being. I know these are irrational thoughts, and I’m ashamed of them, but this is what the infertility monster does to you. On one of the blogs I read, a woman writes that she finds herself wondering whether not being able to conceive is a sign that the dysfunctional family line is supposed to end with her. I know what it’s like to feel that way, and it’s good to know at least that I’m not alone. That’s why I wrote this entry– not looking for folks to tell me these thoughts are irrational and that I’m a worthy candidate for motherhood but to let any other woman who might be reading this and experiencing infertility know that she’s not alone either.
I’m working hard to stave off the entropy of my consciousness. One approach is to learn something that creates order in the mind. I’m starting with the .NET Framework (pronounced dot net) Class Library. The .NET Framework Class Library is essentially a library of software for building software. It consists of a hierarchy of namespaces, which lends itself well to creating order. Actually, I don’t think the namespaces are truly hierarchical. They just appear to be. It’s not the actual namespaces that are hierarchical, rather it’s the data types that are organized by the namespaces. The inheritance pattern of the data types creates the relationships between namespaces.
The System namespace is often considered the top namespace. In a sense it is the top because all data types inherit from the System.Object data type. In other words, all the data types in the .NET Framework are children of System.Object. For example, the string data type (System.String) inherits from System.Object. So the hierarchy looks like this:
Everything to the left of the last period is the namespace. The word at the end is the data type. Consider the data type Font. The fully qualified name is System.Drawing.Font. The namespace is System.Drawing. The inheritance hierarchy looks like this:
Notice that there’s a type in between System.Object and System.Drawing.Font. It’s easy to think that System.Drawing is a sub-namespace of System, until you see something like this. Here’s another good example:
A Web part (in ASP.NET) is a kind of Panel, which makes sense when you think about. Panels are things you can turn on and off and use as containers for other controls. Web parts in SharePoint are a kind of ASP.NET Web part. That last data type – Microsoft.SharePoint.WebPartPages.WebPart – isn’t part of the .NET Class Library. It’s part of a Microsoft server application called SharePoint. And there are specialized kinds of Web parts in SharePoint that inherit from WebPart.
As you can see, it’s very complex but also very simple. It all starts at System.Object.
As most of you know, I’ve been working through some issues from childhood. I’ve been surprised by how real and raw reliving some of those experiences has been. I’ve re-experienced a number of traumatic episodes that I’d forgotten about. One good memory that I have is of a weekly in-patient therapy group that was facilitated by Dr. Larry Davis. It was 1985, and I was 12 years old. I was the youngest patient in an adolescent psych unit for youth ages 13 to 21.
My entree into that facility is one such traumatizing experience. For two weeks I sat on a chair and faced a wall from 6 am to 10 pm. I slept in the hallway. I was watched while I used the bathroom and showered. I ate all my meals at that chair in front of the wall. I was only allowed to attend on-unit activities. One of those was Dr. Davis’ group. I liked him instantly. I don’t know anybody who didn’t. He was laid back, and he listened. Not at all like my prick-of-a-psychiatrist who asked me if I masturbated while he was writing up the papers to send me to LaRue Carter for a year. No, Dr. Davis was one of the good ones.
Dr. Davis died today in a plane crash. I only got to see him one hour a week for four weeks, but he was a beacon of hope for me.
I’ve been working on Buffy’s crate training.
It’s not going so well, but Buffy doesn’t mind.
When you’re a lesbian you experience rejection from friends, family, and society. Once you find a group of people who are like you, it’s a good feeling. I remember the first time somebody came out to me. I was over at my friend Raymond’s house. His parents were out of town, and he usually hosted a week-long sleepover in their absence. My friends Raymond, Rob, and Michael came out to me in Raymond’s living room. I don’t know how I didn’t know they were gay, but I was unassuming back then. I knew Raymond from church, Rob from Ms. McBride’s speech class, and Michael from school and church. I had an instant peer group. The four of us along with a few other folks were a clique of inner city gay and lesbian youth.
We started attending IYG that same summer. I had just turned 16. I remember my very first IYG event. It was a Sunday Social hosted at the house of two lesbians who lived near Ellenberger Park. It was exhilariting and frightening at the same time. It was great to be around so many people like me, except I wasn’t really sure how much we had in common. After all, I wasn’t campy. I no longer cross-dressed. I didn’t sneak into bars, and I certainly didn’t talk about my sexual exploits in public.
I would go on to be involved in IYG for almost three years. I took on a leadership role in the organization and represented IYG regionally and nationally at conferences and on radio and television shows. I have some good memories. Good memories don’t haunt like the bad ones. I’m not going to go into the details now, but I will as time goes on. I will share with you the end of the story as it was written 14 years ago. I was rejected by IYG. I was told that I was too fucked up. I may have been fucked up, but I wasn’t the only one. And I hardly believe that the appropriate response by an organization that purports to support at-risk gay and lesbian youth is turn one onto the street because she’s “too angry”. I had good reasons to be angry then, as I do now. My experiences at IYG helped to fuel that anger. It also helped to alienate me from the gay and lesbian community. No more. I’m talking about what happened at IYG.