posted by Mel
We really had a lovely one, despite what you see here…
Yeah, I dropped the pumpkin pie as I was taking it out of the oven– Twice. The first time it would have been cracked on the top but salvageable. The second time I must not have had a good handle on the sides of the pan, and the pan collapsed inward. Part of it ended up inside the oven.
Vanessa, sensing no good could come from the curses she heard issuing from the kitchen compounded by the presence one curious black dog, a still very hot oven, and a steaming pan full of custardy pumpkin pie guts, raced in and
pinned my arms to my sides held me until I was able to function like a rational human again. It was too late to get out and get more ingredients (had already made a late grocery trip anyway for store-bought crust– I did not have the fortitude to make it from scratch this time around), and my sister was already planning on bringing two pies, so we decided we could do without. I shoved what was left of this sloppy one in the fridge, and Vanessa, Eric, and I, who are fine with eating a mangled pie in the privacy of our own home, will perhaps enjoy it tonight.
Since I have already profaned the holiday by forcing 7 people to forego their pie, here is a late Halloween pic– the dogs in their costumes. Rosie’s the cop, and Buffy is her inmate.
posted by Mel
This is a little late. Stirrup Queens called on all of us infertiles to post about our experience with infertility on November 8th for National Infertility Awareness Week to give a human face to the 12 1/2 % of the population who struggle with this. I’m having a hard time with that. It’s not something I feel like an activist about right now—maybe if/when I get pregnant I’ll feel differently. Right now it’s something I’m ashamed of, ashamed of being ashamed of, frustrated by, afraid of for everyone I love. It’s something that makes me tired. It’s something I don’t want anyone else to have to experience, but I’m not sure it’s not a story I can spend any more energy in telling right now. If you want to know where we’ve been and what we’ve done about it, read the archives.
I’m struggling to hope that I can be a mother one day—to someone I can really claim as my child. What we do for Eric is something akin to mothering, but I know that where he is and what he needs right now is fleeting. Soon he’ll be a really incredible adult who I know will enrich our lives as we raise our own children. He will be the coolest uncle ever if we can give him a niece or nephew. Who wouldn’t want a kind, grungy, skateboarding artist for an uncle?
I’m trying to believe that we can fit an IVF into Vanessa’s already crowded crazy stressful work schedule. I feel guilty for putting her through a mood and body altering drug regimen and an uncomfortable invasive procedure because my eggs won’t do the job. I cannot apologize to her enough for this, and I think that probably makes her a little crazy. She brought up taking a work trip the month we’re planning to retrieve, and I hate that I can’t see a way to make it happen. I hate that my body’s failure has created so much inconvenience and expense.
Please do not tell me I shouldn’t feel this way and that it’s not my fault. I know I shouldn’t feel this way. I’m ashamed of feeling this way, and yet I cannot stop feeling it. I know it’s probably not my fault, but I can’t help questioning everything I’ve done that might have made my body turn against me—was it all the weight I gained in college? Was it drinking out of plastic cups and bottles? Eating genetically-modified produce or meat? Did I handle dangerous cleaning solutions without appropriate protection? As yet, doctors offer no answers.
It’s not the needles, the discomfort, the loss of modesty, the endless scheduling of appointments that make infertility suck so hard. It’s the shame and self-doubt. It’s ugly, and it changes you forever, and I am still looking for the silver lining.
posted by Mel
Somehow after someone threads a foot-long needle through your veej and fumbles around with it inside your oversized aching ovaries for 20 minutes or so, an inch long intramuscular injection looks like a day at the beach. Yeah, I got my flu shot this afternoon.
Speaking of needles, I’m ready to get this show on the road again. Vanessa’s having CD3 bloodwork done tomorrow, but this is just her first E2 and FSH test. We both still have to have the whole fertility work-up again. We have plans to retrieve her eggs in March or April 08. That is such a long way away. Meanwhile, I cannot even tell you how many people we know who have gotten pregnant and already had babies in the 2 years since we began trying– many who started AFTER we did. I try to be happy for them, but the bitterness has been bubbling up again a lot lately. Another holiday season and still no little one to celebrate.
On a comical note, I was moaning to my mother over this the other day and she suggested that perhaps my eggs are not bad after all and that our RE might have actually retrieved them and then SOLD them to other infertiles. When Shirley becomes crazy conspiracy theory girl now, I get off the phone. For some reason, she finds it even harder to accept my infertility diagnosis than I do. I’m pretty sure this is because she thinks it somehow reflects negatively on her genes. If I’ve learned nothing else by now, it’s this: our struggle to become parents is ultimately all about her.
Go home from a party 3 doors down to grab a couple of Mountain Dews and return with an entire case on his shoulder
Use the plunger designated for unclogging sinks for unclogging a toilet and forget to tell you about it until you are about to use it again on a sink
Run water continuously while brushing his teeth even though the sink is clogged, the spit is floating, and the water is dangerously close to overflowing
Drape his wet jeans over all the rafters in your basement because he’s still afraid to use the dryer
Make you his friend on MySpace