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Am I Really Writing This?

19 Apr


In the name of all that is holy pasta, I can’t believe I’m here right now.

Don’t know what to do except to come right out and say it.


This month officially marked 6 months since we started trying.

So off to the doctor I went.

And now I’m doing monitoring. As in dates with Ole’ Wandy and blood tests. Every day. Until a trigger shot.

And I’ve been miserable for weeks now because I saw it coming.

So yeah – that’s happening.

Damn it.

I’m starting to fully feel the effects of knowing too much. If this doesn’t happen, then the pharmaceuticals get pulled out. Then all of those stupid acronyms.

And if it works…

Well – then that just means a whole new round of torture and waiting.


So I’m not sure this means I’ll be blogging. I’m honestly not sure I want to blog through this. We’ll see.

Regardless: If I use a single acronym in any posts in the near future, may the flying spaghetti monster pelt me with week-old meatballs.


Forgive Me Flying Spaghetti Monster, For I Have Peed

29 Nov

In my defense, I’m 8 days late.

Look, just the thought of spelling out when my last period was, or breaking out the old acronyms (AF! PCOS! HPT! PUKE!) is making me a little queasy. Long story short:

My cycle gets out of whack when I am over a certain weight.

I started stress eating when we decided to stop preventing.

I am now over that certain weight.

Que the whomp-whomp sound effects.

So either I was subconsciously sabotaging myself, or…

Ok –  I was probably subconsciously sabotaging myself.

Regardless, the diet begins this week. Because 3 pee sticks and the scale have told me that apparently I have to make a conscious effort.


(You may now commence the throwing of the stuff and things)

Hanging Out at the Station

6 May

Bunny turned 8 months old on Monday.

And all around me, people who have given birth around the same time as me, or perhaps a little before or after, are either discussing, working on, or already pregnant with baby number 2.

When it was starting to be clear that my pregnancy with Bunny was going to have a happy ending, Shmerson and I had a discussion. He was worried that I would want to jump directly to baby number 2 after Bunny was born. He was afraid that no time would pass and I would feel the pressure – and pressure him – to start trying again.

I was pretty sure that within months I would want to go again. As much as he didn’t trust me, I didn’t trust myself either. And logically we both knew that if nothing else, my body needed time to recover.

So we made a deal: No discussing baby number 2 until Bunny was 18 months old. That felt like a really long time for me. I thought for sure that even with that promise, I would never actually be willing to wait that long. I assumed that by the time Bunny would be about 6 months old I’d be hiding the condoms and peeing on sticks.

Now that everyone around me is back on the Baby Crazy Train, I thought for sure I would want to hop on board with both feet. I was waiting to have that itch to go again.

Monday night was Israel’s Independence Day. It’s holidays like these that make me look back and reflect, and also look ahead.  We went to my parents’ place to get a good view of the fireworks. Bunny was asleep in the guest bedroom, and Shmerson and I hugged on the balcony and watched.

This time last year, we hadn’t quite reached viability yet. I was going absolutely stir crazy and I was TERRIFIED. Looking at those fireworks, I couldn’t quite believe how far we’d come.

There are days I still feel like she’s not real. That I just look at her in awe. That I feel like my head is about to explode because holy crap – this amazing creature is mine to keep.

So on Monday night as we watched the fireworks, I looked ahead to next year and did the math: a year from now Bunny would be 20 months old. That’s two months past the 18 month “green light”. Will I be pregnant again?

Then, it hit me like a ton of bricks: Will I even WANT to be pregnant again?

The truth is that the answer is “maybe not”.

When we first got on the Baby Crazy Train I wanted three kids. There are days I still think that I want 3. But then I do the math. I’m almost 34. 35 is considered advanced maternal age and we already needed some medical intervention to conceive Bunny. So if we want 3, we can’t really take our time about it.

And getting pregnant for me is just the beginning of an ongoing nightmare. How many tries will we need to make another baby stick?

And say that baby sticks – that means another cerclage. Most likely bed rest at least for part of the pregnancy (even if it’s voluntary and just for my sanity). 9 months of anxiety again.

And this time we have Bunny to think about.

When I put that all together – I’m not quite sure I want 3 any more. I’m not quite sure how much more I can handle.

My body and my soul have been through the ringer. I NEVER want to go back there again. I will never again spend 3.5 years straight either pregnant or trying to get pregnant in pursuit of a baby.

I can’t do that ever again.

Yes – I want to bring Bunny a little brother or sister. Yes, perhaps 2 more would be nice.

But will we even be able to make it happen?

And even if we can…

I want to enjoy my baby girl. We have to move and get some more stability and cut down our commute. I want to continue to get my body back. I want to continue to get to know myself. I want to get back to enjoying my husband and my marriage. I’m working very hard on getting a life right now and I’d like to keep it for a while.

All of those things are important. All of those things would be pushed aside in pursuit of number 2.

So on Monday night, as I contemplated where we’d be a year from now, I literally felt dread at the thought of being pregnant.

Dread. This is how much I’m NOT ready to think about number 2.

And I don’t think I’ve ever surprised myself more.

Even with everyone around me working on it. Even with my dwindling fertility and the ever-ticking biological clock.

Maybe when we hit 18 months I’ll be ready. Heck – maybe I’ll even be hungry for it by then.

But for the first time in a long time  – I’ve taken myself out of the race. I don’t  feel the pressure. I don’t feel like I want to play catch-up with anybody.

I have chosen not to hop on this Baby Crazy Train.

For now, I’ll hang out at the station and play a game of peek-a-boo with Bunny.

And I’m just fine with that.

You may now pick your jaw up off the floor.

The Liberation of My Lady Parts

18 Oct

Warning: If you couldn’t tell from the title, this post deals with my female bits. Please don’t read on if this in any way disturbs you. This warning is specifically aimed at my brother who vocally complains when I TMI on here. Sissy – stop reading now! Kthnksbye.

Yesterday was my six week postpartum check up. I packed Bunny up in the car to show her off a bit and we headed over to see the Russian.

I haven’t talked much about my postpartum body here, so here’s a quick rundown:

I only had one first degree tear that required stitches. Ute cramping was a bitch and a half for the first week or so, but then that pretty much went away. My blood sugar leveled out almost immediately after the placenta was evicted. My feet were hella swollen for about a week. I get the occasional stabby pain in my nether regions but that should stop soon. I’ve lost about 20 pounds (bunny’s almost 7 and the placenta included) since Bunny was born. No diet, I assume all of it (or at least most of it) was water weight. Heavy bleeding lasted only about a week, and then I had light bleeding for another 3 weeks. There’s still quite a bit of fat on my bones and I am much heavier than I would like. I’m carrying the weight of five pregnancies, 6 months of modified bed rest, and 3.5 years of comfort eating to treat my depression.  A Weight Watchers membership is in my very near future.

So considering all of that, my folded over stomach (which is in desperate need of some yoga – also in my near future), and my epic stretch mark collection, my body has bounced back remarkably well. I really do count myself quite lucky. I know that recovery is a biyotch for a lot of women. My biggest issue was the horrible chemical anxiety loop I had. My body, on the other hand, made it out in very good condition.

So I wasn’t expecting any surprises when I went to see the Russian.

And guess what? For a change – there weren’t any.

I walked in, he took a look at Bunny and deemed her “Very nice, she has your nose.”

Then I had a magical date with Ole’ Wandy (oh how I didn’t miss him) and was pronounced “just fine.”

Once back at the Russian’s desk, he half laughed as he asked me if I wanted birth control, since he knew my answer would be “hell to the no.” He gave me a referral to get my blood sugar assessed just to make sure that the gestational diabetes is all gone, and that was it.

Me: “So I forget – how often do I have to come in to see you now?”

The Russian: “Once every six months for a check up. So six months from now. My secretary will call you with a reminder.”

Me: “So that’s it?”

The Russian: “Yep.”

I got up, grabbed Bunny’s carrier, and with that – my lady parts were officially liberated.

Seriously you guys – there should have been a ceremony or something. Imaginary trumpets went off in my head, but I really do think plaques should have been awarded. There also should have been some sort of interpretive dance or something to celebrate the occasion. They could have gotten Jimmy Kimmel to host.

Ok, so there was no fanfare, but my lady parts are officially on parole! After 3.5 years of getting poked and prodded down there by what seems like All the People, my ute, cootch, and all peripherals have now gained their independence.

Shmerson and I made a deal while planning for Bunny’s arrival. If all went well, talk of going for a second will resume NO SOONER than when Bunny is 18 months old.

It wasn’t an easy thing to agree to. After all, my biological clock is a moody diva. I didn’t write about it here but it took us 6 months to conceive Bunny, and I was monitored and took clo.mid. 18 months means we won’t even start trying until I’m going on 35. That does make me a little nervous, especially considering that my current pregnancy to live baby ratio is 5:1. Those odds aren’t exactly stellar to say the least. But Shmerson insisted, and I really was compelled to agree: My body needs a freaking break. It’s been through the ringer and needs some TLC.

So no hormones of any kind (condoms will do just fine in the meantime, thankyouverymuch). No pee sticks.No speculums or surgeries. No ultrasounds. No blood tests.

A cease and desist letter has been sent. The papers have been signed. The judge’s ruling is final. And so forth.

For the next 18 months at least, my lady parts are officially free. And I think I feel pretty good about that.

Fly lady parts, fly!


6 Dec

Some good news to report for a change!
HSG was clear. Ole’ righty is alive and tubing.
Thank FSM.
Oh, and unlike the last time, it wasn’t even that painful.
Score one for the Shmersons!

I Gots Me Some Drugs!!!!

29 Oct

Well, it only took 5 months with the RE, a handful of 43 day cycles, and me crying in her office out of sheer frustration – but Dr. Dexter finally did it!

I have full IF bloodwork to do, Shmerson gets to do his business in a cup, and I gots me some Clo.mid!!! Starting tomorrow – a five day protocol with ovulation monitoring.

If I’m not knocked up by the end of this cycle, then the next step is an HSG to make sure that Ole’ righty is still open.

Cue the collective sigh of relief.

Please oh please let me be one of those annoying IFers who gets knocked up after one Clo.mid cycle.

Any tips for how to handle the Clo.mid crazies?

Is it terrible that I’m jumping for joy?

Did I Actually Agree to Do This?

13 Sep

10 DPO and I’m out this month. Not a surprise, because I popped on the tubeless side, but annoying nonetheless.

Now on to our too-scarce-as-of-late regularly scheduled blog post.

You all know how much I love my pee sticks. I sing songs to them, I nickname them affectionately, I hoard them, and shake them like etch-a-sketches when they don’t give me the result I want.  Lately my obsession has expanded into the realm of Fertility Friend, where I temp religiously and check my chart 4-5 times daily, obsessing over each spike and dip.

Yesterday, as I was eating some fattening food to try to temper my BFN disappointment I finally realized that I have a problem. I’m becoming this grotesque peeing charting and eating monster. I don’t like the look of who I am lately. Not one bit.

Today in my EMDR session, I brought it up to my therapist.

I don’t know how she did it folks, but somehow she convinced me to hand over all of my pee sticks the next time I see her, and in her presence I deleted the Fertility Friend app on my phone. She made me promise to pee on a stick if and only if my period is late, and to stop charting for the next three months.

In the throes of a lovely therapy session, I agreed.

I already have the shakes from this process dear readers. Withdrawal is settling in. Twice today already I’ve gone to my phone to look at my chart only to realize that there is no chart to look at. At least once I caught myself thinking about when my next date of expected ovulation is only to realize that I have no way of speculating.

My therapist wants me to try a few months of trying for a baby the way normal people do it. Baby makin’ sweet sweet lovin’ every other day with no aids. Oh the horror!

In short – she wants me to give up control.

Next week is Rosh Hashana – the Jewish New Year. In honor of the occasion we made a list of all of the things I need to let go of. Guilt, the need to constantly control, self loathing, and pee sticks.

Oh, pee sticks!

She asked me what charting and all this freaking peeing was truly giving me. I admitted that it was the illusion of control.

Of course – she pointed out that this is precisely the reason I need to give them up.

So I agreed. I’m doing it. No charting or peeing for the next three months.

Holy crapnuggets – what the hell am I supposed to do with all of this free time?

Now pardon me while I crawl into a corner and shake while in the fetal position.

Get My A$$ to Vegas

8 Sep

5DPO. That’s right folks – I ovumalated!

10 days late, and on the tubeless side. So I’m really not getting my hopes up.

I’m generally doing ok. I’m just soooo sick and tired of this dance. I’m over it. For reals.

The only thing that is keeping me halfway sane is the fact that in exactly one month I will be at a $5 blackjack table in Vegas.

And if I’m not knocked up, I actually get to drink there.

I Think I’m Out

30 Jul

So this morning’s Rolls Royce pee stick had a single solitary line. According to one app I’m 10 DPO, and FF says I’m 9 DPO. I know it’s early but with past pregnancies (except the ectopic) I’ve had the second line by now. Plus my chart isn’t showing pregnancy-type temps.

So yeah – I think I’m out this month.

I don’t want to waste any more Rolls Royces so I had Shmerson hide them. If AF doesn’t show up by Saturday, then I’ll pull out another one, but I’m starting to make peace with the fact that this cycle is a bust. Not a surprise, since I popped from the wrong side.

I’m actually more OK with it than I thought I would be – though admittedly, I’m still hoping for a late bloomer – but I’m working on convincing myself that I’ve got at least one more month before my pee will magically make a second line appear.

Ahh well.

Bullets and Bunnies: Definitely Not Ovulating Edition

12 Jul
  • So I decided to go for ovulation monitoring after all. I figured it would save a ton of money in pee sticks. I got blood tests done today, and according to the nurse at the clinic “nothing’s moving in there.” I go in again for blood tests on Monday morning, with a date with Ole’ wandy that afternoon. But right now I am feeling pretty down. I doubt I’ll ovulate this month, which means another month down the drain. 
  • Who wants to look at my results and tell me I may still have a chance? You do? Ok, well here you go then:  E2- 105 , Progesterone – 1.93, LH – 14.6 . Have at it. 
  • I’ve lost close to seven pounds already. I was really hoping this would be enough to jump start things. And I want cake. 
  • I’m pissed at my body. Can you tell? Because I totally am. It needs to cooperate. 
  • I think I’m going to beg Dr. Dexter for drugs again on Monday if there are no follies up in my grill. 
  • Up in my grill. I can’t believe I actually wrote that. I totally can’t pull that off. 
  • Urgh. Just – urgh. 
  • Here’s a bunny – hopefully it will brighten your day a bit, because this post is a freaking downer. 

Let’s Play a Game

19 Jun

Ok ladies and gents! It’s time to play:

Where’s. Mo’s. Cycle!

The rules are simple: I give you the results of this morning’s blood tests, and you guess what the hell is going on with my cycle!

All for my amusement as I wait for my phone consult with the RE tomorrow!
You can win fabulous prizes!

Ready to play? Dim the lights and here we go!

E2: less than 100. Which means follicular phase!!!

Progesterone: 3.05. Which means… I have no idea because it’s too high for follicular and too low for luteal!!!

LH: 15.4. Which means luteal phase!!!

So… You’re up!

Where’s Mo’s Cycle?!?!

If you guess correctly you could win….

Lolcats! Bitter ranting! And another post from me later today!

(working on a big one for later, apologies in advance for clogging up your inbox)

Have at it ladies and….. Well, I’m assuming only ladies!!!!!

*applause sign here*

UPDATE: Ladies and gents, we have a winner! It’s me! I win pills to jump start AF! Dr. Dexter says my progesterone levels are really low, so I probably didn’t ovulate.

Give Me Drugs, Woman!

18 Jun

So I went to the RE today. And honestly, I’m not surprised at the outcome.

First – let me confess something: A small part of me was hoping that the date with ole’ wandy today would reveal a 6-week embryo.

Alas, my ute is as empty as the day is long. Or something.

But let’s begin at the beginning.

Allow me to introduce you to Dr. Dexter.

Not this Dexter:

This Dexter:

I’ve never had a lady bits doc that was a woman. I guess I was expecting sunshine and unicorn farts. Dr. Dexter was not that.

She had crazy glasses (hence the nickname), and was very straight faced and analytical. It was only at the end that she actually seemed empathetic. But I’m getting ahead of myself again.

After going through my history for an hour (!) mostly while typing it all on her computer, she pulled out wandy and took a look around. From what she saw, I didn’t ovulate this month at all.

So an hour and 15 minutes into the appointment, after poking around in there, we sat down and got to the heart of it.

I came in there expecting to either beg for (or something similar) or just have it prescribed.

Alas, Dr. Dexter had other plans.

She looked me in the eye and said: “You’re not going to like what I have to say.”


I told her to just go ahead and say it. And she did:

“You don’t have a fertility problem. You have a weight problem.”

Yep, you read right folks. I’ve been prescribed a diet.

Honestly? I’m not surprised. I’ve said it here before: I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been. And most of my past irregular cycle issues have been during periods that I was overweight.

Dr. Dexter said this is common with PCOS. Weight loss = regular cycles, weight gain = irregular cycles.

She said that even losing 5% of my current weight will probably jump start my cycle.

She sent me in for some blood tests that I will be getting tomorrow (E2, LH, Progesterone, and a beta just to make completely sure that my 100 pee sticks didn’t lie), and gave me a prescription to jump start AF, after I get the results and talk to her on the phone on Wednesday.

She pointed out that I am dangerously close to being a diabetic according to my latest blood tests, and the more weight I lose before the pregnancy, the better my chances are of avoiding pre-eclampsia and gestational diabetes.

Dr. Dexter did offer to do ovulation monitoring for the next few months with mid-cycle ultrasounds and all of those bells and whistles. She said it was unnecessary, but I think this woman has seen enough infertiles to understand my plight and therefore offered it for peace of mind. I’m not sure if I’m going to opt to do that. I’ll have to wait and see how I feel about it. It’s a lot of hassle. I may just opt to chart this cycle and see how that goes. She sympathized with my lack of patience, and my desire to get knocked up ASAP, which was nice.

I look at her hopelessly. “No drugs?”

Nope. No drugs for me. Just a good ole’ fashioned diet.

I’ve been hating on my body so much over the last few months that I haven’t been able to bring myself to diet. I’m sure most of you are aware of this vicious cycle. Hate my body, eat some chocolate to make me feel better, end up feeling worse because I ate that freaking chocolate.

I think that my lack of patience, and unending need to get this show on the road may end up being the swift kick in the butt that I need.

My cousin is a naturopathic dietician. She got a call from me today, and we’ll be meeting once a week starting this Thursday. She’ll be my own private (and free! Yay!) Weight Watchers meeting.

I’m ready to get this show on the road. I’m overdue for another pregnancy. I mean, it’s already been almost 4 months since my last one. This just won’t do.

Oy vey.

On Preggo-phobia

17 Jun

My first year or so on the blogoverse there was one thing I couldn’t quite relate to:  IF bloggers who couldn’t be around pregnant women. I didn’t get the whole “unfollow” thing, the lack of motivation for baby showers, the en-mass abandonment of blogs once pregnancies were announced. It never really bothered me to see other women’s success. I was totally ok with it.

Well boys and girls, it seems the tides have turned in Mo-ville. Yesterday’s fiasco, which I will shortly share with you, pretty much cemented the fact that I am officially preggo-phobic. Congratulate me! I have crossed over to the dark side!

It started getting really bad on our trip to Greece. There was a woman on our flight who I would guess was about 24-28 weeks along. She was thin and gorgeous and had the perfect bump. It infuriated me. She stood next to us on the bus from the plane to the terminal and I could barely contain the bile that rose up just from looking at her.

No reason other than the fact that a. She was pregnant and I wasn’t, and b. the biyatch was flying in her second trimester without a second thought. Next time I get to a second trimester – if that ever happens – I won’t even be able to pee without debating the risk vs. the reward.

From there it got worse. I could ID even the smallest hint of a bump. Shmerson began calling it my super-powered pregdar. By our last night in Greece, we were at a restaurant and I immediately spotted a woman who couldn’t have been more than 12 weeks along, who was not only enjoying a nice dinner in a nice hotel, but was also having a glass of wine with that dinner.

Oh, the rant Shmerson had to endure that night was one for the ages.

Once we got back, I was finding myself staying away from my google reader like the plague. It wasn’t just the women who had my due date that scared me off, it was everyone past the twelve week mark. It was every mention of a bump or nausea.

I was tempted to do a preggo cleanse on my reader until I realized that I loved every single one of these women and wanted a happy outcome for all of them. So I just opted to keep all of them in and merely keep my reading at a minimum for the time being.

Same thing was happening with post-pregnancy parenting blogs I used to read happily. I just couldn’t stomach it any more.

Let’s face it, I’ve become a “veteran” of the ALI blogosphere. Most of the women I started following when I first began blogging have long since moved on to parenting. So my reader has now become a veritable minefield. And let’s not even get into the guilt I feel for not commenting on those blogs any more.

I seriously just can’t take it.

Then last night came the veritable apex of the preggo-phobe craziness that has been my life lately.

I was invited to a birthday party. Now this is all well and good, I’ve been liking parties lately. But this party was for a woman who is part of a circle of friends who I last saw at a wedding when I was 18 weeks with Nadav, and they were cooing excitedly over my growing belly.

I was pretty much dreading going to this party, but I like this chick a lot, and I knew I had to see these people sooner or later.

Merely the prospect of going had me in a nice little grumpy state all evening. Then we showed up. The party was at this public park, so once we parked the car it was a bit of a walk to get there.

And guess what happens on the way?

Someone calls my name – I turn to see it’s an old friend of mine. A really nice woman who I’ve known since we were 15 and who got married about a year ago. She walks toward me with another woman, smiling and waving.

And both of them are sporting 20-week bumps.

This is the first thing I see as I enter the party.

I hug her, congratulate her, and proceed with a quick catch up. Then she walks away. As soon as she does, I quickly greet the birthday girl, and run off to a dark corner to cry.

All in all, a great start to the party.

I have NEVER cried at the sight of a baby bump before. Maybe it was because no one warned me. Maybe it’s just because of the whole impending due date thing.

Whatever it was, I needed a stiff drink to calm myself down enough to make me functional for the rest of the party.

I seriously can’t believe it’s come to this. When did I become this person?

Me no likey.

On the way to the party, the news came on the radio. A really rare species of rhinoceros, that is on the verge of being extinct, gave birth after a year-and-a-half long pregnancy.

Shmerson and I immediately looked at each other. It didn’t need to be said, but I said it anyway: “Maybe everything’s ok and I’ll just be giving birth to a rhino in a few days.”

Shmerson answered: “Well, that would be nice. Though I think you’d probably be a bit bigger if that was the case.”

This is what we’ve come to people. Freakish man-beast births have become the optimistic outcome.

Longest. Pregnancy. Ever!

13 Jun

Exactly two years ago today I got my first BFP.

Since then I’ve joined the blighted ovum club. The D&C club. The ectopic pregnancy club. The repeat pregnancy loss club. The lap surgery club. The missing tube club. The incompetent cervix club. The stillbirth club.

Today, on the two year anniversary of that marvelous BFP, that led to three weeks of anxious joy followed by two years of heartache, I joined the one club I still hadn’t been admitted to: the “I have an RE” club.

The Russian, after all, is a high-risk OB and a Gyno surgeon. He doesn’t do hormones. So I got a referral from him, and an appointment to see my brand spanking new RE this Monday.

This, on the two year anniversary of our first BFP. 9 days before Nadav’s due date.


Or as Shmerson says (and so would Comic Book Guy):

I’m Going Slightly (Pee-Stick) Mad

11 Jun

Sorry all non-IF readers – TTC geekery ahead.

CD 35.

You all know what happened last month.

So now I’m on CD 35, no AF in sight, and BFNs across the board.

Thing is? The BFNs are on the HPTs, not the OPKs. OPKs keep on coming out positive. That’s NEVER happened to me before this last pregnancy. Usually they’re nice and negative a day or two after I pop. Now they just keep on coming up positive.

And I have nooooo idea what the frick is going on.

I’m seriously starting to get worried that my PCOS is acting up again. That’s usually the explanation for consistently high LH levels. At least that’s what I can tell from Dr. Google.

Thinking of biting the bullet, making an appointment with the Russian, and asking for clo.mid.

Am I over reacting? Thoughts?

PS – breaking up with my therapist tomorrow! Wish me luck!

This Post Isn’t Sunshine and Unicorn Farts

5 Jun

The first thing I did after losing Nadav was go out and buy a pack of cigarettes.

For the first couple of weeks, I was on about two packs a day.

I’ve talked about my struggle to quit smoking here before. I’ve had stumbles, and somehow between every loss I fall back into the smoking trap, only to struggle with quitting again.

This time it’s no different. I promised Shmerson I would quit before we get pregnant. And I was on my way to doing that.

Today I got yet another BFN, and the first thing I did after getting it was to light up.

If you don’t smoke, or have never been a smoker, it’s hard to explain how addictive this crap really is.

For me, smoking is my own little way of punishing myself.

I hate my body.

I’ve always had a bit of a rocky relationship with it, but these last two years have really done a number on me.

On days when I feel particularly weak, I find myself crying and telling Shmerson that I killed our babies. It’s a dark, scary feeling to have.

Though the logical side of my brain knows that this is not the case, there’s a place deep down inside of me that feels this way. At the end of the day, my body failed to carry our children and to keep them safe. I hate it for that. I hate myself for that. Though I know that everything that happened was outside of my control, I can’t help but harbor this hostility.

So of course, the logical thing to do when you hate something so much is to destroy it. Some people cut themselves. Some people starve themselves.

Me? I eat and I smoke.

And then I hate myself some more for doing it.

I am the heaviest I have ever been. So much so that I’m afraid to step on a scale. I can’t stand looking in a mirror. I hate every thing about myself right now, and I’m too far down in the muck to do anything about it.

It’s just daunting. There’s so much there to deal with.

And to make matters worse, I have the looming prospect of eventually getting pregnant again, and having to be in bed for six months, and ballooning even farther out of control.

I can’t just wake up one day and say “I’m going to change everything.” It’s impossible. I’m doomed to fail if I put myself up against something that impossible.

But the truth is, right now, I can’t even find the strength to say “I’m going to change one thing.”

Because this kind of stuff takes time, and I am out of patience. I am tired of waiting. I don’t feel like I want to throw any more time than is necessary into the dark black succubus that is my inability to carry a child to term. I need this to be behind me, and the sooner it is, the better.

That doesn’t leave time for self-improvement.

Last week, I had a meeting with the head of the MA program in art therapy in my city. She loved me. She wants me in the program. Not only that, she wanted me in the special accelerated program that would give me a Master’s in a year and a half instead of three, and would get me off the hook with some of the program’s pre-requisites.

Then I told her about my plans to get pregnant again, and the looming bed rest.

She said that there was no way I could do the accelerated program while on bed rest.

So now I have to take a year to complete my pre-requisites, then do the three year program. Because there’s no way I’m going to wait another two years to get pregnant while I do this degree.

So that’s 4 years total instead of a year and a half. Yet more time sucked into the black hole that is my uterus.

I will not have a resolution until I have a take-home baby. And I will most likely continue to hate myself until there is a resolution. I wish I could say things were different, but that’s just how I feel.

Over the past few weeks and in the coming weeks, babies are going to be born to some amazing women. Those women got pregnant at the same time that I was pregnant with Nadav. I was supposed to be one of those women, posting a happy update. Posting pictures. Telling a birth story.

I am not. And that pain is too much to deal with.

So self-destruction and body hate is my fallback position.

I hate that. I hate that I can’t be rational about this. I hate that I can’t be healthy. I hate that a BFN this morning drove me to smoking and chocolate. I hate that I was ever put in this position to begin with. I hate how unfair all of this is.

I hate that I can’t do better.

I texted Rachel this morning about my BFN. She answered “It makes sense. Your body isn’t ready!”

I answered back:

“My body is a douchenozzle.”

Yep. That pretty much sums it up.

Notes To Self

3 Jun
  • Shaking an HPT like an etch-a-sketch will NOT magically make a second line appear. 
  • You don’t know when you ovulated so all is not necessarily lost. 
  • You really need to get on that post about the vacation, it’s far more amusing than your pee-stick obsession. 
  • Stop being depressed! It’s still early! Seriously! Stop that now!
  • If this cycle is a bust, make sure you monitor your ovulation properly next month so you don’t drive yourself crazy again. 
  • Have you noticed that you channel your anxiety into pee sticks? You should discuss that with your therapist tomorrow. For reals. 
  • You’re obsessing about pee sticks just by writing this post.
  • Shaking an HPT like an etch-a-sketch will not… STOP SHAKING THAT THING ALREADY!

An Addendum to My Previous Post

31 May


That is all.

To Pee or Not to Pee

31 May


Me: What are you so excited about?

Me: We’re back from vacation!

Me: How is that a GOOD thing?

Me: We get to pee on stuff!

Me: Um, not quite yet.

Me: Yes! We must pee on All the Things NOW!

Me: Nope.

Me: Why not?

Me: Because we’re not sure when we ovulated. At best, it was last Thursday. At worst, it was a couple of days ago. No pee stick will give us a BFP right now.

Me: Sure it can!

Me: Explain.

Me: Because I had the “I’m preggo” feeling.

Me: Yes, but even if we are preggo, it will still take a couple of days before anything shows up. A couple of days at best. More like 5 or 6.

Me: Nope! I’ve decided we fertilized last Thursday, and there’s been a cluster of cells digging into our ute ever since.

Me: That’s impossible.

Me: I will it to be so!

Me: That won’t make any difference.

Me: I have magic pee that makes two lines appear!

Me: Nope.

Me: We MUST pee! Now!

Me: We have one solitary Rolls Royce. I will not allow you to squander it on your silliness.

Me: Please?

Me: Nope.

Me: Pretty please?

Me: Try a popsicle stick.

Me: Pretty please with a cherry on top?

Me: I don’t like cherries.

Me: You suck.

Me: You can pee on some cherries.

Me: Gross.

(I promise I will post a vacation recap tomorrow. For now, I am in tired crazy town. Welcome!)

Debunking Two Week Wait Symptoms

23 May


Howdy new visitor! This post seems to be very popular on the google machines. If you found your way here because you’re suffering through the two week wait- hi! I feel your pain.

Before you read on please note that I am not a doctor. The post below was written with a tone of snark. Feel free to read it, though it’s just my opinion and nothing more. You’re even more welcome to click around the blog. I’m sure you’ll find my other posts way more enlightening than this, and some even kind of funny (and others debilitatingly sad, but such is life). Happy reading!

I think one thing that you get from being pregnant as often as I have is that you realize that what “they” say is true. Each pregnancy is different.

As much as we all like to obsessively seek out symptoms during the dreaded window between ovulation and AF, the fact is that most of it is useless self-torture.

Yep – I said it. TWW symptoms are total BS.

Oh yes Dramatic Chipmunk. I totally went there.

For the sake of argument, let’s break down the process, shall we?

A spike of a hormone called LH triggers ovulation. At that point the progesterone levels rise.

If after two weeks there is no pregnancy, the corpus luteum (basically the remains of your follicle on your ovary)  collapses, causing a sharp drop in progesterone and estrogen and triggering AF.

If a fertilized egg starts nestling in your ute, then it produces a hormone called HCG (AKA the dreaded/eagerly awaited Beta), which causes the corpus luteum to continue to produce the necessary hormones to sustain a pregnancy until the placenta is fully formed.

So science sez that up until HCG is introduced into the body, the hormone levels in the body are identical, whether egg met sperm or not. More importantly – all that HCG does in early pregnancy is just to tell the corpus luteum to keep producing progesterone. Which it was doing pre-implantation anyway.

So that’s the science of it.

The plain old logic of it is that progesterone spikes whether you’re knocked up or not. And progesterone is what is the known cause of early pregnancy symptoms.

So that nausea you’re feeling? Yep – could just be progesterone. Or something you had for dinner.

Swollen bre.asts? Progesterone.

Food cravings? Think back – how many times just before AF showed did you just NEED to have that bacon cheeseburger?

Mmmmmm…. Bacon cheeseburger…. *Drool*

So really? The first sign of pregnancy that is for sure a sign of pregnancy is a missed period. Period.

If two week wait symptoms were truly a “thing,” then they would be consistent with each pregnancy and with each woman, wouldn’t they?

There ya go.

But that doesn’t mean you should stop obsessing. After all how else will you keep your brain occupied once you ovulate?

I also pretty much know that despite going to all of this trouble to debunk this, I probably will too.


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