I decided I better get off my ass and post something today, because God forbid any new readers stumble by the blog and get hit over the head with the "My Dog Died" story.
What a boring, sad and depressing blog, you would think.
And actually it’s much more like a weird, inappropriate and extraordinarily loooooong-winded blog, so I just want to be clear on that.
When I last complained bitterly updated you, I was in the throes of yet another poor me phase. I was hoping that since the acupuncture and herbs had made such a difference the first two months, this month I would ovulate earlier than I normally do. But of course that would actually be GOOD news and what’s the fun in that?
My body finally geared up to ovulate around day 22, so it was back to its old tricks. It took its own sweet time, dithering around and probably getting stuck in traffic and throwing me off track by trying to ovulate around day 17, only to fake me out and wait another FIVE days which resulted in me having to have sex EIGHT times in TEN DAYS.
GAWD. Can you imagine the horror?!? I’m only just recovering now.
Currently I am on CD 31, so once again I am cramming progesterone tablets in my gaping maw trying to have a somewhat normal luteal phase. Which would, of course, mean a cycle length of about 36 days which is just no fun at all.
I guess having this setback after two months of good progress sort of threw me off balance and made me doubt my body’s ability to get pregnant on its own or with little intervention, which is why the whole IVF thing suddenly became a real option.
And I appreciate everyone’s comments reassuring me that I was not alone in having my head up my ass by believing that we would not have to pursue IVF. Really, your comments meant a lot to me and helped me reframe the issue slightly.
I think it was depressing to finally be looking at our last option, because if IVF doesn’t work, then fucking what? But when so many of you said you also felt a sense of relief, even excitement for crissakes, when starting the process because the odds of getting pregnant were so much better…well!
I’ll be goddamned, I thought. I had not really considered that angle.
When the very wise Thalia said not to make IVF the Bogey Man, something clicked.
Good God, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing, I thought in a rare moment of introspection and self-awareness. Then I went to the kitchen to eat a chocolate-covered granola bar because all that introspection and self-awareness can make a girl HUNGRY, and what’s not to love about a chocolate-covered granola bar?? It has the crunchy, sweet granola that tricks you into thinking it’s healthy and then it’s slathered in a generous layer of yummy chocolate and…wait.
Where was I?
Oh yeah.
So anyway, as I mentioned in the post we are talking to a local IVF specialist on October 17th and I’m gearing up for the whole thing. And by ‘gearing up’ I mean screaming at BeBop at the top of my lungs last night when he was in a snit.
"YOU’RE in a bad mood??" I sneered. "YOU have nothing to worry about my friend. I am looking at possibly getting the inside of my UTERUS ROTO-TILLED so I’m pretty freaking sure you have nothing to complain about."
Yes.
I am always cool, calm, collected and not at all a total ball of nerves and anxiety. Nor am I someone who frets over things before she even knows if she’ll have to confront these horrible and possibly quite uncomfortable or even very painful procedures. Nope. Not me.
But before I totally immerse myself in self-pity, again, let’s take a peep at
THIS:
Apparently in 1898, when you had a Hysteroscopy, it was performed by someone who looks suspiciously like one of the Wright Brothers, or perhaps Alexander Graham Bell.
I choose to believe the latter, and that this is an artist’s rendering of Mr. Bell testing prototypes of his soon-to-be-invented telephone. It was a hellava way to get dates back then, but what poor lass could refuse his pleading, "but it’s for science, and I swear THIS one will work. It’s for the good of all mankind!!"
Oh Lordy, I find myself totally off track again.
Let’s see…I did promise some good or some does-not-totally-suck news, and I guess the only thing I have to offer is this: My Mother graciously pre-paid for me to see the KEY MASTER four times over the next few weeks.
Which puts me in a total bind because even though I don’t think he’s going to sell me into white slavery or chop me up into little pieces anymore, I still don’t feel like spending a total of four hours getting poked and prodded by a tiny little Korean man making bizarre breathing sounds and belching (which is, apparently, his way of releasing my toxins which I would prefer to release on my OWN, thank you very much).
But to not go would annoy my Mother and believe you me, you do NOT want to annoy my Mother. It’s like confronting the white hot rage of a thousand blistering suns and going to the "healer" is, in the end, much better than that.
Trust me on that one.
She goes to an Indian ashram every year to meditate and chant and sing Indian prayer songs, but by God if you disagree with her, you better watch your ass.
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