Month: September 2011

Game Over.

Like the end of so many vampire novels, the result of today’s blood draw has left me with nothing but an empty feeling and dark circles under my eyes.

I wish I could at least get a sparkly boyfriend outta the deal.

Shit.  Or even a cookie.

Time to commence with the eating of the feelings.  I think I will start with the cookies and sadness…

*Le Sigh*

…Maybe October will be my month.


If Only.

September 28th, 2011.  CD29, 13DPO.

Fair warning, friends — this post is a huge word-dump, but hey–sometimes you just have to take one.


…What a week… And it’s only Wednesday.


So, not only did I start taking the Prometrium after Dr. Fran called last week to inform me of my slightly concerning progesterone levels, I now have a fancy new side effect to deal with.

Even though I am taking this versatile medication orally rather than the convenient vaginal route (gross, dude), I still managed to acquire a poorly timed yeast infection.  I’m sure you wanted to know…

Anyway, I’ve only ever had one, and it was mild.

Not this one, however.  This one is a rager, and my downstairs is a hot mess.  Seriously.  Do not enter.  Danger!

I also feel like crap.  The progesterone is making me super bloated, and I feel like I have to hide my belly under layers of clothes like a pregnant teenager in Catholic school.  And for the past couple of days, I’ve felt hungry and empty at the same time, similar to the way I feel the first couple days of taking Femara.  Weird, I know.  Ugh.

Oh, and one of the other fun side effects of Prometrium?

Making Tracy bat-shit crazy.

I know there may be one or two of you reading who know me in real life, and perhaps a few of you even remember as far back as Birth-Control Tracy.  I mean, that was a long time ago, but Birth-Control Tracy was a crazy bitch.  A crying, yelling, Dashboard-Confessional-listening, walking basketcase.

Progesterone Tracy is making Birth-Control Tracy look like a church mouse.

(I have never seen a mouse at church, but I’m assuming they are quiet and well-behaved and generally refrain from nearly reducing their husband to tears for merely leaving his wallet on the table instead of putting it in the specially designated wallet bowl.)

So knowing that I am a powder keg full of crazy has been a good time.  Please do not light matches near me.  Or leave your wallets lying about.

I have been trying to take my mind off of the complications and setbacks of this cycle by putting more time into cooking dinner for the husband and I.  I have made a couple of homemade soups, and from-scratch chicken enchiladas in the past week, and they’ve all turned out to be successes.  As in, none of the leftovers made it to the freezer because they were consumed for lunch the next day.  I call that a good turnout.

I wish I’d planned a meal for tonight, because I could really use a distraction… My beta is tomorrow, and Aunt Flo isn’t here.  This is a longer luteal phase than I usually have, and while I understand that introducing the progesterone probably has a lot to do with it, that fact doesn’t make my hormone-addled crazy-factory work at a less feverish rate producing all sorts of situations in which I could end up pregnant this cycle.

My logic says that I shouldn’t believe it.  The timing wasn’t amazing this month, we weren’t able to use the Ovidrel or have ultrasound monitoring, and my temps have been low and sad.  Plus, said temp also dipped below the coverline today suggesting that I should probably abandon the shreds of hope I have left.

But I keep having crazy-vivid dreams about pregnancy… And not the Clomid-type dreams where I feel like I just snorted a Sheen-sized pile of hallucination-dust, but the type of dreams that feel like memories.  The type that you are so sure are real, that it takes you a few minutes to come back to your bleak reality when your alarm jolts you awake.  They are almost so real that it hurts to accept the truth every morning.

Oh, and here’s a little more…

Yesterday I said something out loud that I have really been avoiding thinking too hard about.  I was in the kitchen with the husband, scrolling through Facebook on my phone.  I noticed that someone close to us had begun shopping for a new house, and my immediate thought was “Oh God.  They’re pregnant.

I said as much to the husband, and he reassured me that if they were, we would surely have heard by now.  Unless they purposely didn’t tell us because they were afraid to hurt my feelings.  And then he realized what I feel every day.  It was sad seeing him lose that sense of innocence that we all go into baby-making with.

I said to him, “I know that babies aren’t the solution to anything… Except pregnancy, I guess… But I feel like if I could just get pregnant, every other problem in my life would seem so much less important.  I could stop flinching every time someone calls me that I haven’t heard from in a while, and stop wondering if people are house-hunting because they’re having a baby when in reality they just need more space for their crap.

…And he didn’t know what to say either.  At least we have each other in this.

It was a sad moment.

Oh, and in depressing entertainment news, my favorite soap opera went off the air last week, and I have officially run out of dvr-ed episodes to keep me company.  Also, someone who I assume is out to ruin my life took on the monumental task of remaking one of my favorite movies of all time, Footloose.

I can’t imagine Kevin Bacon is happy about this.  And you wouldn’t like angry Bacon.

Oh who am I kidding… I love all bacon.

…Dammit.  I wish I had some bacon.


Survey Saaaays…


You are now the proud owner of a bottle of progesterone supplements to be taken from now until you either get a negative beta, or until you find yourself ten weeks pregnant!  And as an added bonus, they can be taken either orally or vaginally–whatever grills your cheese!!




In the game show of life, I am not winning.


What is "not this blog post", Alex?


Dead On My Feet

September 18th, 2011.  CD19, 3DPO.

I want to start by apologizing for my whine-fest the other day.  It was a low moment, and I’m completely better now.  I have some amazing friends and family members, and a super-supportive man who’ve all  been there for me in a totally non-pitying way.

I’m at peace with all of it, and I intend to stay that way.

In other news, I got my crosshairs today.  Three days past ovulation, and I did it all on my own without the Ovidrel!  I don’t really feel like it was any different this time than it has been with the trigger, but our timing was decent this month at least.

One new development is my excruciatingly sore nipples.  Like hot ice picks being stabbed through them… Gah!  That’s been going on since I ovulated, and it’s a pretty new thing.  I usually don’t get much in the way of breast tenderness except maybe a day or two before Aunt Flo shows up, so this is pretty crazy.  I’m really trying not to read too much into it…

I’m also exhausted.   E X H A U S T E D.   Oy, it’s ridiculous!  I couldn’t go out with friends last night because I couldn’t keep my eyes open at 9pm, and as I’m typing this, I feel like I’m barely able to string two words together and it’s only 8:30!  I’m also trying not to read too much into that…

Not much else new here.  I have a progesterone test this week Thursday (yay, needles), and a beta next week Thursday (yay, more needles), so the two week wait is in full effect around here.  I’m trying not to be bitchy.  I’ve not been successful thus far… Here’s hoping the exhaustion, bitchiness, and sore nipples turn around sometime this week.

Preferably sooner than later.




September 13th, 2011.  CD14.

*Warning – Pity Party Ahead*

I’m really tired of getting happy, joyous, absolutely wonderful news from people I love and then feeling terribly sad about it.

And I’m tired of feeling guilty about feeling sad.

And I’m tired of eating my feelings.

…Okay, that last part’s not entirely true. I do love ice cream, and even pregnancy announcements from very dear friends that make me happy and sad and guilty do not diminish my love for frozen sugary treats.

Anyway, on my drive home yesterday, I received “the call” from someone very close to me, who shall remain both nameless and description-less so as to protect her happy news from going public before she’s ready… Someone who I know is reading this post now, and has probably been anxious about my reaction since the day she found out she was expecting. Someone who is such an important part of my life, and who has had her share of ups and downs on this road to motherhood, that it makes me feel like absolute dogshit to even feel anything but pure joy at her news.

I’m selfish. I try not to be. I try to give it to God and all of that. It’s just hard to hear other people’s good news and not feel bad for myself and my dried up, lonely uterus. It’s also hard to feel like such a burden to the people close to me. I hate the thought that they have to think about how they will tell me about their pregnancies and take into account how I will feel when they have just received the best news of their lives.

I should be the last thing they are worried about… But infertility puts me–and my fertile loved ones–in a delicate position.

And so, I cried a little in the bathroom at work today.

Not because this news hurt me to hear, or because I’m an emotional mess who does this a lot, but because I realized, almost 24 hours later, the overwhelming enormity of my situation.

Of my five closest friends, four have conceived in the past three years. The only other one who hasn’t, just got clearance from her oncologist to proceed in the baby-making direction after a nine-month battle with lymphoma has left her in remission. I pray that the radiation and chemo didn’t damage her reproductive system, and that she won’t have to go through treatments to have the child she so desperately wants.

But when that happens, I will probably cry again.

And If I haven’t said it before, I’ll say it clearly now: I am not a crier.

It must be that it’s harder to hear from the people closest to you. I see pregnancy announcements on Facebook all the time, and while they annoy me and eat away at my confidence a little, they don’t make me feel so desolate.

My workplace is also filled with people celebrating pregnancies and babies and their children’s milestones.  I get emails at least twice a week announcing coworkers’ new additions, complete with smiling hospital photos of mom and baby.  As I type this (on a break at work, of course), the guy sitting behind me is on the phone with his wife apparently figuring out that no, she is not in labor, but the doctor wants to schedule an induction for Monday if baby hasn’t yet arrived. A whole group of male coworkers has now gathered and is asking questions that sound so humorous to me…

“Has your wife had an exam this week?”

“Is she effaced at all?”

“I bet the doctor will strip her membranes before they try anything else.”

Ew. And also, LOL. Men shouldn’t talk about membranes unless they have an “MD” after their name.  They should just hand out cigars and be done with it.

New life is everywhere…  Everywhere except my midsection, I guess.

I really shouldn’t complain. My friend’s pregnancy will be high-risk, and I know that the road ahead is going to be a tough one for her. I will do everything I can to be there for her, regardless of what is or is not going on inside of me at the moment.  The same way she has been there for me through all of this, and the same way she took such great care to be sure I didn’t hear her news from anyone but her.

I’m so happy for her, truly. Seriously. Ecstatic. And supportive, and understanding, and excited!

…And yet, I’m sad for myself. And craving carbs. I might eat a loaf of bread for dinner. And cry a little. Because being bloated and puffy-eyed is exactly what our robot-sex-life needs right now.

And when I’m done with my pity party, I will pick myself up off the floor and start thinking up ideas for my friend’s baby shower, because she’s one of my favorite people, and she and her little person deserve the best darn shindig this barren broad can possibly throw.


As sad as I am for myself, I am happier for you.

I love you, Admin. 


Things That Make You Go “Hmmm…”

I’m tired of being obsessed with having a baby.

I mean, it’s not like it’s gonna stop or anything, I’m just saying that it’s exhausting.

Today, to get out of my head a little, I started following a couple of new blogs.  One is about a family, one is about a young couple, and the other is about the one kind of person who is pretty much in the exact opposite point in life that I currently am:

A single male, looking for love.

Shock!  Horror!!

No really.  The guy’s funny.  And we’ve met, which is cool.  He was at the bonfire where I said “cervical mucus”, and to my knowledge, he didn’t judge me.

Well, probably not too much.

Okay, maybe he did, but thus far he has not blogged about the crazy drunk girl who couldn’t stop talking about bodily fluids.

Either way, sometimes it’s nice to realize that there are other situations in life that are hard.  It’s tough trying to get knocked up, but it’s also tough navigating your way through dating sites and singles bars when you have standards.

It’s all about perspective, people.  I’m trying to have some.

Oh, and then another funny thing happened… Someone found their way to my blog by Googling the phrase “Mexican tacos that look like vaginas.”


I’m so proud.


You Can’t Say Cervical Mucus at a Bonfire.

September 6th, 2011.  CD7.

Well, tonight’s my last night of Femara for this cycle.  Dr. Fran allowed me to be medicated without monitoring, but no Ovidrel for me.

This is almost like doing it the old-fashioned way!  Take my temperature?  OPK’s??  What are we, Amish?!

Just pills.  No shots.  No ultrasounds, no blood work.  Well, except for the beta, I’m sure.

With this new “grown-up hours” work schedule, I just don’t have the time to be monitored.  Maybe if my doctor was in the same city as my job… or the same state, even.  This hour-long commute (one way!) to the doc’s office just isn’t going to cut it.  I think I may have to find a new RE.


And I was just starting to like the one I’ve got!

Anyway, enough about my dusty reproductive system.  How about a life update?

Things are going well here.  We are mostly settled in; I spent most of yesterday in my stretchiest stretchy-pants organizing, sorting, putting away, and decorating.  There are a few walls left to paint, but it’s been too chilly and damp for the paint to dry.  Which is the excuse I’ve been using to not paint.  Because I suck at painting.

In other news, I am loving my new job.  The people are progressively more awesome every day, and I’m working on controlling my latte addiction–which is not easy, given the proximity of the coffee shop.

I’m also learning my way around the area more.  I can already get to work, two different grocery stores, the pet store, and Target (much to the husband’s dismay).  I also know how to drive the mile through the neighborhood to the in-laws’ house.  All without my GPS!  …I don’t have much of a sense of direction, or a very good driving memory, so this is big news.  Don’t judge me.

I’m also finding that it’s nice having family and friends close by.  We were able to go to a bonfire on Sunday night and actually stay late without worrying about driving a long distance home.  It was great.  I consumed four beers, too.  That was also great.

I got a little tipsy after my second adult beverage in probably six months, and told the whole bonfire crowd about how the only time of the month I can/I feel like having a beer is when I’m taking fertility drugs.  I then had to explain the month down to the day:

Days 1 – 3:  Aunt Flo is ruining my life, and although drinking sounds like a sweet escape, it would really just make me feel even crappier.

Days 4 – 7:  Femara days.  Feeling better; Aunt Flo is on her way out, and having a drink is an attainable reality.

Days 8 – 15:  Technically I could drink, but since alcohol dehydrates a person, and I don’t want to compromise my cervical mucus, I generally stay away.  (FYI, don’t ever say “cervical mucus” at a bonfire.  For reals.)

Days 16 – 28:  The two week wait = I could be pregnant, and I want to wait until after my kid is born to start damaging him or her.  No drinky.

It might not have been a classy move on my part, but it was fun.

Oh, and then this happened–I drunkenly counseled a twenty-one year old about not waiting to get things checked out if she thinks she might have a fertility problem.

Now, this may not have been responsible of me, but I was on fertility jag and she brought up the issue, so I went with it.  She is completely single, in school, and has no intention of babies any time soon, but she mentioned being concerned that she and her previous boyfriend never even had a pregnancy scare.  They were together for two years, and had a rather casual birth control routine (read: none).  I told her to mention it to her Ob-Gyn and not to take no for an answer if the doctor wouldn’t pursue further testing.

I don’t care if you’re thirty and married and have been trying unsuccessfully to conceive for years, or if you’re twenty-one and single and just have “a feeling” that something is wrong–we are our own best advocates when it comes to our health.

If something doesn’t feel right, get it checked out.  And don’t back down until you’re sure!


…Okay, I’m back off the soapbox now.  Please return to your regularly scheduled embarrassed head-shaking.



Pretending you’re pregnant isn’t cute (via Yolk: A blog about eggs and sperm)

Because I couldn’t have said it better myself. Ever. I'm really super pissed off at Facebook this morning (even more so than usual). Yesterday, I saw someone post the status, "I'm eight weeks and craving bananas." So naturally, I got on the Twitter and vented my anger as this grand eight week pregnancy announcement. I

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Summertime Sadness

A safe space where I discuss the racing thoughts in my head, personal struggles, and day-to-day activities while struggling with mental health and mood disorder issues. My personal goal is to reduce the stigma that comes with mental health and mood disorders, by talking more about it.