Seven Swans A-Swimming

Hey, y'all. How's it?

On the blog and in my life, I'm feeling a need for spring cleaning. Got a number of projects malingering* around the house and mind, needing to get finished before I can move on to new things. So here's one I've been letting slide for too long:

April, of CD 1 Again -- and doesn't that title say it all? Don't you wish you were still back in the innocent past, when "CD 1" was the first disc in your compact disk changer? -- gave Our Dear Blog this award some time ago. Thank you, April! You're grand.



Here are the rules:
*Thank the person who nominated you and link to their blog.
*Copy the award and paste it to your blog.
*Tell us 7 interesting facts about yourself.
*Nominate 7 bloggers that you love and link to their blog.

(I know the purpose of these things is to tell you a bunch of random** details about my non-TTC life, like that I know how to eat fire and did so in several parades in college or that I was one of those super-nerd kids who took the SAT in 7th grade for no particularly good reason (but they gave me a book of timelines of European history (that I never read) because I got a good-ish score) or that my fingers are double-jointed, but really? All I want to talk about right now is TTC stuff. So here follow seven facts about our current TTC plans. You'll have to decide for yourselves whether they're more interesting than knowing that my geneticist father and I both have simian creases on our left hands and that he used to show his medical students slides of my xeroxed hand prints (Remember xeroxing your hands? Wasn't that the greatest?) and that I wonder if I'll one day have a child with the same crease (Oops, that one was TTC-ish).)

Seven Possibly Interesting Facts

1. We met with Dr. Baby Factory yesterday, so he could re-wand my cysty ovaries.

2. They look the same as last summer, which is something of a relief, as they hurt a lot of the time and I was worried they were worse or turning to the Big C or something. But they don't look good, per se. Two bigguns on the left (around 3 cm each -- no wonder it hurts), some smaller ones on the right. I could have the cysts out with laproscopy, but while that would help with pain, it might well hurt fertility, since some ovarian tissue would have to go, too. I feel down on losing ovarian tissue right when I'm hoping to use it.

3. Plenty of follicles, though. And E2/FSH levels are fine (58/4.3 vs. 74/4.2 last year).

4. Dr. BF thinks we've tried enough IUIs. If we had a free source of sperm or if my insurance wasn't as great as it is (and it is! the one good money thing about my job!) or if the cysts were smaller...but yeah. He thinks three tries was enough.

5. It's IVF time. Probably in June.

6. I feel partly scared about that, partly excited, partly hopeful that all that's wrong with me is that my eggs can't get to the ute, because they're stuck under cysts or getting hung up in scarred tubes.

7. But mostly right this minute I feel a little ashamed to be moving on after only three tries, even if the doctor does think it's the thing to do, that my odds without it are getting quite small. I'm afraid people -- and that's mostly you, internet, since not that many IRL people know about all this -- will think I'm cowardly or lazy or somehow cheating. HOW I WOULD LOVE to get pregnant in my own bed, with my pervy cats curled up and purring beside me. HOW I WOULD LOVE to not get poked and prodded in new, exciting ways. HOW I WOULD LOVE to never learn to give myself injections, let alone ones that will make my ouchy ovary ouchier.

But more than any of that, how I would love to have a child.

Seven Certainly Beautiful Bloggers

1. Mrs. Basement, whose blog I only found today, but whom I already adore.

2. Hairy Farmer Family, who has two cervices, like me! And also two utes. And she's named them. Also? She's brilliant in every way.

3. love+love=marriage, who are a whole lot of fun and have cutie-cute pictures of wee Mr. Holland.

4. The magnificent Mrs. Spock! Who is all kinds of wonderful and to whom I owe a proper thanks-for-the-socks-and-love post -- the next piece of spring cleaning business.

5. One of His Moms, who likely doesn't know I exist, but whose blog is one of the first lesbo-mom ones I found. I devoured the archives over the course of a few days last spring -- and even if I never got to try my, erm, hand at home insems, I credit her with teaching me how.

6. Madame X at The Young and The Infertile, who is not so infertile these days but remains eloquent and intellectually dashing.

7. And peg o' me heart, Starhillgirl at Caved, for whom I would log my lunch faithfully forever.

*Ed: GOD, I hate that "malingering" doesn't mean "lingering, but in a bad way". I've gotten over "nonplussed" not meaning "feeling "eh" about it," but "malinger" is still hard. I want to use it so bad, but I can hear my mother's correction, so I won't. (I can also hear her sigh over the colloquial use of bad as an adverb.)

**I know Mama hates this usage, too, but it's taken hold nonetheless. Sorry.

Needling Question

Anybody want to bend my ear about acupuncture as a treatment for endometriosis?

I'm interested in your stories of acupunture helping with: cysts, especially endometrial ones; pain; general infertility stuff.

Thanks.

Quickies

I hate blog posts apologizing for not posting, so this won't be one.

Nor do I have a proper post in me now.

But there are a couple of things I think you should know:

1. It's CD1. Yeah.

Not sure what the next course of action will be, but at the very least we will probably switch donors, since we need to order more anyway. More on that later.

Also, I need to do my taxes so that we can see if we can even afford to order more.

2. Mrs. Spock made me cry. Practically everything's been making me cry lately, so that's not much of an accomplishment per se, but she made my cry in a good way. She sent me the ...I'm looking for a word, and all I'm coming up with is "bestest"... BESTEST! sock-gram package! It arrived when I was really at the very bottom of feeling crappy about everything, and it was just the very thing. Pictures to come.

3. A toddler I hang out with has been read somewhere -- I think in a Moomintroll book, but hers are in Danish, and I can only read the third-rate, adulterated Danish we call "English" -- about creatures cheering one another up by kissing sad creatures on the nose. She has become a dutiful practitioner of this technique, which is predictably sloppy and surprisingly effective.

Hopeless

(I told Sugar I'd post something so her deer necklace would come off the top of the blog and people would go easy on agreeing with me about it. Heh. She should be grateful: now my loyalty has been aroused and I love the damn thing -- I never thought it was hideous, just a little unbearably hipster-ish. Which it is.)

I have never felt less pregnant in my life. Even when there was no sperm at all in me, I felt more pregnant than this. My knees don't even feel pregnant. True, I have no way of knowing for sure that I'm not, yet -- it's only 8dpo -- but the whole idea seems laughable. In a bitter-laugh kind of way.

In a sense, this is easier than feeling hopeful, as I have in previous cycles. Much less up and down of the ol' emotions when they just stay obediently down. Sure, I still get weepy, but at least I'm not coming down from feeling giddy and warm.

It does make my few tangible concessions to the whole "PUPO" fantasy -- not drinking, not taking any real painkillers, not having (very much) caffeine -- seem insane, though. Like I am playing some mad game. Like I am pretending my handbag is a kitty-cat and no one knows whether I know it isn't.

Tacky or Hip?

It's time for Baby and I to come clean: we've been two-timing you all. We also write a craft blog that's been going for a few years, but we write under different names. I usually post instructions for how to make whatever craft object the post is about. I'm putting this post up on show and tell cause I thought you might want to see it. (I know, it's getting a bit meta around here, what with posts about posts about posts.)

Anyway, the most recent edition to our craft blog is instructionis for this lovely beaded item (made by me) which Baby thinks is ugly.



Last time I wore this thing out of the house she said, "I hope you don't get shot on the way to the party," (as in mistakenly shot by all those three-sheets-to-the-wind-north-woods-hunters we've got sitting up in the duck blinds of Crown Heights). Anyway, I think it's cool.



Here's a link to our crafty blog.

Make sure you go check out what the other kids are showing!

xoxo

Sugar

Baby Dust

Still not feeling very enthusiastic about this cycle. Meaning: I'd like to get pregnant. I'd really, really like that. (And don't get me started about the little voice in my head pointing out that this would be the cycle that would continue what my birthday-mate aunt calls the family tradition of first children born in late November/early December. Quite a number of us within only a few days, it's true.) But I feel like it doesn't matter if I'm hopeful or not -- my endometriomas are just too fucking big.

And we're out of stored sperm now, so we'll have to scrape up money again. (Thanks, body, for slowing things down enough that we JUST crossed the line into having to pay for a second six month's storage at the Baby Factory. Nice work.) And the sperm bank raised their prices. Yippee.

So, yeah. I'm not drinking or anything, but I wouldn't say I feel terribly PUPO, as it were. Nonetheless, I made a nice little baby dust* blingee for a board friend last night, and I thought y'all might like it, too. The pink background -- attentive readers will recognize the Sparkle Menace -- makes the dust itself a bit hard to see, but yes, it is meant to be emanating from the...hindquarters.








I've got a baby-dance one, too, but it still needs a little work. Something to look forward to.


*a phrase that makes me think of ashes. Nice, huh?

V.R.A.

Valium
Remains
Awesome

Didn't even need the tenaculum this time! W00t!

Doing My Bit

One of the undeniable perks of big city living (and wretched, two-hour commutes) is the bottomless well of anecdotes that is public transit. Have I told you about the old Chinese lady screaming a heavily accented version of "Ehhhhh-xiiiiiihhhhht Laaaaaaaaaahhhh-fe" at 10 in the morning? How about the very cracked out individual who kept screaming at the dark-skinned lady across from her that she was, "nothing but WHITE TRASH!" much to her intended target's confusion. ("I'm not WHITE," she clarified after the ranter had departed.)

There are visitations of loveliness, like the mariachi band (complete with hats!) and the middle aged black men who sing gospel -- they are a favorite not just because they sing so beautifully (and they DO) but because they seem such an unlikely group to be friends. One wears a very dad sweatshirt and a fishing hat and is round and smiley; one favors Cosby sweaters. The third? Looks and dresses and glowers like Snoop Dog. Starhillgirl has already written about another favorite blessing here. (The true magic that one enacts is transforming a crowded, evening rush hour 4 train of people who Do Not Have Time For This into a bunch of smiling gigglers. And he does it in just one stop.)

There are clever people, like the tumbling boys. They fly through the air while the train rocks and rumbles, surely in danger of sudden death. The littlest ones -- 9 or 10 years old -- do the wildest tricks, and while the scene is Dickensian and should arouse my indignation, I admit that I thrill to their flips and springs. The time I heard one hit his head -- HARD -- on the ceiling, I felt especially guilty for my idle, irresponsible enjoyment, and I gave more money than usual. Later I learned that this is a bit of prestidigitation of its own: apparently the older boys in charge of the boom box have found that tips go up enormously when a difficult flip is accompanied by a sharp kick to the door or the edge of a seat. I could have sworn that kid hit his head, but I'm glad he didn't (and understand better now why he seemed so unruffled and the blank look in his eye as I hoped he was okay).

As surely as New Yorkers must grit their teeth over the gaggles of tourists herded and shushed by the harried relatives they're visiting, knowing that our parents and aunts and cousins will visit one day, too, and that they, too, will talk too loudly and block the doors and dither in front of the staircases, we all share a civic responsibility to at times be the entertainers. Subway craziness is a co-op situation, like so many parts of city life. We must from time to time be the one who shifts a heavy bag at exactly the wrong time and falls half the length of the car. We must be the one who discovers her slipper (just one) on the floor at rush hour. (I STILL have no idea how that happened.) We must sometimes cry openly because we can't wait for privacy.

**Pro tip: DO NOT argue theology with subway preachers. Not because they're necessarily any better at it, but they are more shameless. And you'll never win. And six-a.m. screaming matches are best reserved for family and close friends. (And if the crowd takes there side, you will feel like dog shit. On the other hand, you will also get plenty of room to sit down, even at rush hour. Thanks, contagious gayness.)**

Yesterday, I made my contribution on a crowded Metro North commuter train, surrounded by men in grey and navy and pinstripes and wingtips. I was as discreet as I could manage, but anyone halfway clever could have cooked up a nice story with the words I couldn't avoid:

Vial
Donor
Andrology
Valium

You're welcome, Mount Kisco.


...which is to say, IUI today. I'm having a lot of trouble feeling optimistic about my chances, but then, I know exactly what my chances are without it. (And anyway, starhillgirl promised she'd think excited thoughts so I don't have to.)

Civic Duties

Hey, y'all. How in the world are you?

Sorry to be so out of touch in the past couple weeks -- I spent the week of the GI/Endo/Black Eye reading everybody's blog like crazy but too worn out to type comments, and then something went haywire in my brain and I spent this week too depressed to even read.

So...hi. I'm back. I've diagnosed myself with a critical chocolate deficiency, and the treatment seems to be helping. That, and I can feel my body getting closer to ovulating, which, while increasingly a time of emotional complexity, is generally the happiest time of the month for me. (We'll save my rant about how little I like the idea that body chemistry is in charge of my worldview for another day, shall we?) I'm also pleased to report that for the first time since its date with the bookcase, my right eye is as sharp as my left, which has improved my worldview in a very literal sense.

BUT. That is not what I logged on to say. Rather:

Perhaps you have heard about wonderful Weebles Weblog's Limerick Chick Contest, for which folks have been writing witty verse about other blogs. I had hoped to enter for myself, but, well, see above.

BUT!

It has come to my attention that Kym -- Kym, who has only lately organized the sensational Sock It To Me exchange (to say nothing of convincing poor, long-suffering Frank to trade his dignity for donations to the Parenthood For Me benefit) WHILE AT THE SAME TIME kicking infertility's ass for not just herself but now others (others! I can hardly stand the thought of doing this for myself!) as a surrogate -- that Kym, the Kym we're in awe of, has written a limerick about Our Own Little Blog.

Well. It's enough to force a girl not to be depressed, that's what.

So please, head over to Weeble's and vote for Kym's poem. Here's why you should vote for Kym (besides your devotion to her and your bemused interest in your humble servant, of course):


1. Kym's poem is a real limerick.

I don't mean to be more of a snob than usual, but it's a LIMERICK contest. We all love couplets and quatrains and even free verse, but these are not limericks. A limerick, to quote from Roy Blount Jr.'s Alphabet Juice, maybe my favorite book about the English language (and this is saying something for a nerd like me I am) is:

"...two lines of trimeter (three feet) followed by two of dimeter (two feet) with a different rhyme, and one more of trimeter returning to the first rhyme. Generally the intended effect is spicy. For example:

There once was a lady named Dot
Who said as we found a nice spot,
"I never undress
at a picnic unless
It's warm, and it is, so why not?"

THAT, my friends, is a limerick. Yes, it's a bit fussy, following the rules like that, but following rules is hot. See: BDSM.

(In his section on meter, Blount exhorts the writer lost in the drudgery of writing to ask, "WWJMD? What would John Milton do?" I think it's pretty obvious that John Milton would forsake the dreariness of vanilla metric-less freedom for the enlivening strictures of poetic submission. Ahem.)



2. Kym's poem uses slant rhyme

I am not an un-reserved fan of slant rhyme, which can be only laziness on the poet's part. However, when slant rhyme serves to emphasize the almost-rhyming word and that emphasis adds meaning or interest to the poem, I'm all for it.

The almost-rhyming word in Kym's poem is "vaginas."



3. Kym's poem has more vaginas than any other poem.

Not just than any other poem in the contest; I think it may have more vaginas than any other poem I've ever read. (And I've read some truly regrettable stuff, with lots of ocean/cave/shell metaphors and unnecessary goddess references.)

And that's before the poem even gets around to suggesting a threesome.

Roy Blount, again:

"The intended effect is spicy"

I can't think why you'd need another reason to vote for her; go to it.

If You Can't Say Anything Nice...

Anyway, that's why I haven't been posting.

Not much going on in baby-making land. Peeing on OPKs. Planning on an IUI this month, not feeling terribly optimistic about the whole thing. Wondering how long I should keep this up before admitting that it's not going to happen short of IVF (if at all). Dr. Baby Factory says 1-4 more cycles, given the severity of my endometriosis.

(Dammit, why doesn't spell check know "endometriosis"? Screw you, spell check.)

Speaking of endo, last week was a particularly unpleasant edition of GI/Endo Badness. At least I have visible wounds to show for it this time -- after the first day stuck in bed groaning, I took a bunch of the painkillers I use for migraines. (They don't make the GI pain go away, but they do make it seem like it's happening to somebody else. Sometimes they let me sleep a little, too.) Then I decided I could go to the bathroom -- a whopping 10 foot walk -- by myself, which was fine until I was on the toilet and the visual world was replaced by thickening clouds of very coarse static. I'd never noticed how LOUD the bathroom lights were. It would have been okay if I'd had the sense to get off the toilet and onto the floor, as I had that afternoon when the same thing had happened -- orthostatic hypotension is a common side effect of taking a handful of those little pills.

But lying on the bathroom floor sucks, I thought, if one can be said to "think" with so little blood in one's brain. I bet I can make it back to bed if I run.

I am a genius.

I'm not sure if I did run, as the next thing I was aware of following a period of blackness was a lot of furniture hitting my face. Then Sugar was standing over me in the living room, saying she would help me to bed but that I needed to decide first whether I wanted my pants on or off, because halfway wasn't working very well.

I am now the proud owner of a subtly glamorous black eye.

But you should see the bookcase.