Day #56: The New Project

After I wrote my last post, I came up with an idea of a project for George and me to do to remind us how not so utterly wretched our lives are.  For the next 30 days we are each writing five things for which we are thankful that day.  Four days in, I must say, it's harder than I would have thought.  The first five were easy -- food, job, husband, home, health, etc.  After that it has taken some thought.  It has forced me to think about all the little things in life that give me pleasure. All those things I just brush them aside to focus on the more dramatic "horrible" things.  One of mine from today is that I'm thankful for the gentleman who plays hymns on his guitar in the subway station.  I love hearing them because they are always songs I know and I really think about the lyrics.  It always give me a lift while I am rushing through the station.  I wonder how many other people know the songs are hymns and not just a pretty tune and if someone else gets a little lift like I do.

Another thing that I'm thankful for which I haven't put on my list because I don't quite know how to do it, is that I am thankful I am not dying or really sick.  My sister's roommate from her first year at college has cancer and doesn't have long to live.  She is so very, very young and has twin four-year old girls.  It's just so sad.  It makes you think how when you think life is just horrible, it could be so much worse and be thankful, really thankful, for what you have. 

Day #53: Counting One's Blessings

George and I had a long "discussion" last night.  This stemmed largely from the fact that I was venting to him about yet more difficulties with the insurance, and, instead of supporting me and giving me the encouragement I needed at that moment, I could tell he was thinking, "Why doesn't she just quit.  It would all be so much easier."  He admitted as much when he told me he was thinking, "This is going to break us."  I told him it very well might if he wasn't able to give me the support I needed.

I truly just don't know what to do.  I believe that at some point we will get pregnant, but George just wants it to be easy peasy, and since it has been anything but, he would love nothing more than to just give up.  He recognizes that I'm not there yet, so he keeps on trucking, but he has absolutely no hope.  This just makes it all the harder for me because I need to have the hope for the both of us, and when I have limited supplies of hope to go around, I don't know that I can do that.  How do we go on then?  Do we just quit because George doesn't want to do the drudgery?  Will that help or hurt our marriage?  I have my doubts that it would make things better.  On the other hand, how long can I be the only one who cares about this?  It weighs me down like a steel cloak I carry around on me all day long.  It makes me tired.  It makes me sad.  It makes me angry.  No matter what I do, it won't go away.  George says he has been as affected by all this as much as I have been.  I have my doubts on that and told him so because he's not that one dealing with it minute to minute of every single day.  I doubt it's all he thinks about all day long.  I doubt it curls at the corners of every little thing he does.  He doesn't want to hear it, though. 

This whole messed up process has me questioning whether I married the right man after all.  Is this the way it's supposed to be?  Are you supposed to love a man who calls the life you have together a "major suckfest"?  What happened to struggling with one's partner through thick and thin?  Wasn't that part of our vows?  Nowhere did it say that life would be easy.  In fact, I think if one asked married couples everywhere, they would agree that life isn't ever easy, but it's the good times that make the hard times bearable.  I think George missed that memo. 

I admit the good times are in short supply these days.  George is worried that his temporary work is coming to a rapid close.  The medical bills are adding up because our wretched insurance just keeps screwing us over and over again.  Add TTC on to that and the fact that I was supposed to be having our little baby right about now, and anyone would agree that all adds up to a suckfest.  On the other hand, though, we've got each other and I know my husband loves me.  We have food on the table and enough money in the bank to pay for what we need.  I have a job which pays me enough to support us both, if need be, and pays for our insurance, sucky though it may be, it could be a lot worse.  We have a warm, dry home.  I have a wonderful sister who will give me the brutal truth, whether I've asked or not.  I have three crazy nephews and a beautiful niece who make me happy whenever I see them.  I have my health and am able to train for triathlons, run the streets of Newburyport in the early morning hours, bike the back roads to Newbury on my way to acupuncture, swim laps in the pool down the road.  The weather over the weekend was beautiful and I was able to plant my vegetable garden.  I have gorgeous flowers blooming away on the deck and an adorable little cat who definitely prefers George, but will snuggle with me in the wee hours of the morning after he gets up.  I think it's those things, the little and the not so little, that help mitigate the suckfest.  We just need to keep that in mind.  We need to keep remembering to think of those things that give life a little joy.  Maybe if we start feeling thankful for what we have, instead of dwelling on what we don't have, we can change our perspective just a bit.

Day #49: Hello, Again

It has been quite a while since I wrote.  I don't know why I took the break.  Maybe I didn't feel like writing here was helping me all that much.  At least not helping me to the extent I thought it might.  Maybe it has to do with the fact that I've been feeling pretty good over the last several weeks -- that is until the Great Mother's Day Meltdown.  Who knows?  Maybe because of the GMDM, I am here once again, trying to work through all the crap that gets bottled up inside and ends up erupting while sitting in a packed church. 

We tried Clomid last cycle.  The side affects weren't all that bad, except for some crazy hot flashes and horrid headaches.  I guess it's just a glimpse of what life will be like when I enter menopause.  Despite the very, very strong ovulation pains which I took to mean that maybe I had extra robust eggs this month, I didn't get pregnant.  So it is on to the next cycle and another month of Clomid.  I feel like I am spinning my wheels on this one, but there's really not much else I can do.  It's all just a waiting game.  Also, given the nature of my insurance, even if I wanted to take a more invasive step, I can't because it's just too much money. 

I also started acupuncture.  I feel like I am grasping at straws here, but I figure this is my one chance, and I've got to give it an honest try.  George isn't happy about the cost.  Admittedly, it's not cheap, especially when one goes every week, but I keep wondering if maybe it will work.  I had hardly any spotting this past cycle, which I don't know whether to attribute to the Clomid or the acupuncture, but it is something.  Of course, the lack of spotting also made me think I might be pregnant and caused me to run out and buy a pregnancy test.  Thankfully, I didn't use it because when I next went to the bathroom, I had proof that I wasn't pregnant.  That's a few bucks saved at least.  George and I finally agreed to doing it for one full cycle and then reassess the situation.  I guess this means, I won't be doing any herbal treatment.  I don't even want to start that discussion with him.

Also during my hiatus, I did a (very) mini triathlon.  I finished; that was my goal, and I'm glad I met it.  To finish it all off, I signed up for another one in about two months.  I'm hoping that with my focus on something other than babymaking, I can somehow make a baby.  I know I'm not going to be able to completely forget about my cycle, but I'm hoping it won't be so all-consuming.  At times I think I should just quit all this nonsense and just go about life, and if I get pregnant, I get pregnant, and if I don't ... well, I'll just have to cross that bridge and come out on the other side.  I know me, though, and there is no way I could just let it all go.  Not check my CM, not count days, just be like I was just a year ago.  In some small way, I think training for the triathlon will give me something else to obsess over.  We shall see if that works out the way I want it to.

Sometimes I feel like I am all alone in this.  I know I have George, I have my sister, and I have my friends who are all more than willing to be there for me, but I feel that deep down inside they really don't want to discuss this same crap over and over and over again.  Rehash the same old stuff, get the same old result.  I get sick of it all and I'm the one putting myself through this.  Would I want to deal with this on a voluntary basis?  Nothing would make me happier than to leave it all behind and never give it a second glance.  Why don't I, then?  It's this dream I have.  I don't want to give up on it unless I have to.  I'm hoping I know when enough is enough and the dream has died and I hope it is before the person that I once was, that my husband fell in love with, is gone. 

I think that's it for catch up.  I'm going to try and be more regular about all this because even though no one reads it, it does help me get all the stuff I keep inside out so I can deal with it and move on and hopefully avoid a GMDM part deux.

Day #26: Happy (Belated) Birthday to Me!

My 39th birthday was almost one week ago.  That means that I have exactly one year to get this baby-making project completed.  On the one hand it sounds like forever ... twelve months of lackluster sex, twelve months of tension, twelve months of depression, the list could go on and on.  On the other hand, though, it doesn't sound nearly long enough.  I fear that twelve months won't be long enough for me to get the baby I want.  I fear that instead of being resigned to and ready to embrace a life without children, I'll just feel empty and even more depressed than I was the twelve months prior.  I wish I knew the answers.

I wasn't expecting much from my birthday.  Well, I guess I should really say I wasn't expecting much happiness from my birthday.  I was very pleasantly surprised.  Unexpectedly, my husband got the day off, and we trekked up to New Hampshire to do a hike we had been wanting to complete for two years.  It was bittersweet without our beloved dog, Iceman, blazing the trail, but overall, it was so much fun.  It was wonderful to be outside on a gorgeous day and to not once dwell on the fact that I was that much older and that much less likely to get pregnant at all.  It was such a relief. 

Then the weekend came.  George and I had a very long discussion on Sunday morning about this whole TTC mess.  He admitted that he has lost any hope that we will ever have a child.  He also admitted that he is only keeping on because I seem to want this so badly.  What does one do with that?  I'm sad that he had no hope, seeing as I feel that all we have going for us at this point is hope.  I'm the first to be negative about this whole process, but at the beginning of any given cycle I'm always thinking that maybe this will be our time. 
George is afraid that one year down the road we still won't be pregnant and our marriage will just be in tatters from all the stress it has endured.  He's afraid that one year from now we won't recognize each other and will have become shells of our former selves.  I'm afraid of that too.  I already feel a bit like a hollow version of what I used to be.  The past eight months has made me this way.  How do I justify pressing on when I know he is not wholeheartedly in the game?  I feel guilty for not being in a place where I feel I can just throw in the towel.  I don't know if I will ever get there, but I know I'm not there yet.  After all, I still have hope, and maybe that's what it comes down to. 

Day #17: To Test or Not To Test, That is the Question

I am not a tester.  This partly has to do with the fact that I am cheap and pregnancy tests are not.  It also has to do with the fact that I hate seeing those tests come up negative.  When I was temping religiously, I pretty much knew if my period was on its way.  The low temps combined with sometimes four or five days of spotting (something none of my doctors find at all odd ...) was all the writing on the wall I needed.  So far, I have not been wrong. 

I wish I could remember exactly how I felt the time I was pregnant for those few days.  That would help me, especially now that I have not been temping.  Over the weekend I started to really think (I mean really, really think) that I could be pregnant.  The main things that were leading me to this conclusion were that my weird ovarian pain never subsided after ovulation, I started feeling periodic little pully twinges in my abdomen, I didn't have my usual run of multiple days of spotting, and, the really logical reason, it's my birthday on Thursday and finally getting pregnant would be the best gift ever.  Especially if it ended up with me holding a little baby.

Late Friday night, I had some spotting just before bed.  It was 7 DPO, so, basically, right on target for my period showing up five or six days hence.  Then, oddly, I didn't have anymore spotting all weekend long, and I started to get hopeful.  I didn't mention my great white hope to George because I have done that so many times before only to issue the bad news later on.  So I kept my hopes, along with the fact that I'd had any spotting at all, to myself and day by day I started to get excited.  This morning I had some more spotting, though.  My hopes were pretty much dashed, and I told George the situation.  On the way in to work, I consulted my past charts hoping they would show me that even though I had a couple days of spotting, it was different that all those other months, and I might just be pregnant after all.  The charts didn't give me any hope.

All these things did not lead me to throwing in the towel on this cycle, though.  As I sat at work I pondered the possibility that I just might be pregnant after all.  I came up with the idea of going out to buy a pregnancy test at CVS (something I have never done before), just to make sure.  After mulling it over for an hour, I decided that I had to; I felt like I was being led to do this which, in turn, meant that the results just might come out in my favor.  So I went out and spent $20 on two fancy digital tests (I bought the ad line on the packaging that said I could get a positive result five days before my period is due hook, line, and sinker), went back to work and read the instructions so that I wouldn't make any mistakes in the execution.  I walked down the hallway to the bathroom telling myself over and over again, "I expect it to be negative.  Don't get depressed when that's the result."  There I was in the bathroom (thankfully, it is not a multiple stall bathroom) looking at that stupid little hourglass and willing it to say what I wanted.  Well, it didn't listen ... Not Pregnant ... that's what I saw.  Despite the fact that it's easier to read, I think it's actually worse seeing the negative result in the digital form rather than just the lonely little pink line.  You can't squint your eyes and try to make it say something it's not.  You can't bring it to the window to get a better look.  There's no question at all.

So I put the test back in the wrapper and threw it out in the bathroom trash.  There went all my ideas of surprising George with it when I got home.  There went the fun back and forth we would have when he would inevitably say, "Why did you test?  You were pretty sure you weren't pregnant this morning."  And I would respond, "I just had a hunch," like all good mothers do.  There I went, back to work.

Day #14: Just Keep Trying

When I started TTC way back when, I found the website babycenter.com and discovered a thread that was dedicated to TTC over 35.  I quickly fell into a friendship with this core group of infertiles and became acquainted with the struggles they had been experiencing for months and even years.  Of the core group of six women, three already had children and were encountering secondary IF.  Then there were the three of us who didn't have any children.  My two childless cohorts had both been trying for years to get pregnant and were about to try IVF for the first time.  Needless to say, neither of those attempts ended up working. 

One of the women, Rachel, is now on her third round of IVF.  Today she just had three embryos transferred into her uterus.  She wrote today that she had a hard time being hopeful because she is pretty prepared for it not to work.  I understand her perspective.  I don't allow myself to get all that hopeful anymore.  There's always a glimmer, but I try to squash it as much as possible just to enable me to keep my sanity.  I am really hopeful for Rachel, though.  I really want this time to be successful for her.  First of all, our group needs a little bit of good news, plus, I just can't imagine the strength she has to muster to keep on trying time after time.  It's bad enough when you have to have timed sex and all the unpleasantness associated with it, but when you add all the shots and procedures into it, less the sex, I just can't imagine.  So much effort, time, and energy, not to mention money, spent for nothing. 

So this is my prayer to those little embryos out there somewhere inside a woman I have never met, "Please get comfortable and stay.  Your mother really has been through the wringer and wants you so very, very much."  I hope somewhere out there someone is praying for me.

Day #11: RE Stands for Really (Not) Encouraging

Today I had my appointment with the Reproductive Endocrinologist.  Let's call her Dr. Cool (as in not warm; I'm sure you can see where I'm going with this one).  First of all, I was a few minutes late since the information desk told me to take the wrong elevator.  When I arrived, I was then shuttled off to talk to the insurance guru who was all stressed to tell me what I already knew ... that I had no insurance coverage for infertility treatment.  The poor girl was so relieved that she didn't have to break the news to me.  I think she's probably had to deal with many an hysterical, infertile woman and was girding herself for a similar experience with me.  Anyway, after that brief interlude, they brought me back to the front desk and I checked in six minutes late for my appointment.  There was a little nurse standing at the ready to take me right back to Dr. Cool's office where I was told that since I was late they were going to do vitals after so that Dr. Cool's schedule wouldn't be affected by my tardiness.  I didn't even go into the whole saga of the misdirection and the insurance summit.  It just seemed to be more effort than it was worth.

Dr. Cool then started to tell me how she had looked over my chart in preparation for our appointment, and we've been trying for two years so far?  Wrong, Dr. Cool.  It may seem like two years, but it has actually only been eight months.  It was not starting well.  Then she referred to my husband as Leon when discussing his SA.  Wrong again, Dr. Cool, but you get points for trying to refer to him by name and the thought of him going by Leon did kind of make me smile.  At that point she gave up and just went through my pre-appointment questionnaire.  In the medical history section, she spent a solid five minutes trying to convince me to go on anti-depressants.  She told me that there are options out there for people who are TTC, and that one shouldn't live depressed.  I told her I was doing fine, that I see a therapist and the past few months have been difficult, but it was not anything that I couldn't handle.  She also talked me into going to see yet another GI doctor.  I told her about my horrible experience with Dr. Crazy Name, and she thought I needed a better doctor and someone who would take the time to look into the problem instead of dismissing it.  I appreciated her willingness to advocate for that, although, I don't think I have any GI problem.  She did say that Celiac or Crohn's could affect fertility, so I am willing to shell out another $50 to see if I get any further than I did last time.  After that, she went into the whole explanation of IUI (not using the name) and saying that, given my age, it was best to be more aggressive in the treatment straight out of the gate.  After explaining the whole process (I felt like saying, "Lady, TTC has been my life for the better part of the past year, do you honestly think I am completely unaware of this process?"  I didn't though.  I was a good girl and sat there and nodded.), I told her that I didn't have insurance coverage for any infertility related treatment until September and that I was unable to go that route at this time.  So it is on to Clomid.  She sent off a prescription to CVS, told me to try for three months and then come back to see her. 

I don't know if it was because I got off on the wrong foot arriving a little late, or what the story is, but I feel that this was a bit of a waste of time.  I guess it's because I knew what she was basically going to tell me before I even walked in the door.  It's that I'm old and that's all there is to it.  Of course I could have done without the whole, "At age 40 only one out of every twelve or fifteen eggs is good," comment.  That was a little harsh to hear.  I knew it was bad, but didn't know it was quite that bad.  Given those statistics, though, that means that I should be hitting the jackpot in about 4-6 months!  Of course then there is the 40% miscarriage rate of a 40 year old woman that she informed me of.  Good times all around, I would say. 

I'll take the Clomid and see where it gets me.  She wants me to do OPKs so that I know when I am ovulating and then have sex every other day around that time.  So much for taking it easy for the next few months.  Let's face it, though, I wasn't all that good at that.

Day #8: Insurance Woes

Right now health insurance is in the news ... a lot.  There's the whole "War on Women" birth control debate having to do with the implementation of the national health insurance mandate that employers, including religious groups, be made to provide contraception to their employees through their insurance plans, even if it is against their beliefs.  I have never had my birth control pills covered by my health insurance and don't necessarily believe they should be covered by health insurance, but that is a debate for another day.  This is today and the $3,000 bill I just received from Mass Gen for my HSG because my insurance has declined to pay for it.

In the little descriptive outline of my health insurance benefits, it states that I have a lifetime limit for infertility coverage of $5,000.  In the IF world we all know that this is peanuts.  I don't know exactly what $5,000 will get me, but I do know it won't be a whole hell of a lot.  When we returned from vacation, I checked to see the status of my pending insurance claims, and there it was, the entire HSG ... unpaid.  I've been awaiting my bill for a few weeks now, and it just arrived in the mail yesterday.  On our statement of benefits, it stated the claim was unpaid "based on the diagnosis code reported.  When I called up the insurance to investigate, they stated that I only receive my paltry $5,000 worth of infertility coverage after I have held the policy for one year.  The diagnosis under which my HSG was submitted was "Infertility, female, of unspecified origin," or 628.9.  Never mind that I have yet to be diagnosed with infertility, but apparently what diagnose you are given and what code a procedure receives can be two different things.  Who knew?

I understand an insurance company choosing not to cover assisted reproductive technologies, but I can't believe that they won't cover the diagnostic testing to diagnose infertility.  Forget about the birth control debate, this is the real War on Women, and I am angry.  According to my insurance company, anything that gets coded "Infertility" will be rejected until September 26, 2012 ... my doctor's visits, my bloodwork, my imaging studies, everything.  The truly ironic thing is that George's semen analysis was covered.  I don't know what it was coded as, but is there anything less having to do with infertility than a semen analysis?  I don't think so.  I haven't investigated this, but I'm sure if George was having difficulty getting it up, our insurance would cover his diagnostic testing to determine the problem.  More than likely, they would cover his Cialis too.  The sad thing is, we all know, there is no way to fight insurance.  What they say is law, and they don't budge.  It is incredibly unfair and just leaves me feeling helpless.  

The good news is my HSG came back completely normal.  They say that after the HSG one is highly fertile for the next few cycles.  So far it hasn't made much of a difference for me, but you never know.  Maybe this will be my cycle; there's always that faint glimmer of hope.  If I do get lucky, I'll think $3,000 for a baby really isn't all that much, especially when compared with the sum some couples pay for IUI and IVF, and I'll be bragging about the deal we got.  It'll be the equivalent of having found a pair of Jimmy Choos on the rack in TJ Maxx.

Day #5: A Lack of Emotional Options

Yesterday evening I went to see my therapist.  I have seen a therapist off and on throughout the twenty-one years since my mother's death.  Every time I have gone in the past, the impetus has been largely due to the loss of my mother.  Twenty-one years is a long time, but, in many ways, it feels like yesterday and I deal with the hole her death left in me year in and year out.  The strange thing is, when I started to see Dr. F this go round, it really had little to do with my mother and everything to do with the fact that I can't seem to become a mother.  Makes sense, I guess, that with the passage of time my mother's loss would become less and less my lifelong grief.  This kind of makes me sad to realize.  I hope it doesn't mean I'm forgetting.  It makes me think of those 9/11 bumper stickers which read the date and Never Forget.  For anyone who lived through that day on any sort of a conscious level, we can not imagine forgetting.  I hope the same is true of my mother's death.  I wonder if I should have a bumper sticker made that reads "12/12/90 Never Forget", just in case.

Anyway, back to the topic at hand.  During the course of my visit with Dr. F, I spent the majority of my time discussing my father's rapidly declining health and the family drama that has ensued.  While sad, this was a topic which I could talk about without getting overly emotional.  As that topic closed she asked me how my TTC efforts were going.  This is not something I can talk about without getting emotional.  My emotions regarding TTC are so very close to the surface every moment of every day.  I am depressed, and the reason for it is all wrapped up in the fact that I can't seem to get pregnant, and as soon as she asked me, I began to cry. 

When George recently remarked that I seem to be angry quite often, I told him, "I can only be angry or sad, and, if I'm sad, then I am crying, so I choose to be angry."  It is what gets me through the day without appearing to be too much of a basket case.  I can't imagine it's fun living with a woman who is only ever angry or sad, it's bad enough being the person who is living through it.  After I relayed this thougt process to Dr. F, she recommended, in her reasonable tone, that I err on the side of being sad rather than angry so as to diminish the build up of cortisol in the body.  As sensible as that seems, I don't know that I can be sad more than I already am and still function on a daily basis.  If I let myself fall into sadness instead of anger, I think I might just stay in bed all day with the TV on just to drown out my thoughts.  I'm sorry, Dr. F, but I just can't take your advice on this one.  I hope you understand. 

A part of me expects that years down the road when I don't have any children there will be some study that comes out which says cortisol is proven to diminish fertility.  Wouldn't the just be the kicker?

Day #4: Confession Time

George started a new job today (Yay!!!  He has been riding the unemployment train for quite some time, unfortunately.), so instead of getting up with me, he got up a half hour earlier.  Normally I would be none too pleased about this turn of events since it means I don't get my ten minutes of snuggle time, but when I went to bed last night it dawned on me that becuase he wasn't going to be in the bed when I got up,  I could temp on the sly ... just to see.  Granted, unless something crazy happened to this cycle as opposed to the eight others, I knew I would not have ovulated, so this temperature would only show my that my temperature is low.  Right?  Right.

Of course this is not taking into account the thoughts that have been swirling in my mind for the past couple days.  The sum of which is, "Maybe I'm pregnant."  To which you might respond, "Didn't you get your period almost two weeks ago?" and you would be right.  BUT, it wasn't a particularly heavy period ... couldn't it just have been really heavy spotting?  Also, I have been breaking out which is very odd for me at this point in my cycle.  Isn't that a viable sign of pregnancy?  And I have been so very tired.  Yes, I am depressed which could be a contributing factor here, but there could also be another cause, right?  A cause that would dispel my depression?  No, I am not nauseated.  No, my breasts are not tender.  No, I am not peeing all the time.  No, my veins aren't any more noticeable.  I could go on and on with all the symptoms I don't have, but somehow that glimmer of hope remains.  Yes, I know, I'm completely irrational. 

So this morning when my alarm went off, I reached for my thermometer and laid there until it beeped its response.  It seemed to take forever.  Finally it signaled that it had registered my temperature.  I went over to the light and read, "97.52".  Pretty darn low.  Any glimmer of hope I had quickly evaporated.  I wasn't sad or upset because deep down I knew what the result of this transgression would be, but still I felt the need to torture myself. 

On the train into work I entered it into my chart.  There it was, so low.  Kind of like me.  Rather fitting.

Day #3: Let's Talk About Sex, Baby

I used to really like sex.  I mean really, really like sex.  It was so much fun, funny, and relaxing.  Basically everything it isn't anymore.  I was that woman who complained about the ever decreasing amount of sex we had over the course of our relationship.  I told George we should be having sex at least four times a week.  Can you believe it?  Four times a week?  Such high aspirations!  No, we never actually accomplished the feat.  Although, in hindsight, I must admit that it was a little eager, even for me.  Over time I decided to let the argument go and settled for (maybe) four times a month. 

Then we started TTC.  I told George that I didn't want to hear any of the excuses he had come up with before to avoid sex.  I told him we were going to have to have a lot of sex and that was just the way it was going to be.  He was on board.  I was finally getting what I had always wanted, right?  Wrong.  Overnight sex stopped being fun.  It became stressful, uncomfortable, and strained.  I started prepping for TTC by drinking several margaritas or glasses of wine.  It did the trick ... for a few months at least.  I guess it is probably good that it stopped working since I don't necessarily want to become an alcoholic; an alcoholic mother doesn't make such a pretty picture.  What is a frigid TTCer supposed to do?  Apparently everything one normally uses in these situations compromises sperm in one way or another, so I turned to the internet and discovered the answer was in my pantry all along.  Olive oil!  Soon we were basting each other up like a Thanksgiving Day Turkey.  Talk about unromantic.  The culmination of this was last cycle when we had to resort the EVOO (only the best will do, after all) every single time we had sex.  All four times.  Ironic, isn't it?  That is exactly the amount of sex I had wanted in a week way back when it would have never dawned on me to use something from the kitchen as a lubricant.

Fast forward to last night.  We were due to have sex to meet the quota I had set when we had decided to be "laid back" about things.  I agree that setting a quota is probably not the best way to accomplish being laid back, but knowing George, if we hadn't set the quota, we probably would be back to having sex maybe once a week, if we were lucky.  Everything was going pretty well.  I wasn't feeling particularly uptight and I was doing a pretty good job of not over-thinking things, you know, playing the, "Just relax, clear your mind, focus, enjoy it, damn it," tape over and over again.  Then I decided to get on top, my favorite place to be when I really want to have fun, and everything went downhill.  I accidentally hit George in the face while getting up there and, in what seemed like no time at all, I went from trying-my-best-to-have-fun, more-relaxed-than-uptight Ruth to dry-as-the-Sahara-without-a drink-in-sight Ruth.  Needless to say, it didn't happen.

I love that when people hear you are trying to get pregnant -- back when I told them we were trying to get pregnant -- they say things like, "Have fun!" and "Enjoy!"  These people apparently didn't have all that much difficulty getting pregnant because I think that is the only way one could ever think this process is fun or enjoyable.  Even my sister, who tries her best to be supportive and understanding (at least as supportive and understanding as the seemingly most fertile woman in the world can be), said the other day, "The thing is, if you do have kids, you will look back on this and miss all the sex you had because you just won't have it anymore."  You know, if I do end up getting pregnant and have a kid, it seems likely that the amount of sex we have will decrease.  I guarantee, though, that I will never look back and miss this sex.  The sad thing is, sometimes I wish I could just do IUI or IVF so that we could just stop having to have sex.  That doesn't appear to be in the cards, though, so here I am, looking forward to more of the same.

Day #2: A Change in Thinking

Have I mentioned how anal I am?  It's one of the reasons why I'm a baker.  For those of you who don't bake, the "a little of this, a little of that" mentality doesn't really fly when baking.  Bakers get to have the fun of weighing ingredients out to the gram, following a recipe to a tee.  Adding salt to a cake when it is coming out of the oven, doesn't really work all that well; you're just going to have to settle for a bland cake.  Baking gives me a wonderful sense of control.  I know if I follow a tested recipe (or formula, as we bakers call it), the cake will turn out perfectly.

Just think of all the little tiny details ...
how much fun!

This is precisely why I decided temping was the way for me to ensure I would get pregnant and have a baby quickly and with minimal effort.

I loved waking up every day and seeing the story the thermometer told.  I loved seeing the temperature spike after ovulation and marveled at the coolness of the female reproductive system.  I really loved seeing my temperature stay nice and high when I had my positive hpt back in September.  It was so much fun!  Then came the months after my miscarriage ... the same old story, a spike and then the inevitable slow six day dive toward CD1.  Despite the dive, I would get my hopes up every time.  I would compare my chart to those of people who had gotten pregnant and noted that sometimes their temps weren't so high.  I would try and fool myself into thinking, despite all evidence to the contrary, "it could happen."

George noted the toll this was taking on me -- and, in all fairness, him, although he doesn't talk about it much.  He suggested I try and become a part-time temper (ie, temp from CD10 until I get a confirmed ovulation and then put it away).  We tried that last cycle.  Since we had already gotten the Fertility Friend "crosshairs", we were to start right away.  It didn't really help with my anxiety since I was already pretty sure of the outcome.  So on to the next cycle, right?  The good news was that my sister was taking us on a wonderful trip to the British Virgin Islands with her family, so I had already determined I wasn't going to temp during vacation.  It was very nice to be away on a private yacht (Did I mention it was a very swanky vacation?  Yes, I have a very generous sister.)  and not have to constantly try and not think about IF.  I only cried once the whole week, pretty much a record for me these days.

Sunset in the BVI.

The morning we got back, I whipped out my thermometer "just to see".  Imagine my surprise when my temperature was higher than it had ever been so late in my cycle.  I was really, really hopeful ... for two days, and then CD1.

After a bit of a meltdown, we (meaning me) are trying to change our thinking about this process and take some time attempting a more laid back approach.  Are you laughing yet?  I sure am; as you might have guessed, I am not so good at being laid back.  Thursday I suggested to George that we stop temping and all the timed intercourse (which, frankly, was pretty miserable) and just have sex when we want.  Of course being me, I had to put in some conditions ... it needs to be at least twice a week, every week except for the weeks I have my period, and it has to be at least once on a weekday and once on the weekend.  The plan is to try this for three months (unless the RE has a different idea).  In my mind, this is going to probably be the equivalent of three months off, but I think we (and here I don't mean me) really need it.  I just hope one of my few good eggs doesn't finally decide to come out of hiding and make an appearance.

Day #1: What Have I Gotten Myself Into?

In an attempt to manage my anxiety over TTC, I am doing something I never thought I would do ... I am writing my thoughts and feelings down for the world to see.  You see, I am an incredibly private person; I like to hold onto my personal information and dole it out as I see fit.  This has a lot to do with my personal history and how it was splashed on the news and in papers ... and, thanks to the internet, will never go away, but more on that later.  This is about now.  Today.  Day #1.

My husband, let's call him George (I preferred "Georg", as I've always had a thing for The Sound of Music, and he does kind of remind me of The Captain, but George insisted Georg sounded "gay", so George it is), and I have been TTC for eight months, and, needless to say, it isn't going as well as we had hoped.  I realize in TTC-speak, eight months really isn't all that much time, but these eight months feel like eight years.  Right now I feel eight years older, eight years more tired, and eight years less sexy than I did in July.  To make matters more interesting, when I was a young, naive little thing of 35, I told George I would not get pregnant after 40, so that gives me twelve more months.  In an attempt to make the next twelve months not feel like twelve years, I'm delving into some recommended "stress reduction" techniques.  Hence, here I am.

I don't know if anyone will actually ever see this, but a part of me hopes so.