At six I heard the dog lie down heavily, with a thump, and then I heard a faint whimper. I've been worrying about him. The arthritis in his hips seems to have worsened. We're giving him a pill in the morning and at night now, to help him be comfortable, but old age comes for us all, and the arthritis will only get worse. He's a brave boy, and when his pills make him comfortable he wants to romp and play. He's still my baby dog, stuck with the hips of an old man.
I was awake anyway. I slept on my neck weird the night before and then, with a locked-up muscle under my scapula, I went on a march in midtown Manhattan with about half a million other people, holding a sign over my head for much of that time. It felt necessary, and important, and I'm glad I did it. But then last night I added two more injections to the arsenal of pills rattling around in my own aging body, and now I feel like I've been hit by a truck.
I don't have the energy to take the ferry to Red Hook to look at art and see friends I haven't seen in a long time. I don't have the stamina to continue on to my sister in law's house.
I haven't even yet mustered the energy to get in the shower. Which, since ibuprofen is forbidden, is the only option on the table to unwind whatever is going on in my back. There are half a dozen things for me to do. Write this, write that. Research this, research that.
The dog and I are tired. And jackhammers are breaking the street thirteen stories down.
Sunday, January 21, 2018
Friday, January 19, 2018
Damn, Yo
Clomid, man. It's no joke.
Just the act of sitting in a chair having someone give me a haircut, and having to hold very still, while mentally writing a cover letter for something, has now made me ready to take a nap.
Ridiculous.
Ridiculous.
Ridiculous.
Just the act of sitting in a chair having someone give me a haircut, and having to hold very still, while mentally writing a cover letter for something, has now made me ready to take a nap.
Ridiculous.
Ridiculous.
Ridiculous.
Thursday, January 18, 2018
Here We Go
Hello sweet imaginary Succotash,
Why would I assume you're sweet, first off? I haven't met you. You could be a demon beast for all I know. But right now, you are wholly hypothetical, and I choose to address you as though you are sweet. Never a moment's trouble. Easy. It's a fantasy, one shared by many no doubt, but intensified by how demonic is the process I am presently undertaking to grow you.
After tracking my ovulation date over Christmas and phoning it in to the nurses, I was told precisely when to start applying a hormone patch to my belly. My poor belly, used and abused even before being stretched out of recognition. Right now it has shadowy outlines of adhesive in three spots. I patched and patched and patched. I left my vacation early to be sure I didn't miss the window. I patched some more. My period didn't come.
"Where is it?" I asked the doctors.
"This happens all the time," the doctors said.
"Not to me. I have never been this late. Ever," I pointed out.
"Well," they shrugged. "Your blood work says you'll get it this weekend."
Then the shrugged me out of the room.
"It's the patch," said my new acupuncturist, who, poor creature, is also serving as my de facto therapist, since I tell her about my mood as soon as I show up.
"I thought it was," I said.
"It is. We can deal with that."
I resisted acupuncture. I'm not, despite being someone who tells woo woo stories, someone who is actually a woo woo person. But enough smart, educated women I know - at least one a scientist - said it was worth trying. I gave it a stab (ha! Oh, dear) back in Ithaca, and walked out halfway through. It hurt. And it stressed me out.
I warned my new acupuncturist about this on my first appointment. "I'm squeamish," I said. I didn't go on to tell her that my husband refers to acupuncture as witch-doctoring and that I thought it was probably all a load of hooey. But I suspect she could tell. "Squeamish" is code for other things.
"Don't worry," she said.
Anyway. My period finally started last night, about two hours after my acupuncture appointment, and with it came instructions from the doctors office to start my pills. We are off and running.
Here's the recipe for Succotash this time: Two 50 mg tablets of Clomid, at night. Plus prenatal vitamin with DHA. Plus small spoonful of royal jelly, per acupuncturist book. Plus L arginine supplement, which acupuncture book suggests is good for poor responders. Then, after three days of that, add 150 IUs of Follistim (which must be kept in the fridge, and injected into the tummy fat using a cool pen device). Also add 75 IUs of Menopur, which must be drawn up and mixed with diluent and injected using a disposable syringe, also into tummy fat, though it burns going in there, so sometimes I resorted to using my inner thigh. So we do all that for a couple of days. Then we get checked out again. I bring consent forms and a prefilled syringe of Ganirelix in my handbag and a positive attitude, which is hard for me early in the morning, but I'm pledged to do my best.
The details, Succotash. They're killing me. They're taking up so much room in my brain I barely have room for anything else. No wonder I feel so stupid and slow. I feel dense. Uncreative. And tired.
What else have I done? I have stopped putting sugar in my coffee. I have stopped drinking alcohol. I am down to only one coffee a day. I am trying to prioritize sleep.
This regimen is probably going to last about two weeks. The goal, Succotash, is to get my follicles to grow. Last cycle I had one that drastically outpaced all the others and so there was no point continuing. It was a disappointment.
Why would I assume you're sweet, first off? I haven't met you. You could be a demon beast for all I know. But right now, you are wholly hypothetical, and I choose to address you as though you are sweet. Never a moment's trouble. Easy. It's a fantasy, one shared by many no doubt, but intensified by how demonic is the process I am presently undertaking to grow you.
After tracking my ovulation date over Christmas and phoning it in to the nurses, I was told precisely when to start applying a hormone patch to my belly. My poor belly, used and abused even before being stretched out of recognition. Right now it has shadowy outlines of adhesive in three spots. I patched and patched and patched. I left my vacation early to be sure I didn't miss the window. I patched some more. My period didn't come.
"Where is it?" I asked the doctors.
"This happens all the time," the doctors said.
"Not to me. I have never been this late. Ever," I pointed out.
"Well," they shrugged. "Your blood work says you'll get it this weekend."
Then the shrugged me out of the room.
"It's the patch," said my new acupuncturist, who, poor creature, is also serving as my de facto therapist, since I tell her about my mood as soon as I show up.
"I thought it was," I said.
"It is. We can deal with that."
I resisted acupuncture. I'm not, despite being someone who tells woo woo stories, someone who is actually a woo woo person. But enough smart, educated women I know - at least one a scientist - said it was worth trying. I gave it a stab (ha! Oh, dear) back in Ithaca, and walked out halfway through. It hurt. And it stressed me out.
I warned my new acupuncturist about this on my first appointment. "I'm squeamish," I said. I didn't go on to tell her that my husband refers to acupuncture as witch-doctoring and that I thought it was probably all a load of hooey. But I suspect she could tell. "Squeamish" is code for other things.
"Don't worry," she said.
Anyway. My period finally started last night, about two hours after my acupuncture appointment, and with it came instructions from the doctors office to start my pills. We are off and running.
Here's the recipe for Succotash this time: Two 50 mg tablets of Clomid, at night. Plus prenatal vitamin with DHA. Plus small spoonful of royal jelly, per acupuncturist book. Plus L arginine supplement, which acupuncture book suggests is good for poor responders. Then, after three days of that, add 150 IUs of Follistim (which must be kept in the fridge, and injected into the tummy fat using a cool pen device). Also add 75 IUs of Menopur, which must be drawn up and mixed with diluent and injected using a disposable syringe, also into tummy fat, though it burns going in there, so sometimes I resorted to using my inner thigh. So we do all that for a couple of days. Then we get checked out again. I bring consent forms and a prefilled syringe of Ganirelix in my handbag and a positive attitude, which is hard for me early in the morning, but I'm pledged to do my best.
The details, Succotash. They're killing me. They're taking up so much room in my brain I barely have room for anything else. No wonder I feel so stupid and slow. I feel dense. Uncreative. And tired.
What else have I done? I have stopped putting sugar in my coffee. I have stopped drinking alcohol. I am down to only one coffee a day. I am trying to prioritize sleep.
This regimen is probably going to last about two weeks. The goal, Succotash, is to get my follicles to grow. Last cycle I had one that drastically outpaced all the others and so there was no point continuing. It was a disappointment.
Thursday, January 11, 2018
Waiting
"So it's Day 2, right?"
"No," I said patiently. "It's day negative one. My period's due tomorrow. They told me to come in anyway."
"Oh." More probing. "Yeah, I don't think we'll be able to start the cycle tonight."
"Well that makes sense given that I haven't had my period yet, because it's DUE TOMORROW."
"We'll see what the blood work says."
*later*
"So it looks like maybe your ovulation predictor was off? Because you're still in luteal phase."
"I know. My period's not due til tomorrow."
"The hormones suggest it will be later than that, maybe this weekend."
"Okay."
"So just come in on Day 2, whenever that is, or next Wednesday if you haven't gotten it yet."
"Great."
*click*
"I'm not starting tonight, because I don't have my period yet. Shocker."
"Good thing you cut your vacation short because they told you to come in," said L.
"I have the same conversation with them every. Single. Time. I ovulate on day 10 or 11. I menstruate on day 28. They're always shocked! That's more like a 21 day cycle, they say. Well, shit, it's 28! Oh my God! Who knew? Could it be that the fact that my cycle isn't what you expect is somehow related to the fact that I am INFERTILE? HUH?"
"I know."
*sigh*
"I know."
"No," I said patiently. "It's day negative one. My period's due tomorrow. They told me to come in anyway."
"Oh." More probing. "Yeah, I don't think we'll be able to start the cycle tonight."
"Well that makes sense given that I haven't had my period yet, because it's DUE TOMORROW."
"We'll see what the blood work says."
*later*
"So it looks like maybe your ovulation predictor was off? Because you're still in luteal phase."
"I know. My period's not due til tomorrow."
"The hormones suggest it will be later than that, maybe this weekend."
"Okay."
"So just come in on Day 2, whenever that is, or next Wednesday if you haven't gotten it yet."
"Great."
*click*
"I'm not starting tonight, because I don't have my period yet. Shocker."
"Good thing you cut your vacation short because they told you to come in," said L.
"I have the same conversation with them every. Single. Time. I ovulate on day 10 or 11. I menstruate on day 28. They're always shocked! That's more like a 21 day cycle, they say. Well, shit, it's 28! Oh my God! Who knew? Could it be that the fact that my cycle isn't what you expect is somehow related to the fact that I am INFERTILE? HUH?"
"I know."
*sigh*
"I know."
Wednesday, January 10, 2018
New Year, New You
I have never been so fat in my entire life.
Okay, I can admit that by objective measures, I am not actually fat. But I am fat for me, and I am finding it upsetting. I am ten pounds over the weight that, for my thirties, used to count as "too many burritos." Ten pounds OVER. My pants are too tight. Panty hose waists roll down instead of digging in. I'm starting to panic.
"Do people always gain weight like this?" I asked the nurse, who was trying to hustle me out of the examination room.
"It's very common, yes," she said. She's heavier than me, and also I'm being irrational, so she wasn't in the mood to hear me complain. But learning that this is normal didn't make me feel better.
Sweater dresses, imaginary baby. Sweater dresses have replaced skinny jeans as my go-to lazy outfit this winter. Loose, voluminous sweater dresses. I've also just laid in a store of kale and unsweetened soy milk and chia seeds to put myself on a crash smoothie diet. It's possible some of this chub is the fault of our vacation in New Orleans, where food and liquor, both of it excellent, flowed freely and often. But even then, I've had vacations before. I never gained weight like this. Never.
Anyway. I'm home now, after a paint-by-the-numbers morning get started appointment where I learned that I have a couple of ovarian cysts the size of a fist hanging out in there, and so I can't start my new cycle tonight. I don't know why they had me come in before my period, but whatever. They've punching holes.
I'm due tomorrow. I will probably be told to come back in a couple of days, at which point we will see if the cysts have gone down, or if they're releasing hormones, or whatever the fuck. There's a good chance we'll have to push this cycle to February. Also known as one month away from forty-one.
It's a shame. I was feeling optimistic. I even made an acupuncture appointment for Friday, game to throw all the spaghetti at the wall and hope some of it stuck to something, somewhere.
Something. Somewhere. Just maybe not in here.
Okay, I can admit that by objective measures, I am not actually fat. But I am fat for me, and I am finding it upsetting. I am ten pounds over the weight that, for my thirties, used to count as "too many burritos." Ten pounds OVER. My pants are too tight. Panty hose waists roll down instead of digging in. I'm starting to panic.
"Do people always gain weight like this?" I asked the nurse, who was trying to hustle me out of the examination room.
"It's very common, yes," she said. She's heavier than me, and also I'm being irrational, so she wasn't in the mood to hear me complain. But learning that this is normal didn't make me feel better.
Sweater dresses, imaginary baby. Sweater dresses have replaced skinny jeans as my go-to lazy outfit this winter. Loose, voluminous sweater dresses. I've also just laid in a store of kale and unsweetened soy milk and chia seeds to put myself on a crash smoothie diet. It's possible some of this chub is the fault of our vacation in New Orleans, where food and liquor, both of it excellent, flowed freely and often. But even then, I've had vacations before. I never gained weight like this. Never.
Anyway. I'm home now, after a paint-by-the-numbers morning get started appointment where I learned that I have a couple of ovarian cysts the size of a fist hanging out in there, and so I can't start my new cycle tonight. I don't know why they had me come in before my period, but whatever. They've punching holes.
I'm due tomorrow. I will probably be told to come back in a couple of days, at which point we will see if the cysts have gone down, or if they're releasing hormones, or whatever the fuck. There's a good chance we'll have to push this cycle to February. Also known as one month away from forty-one.
It's a shame. I was feeling optimistic. I even made an acupuncture appointment for Friday, game to throw all the spaghetti at the wall and hope some of it stuck to something, somewhere.
Something. Somewhere. Just maybe not in here.
Tuesday, December 12, 2017
Nope
Oh, sweet Succotash. Where are you?
So it didn't take this time. I knew it wouldn't, and I was actually okay yesterday when they told me. Now I get a month off of being poked and prodded and bloodlet, which, to be honest, is a relief. Now I wait for my period, and then track my ovulation, and then start estrogen priming for another try.
So many trite metaphors present themselves. A bite at the apple. A turn at bat. Whatever.
They're putting me back on the pills we used before. I'm curious if they will up the dosage of those pills, since we only got 3 or 4 follicles on that one. But that's better than the one we got with all the injectables. One, Succotash. What's wrong with us?
Maybe I've just run out.
Right now, my job is to manage my expectations. And, if we're honest, to begin moving to acceptance.
This process is not going to work.
The more I tell myself that now, the less shocking it will be when the doctor tells it to me however many months from now.
This process is not going to work.
And I'm going to be okay anyway.
So it didn't take this time. I knew it wouldn't, and I was actually okay yesterday when they told me. Now I get a month off of being poked and prodded and bloodlet, which, to be honest, is a relief. Now I wait for my period, and then track my ovulation, and then start estrogen priming for another try.
So many trite metaphors present themselves. A bite at the apple. A turn at bat. Whatever.
They're putting me back on the pills we used before. I'm curious if they will up the dosage of those pills, since we only got 3 or 4 follicles on that one. But that's better than the one we got with all the injectables. One, Succotash. What's wrong with us?
Maybe I've just run out.
Right now, my job is to manage my expectations. And, if we're honest, to begin moving to acceptance.
This process is not going to work.
The more I tell myself that now, the less shocking it will be when the doctor tells it to me however many months from now.
This process is not going to work.
And I'm going to be okay anyway.
Tuesday, December 5, 2017
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)