Is what my reproductive endocrinologist remarked as she maneuvered some complicated bit of imaging equipment around in my most secret depths. I had been promised that the procedure would involve "some discomfort," which is doctor speak for "excruciating pain." But in truth, it wasn't that bad. Or else it was, but my habitual cramps are so bad anyway that I couldn't really tell the difference.
I have since concluded that I'm just badass.
"Am I dribbling? I am, aren't I. I'm sorry," I said as the imaging equipment water worked its way out into the world from wherever it had been moments before.
"We're gynecologists," my doctor reassured me. "We don't care. If your water breaks, that's what it will feel like."
"Well, even so," I said. "I'm a lady. I don't want to be rude."
The good news, I guess, is that everything in there looks "beautiful." By which I mean not encrusted with scar tissue or grown over with kudzu vines or whatever it is that they thought could have happened. So far the only thing wrong with me, if "wrong" is a word people are allowed to use in this context, is an FSH reading of 13. The upper level of normal is 10. It's been explained to me that this is my body trying to overcompensate for not having enough eggs. My hormones are being type A. Which should surprise no one.
Next your would-be father has to go in and get tests of his own, which I won't describe in detail, but suffice it to say, his won't involve "some discomfort." And then we have to go in and be told what to do next.
Today in the news there's a story about a 26 year old woman who left her 6 week old baby by the side of the road, and then I guess thought better of it and called the police and now she's going to prison. They posted a picture of the baby, and he's a wobbly little guy in socks and a striped onesie. I'm sure I'm not the first aging Type A high achieving infertile woman to think some variation on ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, SHE HAS A BABY AND SHE DOESN'T EVEN WANT ONE. But I've never claimed to be all that innovative. My skills lie in interpretation of classic themes.
Monday, July 6, 2015
Tuesday, June 9, 2015
Dye
What up, imaginary baby.
I'm sitting out in the garden for a minute while your dog guards the fence. I have jet lag, but the air is soft, and the rhododendron in the garden is so heavy with pink blooms that it's slumping over like an exhausted, bejeweled showgirl. A hefty one.
That was a terrible metaphor, I'm sorry. It's the jet lag. I already mentioned the jet lag.
Today I met with a very lovely doctor who, wouldn't you know, was in med school at the very hospital where I was treated for my exotic brain parasite all those years ago. Who knew? But I wasn't seeing her for brain things - I was seeing her for you things. Innards were probed. Blood was drawn. Tests are underway. Tomorrow I will go and have some sort of dye or something injected into my uterus so that they can see if there's anything structurally wrong. They told me what I basically already know - 1) I'm barren, clinically speaking. 2) It's either from hormones, structure, or no reason at all. 3) Addressing these questions can be expensive.
Yay.
On a related note, the boat went in the water today, and I have to drop off the sails tomorrow so she can be commissioned. But I digress.
Your would-be father has already said that if I want to quit, I can. My feeling is, I'll get the tests. Right? If there's an easy fix - not easy, but you know, if it's a matter of hormone alchemy, or someone left a sofa blocking my cervix and we need to move it an inch to the left, then so be it. If it's no reason at all, then.... well.
What then?
Honestly, I don't know. It's a hard thing to commit to, given how ambivalent I've been up to this point. It's a hard, hard thing.
The new patient info they gave me included lots of references for social workers and so forth, all of which seemed to assume that this was a very upsetting process. I've been given to understand that I could be feeling angry, or depressed, and that my relationship is probably hanging by a thread. But it's not, imaginary baby. We're having fun. I work hard, and he works hard, and my days are full. I was just in Europe for three weeks, and the boat went in the water today. In twenty minutes I have to be on the phone with LA.
I'd like to have you along for these things, of course. But you know... they're happening to *me.* Right now. This is *my* life, that I'm living. I've worked hard to make it this way.
So. Tomorrow, dye. I could get an infection, so I have to take antibiotics tonight, and tomorrow, and then a fistful of ibuprofen right beforehand to guard against "discomfort." That's a word I have heard a lot, in my medical life - discomfort. Ha.
Anyway. I'll let you know if they found the couch.
I'm sitting out in the garden for a minute while your dog guards the fence. I have jet lag, but the air is soft, and the rhododendron in the garden is so heavy with pink blooms that it's slumping over like an exhausted, bejeweled showgirl. A hefty one.
That was a terrible metaphor, I'm sorry. It's the jet lag. I already mentioned the jet lag.
Today I met with a very lovely doctor who, wouldn't you know, was in med school at the very hospital where I was treated for my exotic brain parasite all those years ago. Who knew? But I wasn't seeing her for brain things - I was seeing her for you things. Innards were probed. Blood was drawn. Tests are underway. Tomorrow I will go and have some sort of dye or something injected into my uterus so that they can see if there's anything structurally wrong. They told me what I basically already know - 1) I'm barren, clinically speaking. 2) It's either from hormones, structure, or no reason at all. 3) Addressing these questions can be expensive.
Yay.
On a related note, the boat went in the water today, and I have to drop off the sails tomorrow so she can be commissioned. But I digress.
Your would-be father has already said that if I want to quit, I can. My feeling is, I'll get the tests. Right? If there's an easy fix - not easy, but you know, if it's a matter of hormone alchemy, or someone left a sofa blocking my cervix and we need to move it an inch to the left, then so be it. If it's no reason at all, then.... well.
What then?
Honestly, I don't know. It's a hard thing to commit to, given how ambivalent I've been up to this point. It's a hard, hard thing.
The new patient info they gave me included lots of references for social workers and so forth, all of which seemed to assume that this was a very upsetting process. I've been given to understand that I could be feeling angry, or depressed, and that my relationship is probably hanging by a thread. But it's not, imaginary baby. We're having fun. I work hard, and he works hard, and my days are full. I was just in Europe for three weeks, and the boat went in the water today. In twenty minutes I have to be on the phone with LA.
I'd like to have you along for these things, of course. But you know... they're happening to *me.* Right now. This is *my* life, that I'm living. I've worked hard to make it this way.
So. Tomorrow, dye. I could get an infection, so I have to take antibiotics tonight, and tomorrow, and then a fistful of ibuprofen right beforehand to guard against "discomfort." That's a word I have heard a lot, in my medical life - discomfort. Ha.
Anyway. I'll let you know if they found the couch.
Sunday, May 10, 2015
Mother's Day
What up, imaginary baby.
I'm sitting at the breakfast table, which in the last 36 hours has become coated in a thin layer of yellow pollen. You don't notice at first, until you actually put your hand on the table, and it comes up yellow. Such is the hallmark of spring in this tiny town in upstate New York, where I live on occasion.
If you ever want to confront how truly selfish and self-absorbed you can be, try throwing an afternoon party for all your friends who had babies since the last time you saw them, and do it while you're having your period after two years of total baby-having failure. You might discover that you are not as nice as you thought you were. Or would wish to be. Or something. Fortunately, you can fill your mouth with cake.
It might be a struggle to find things to say to these friends. After you exclaim over their babies hair/smallness/largeness/adorableness, they usually want to talk to you about epidurals. Epidurals are something I prefer not to talk about. In fact, they are something I prefer not to think about.
You might discover that you have nothing to talk about but your work. You can list your various accomplishments - this book is coming out now, and then that one is coming out later, and you're working on that other one - but they're bored, and so you gloss over it. You can't blame them. Babies are absorbing. And do they really want to hear about how you get to go to Paris for your book release? They surely do not. No one does. Even you find it kind of embarrassing to mention. Your privileges are many, but it's tacky to acknowledge them.
It's Mother's Day, and much will be made at your baby party of the people present who are mothers for the first time. You have spent much of the past two years caring for/nagging/supporting and otherwise mothering a teenager to whom you are related by marriage, but there is no such thing as Half-Sister-in-Law Day. You played Santa for your cousin's kids while their dad was deployed overseas, and they love you and you love them, but there's no First Cousin Once Removed Day, either. For women, motherhood is where it's at. Therein lies the value.
One of the attendees at your afternoon baby party might ask you in hushed tones if you're still trying, and you'll say yes, but it's been two years and no dice, not even a positive test. Not once. And she'll tell you about her friend who had to use both a donor egg and donor sperm, and she's due any day now.
You will find that discomfiting. Even vaguely eugenicist. Who would go to all that trouble and expense, when there are already extant children who desperately need a home? You reflect that you would become a foster parent before doing that.
Foster parenting actually seems like a pretty decent idea, if your mothering drive ever becomes intrusive. You could do some good in the world. It would probably be awful much of the time, but then, so is real parenting.
So here we are, at our polleny table, feeling disappointed in ourselves. We're not the women we thought we were, I guess. But that, of itself, is a big part of existing. Learning that what we think about ourselves isn't necessarily the truth.
I'm sitting at the breakfast table, which in the last 36 hours has become coated in a thin layer of yellow pollen. You don't notice at first, until you actually put your hand on the table, and it comes up yellow. Such is the hallmark of spring in this tiny town in upstate New York, where I live on occasion.
If you ever want to confront how truly selfish and self-absorbed you can be, try throwing an afternoon party for all your friends who had babies since the last time you saw them, and do it while you're having your period after two years of total baby-having failure. You might discover that you are not as nice as you thought you were. Or would wish to be. Or something. Fortunately, you can fill your mouth with cake.
It might be a struggle to find things to say to these friends. After you exclaim over their babies hair/smallness/largeness/adorableness, they usually want to talk to you about epidurals. Epidurals are something I prefer not to talk about. In fact, they are something I prefer not to think about.
You might discover that you have nothing to talk about but your work. You can list your various accomplishments - this book is coming out now, and then that one is coming out later, and you're working on that other one - but they're bored, and so you gloss over it. You can't blame them. Babies are absorbing. And do they really want to hear about how you get to go to Paris for your book release? They surely do not. No one does. Even you find it kind of embarrassing to mention. Your privileges are many, but it's tacky to acknowledge them.
It's Mother's Day, and much will be made at your baby party of the people present who are mothers for the first time. You have spent much of the past two years caring for/nagging/supporting and otherwise mothering a teenager to whom you are related by marriage, but there is no such thing as Half-Sister-in-Law Day. You played Santa for your cousin's kids while their dad was deployed overseas, and they love you and you love them, but there's no First Cousin Once Removed Day, either. For women, motherhood is where it's at. Therein lies the value.
One of the attendees at your afternoon baby party might ask you in hushed tones if you're still trying, and you'll say yes, but it's been two years and no dice, not even a positive test. Not once. And she'll tell you about her friend who had to use both a donor egg and donor sperm, and she's due any day now.
You will find that discomfiting. Even vaguely eugenicist. Who would go to all that trouble and expense, when there are already extant children who desperately need a home? You reflect that you would become a foster parent before doing that.
Foster parenting actually seems like a pretty decent idea, if your mothering drive ever becomes intrusive. You could do some good in the world. It would probably be awful much of the time, but then, so is real parenting.
So here we are, at our polleny table, feeling disappointed in ourselves. We're not the women we thought we were, I guess. But that, of itself, is a big part of existing. Learning that what we think about ourselves isn't necessarily the truth.
Sunday, May 3, 2015
Secret Recipe
I was standing in the kitchen of a friend's sublet apartment, attending a small book party. I was talking with my friend T, the guest of honor's wife.
T is one of the best people I know. She never seems shaken by anything, she is always positive, she is the only person on the planet who can wear a white tube top and look elegant while doing so instead of skanky, and she is beautiful. She has the kind of beauty that used to be found on tropical islands when they were colonial sugar strongholds. T is tan and blonde. She is also very, very fertile.
"Do you want my secret recipe?" She asked me. We were catching up, and between all the work news (all I have to talk about is work, imaginary baby, though I also talk a lot about your dog) I had mentioned that it was now two years into my halfhearted attempts to conjure you.
"Please!" I said. "Heck. Why not?"
She looked left. She looked right.
"Are you sure?" she whispered.
Were we being spied upon? We weren't. "Yes." I said, wondering if my friend was luring me into some kind of Faustian bargain that, because of her innate goodness (lies all this time?) I would never see coming. "Tell me."
"I can't," she said. "I'll write it down."
I blinked. "Okay," I said.
Before she left, she hunted down a pen and the back of an envelope. I looked over her shoulder with interest. "It took me six months," she said. "Which I realize is nothing! But nothing happened until I did this."
Here's what she wrote.
1. Vitamin D
2. Preseed
3. Fertility 5
"I had a Vitamin D deficiency," she explained. "But you can take supplements."
"Um," I said. "What does this mean?" I pointed to #3.
"Five pounds. You have to gain a little weight."
"Ah ha!" I crowed. You, imaginary baby, have been privy to this semester's pimiento cheese gain, so I'm all set there, I'm pretty sure. "I've done that. I'm squishy."
"K, come on," she said. "You look amazing."
By the way, imaginary baby, if you wind up existing, and you wind up being female, you should know this how women talk to each other. One self-deprecates, and one effusively praises. It takes practice, but you'll figure it out.
"Okay," I said. "And what's this mean?" I pointed to #2.
Poor T's face turned a delicate, ladylike shade of violet, and she waved her hands and said "Look it up on the internet." Then she hugged me goodbye, and we promised to see much more of each other this summer, and she whispered that she hoped I would have good news soon.
#2, if you care to know, is a brand of lube available at your finer local drugstores. I learned this by asking the internet, where the answer was provided on a series of bulletin boards in which people - women, I assume - use a complex rubric to discuss with strangers their marriages, their hormone levels, and how many miscarriages they've had.
I'm not so sure about #2. But I will admit to popping a Vitamin D supplement this morning.
You never know.
T is one of the best people I know. She never seems shaken by anything, she is always positive, she is the only person on the planet who can wear a white tube top and look elegant while doing so instead of skanky, and she is beautiful. She has the kind of beauty that used to be found on tropical islands when they were colonial sugar strongholds. T is tan and blonde. She is also very, very fertile.
"Do you want my secret recipe?" She asked me. We were catching up, and between all the work news (all I have to talk about is work, imaginary baby, though I also talk a lot about your dog) I had mentioned that it was now two years into my halfhearted attempts to conjure you.
"Please!" I said. "Heck. Why not?"
She looked left. She looked right.
"Are you sure?" she whispered.
Were we being spied upon? We weren't. "Yes." I said, wondering if my friend was luring me into some kind of Faustian bargain that, because of her innate goodness (lies all this time?) I would never see coming. "Tell me."
"I can't," she said. "I'll write it down."
I blinked. "Okay," I said.
Before she left, she hunted down a pen and the back of an envelope. I looked over her shoulder with interest. "It took me six months," she said. "Which I realize is nothing! But nothing happened until I did this."
Here's what she wrote.
1. Vitamin D
2. Preseed
3. Fertility 5
"I had a Vitamin D deficiency," she explained. "But you can take supplements."
"Um," I said. "What does this mean?" I pointed to #3.
"Five pounds. You have to gain a little weight."
"Ah ha!" I crowed. You, imaginary baby, have been privy to this semester's pimiento cheese gain, so I'm all set there, I'm pretty sure. "I've done that. I'm squishy."
"K, come on," she said. "You look amazing."
By the way, imaginary baby, if you wind up existing, and you wind up being female, you should know this how women talk to each other. One self-deprecates, and one effusively praises. It takes practice, but you'll figure it out.
"Okay," I said. "And what's this mean?" I pointed to #2.
Poor T's face turned a delicate, ladylike shade of violet, and she waved her hands and said "Look it up on the internet." Then she hugged me goodbye, and we promised to see much more of each other this summer, and she whispered that she hoped I would have good news soon.
#2, if you care to know, is a brand of lube available at your finer local drugstores. I learned this by asking the internet, where the answer was provided on a series of bulletin boards in which people - women, I assume - use a complex rubric to discuss with strangers their marriages, their hormone levels, and how many miscarriages they've had.
I'm not so sure about #2. But I will admit to popping a Vitamin D supplement this morning.
You never know.
Monday, April 20, 2015
The Last of the Mohicans
I was sitting on the back porch of our house with an older writer friend, and I was deep in a vin triste.
A vin triste, imaginary baby, is a French name for this thing that happens when you've read "A Farewell to Arms" too many times. Suffice it to say, there was wine and I was emotional. I thought I was anxious about my job. A stranger walked by outside our protective hemlock hedge, and your dog barked at him.
"Shut up!" the stranger snapped at my dog.
"No, YOU SHUT UP!" I screamed at him. Nobody insults your dog for doing his job. Not while I'm drunk on the back porch. He went away, and your dog resumed his patrol of the fence, and I felt foolish.
"Is this because you haven't been able to get pregnant yet?" my friend asked gently.
I looked at her, blinked once, realized she was right, and blew my nose on my shirt.
She was very patient.
"You know what you need to do," she said after refilling my glass. Which, by the way, is only one path out of a vin triste. You can either sober up (recommended), drink past it (not recommended), or give in to the self-pity and weep (utterly not recommended). All options are equally bad. This is why Hemingway is dangerous to read.
I took a ragged breath, tossed back some more rose, and said "What."
"You have to watch The Last of the Mohicans," she said sagely.
"You mean the Daniel Day-Lewis film?" I asked.
"Yep," said my famous older novelist friend. "I've had two friends, both of them trying to get pregnant. They watched The Last of the Mohicans, and bam. Just like that."
"You're kidding," I said.
"Nope," she said. "It works."
I don't have any siblings, imaginary baby. When I outlive my parents, and when I outlive my husband, my family will come to an end. Unless my novelist friend's idea works.
I, Chinoochtuk. The last of the Mohicans.
A vin triste, imaginary baby, is a French name for this thing that happens when you've read "A Farewell to Arms" too many times. Suffice it to say, there was wine and I was emotional. I thought I was anxious about my job. A stranger walked by outside our protective hemlock hedge, and your dog barked at him.
"Shut up!" the stranger snapped at my dog.
"No, YOU SHUT UP!" I screamed at him. Nobody insults your dog for doing his job. Not while I'm drunk on the back porch. He went away, and your dog resumed his patrol of the fence, and I felt foolish.
"Is this because you haven't been able to get pregnant yet?" my friend asked gently.
I looked at her, blinked once, realized she was right, and blew my nose on my shirt.
She was very patient.
"You know what you need to do," she said after refilling my glass. Which, by the way, is only one path out of a vin triste. You can either sober up (recommended), drink past it (not recommended), or give in to the self-pity and weep (utterly not recommended). All options are equally bad. This is why Hemingway is dangerous to read.
I took a ragged breath, tossed back some more rose, and said "What."
"You have to watch The Last of the Mohicans," she said sagely.
"You mean the Daniel Day-Lewis film?" I asked.
"Yep," said my famous older novelist friend. "I've had two friends, both of them trying to get pregnant. They watched The Last of the Mohicans, and bam. Just like that."
"You're kidding," I said.
"Nope," she said. "It works."
I don't have any siblings, imaginary baby. When I outlive my parents, and when I outlive my husband, my family will come to an end. Unless my novelist friend's idea works.
I, Chinoochtuk. The last of the Mohicans.
Friday, April 10, 2015
Social Media
Hey there imaginary baby,
So, out here they have this thing called the internet, where some people live. It's very noisy and distracting, which is a surprise given how little real content or aesthetic experiences are available there. But the rent is cheap.
It can be easy to keep track of people there, though, which has both its good sides and its bad sides. There will be people in your life about whom you care, but who for whatever reason you are unlikely to ever see again. Or at least, not see that often. It can be nice to have a way to keep tabs on those people. It's like seeing people in the school cafeteria. You don't say hi to everybody. Some special few you greet with a hug. Some people you wish would be hit by a truck. But most of them fall somewhere in between, people about whom it's nice to know that they're basically doing okay.
Lots of science has recently proven, however, that all our desire to demonstrate our essential okayness can be hugely depressing. Partly because in any given life an inevitable period of majorly Not Okay will fall. I'm not even all that old, and yet some major Not Okay has befallen me already. And people I know, too - death. Illness. Financial loss. Fear. There's bad stuff. It does occur.
But we often only want to share those bad things with people who make us feel safe enough. It's hug-level friend news, not cafeteria news. So we keep it hidden. And to those of us at cafeteria level, it looks like nothing bad is happening.
A few women I know were ambivalent around the same time I was. And now, all three of them have extant babies. Chub-faced pictures fill my feed. And for some others, the chub-faces have started to subside into kid-faces.
I think we've missed it, imaginary baby. And I don't want it getting all over the cafeteria, but it's starting to make me really sad.
So, out here they have this thing called the internet, where some people live. It's very noisy and distracting, which is a surprise given how little real content or aesthetic experiences are available there. But the rent is cheap.
It can be easy to keep track of people there, though, which has both its good sides and its bad sides. There will be people in your life about whom you care, but who for whatever reason you are unlikely to ever see again. Or at least, not see that often. It can be nice to have a way to keep tabs on those people. It's like seeing people in the school cafeteria. You don't say hi to everybody. Some special few you greet with a hug. Some people you wish would be hit by a truck. But most of them fall somewhere in between, people about whom it's nice to know that they're basically doing okay.
Lots of science has recently proven, however, that all our desire to demonstrate our essential okayness can be hugely depressing. Partly because in any given life an inevitable period of majorly Not Okay will fall. I'm not even all that old, and yet some major Not Okay has befallen me already. And people I know, too - death. Illness. Financial loss. Fear. There's bad stuff. It does occur.
But we often only want to share those bad things with people who make us feel safe enough. It's hug-level friend news, not cafeteria news. So we keep it hidden. And to those of us at cafeteria level, it looks like nothing bad is happening.
A few women I know were ambivalent around the same time I was. And now, all three of them have extant babies. Chub-faced pictures fill my feed. And for some others, the chub-faces have started to subside into kid-faces.
I think we've missed it, imaginary baby. And I don't want it getting all over the cafeteria, but it's starting to make me really sad.
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
Chub
I've put on weight.
I'm not sure how much, because fortunately the scale here isn't working. It isn't all *that* bad, as all my clothes still fit, with the sole exception of this one sheath dress that was really, really tight to begin with, and which works better with foundation garments anyway, and the last time I tried I could still get the zipper up, I just couldn't sit down, and it was kind of riding up on my hips in a not so flattering way, which suggests that there is some extra weight in my ass region.
Where I've really noticed, however, is in the boobs. I was never a chesty person, to put it lightly. In fact, I did one of those DNA tests a few years ago, the most hilarious part of which was that the test would tell you what color eyes and hair you had (because, why not?). Among those salient and easily confirmed details I was also informed I had smaller than average breasts. Thanks for the tip, I thought.
But in the last year or so, that hasn't been as much the case. I cleave now. I've had to acquire new technologies, in sizes heretofore unimagined. At different moments, they ache.
They're aching right now.
I don't know if this is due to this brain tumor situation, which changes hormones in there, or what. That seems like a reasonable explanation. Or perhaps it's just the vagaries of age. Do other women wait until their late 30s to grow breasts? Maybe not. But here they are. I can move them around, fluff them up, make them pretty.
I'm due again on Sunday. Are my newly plush breasts a clue? Or a coincidence?
I guess we'll find out soon enough.
I'm not sure how much, because fortunately the scale here isn't working. It isn't all *that* bad, as all my clothes still fit, with the sole exception of this one sheath dress that was really, really tight to begin with, and which works better with foundation garments anyway, and the last time I tried I could still get the zipper up, I just couldn't sit down, and it was kind of riding up on my hips in a not so flattering way, which suggests that there is some extra weight in my ass region.
Where I've really noticed, however, is in the boobs. I was never a chesty person, to put it lightly. In fact, I did one of those DNA tests a few years ago, the most hilarious part of which was that the test would tell you what color eyes and hair you had (because, why not?). Among those salient and easily confirmed details I was also informed I had smaller than average breasts. Thanks for the tip, I thought.
But in the last year or so, that hasn't been as much the case. I cleave now. I've had to acquire new technologies, in sizes heretofore unimagined. At different moments, they ache.
They're aching right now.
I don't know if this is due to this brain tumor situation, which changes hormones in there, or what. That seems like a reasonable explanation. Or perhaps it's just the vagaries of age. Do other women wait until their late 30s to grow breasts? Maybe not. But here they are. I can move them around, fluff them up, make them pretty.
I'm due again on Sunday. Are my newly plush breasts a clue? Or a coincidence?
I guess we'll find out soon enough.
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