Let the debriefing begin

I am, quite frankly, surprised to be writing in this space. But it (this space) has been calling to me in recent months — occasionally even poking me with a dull "Feel like posting?" stick, reminding me that I left the blog hanging. Just waiting for me to come back, catch it, and call it Done.

Some things in life just take a little time to get to, you know?

And now: It's time.

This was never going to turn into a life-without-children blog. That just doesn't fit me. And I can't possibly still discuss myself in terms of being infertile. I mean, I was infertile. That happened. But I don't call myself infertile now, more than three years after my last TTC hurrah. Infertility is not a theme that rules my everyday todays. How could it? As my brother once said when asked, years after a painful end to one chapter in his life (the short story is he did not get what he wanted), whether he harbored negative feelings about the different life's path he was forced to take: "That would be weird."

Do I wish things had gone another way for me? Please. Yes. Of course. Can I still connect with the pain of losing my chance at parenthood? I don't have to connect, really, because it's right there, part of my soul. But, to my brother's point, I've reached the time at which I can't hold that pain against the Rest of My Life.

So here I am, blogosphere! Ready to start writing the posts that will help me articulate the journey from there to here. From my infertile end to my new days in which it makes sense to bring closure to this blog.

I have no idea how long my debriefing process will take. Not too terribly long, I trust. But the only thing I need to know right now is that I'm doing it.

And that, I am.

Hey blog, you still here? Yeah, I am too.

I haven't completely settled into this new post-TTC life, you know. That's not to say that I'm not productive and busy, or that I'm without happiness or purpose or song. It's just that, gee whiz, moving on from the TTC life — which to me now also includes my pre-TTC life, which in turn includes the vision of life-with-family I somehow always had, even before I opened my eyes to it — is a more arduous task than I expected.

As for the grieving process, I did that up right, let me tell you. I felt it. Or more to the point, I let myself feel it. (Something I haven't always done when I should.)

True, there's no distinct end to grieving deep-down loss of any kind. It will always be there. It will always be not there. But despite having come a long, LONG way since last year at this time, I'm still wondering when. WHEN do I truly cross over into the light? No, not into the big white light. (Not ready!) Just into a rough approximation of the light I always lived in before, even during the darkest of times.

I know the light is there, waiting for me to reconnect to it. I feel it glancing my face sometimes, maybe even every day now. But I'm still living with a heaviness that keeps me in check. I walk around with that hint of a lump in my throat, that vague ache in my gut. Tiny afflictions that others can't really see. Well, that's not true. I'm sure others see those things in me. They just don't know it.

Oh, I smile easily, and I mean it when I do it. I just need to keep looking forward to looking forward to the day when my smile gets back to the business of being "my smile."

I worry about people

I saw an ad for an upcoming Dr. Phil show mentioning a 48-year-old woman's desperate desire to rush into marriage because her "biological clock is ticking." I don't know the person's real details, and I don't expect to watch the show. Still, I felt compelled to touch on a couple of general topics the show teaser raised. Call it a public service announcement for I-don't-know-who-might-stumble-on-it.

What I'm about to say is coming from a place of understanding, compassion, and concern for my fellow woman.

About the marriage thing:

Marrying out of desperation of any kind will not give you what you are seeking. Applying severe pressure may actually work to get some men to the altar (lord knows it has before). But don't count on a happy ending with this prince. In fact, remind yourself, PLEASE, that he is not a prince. You can take care of yourself. And you can find the kind of love that requires no begging, brow-beating, or berating (of yourself OR the other party). It just might not show up on a schedule. That sucks, I know, but this is one thing you don't want to force.

About the biological clock thing:

I know what that ticking sounds like. But I hope to god you understand (and that the show clearly mentions) that — at 48 — chances are SO slim that you will achieve pregnancy naturally. I'm going to go ahead and assume that you intend to pursue either DE-IVF or adoption and wish you all the luck and speed (you will need both) in the world. Cash and strength and more luck might help too.

And now, back to my regularly scheduled work time.

Posting for the heck of it

I'm up late. Actually, I was out late (for a school night, that is), so although this is not really all that late for me to be up, I am feeling wired . . . not ready for bed.

So what's up with me? I'm keeping busy with work. Worrying about my DH. Planning an early 2010 vacation. Working on eradicating my migraines with acupuncture, exercise, whatever might do the trick. Processing certain aspects of the family visit that happened last week.

Also . . . dreading, just a little, my fast-approaching annual gyno exam. I haven't seen that doctor since just before starting our third IVF in September 2008. I saw her for an 8-week pregnancy check-up in June before that but not again during the next pregnancy.

I'm expecting the topic of birth control to come up.

Well, why not!

Why did I chuckle (and leave it at that) when my hairstylist playfully smacked me on the shoulder and said "You're so lucky you don't have kids. You really are!"?

Why did I decide to pursue a professional writing project on the topic of IVF?

Why has Celine Dion already announced a pregnancy not due to culminate until next May?*






*And, btw, is her p-stick even dry yet?

What do people do with extra rooms?

I recently mentioned that we have this empty room I'm wanting to fill.

I don't craft. Not even a little bit. Don't want to, not gonna. So any kind of craft room/project room/gift-wrapping room would make much less sense than even an empty room.

It's too small to be a TV room. And besides, we already watch TV/movies in the family room.

The room is also too small to house the exercise equipment we own but almost never use (recumbent bicycle, ski machine). Never mind that we'd have to carry the equipment up the stairs from the basement. Funny how we used it in our last, smaller house, but the family room setup there made it possible to work out in front of the TV. Can't really do that here, and for some reason working out at home without the option of watching some show you don't need to see hasn't caught on.

I'm thinking that the only real choice is to make it a reading room. Or a sitting room. Or a reading-sitting-music room. It's not big, but we could fit maybe 2 chairs and a table in there . . . or a small sleeper couch and a chair. Always room for a bookshelf or two. This seems most practical, but at the same time I feel like "WHY?" when it's just the two of us and we have multiple rooms already equipped to handle readers/sitters/music players.

If we REALLY wanted to stay in this house long-, long-term, we could knock out some walls and create a ginormous master suite. But. We don't need that. And. If we're going to start messing with walls, we'd probably do something with the kitchen instead.

Seems like the choice is clear, doesn't it? Still, I'm willing to entertain ideas if anyone else has any.

Trouble sticking a fork in it

Every once in a while I look at my little "About the Blog" blurb and think I should update it to clarify in that space that I am no longer TTC. True, I say so at the end of the insufferably long "About the Blogger" list. Longtime readers know it. But, well, targeted communication is my real-life business, and it bothers that side of me to see a blog description of mine that doesn't quite capture what's going on in the blog's present.

I do know what's really eating me: The thought of adding promises of child-free-living talk to my blog's theme makes me ill.

For one thing, I am childless, no thank you very much. "Child free" — to me — still carries the connotation of choice, a happy circumstance. I mean, come on, free is "because I decided so, on purpose, to suit my own needs and desires." Or. It's just plain GOOD. Without restrictions. At no cost.

Carefree, debt free, error free, cancer free, drug free, allergen free, worry free, wrinkle free, cling free; free admission, free food, free beer, free samples, free estimate, free concert, free puppies; free country, free speech, free time, free will, free spirit, free love; free on bail, buy one get one free, don't tread on free, free-for-all, free and clear, home free, set me free, free to be you and me, free at last, free at last . . . free, free, free, free, free, YIPPEE!

For another thing, I don't think I'll spend a lot of time blogging specifically about life without children. I am still processing/blogging about IF, loss, and stepping off the family-building path. "No kids" is part of that. But I feel like adding any sort of "life without" thingy to the blog description invites the assumption that someone might come here to read about day-to-day observations on life as a childless person. Granted, that's the situation. But it's not the accurate bent, if you will, of the blog.

Also, although I'm moving along and trying to evolve, I'm not all the way ready to COMPLETELY evolve the blog so that it no longer does what I created it to do for me: provide a safe haven for semiprivately discussing private hopes and fears on the way to whatever conclusion our TTC journey reached. One can and should argue that said conclusion made its appearance a while back. It's just that I'm still working on accepting it. Oh, I've committed to it. But the associated feelings are still raw sometimes, and my head can still spin when I realize not just how things turned out but that they did, in fact, turn out. Past tense.

As labels go, I think "infertile" still fits until I hit menopause. "Childless" is how I feel at present, but I don't like that as a descriptor for myself or anyone else (although, re me, "Area Childless Woman Wins the Lottery" wouldn't bother me too much). And "child free" just doesn't apply to me.

None of this is to say, you understand, that I go around throwing any of the terms into my everyday conversations.

---------
Me: Hi, I'm Lisa.

Other Person: And what do you do, Lisa?

Me: I'm an Infertile. Have been for years. I love it!!

Me (alternate answer): I'm a childless writer. You?
---------

Sorry for that digression. Anyone still with me?

I wasn't at all sure that I ended up making the point I had in mind when I logged on. Then I caught sight of the post's title, which pretty much says it all.

19 Things

It's June 14, an anniversary for DH and me: 19 years ago today, we had our first official date. (Saw Eraserhead at the art-house theater. Debated its meaning over drinks, tortilla chips, and fiery-hot salsa that really was too hot to take. And so on. For those familiar with the flick, I ask you: Should I make anything out of the fact that the movie we credit with starting our relationship begins with a creepy sperm-like creature and features a mutant baby?)

That date was on a Thursday. By Saturday — after we'd both spent Friday scrambling to tie up any loose ends that might interfere with us spending every spare second together for the rest of "who knew?" — we were ON with no looking back.

To honor our shared journey, I thought I'd do one of those sweet tribute posts listing good stuff about my DH. I'll keep the items topical to the blog's theme.

19 Things I Love About My Husband That Led to My Wanting to Start a Family with Him, Helped Me Cope with IF, and/or Served as the "Positives" I Focused On This Past Year to Keep Me from Killing Him (or Worse)

1. He has never said an unkind thing to me or tried to humiliate or "stick it to me." Not in public and not in private. Not ever.
2. I can still see the total devotion on his face as he held a newborn niece for the first time and cured her hiccups by draping her over his arm (tummy first, her head supported with his hand and chest) and tapping out a simulated heartbeat on her back to help slow her breathing. He just made that up on the fly. The baby's mother, grandmother, and aunt-to-be (me) all swooned, and we still talk about it behind his back 15 years later.
3. His smarts and dry wit make me happy.
   
4. At family gatherings, he'll patiently play/talk with the nieces and nephews for hours on end.
   
5. He was my "nurse" through two lengthy recovery periods after major surgery, and each time — despite knowing him as well as I do — I was blown away by the amazing level of care he provided.
   
6. He makes great waffles, pancakes, French toast, biscuits, and pizza dough.
   
7. I never have to wonder whether he's telling me the truth.
   
8. When it was time to do his fertility testing, he acted like a grownup — not a baby.
9. He was often pretty quiet at the clinic but came alive during strategy/statistic/scientific discussions with the REs.
10. He's able to laugh about such things as bad sperm and bad clinic porn.
11. Once while he unpacked from a business trip, my heart soared upon seeing a baggie full of Mu.cinex and a few pairs of brand-new, moisture-wicking, "crucial area"–cooling underwear. He'd done all that on his own.
    
12. Although thoroughly skeptical about potential benefits, he completely backed and encouraged my use of acupuncture, supplementation, diet changes, and meditation during treatment cycles.
13. For 2 years prior to starting IVF, he traveled a lot — but he always made it his business to make it home for the ol' fertile window. (Such that it was.)
    
14. He would have been content to not pursue fertility treatments at all. But he supported every last minute of my need to push on. He made my need, his need.
15. Each time I was pregnant, he immediately jumped into "What can I do for you?" mode.
16. The dog has a giant, obvious crush on him (and vice versa). It's very cute.
    
17. He gamely takes on the list of items to fix and problems to solve that my parents/his parents present to him each time we visit.
18. He lives to try to make me do a spit take.
    
19. A longer anecdote from the day I knew that I would always choose being with DH over the alternative: One Saturday about a year and a half into our relationship, I felt crazy-desperate for some alone time. I decided to go bra shopping. Solo. Then-boyfriend DH thought he'd tag along, but I said no for the first time in our history. This was fine with him, of course, and he set out walking to his downtown office to occupy himself till I was done. About 19 minutes later, I passed him in the car and gave him a beep. He waved, looking cheerful; I felt good that he felt good instead of left out. Soon I was parked, in the store, and standing blissfully alone in Lingerie, thinking beyond bras to perhaps socks, makeup, and even calling a friend for coffee. As I zeroed in to touch — and I do not exaggerate — my very FIRST bra of interest, I felt a familiar hand on my back. My heart actually sank for a split second. Guess who???!!!??? Why, it was my beloved. The one I'd tried to ditch. The man I would joyfully marry down the road. He grinned, hit me with his full-of-adoration brown eyes and said, "Surprise! I saw you drive by and figured I'd pop in for a quick hi. Are you enjoying your time alone?" With that I realized just how glad I was to see him . . . even when I didn't want to see him. Being with him felt right, as it always had and always would.

"We interrupt this silence to bring you a new post!"

It's been a while!

I took a break on purpose. Partially to give myself a break, and partially to mull over whether to keep writing in this space. I didn't do anything special to help myself come to a decision. Just decided to decide sometime.

Before I started this blog, I thought I might like to do a completely different sort of semi-anonymous personal blog. Something fun. Books, music, cooking, movies, dogs, and/or wine&beer&cocktails all seemed like topics I could enjoy blathering on about. Not infertility. And certainly not the version of it I'd lived up to that point, where IF meant you do not . . . you cannot . . . you will not conceive a take-home baby. I had nothing to say about that except that it sucked and I hated it. I just didn't know where I could go with that theme. Plus, I felt then that DH and I were just about done with TTC and it didn't make sense to blog in retrospect.

But then we committed to surgery and pursuing IVF with a new RE. Something shifted. I had hope again and something to look toward. A brand-new set of experiences to see through to whatever end was in store. A story. And onto Blogger I jumped.

Funny thing is, despite the TTC thing having fallen off my to-do list — and maybe, in a strange way, precisely because I have no intention of spending the rest of my days living in infertility (and, for you close readers out there, the "in" was a conscious language choice in lieu of, say, "with" or "after") — I know that this story is still unfolding. The rest of my life will not be an epilogue. And I need a way to facilitate putting the IF ride in its proper perspective within the much larger framework of that life.

So. More blogging for me. Unless or until I decide to decide otherwise.

Tripping

I'm visiting my parents this week. Yesterday my mom said how proud she and my dad are of me "after all this."

I found it trippy to think that anyone's pride might be attached to me for such a reason. I know they are just glad to see for themselves that I'm living and breathing and working on kicking myself down the road. But. It felt weird to hear it expressed in that way.

Even Wikipedia knows a doctor can't "implant" an embryo

I am still frustrated by the nature of the news coverage surrounding the octuplet mom. For example, DH and I turned away from CNN last night to get away from Anderson Cooper's incessant teasers about the "Angelina Jolie connection." Please. What a ridiculous tabloid-y ploy, trying to get people to stay tuned for nothing more than a "story" about how some people (on the street) are wondering (because a CNN producer asked them to) whether this person has set out to be like the beautiful celebrity with all the kids (who sells copy and gets viewers).

I have an idea for you, Media, and I really think you're going to like it:

Start calling her OctoMama, which rhymes with Obama (no disrespect to the president implied) . . . and let your imaginations take you to new heights of loosely-linked-to-nothing voyeuristic reportage. People will eat it up.

Meanwhile, I'm still hoping for the story about someone advocating for the mom to get the real help she needs so those children can have the best lives possible. Why is everyone so angry with her? Yes, I got judge-y myself. But you can't stay in that place for long when you see that she clearly lacks the judgment necessary for real-world decision making. It makes me sick that nobody seems to be stepping in to help in a meaningful way.

Awakenings

My New Year has officially started. Today, I mean. Yes, I'm behind the times. But I had some lingering business to wrap up before I could allow my head to think "2009." None of it was related to 2008's 3 IVFs or 2 doomed IVF-induced pregnancies; yet, somehow, because the work originated during the year in which said experiences dominated the main stage in my own personal IVFapalooza, I couldn't quite begin to close down the festival until I'd finished.

Did you follow that? How's this: I, just now, am starting to feel like my life beyond IVF and its various outcomes can proceed. It's good as bad things go. It's not what I wanted, but both my head and heart know it's time to move on.

All week long as I checked things off the list and got closer to this beginning, I noticed a realignment of my attention. The need to keep a single-minded focus faded, and the proverbial fog lifted. I saw many glimpses of the "me" I used to know:

Hey, that's right, you like to follow the news! Wait . . . how on earth did you forget the new business-related website you started building last year? That was a pretty good idea. Oh yeah, leaving the house can be fun! What's that? Are you singing in the car, just a little bit? Welcome back! Where have you been, anyway?

While waiting for my turn in the shower this morning, I toured my laughably messy home with newly open eyes (and ears). Along the way I closed a random closet door that must have been open since last June. I actually heard the annoying furnace noise DH has been grumbling about for ages (geez, it IS annoying). And I quickly envisioned a prioritized game plan for dealing with the physical chaos I saw.

Now, I know that the emotional wreckage in the house can't be cleared on a tidy little timeline, but I take comfort in knowing that swinging back into so-called normal activities will help DH and me keep going as we figure out what our future holds. What does our family look like? If this is "it," does the life we're living fit with that picture?

I'm awake now. I'm up. Wish me luck with that.

Peace, baby

I wore a peace-sign pendant to my ultrasound today. The RE lit up when she noticed it — she's not much older than I am, 5–6 years if the graduation dates on her CV correlate to age in a typical way. That would make her my brother's age. So my guess is that in the 70s perhaps she, too, drew peace symbols all over her school notebooks, notes she passed in class, and maybe even her faded denim bell-bottoms. If she didn't, then she surely knew the girls who did — they were the groovy chicks my brother liked and that I wanted to be.

Dr. K said, "I love your necklace. It's the peace sign!"

I smiled, clutched it, and flashed on all thoughts above in the split second before saying, "I wanted a little peace on Earth today."

Next up, the assistant dimmed the lights. DH took my hand, and 5 seconds later the 4 of us silently viewed the baby's image. It was fuzzy . . . not sharp and distinct like before . . . yet clearly — and entirely — still.

The measurements indicated that the baby had grown by exactly a week since the scan 8 days ago. Of course there's no way to know, but the guess is that our bean's heart had just recently stopped.

Amazingly, my heart is still beating. Even broken it finds a way to keep me going. You wouldn't believe all that I've done since leaving the clinic: I've picked up groceries; sat with no thoughts at Starbucks; checked to see that DH made it back to work; called the family; ordered straggler holiday gifts; discussed in detail a current project with a client; unsubscribed from two pregnancy newsletters; thrown out the half-read issue of Fit Pregnancy I bought last weekend; stroked the sweet dog that kissed me when I got home and sits by my side as I write; taken both Tylenol and Advil for the painful cramps that have shown up; and set up a D&C for tomorrow. I've dropped a few hot tears, sure, but the floodgates haven't opened. Plenty of time for that later.

I'll allow that shock may be at play. It does have a way at times of helping you function. But I have to say, for whatever it's worth, that I don't feel shock-y. Instead I feel surrounded by a very strong sense of peace. On Earth.

I like to think that the baby gifted me with peace as it left this world behind. And that there was plenty left over to accompany the baby wherever it needed to go.

Waiting (for) to go

That's "go" with a silent "t."

Don't mind me, folks, just entertaining myself.

It's Day 11 of stims, and I'm in the clinic's atrium pilfering wi-fi while waiting for acupuncture, waiting for my follicles to grow big enough to trigger, waiting for another chance to get knocked up, and — ultimately — waiting to see what's next for me in this life.

Cold dawns and pretty bridges

I'm home from my trip and doing my best to get ahead on work and household issues before everything goes to heck in a biohazardous waste container starting . . . oh well, better blog it like it is . . . starting last year right about this time.

The trip had its moments, both lovely and atrocious. And although I would balk at calling it a "vacation," it was clearly good for DH and me to just exist elsewhere for a bit. Bonding and a reversion to a more effortless connection ensued.

One morning last week I woke up extra early. We'd just spent our first night in my parents' home, and I wanted to see the sunrise on the lake. I crept out to the family room and was blown away by the beauty of the mist on the water. I (quietly) gathered up my eyeglasses, slippers, and camera, and I curled up on a patio chair — outside in 40-degree weather, wearing thin pajamas — to capture the scene.

I was ready to go inside about 30 minutes before snapping this dock photo, but I'd locked myself out. I didn't much mind. I was happy to stay outside for a while and enjoy some quiet moments alone with the lake. It never fails to restore me.

At first glance of this image, my immediate thought was "bridge to nowhere." (Hmm, wonder why that term was in my head.) The next startled thought I had was "Oh, is that what I think about IVF for us? Maybe. Kinda. Yes. But look at the pretty bridge."

Then I recalled writing about the lake and the feeling of "twilight" a few months back. My reaction to this image of dawn struck me as apropos to everything: The bridge shows a bit of age . . . but it still looks beautiful, even hopeful, bathed in first light.

All at once it appears to be sturdy and delicate. Weary and open. Wise and clueless. Resolute and peaceful.

7 random things

Tara tagged me for a meme today, and I decided to pounce the minute after seeing it . . . otherwise, as experience tells me, I will not get back to it.

It's called the "7 Random Things About Me" meme. You're supposed to link to the person that tagged you, post the rules, share your 7 random/weird things, and tag 7 new people in their comments sections.

Here's my list:

1. I've largely ignored my work-related blog since starting this one. I look forward to spending more time with the part of myself that really cares about my work — and lots of other things too — in the not-too-distant future, come what may.
2. Number of hot sauce bottles on a small Lazy Susan in my tea-and-hot-sauce cupboard: 11.
   
3. I am uncomfortable using silverware that has been handwashed and air dried in the drying rack. Same goes for glassware. When I see them in the rack (I say "see" because I don't put them there), I will either transfer them to the dishwasher or rewash/dry them myself. DH has no idea.
4. When I was little, I became absolutely convinced that my sister was a vampire. For a while I slept with a small cross under my pillow, just in case.
5. I got a haircut last night, and despite showering and using my own shampoo and styling goop this morning, I can still smell the 5 types of goop my stylist used in my hair. (Yes, 5 — and she didn't even use hairspray.)
6. I'm about to make brunch reservations for Sunday at a restaurant about 1,800 miles away.
   
7. I don't like to tag other people for memes — so I'm skipping it! If you'd like to play, feel free to post your 7 things and tag 7 other people. You can also badmouth me for being a spoil-sport player!
   

"We weren't even trying at all!"

I swear I hear/read a new story every other week about women in their 40s (like me!), barren for years (like me!), who get pregnant with a perfect sticky bean that turns into a perfect healthy baby just MINUTES before starting their IVF cycles (like . . . uh . . . well, crap).

Obviously I'm doing a little venting here. But not about the successes themselves. Those make me happy, honest. I'm not even whining about the circumstances I've described. I know that surprise pregnancies absolutely happen all the time to people gearing up for IVF or DE-IVF. Of course they do. Hearing about those make my day.

My little semantics vent is this: Why is the kicker to this particular story almost ALWAYS that these people "weren't even trying — AT ALL"? That detail is sticking in my craw tonight.

I'll allow that couples can, and certainly do, occasionally enjoy each other's company without an explicit conception agenda. And that those struggling with IF may have every reason to assume nothing will happen and so will be surprised by ANY kind of BFP.

You cannot persuade me, though, that couples in their 40s who are seriously TTC and pursuing ART don't know when they've had unprotected sex near a fertile window and don't think about on some level that maybe, God willing, they will beat the odds and wind up pregnant by just doing what comes naturally.

So I contend that — for this type of couple — there is NO SUCH THING as a truly genuine incident of not trying* that leads to pregnancy.

That's my position, and I'm sticking to it.**

***

*I'm defining not trying as "no sex."
**That is, I'm sticking to it at least until I fall asleep in the next 2 minutes.
***Oh, and I take it all back and apologize to anyone I've rendered miffed. I suppose anything is freakin' possible! :)

LIVE from the corner

Like my little corner? I took the photo to show faraway loved ones a close-up of how the new paint and carpeting on our main floor look with our furniture.

Looking at the pic right now makes me want to crawl into that space and live there. Just for a little while.

As a child, whenever I disappeared from view at home, you could bet I was actively escaping family frenzy by quietly hanging out in a tight spot that nobody else really thought about: the low crook of the massive oak out back; a sliver of plush green carpeting between the picture window and couch (we called it a "davenport" then); the small slab of countertop between the refrigerator and kitchen wall; the cave underneath the basement pool table; or — my favorite — the lighted corner of my tiny-but-packed bedroom closet (door tightly closed, please).

I craved the confinement. It helped me focus my thoughts.

I notice my house full of grown-ups fails to feature any cozy little retreats — with the notable (and terribly noticeable) exception of my piled-high-with-stuff office. That's where I'm sitting right now, taking one of my frequent stabs at thinking things through on the reproductive front. I'm refreshing my memory on treatment plans, giving my favorite search engine a workout, scanning a book with essays about choosing to live child-free, and looking at work calendars, finances, travel schedules, old journal entries . . .

I've had an absolute bear of a time keeping my office clutter-free ever since we began pursuing ART treatments. For a long time, I told myself the mess kept on top of ME (instead of the other way around) because I was so distracted, often harried, as we traversed the bumpy, medically assisted path to potential parenthood. But while moving piles around and definitely NOT making things appear any tidier this afternoon, I realized that I've created just the kind of hemmed-in retreat I used to need as a kid. I feel safe in my office. Wedged into the corner with my stuff. Comfortable, calm, protected, and in touch with my thoughts.

Eureka! An insight! I'd say that's progress, even if it's about the method to my madness.

I'm hoping to make the leap from insights to decisions very, very soon. Although I've obviously been taking strength from my little corner full of stacks 'n' stuff, I'm itching to raze the place.

8 hours till I'm on the road to beta

Yikes, I thought it was 10 pm, but I was wrong. I need to be in my car at 7 am tomorrow to ensure that I make it to my 7:45 beta draw on time. I'll be there. Then I'll have to drive back home, still in rush-hour traffic, and get ready to teach a class at noon. I tried doing the prep work for the class this evening, but that didn't work out. Instead I talked DH to sleep on a different coast, fielded a couple of calls from people wanting to know how I'm holding up (fine today, thanks), and ate a very large artichoke for dinner while watching The Office.

My brain is mush. I did a bunch of work and interacted with several colleagues today. But darned if I can tell you what I really accomplished. I'm a list maker by nature, but my lists usually fade into the background once I finish them. Today, though, I relied on a list to keep me going and, more important, to serve as a record of what I actually did. 'Cause without it, I was unable to reliably track anything. Guess my mind was otherwise engaged.

Ring, dang it all, ring!

I'm 10 days away from my estimated suppression check — so the real flurry has not yet begun — but I'm already needing to stick close to the phone just to stay on top of things.

Nobody involved on the other side of my IVF process EVER picks up the phone when I call. I spend what seems like a lot of time sitting through very long voicemail announcements leading up to the beep. Sometimes I pass out a little and miss the beep. Other times I suffer a minor blank out and hear the beep but forget whose voicemail I've dialed in to. Today, though, I was fresh enough to get all my messages recorded and, presumably, deposited at the back of a long queue.

People who hold small bits of my future in their hands that I would like to but won't hear from before the day is out:

My acupuncturist, J. I need to set up this week's 2 appointments. I wanted to do this Friday with J's assistant M, but M wanted to touch base with J on the weekend, call me herself on the weekend, and then have me call J on Monday. Okay. Convoluted, but I can adapt. Now I just need J to call me back, which always seems to take 2 days.

My RE, Dr. K. I want more information from her about the timing of my upcoming Cetrotide shot. I am not satisfied with the nurse's assertion that my ovulation date doesn't matter and that we only need to go by my typical cycle length. Especially since Dr. K initially described the protocol as starting at 7 DPO. I could press the issue with the nurse, but I just want to cut to the chase for an explanation better than "it doesn't matter." If it doesn't matter, I want to hear it from Dr. K because she will at least give me a why.

I also want Dr. K to okay the banking of an, ahem, sample from DH before he flies away to the opposite coast next weekend. DH has planned to fly back as soon as it's time for me to trigger. He WILL be here for ER and fresh-sample donation. But a popsicle in the freezer would help us both let go of niggling worries that his flight will be delayed or WHATEVER.

My financial counselor at the clinic, C. She and I thoroughly discussed costs before DH and I got the cycle balls rolling. But I received — from a different financial counselor — a bill that does not reflect the credit amount we have with the clinic, the base fee C and I used to calculate costs on the phone, or the 10% discount I get for being a repeat customer. The bill is about $2K higher. And I'm not having that. I don't anticipate a problem, really. Just a "Sorry for the error," which is all I think it was. But still, it took me 2 weeks and 5 phone calls to get the first cycle total in the first place.

My fertility-meds pharmacy rep, A. We discussed everything from the giant Rx order before the ship date, but I received a couple of things I asked them not to send. Nothing big, just a second sharps container ($30 is $30, and I told her I didn't need it) — oh, and narcotics I'm allergic to and don't intend to pay for.

Everything is going fine right now, really. Despite this maybe sounding like a bunch of complaints, I don't have any big ones at the moment. Just the one where I say WHY IS THIS PHONE-TAG GAME SO CONSISTENTLY ONE-SIDED?

Ring, dang it all, RING!