Saying it with a song

I almost hate to file the complaint prompting this post.

Truly, I've been the recipient of so very few pieces of unsolicited TTC advice since saddling up for the rodeo 6 years ago. And for that I feel . . . unique.

But I'll be hanged if I didn't just recently get some. TTC "at your age" advice, I mean. It made no sense to me AT ALL that I was getting it. My adviser, you see, knows that TTC is off the table at my house. That that life phase is over. (Did, dad, dud.)

As you know, my dear readers, the decision to end said phase was not made blithely. So I'm sure you can imagine that hearing out-of-the-blue advice about how I might just get knocked up "at home" after all (seriously?) — and with the clear implication that I should be thankful to hear it, not to mention impressed that the adviser held her tongue while I was actually trying to start a family — felt a bit slappy.

I'm not going to offer particulars about the specific words of wisdom or who threw them in my face as though I might easily expect to pass a fully gestated baby into the toilet the next time I relieved myself. I will, however, say that I think I handled it casually. Politely. Yet definitively.

What I didn't do was point out how my advice-giver has absolutely no flipping clue. Where I am and where I've been on this path — at full-on 44, with intimate knowledge of my own, actual fertility profile and reproductive history, years of both so-called natural methods and medical interventions under my belt, having ALREADY researched the hell out of relevant-to-me topics all along the way, past tense — IS where I've been and where I am. I don't need no stinking Monday-morning quarterbacking.

In a fun moment of happenstance, I watched Postcards from the Edge last night and thought this number perfectly captured my experience and sentiments on a number of butt-kicking levels.



My favorite lyrics snippet, in case you'd rather not sit through the video:

"I've run the gamut, A to Z. Three cheers, and dammit, c'est la vie. I got through all of last year, and I'm here. Lord knows, at least I was there . . . and I'm here."

Maybe the octuplets' story will shock the right people?

Ever since the new Eight Is Enough cast was born earlier this week, I've been trying to keep my distance from the story. Mostly because I find the reports that try to ramp up the freak-show aspects of it distasteful.

"Here's an exclusive look at the biggest baby bump EVER caught on tape!
(Naturally, the woman sporting it was half-naked, writhing around, and screaming from the pain of labor. Who would give permission for that to air?)

"How many babies can a human uterus hold, anyway?! We'll get to the bottom of it!!!"
(That report was informative if you listened to the doctor's explanation, but the breathless reportage surrounding it just made it sound like human litters are awesome and "YOU could have one too.")

"Strung together, the diapers those kids will go through could circle the earth 5 times!!!"
(Nobody ever says whether they're calculating with fresh nappies . . .)

Today at least we're getting more details. We need them to help put the situation in context for proper public consumption. I'm glad to see the ASRM president (who consults at our clinic) firmly stating that higher-order multiples are never the goal with an ethical doctor and that ASRM is already investigating what exactly happened with the mother's fertility treatment.

I'm not going to judge the mother here. My opinion only, but I think the unfolding story points to some issues that go beyond simple irresponsibility or greediness, the two most popular suppositions about her motives for having not just octuplets, but octuplets in addition to 6 other kids. I have to believe that this person just doesn't have the capacity to understand reality in all its glory. I don't know why she might not. But some of the details make that seem likely to me and so I have to wish the best for her and those innocent babies.

I hope the family does disappear from the spotlight, just as they say they will. If they do, maybe there's an opportunity here to bring more discussions of IF and insurance coverage for ART to the forefront. I'd prefer dialogues NOT about how many children someone should have or who gets to have kids and when . . . but talks about making ART accessible, affordable, and always ethical. And if people gain a little more understanding about how IF affects others' very lives, well, great.

Is that possible? Am I hoping for too big of a logic leap?

Or will this circus do nothing but further stigmatize use of ART and bring even more discussions about responsible care, family-building options in general, and the overwhelming expense of the pursuit of ART to a staggeringly silent halt?

Guess we'll see. I think I'll shoot off some emails to ASRM, RESOLVE, and INCIID encouraging them to step up to the mic while it's still live.

I've got no real conclusion in mind, so please accept instead a relevant Friday funny from the Onion.

On the eve of the New Year

A message for you, dear readers and fellow bloggers:

"For last year's words belong to last year's language. And next year's words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning."
—T.S. Eliot

Tonight, with Bing playing in the background and champagne chilling in the foreground, DH and I will gratefully "watch the old year die with a fond good-bye" and step into our future.

How will you celebrate? Whatever your plans, I wish you all the best for a safe, warm, and smooth transition into 2009.

Happy New Year!

A favorite Christmas song

"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" has been a favorite of mine since I was but a girl. I loved it even before seeing Meet Me in St. Louis for the first time at age 12 or so. But once I saw the film, the beautiful melancholy theme of the song came into focus for me and I loved it even more. Purposely making my heart hurt a little was something I couldn't get enough of at that age. My mom noticed same and surprised me with the sheet music so I could play the song and think about the heart-rending situation till I could play and think no more.



For anyone feeling like you're "muddling through" right now, you are not alone. Happens to the best of us. Just keep on muddling, and I promise I will too. Better days are coming. That's how it works.

Happy holidays to one and all!

Sunday funny

And now for some breaking news.

Godspeed, childless couple.

Enjoy yourself!

Hey there, my sweet bloggy friends. I'm still around, just taking a step back from the day-by-day, play-by-play analysis of my early pregnancy, both online and in real life.

I had one ticked-off-yet-cleansing sobbing episode about how crazy IVF (and all its possible outcomes) makes a girl. It started right after I did the greyhound Heimlich on my choking doggie. The incident happened quickly, as these things do, but in the moment I believed I was losing my precious furbaby, and you would not BELIEVE the bargaining chips I flung at God while thrusting at the spot where my pup's barrel chest turns to teeny-tiny tummy. It worked on the fourth or fifth try, thank goodness, and she was and is fine. The only after effects for her were a cough and a curiosity as to why I (a) wouldn't let her eat the bloodied treat she'd spewed across the floor and (b) couldn't stop hugging her for the next 3 days.

That happened the night after my third beta. The crisis helped snap me out of my head and realize that I was going to be on my own with the pregnancy — with no new official word about anything — for another 2 weeks. From then until my ultrasound, it was going to just be me, myself's ever-changing symptoms, and I. (Sorry, bad grammar all around.) And I had to start letting go and letting things be.

I can't say that I won't be super nervous when scan day arrives next Wednesday. But while there's still a bit of a buffer between now and then, I've been sticking to my even keel, keeping myself calm, and focusing on OTHER THINGS.

For ince, of late, I've been doing an excellent job of really concentrating on work for a change. I have my holiday gift-giving plans mapped out. I'm about to stop pretending to work for this day and go make the world's best pumpkin pie (or so I am assured by the recipe). And I plan on reveling in my entire wine-less holiday tomorrow, taking a special moment to express my deep-down gratitude for all that has gone right this year. DH and I started 2008 with a low 15% chance for pregnancy using IVF and rapidly lost ground when an RE retrieved, literally, no eggs from the henhouse. Since then, we've had 2 pregnancies from 2 IVF transfers (!) — and somewhere in the midst of this, that, and the other we managed to grab our beloved marriage by its hair and yank it to safety *just* as it tried to step in front of a speeding bus.

I have a lot to be thankful for. And I'm going to enjoy it.

Hope you enjoy a happy Thanksgiving, too!

Video time. Yes, I've posted two versions of the same song. The first has the best sound, but the costumes in the second demand to be shared.

Busy with a cycle? Circle November 4 on your calendar now!

Just a pitch for everyone to get out there and pull those levers, press those buttons, and fill in those tiny circles! I love this one in particular because it doesn't push any candidates (a refreshing change as the season winds down) — it just says to VOTE!



Had to add this one, too, because it mentions multiples (that makes it kinda on topic for select IVF-ers, right?) . . . plus, I still think Opie is adorable.

See more Ron Howard videos at Funny or Die

Ride my see-saw

Video post!

I'm watching Miss Pettigrew's Something or Other. The film looks pretty, and most of the acting seems solid . . . but it's not holding my interest. Oh wait, it just ended kind of sweet-like — as expected, but a whole lot faster. Hmm. Thumbs sideways.

Back on topic:

One minute tonight I was in good spirits, waiting for 7 pm to really-truly start this cycle by shooting up with my first round of stims. The next minute I was prepping my shots and surprising myself by a bitter burst of blubbering that there I was, right back where I was in January (IVF #1) . . . and April (IVF #2).

BUT. I took the shots and felt better. Still feeling good now, 3 hours later.

Enjoy the video. My Follistim-Menopur combo doesn't produce the psychedelic effects suggested by the little intro. But it does do a number on me.

Finally, the HMT is born!

Thought all the POAS'ers out there would like this little audio bit from the Onion:

"Procter & Gamble Introduces Home Menstruation Test"

DH just flew into the family room to see why I was crying. It took a triple take for him to realize I was laughing, all the way out loud.

I'm IT

To be precise, I was it back on May 9, when Joonie "tagged" me to post the following meme. Didn't mean to ignore. I know I saw it, but it went in one eye and — poof — out who knows where!

Four things I did ten years ago (1998):
(1) Took a job I immediately wanted to quit. Stuck with it, though, due to the next item on the list.
(2) Bought my first house with DH.
(3) Interviewed a Bigfoot researcher who later donated his own skeleton to science.
(4) Assumed that — once we were ready, sometime in the future — conceiving a child might take a while. Like maybe a few months.

Four things I did five years ago (2003):
(1) Had my first fertility workup with an OB-GYN.
(2) Repainted the interior of our second house.
(3) Adopted a retired racing greyhound.
(4) Went off BCPs after 17 years.

Four things I did yesterday:
(1) Cleaned up doggie vomit. Poor pupper, but GAG!
(2) Placed holds on 10 library books I'll pick up later today.
(3) Found that the milk had gone bad.
(4) Confirmed my own pregnancy rumor for a good friend who lives 1,800 miles away. She'd overheard someone I don't technically even know describe an over-40, never-had-kids, IVF-doing Lisa MyLastName. When my friend butted in to say "Did you say Lisa MyLastName?", the non-acquaintance insisted that my friend couldn't know me. Hilarious!

Four shows I love to watch:
(1) Curb Your Enthusiasm. It is so uncomfortably funny.
(2) America's Test Kitchen. They have great recipes and good info about kitchen tools.
(3) The rotating Mystery series on PBS: Prime Suspect, Inspector Morse, Miss Marple, Poirot, you name it.
(4) The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Still makes me happy.

Four things I love to do:
(1) Write/read (sorry, cheating, but they are closely tied for me).
(2) Cook new things.
(3) Spend time with DH and the hound.
(4) Listen to jazz.

That does it. I'm supposed to tag a few new folks. I'm sure it's bad form, but instead of going out and finding bloggers who haven't participated, I am going to take the lazy route and invite interested readers to consider yourselves tagged! Just post the meme answers to YOUR blogs and then pass it on as you like. Easy!

With a song in my heart . . .

. . . I borrow a line from Stevie Wonder to say, "Don't go baby, don't go baby; don't go baby, don't go baby."

Today's beta result is 559. That gives me a doubling time of 46.7 hours. My guarded reaction as I tried to do the math kinda disappointed the nurse coordinator who called. She'd clearly hoped to hear some serious whooping.

What can I say — it is HARD to switch gears from keeping my hopes tamped down and perfectly categorized under the heading "Ain't Gonna Happen." Elation is still a bit out of my reach, but I have jumped on the just-plain-happy wagon and will work on ramping things up after the shock wears off.

Tonight I send a message to my little cell blob:

"Tomorrow marks 18 days since you first started growing. Good luck forming your neural groove with pretty brain bulge on one end (assuming the wiki author actually got that right). I just know it will go well. In the meantime, this song is for you."

Friday dance break

I'm hanging in, doing my best to keep hope floating near the top of my well of emotions. As a quick distraction, I searched YouTube for a couple of mood-lifting songs I associate with this cycle.

Every time I drove to the clinic this time, I played "I Don't Feel Like Dancing" by the Scissor Sisters. Kept it on Repeat. The upbeat music paired with world-weary lyrics just worked for me. This fun video features a series of Stephen Colbert dance clips set to the music. Try NOT to smile from the pinata scene forward.




On ER day, the Michael Buble version of "The Best Is Yet to Come" played as I got my sleepy-time IV. My parents had just mentioned seeing Buble's opening act perform. This was in the same call where they passed along all kinds of good hopes, wishes, and prayers for the retrieval, the cycle, and beyond. Hearing the song made me feel all those good vibes — from them, other family and friends, my online peeps. And that's as good a theme song as any. I honestly do believe that the "best" is out there for us, regardless of what happens in the next week or so. Check out Gene Kelly's moves in the video. I find them hypnotic this Friday afternoon.

With apologies to T. S. Eliot and those who enjoy good haiku

April is the month
that cruelly sprinkles dull roots
with hope for new life







The photo shows the cap from my vial of Cetrotide 3 mg. I chuckled at its message as I mixed the potion tonight, which — once injected — left me with an itchy red welt.

Remarkably, I had not heard this one

Will I be able to overcome my lifelong distaste for clowns (don't even get me started on the song "Send in the Clowns"; CAN'T stand it!) in order to sway the IVF odds in my favor??????

Not bloody likely!

DH plans to pick up the necessary supplies on his way home. You know, just to be safe 'n' stuff.

For some of life's interludes, love is the drugS

Opening my second shipment of "love drugs" made me nostalgic for the days when DH and I thought love WAS the drug that would turn us into a family someday. This Roxy Music video takes me back to a night in April 1990 — 18 years ago! — when DH walked me to his place (a teeny-tiny wreck of an efficiency) to call me a cab.

It was very late — past closing time at the pub where a group of us met Tuesdays for burgers, brews, and boisterous fun. The weather that day had been unseasonably gorgeous, making it possible for us to be the first group of "summer" to hold court in the bar's iron-fenced, cobblestoned beer garden. (At least until we started freezing and had to go inside.) All of us were either out of college and high on the first blush of total independence, or in graduate school, excitedly nabbing fellowships and grants and talking about changing the world through scientific research. Everybody in the bunch was happy, carefree, and eager to explore the seemingly wide-open field of possibilities ahead.

That particular Tuesday party broke up much later than usual. (It was a weeknight, we did have places to be the next morning, and we weren't the kids we used to be!) Under such circumstances the boys typically made sure the girls had safe passage home, and DH volunteered to look after me that night. We were 23/24 then and wouldn't start dating for another couple of months. Back at his place, I started getting to know him on a more personal level than I had before. We talked and laughed, then we talked and laughed some more. DH showed me, hilariously, how he functioned in that 10' x 10' box of a living space. I got to hear the feral cat living outside his window, screeching and moaning, just the way DH had actually NOT exaggerated at the bar. We discussed families, big plans, all the usual stuff.

And then DH showed me his entire album collection, one by a hundred and one. I teased him about drawing out the exhibit to spend more time with me. He didn't deny it. He just forged ahead, tossing aside "an old girlfriend's" Belinda Carlisle album, and then stopping to lovingly present his prized Roxy Music LPs.

Seems I was the first girl he knew that had ever heard of 'em. It's such a small thing, but I swear that silly shared moment of "I like Roxy Music, too!" helped seal our fates. Things started feeling awkward, so it was time for me to go. We listened to "Love Is the Drug" as I waited for my cab.

Over the next several weeks, I frequently asked whether he'd invited any other girls in to see his "etchings." He remained adamant that I was the only one who'd EVER fallen for that one. We regularly saw each other for group activities (of which there were many) and even a few one-on-one "friends" outings. We were already in love. But it wasn't until June of that year, just after our first real date, that DH would officially take charge of my safe passage home — from any location or life situation — for good.

I picked a recent performance video of the song because it looks like we're all still going strong.

Friday funny

This Onion headline made me laugh this morning:

"New Blog Gives Much-Needed Look Into the World of Geoff"

It sums up what I was thinking about this blog just yesterday. I mean, who cares?

Not that I'm stopping yet. But I've been a little sick of myself lately.

Here's the hilarious audio. Hoping other bloggers/readers enjoy it too.

Not what Jackson Browne had in mind, I know

But I'm feeling my own interpretation of the lyrics today. It's not a bad feeling. It just is.

Prince spoke to me through my iPod

Yesterday while driving to the fertility clinic, the classical music I was listening to got on my nerves. So I punched some buttons to find something to psyche me up. I found some Blondie, and that suited. Upbeat, tough, determined. One way or another, I'm gonna getcha, I'll getcha, I'll getcha getcha getcha.

I thought, "If I believed in signs, I could persuade myself into thinking that was a good one." Then, as I pulled into my parking spot, the Eagles' "Take the Money and Run" came on. Dang, dang, dang! What if I DO believe in stupid signs?"

Several hours later I grabbed the dog for a quick walk. I thought of the songs again and decided I'd spin the iPod wheel to see if a random selection from my own mix would give me a BETTER sign to use for judging the day's events (and the rest of the IVF biz to come). It landed on Prince's "Cream." Better already. And he was clearly talking right to me with this:

Do your dance,
Why should U wait any longer?
Take a chance
It could only make U stronger

It totally works when you don't take the classically filthy chorus so literally.

It don't come easy