A stitch in time

Where to begin? I was a huge Charlie’s Angels fan when I was a kid. Loved them. I even had a Kris (Cheryl Ladd) doll. She was smaller than my Barbies and couldn’t wear their clothes, so she was always in the gold culottes and green wedges she came in. I loved those green wedges. I even had a Charlie’s Angels lunchbox. Metal, of course.  This was the 70’s. Farrah Fawcett wasn’t on the show long (only one season, I think), but it was still long enough for me to fall in love with her too. After all, she was an Angel. And I will never forget her in The Burning Bed and Small Sacrifices. Cancer is a bitch.

Michael Jackson? Of course I loved Thriller, but I was more of a Duran Duran fan (still am) and while I had Thriller on vinyl, I saved my intense fawning for Roger Taylor and Simon Le Bon. Michael Jackson’s death weirds me out on some level, but the insane outpouring of grief is surreal. Kids who weren’t even born when “Beat It” first played on the radio are sobbing in the streets. Frankly, I find that disturbing. Michael Jackson turned into a train wreck so long ago, it is hard for me to recollect that early magic he wrought. I’ve watched some videos but they’ve just made me sad and a little angry at the joke he turned himself into. What a fucking mess.

Last weekend Brian and I went to DC for our anniversary. We had a great time. Even came thisclose to President Obama (we were stopped at a crosswalk while his motercade flew by). Lots of great food and amazing sights. Our trip was too short, so we’re looking forward to going back. That’s a lame recap, eh? I just don’t have it in me to talk more about it right now.

On Thursday, I went in for laparoscopic surgery. It went well. My doctor was able to unblock my left tube and my right tube apparently looks great. I even have pictures. The one of my left tube pre-unblocking is rather gross. You can see that something is not right, especially in comparison to the picture of my right tube. As for any endometriosis or other scarring, I’m not quite sure. Brian had to make some decisions for me with the doctor in the midst of the surgery and that nerved him up so much, I don’t think he remembers everything my doctor told him after I was sewn back up and in recovery. I have two post-op appointments over the next four weeks, so I’ll find out more then.

I’m feeling better today. My incisions (one in my belly button and two about an inch long below it) itch more than anything, but I still need to be careful about how I move around. I still can’t stand up straight, but I’ve managed the pain with ibupofen and not the bottle of oxycodone on my dresser (anyone want that? it makes me sick- can’t take it). Even though my period stopped last weekend, whatever the doc did started things up again and that has been lovely. Overall though, it was a simple procedure and my recovery has been uneventful.

That’s the story, clinically speaking. Emotionally? I’m all over the place. Thankful the surgery worked, even if it has left me with a fractionally higher chance of tubal pregnancy (my left tube is elongated and rubbery, but now functional). Relieved. Optimistic. Scared to death. Here’s to one less roadblock.

Onward

Two weeks since increasing my levothyroxine and I think I am finally, finally starting to feel better. It can take weeks for the new dose to fully kick in, but I can tell you right now that my hair isn’t falling out at such an alarming rate (it’s a good thing I have so much of it to begin with) and I’m not completely exhausted after walking up the stairs in my house. Am I turning the corner? I just might be…

Unfortunately, my weight continues to go up, up, up but I believe my tendency to eat everything in reach lately is more to blame than my sluggish thyroid. I need to exercise every day. Every. Day. Walk, do yoga, pilates, weight machines, elliptical, any and all of the above. I have to stop making excuses; I am worth the effort.

On Monday I met with my doctor and we decided that laparoscopic surgery is the next logical step. I am not taking any more fertility drugs until I know what is really going in my private parts. In three weeks I go to the hospital and hopefully the doctor will perform some magic tricks for me.

Cheers

I drank A LOT this weekend. Seriously, my hangover this morning was EPIC. It took a lot of ibuprofen, water, coffee, bagels and cream cheese (NYC bagels, thanks to our NYC friends) to get me feeling somewhat human again. But you know, it was just what the doctor ordered. Lots of delicious food and drink and excellent friends to enjoy it all with. I was relaxed and happy and able to put aside how rundown I feel these days.

It’s back to reality tomorrow. Thank God there is plenty of leftover booze; I have a feeling I will need a stiff drink at the end of the day.

TGIF

Holy moly, but I am a wreck these days. I am so tired I want to cry- the kind of exhaustion that makes my eyes spazz out and I can’t stop shaking. My hair keeps falling out, I have a mole thingy on my forehead that sort of freaks me out and there is a bump by my achilles tendon that hurts. Oh. And I can’t stop gaining weight even though I don’t think I am overeating. I’ve been faithfully taking my thyroid medication, especially since the dosage was increased, but I’m not feeling any better yet.

What I really want to do is stay at home today, in bed. I want to cry, cry, cry my eyes out until I feel cleansed.

What I have to do is go to work and spend another 10 stressful hours there, then come home and clean this house from top to bottom (with Brian’s help, of course) because we have friends coming in from out of town tomorrow morning and this house is a pit. The cleaning should have been done already but see above re: exhausted to the point of tears.

My next appointment with the fertility doctor is on Monday. I’m both looking forward to and dreading it. It’s clear now that I have to make an appointment with my regular doctor as well. I don’t know if it is just stress or if there is something else going on, but I do not feel right.

I’m sorry, I know this is pathetic. I just needed to get it out and then I’ll carry on. I will have lots of fun this weekend even if my house is not in perfect shape; our friends are good people and we always have a good time together. A lot of stuff went down at work this week and I proved I could step up and take over when needed, so that’s another positive. I just need to remind myself that this too shall pass.

Wednesday

I got the call from my doctor’s office this morning that my TSH skyrocketed. Stupid thyroid. No wonder I’ve felt like 10 pounds of crap in a five pound bag. I don’t know why it’s so bad again. Everything was under control when I was last tested in November, but I guess my body wanted to throw one more challenge my way. I have a new prescription (after I just refilled my old one over the weekend, of course); the dosage is higher than I’ve ever taken, so here’s hoping I don’t end up like a speed freak. I guess this means I really will have to take a small pill every day for the rest of my life. I managed to go a few years without medication, but I think my thyroid has shit the bed for good.

I need to make these snickerdoodle scones soon. Don’t they look divine? I love Baking Bites.

Have I mentioned that I deal with my old company almost every day? It’s been slightly awkward. They had an open house last week for all of their clients; my boss went, but I and my coworker (who used to be my boss at the old place years ago) declined the invitation. I have no desire to step foot in that office again. It’s been six months since I lost my job and I still can’t believe how lucky I was to get the boot. I was told more than once it was business, not personal, but the five of us who were laid off that day know better. And we’re better off.

I can’t wait to get up in the morning and take my new thyroid medication. Fingers crossed it doesn’t take me long to feel better.

Two Bits

Yesterday was Make Andrea Look Presentable Phase I: The Hair Cut. It was long overdue. I’ve been having daily freakouts every morning trying to tame my hair so I went and did something good for myself. It’s short. I don’t think I’ve had it this short since the early 90s. When I walked out of the salon, I was on top of the world; I looked smokin’ and I was feeling sassy and attractive. Today? Not so much. Factor in the mini-meltdown my hair always has after a cut and the fact that I am not my stylist, and you have a short, short short bob that looks nothing like what it did yesterday. Bah. I need some extra arms and a clue, stat. I was not impressed with how I looked this morning.

I’ve been feeling like crap lately, achy and tired and out of sorts. Certain bodily functions have gone haywire. Even my teeth hurt. It’s either the pollen or the assholes: both seem to be all over the place these days. I’ve never been one to suffer from allergies, but I suppose there’s always a first time. I haven’t resorted to meds yet, although it’s too bad I can’t take something for the assholes. What I think will really cure me is a full night of restful sleep, healthy eats and some exercise. Oh, and maybe some new glasses too. Mine are so outdated, they make my eyes hurt. And while I’m at it, I’ll throw in a weekend away. Give me all of the above and I’ll be right as rain.

Jeg elsker deg*

Isn’t modern science a lovely thing? Good lord.

———-

My father-in-law, Eric, is Norwegian; his parents (separately) came off of the boat from Norway in New York City, met and married and put down stakes in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. I guess that makes Brian 50% Norwegian? Or something. Anyway, my FIL did a stint in the army and came back to Brooklyn to be a travel agent. He met Ellie, a native Mainah living in Queens and working as a ticket agent for TWA, and they married, had Eric Jr. and made their way back to Maine where they had Brian. 

Surprisingly enough, considering he was a travel agent for years, my FIL has never been to Norway. Neither have either of the boys. So for some time now I’ve been toying with the idea of having Norwegian Night at our house to celebrate the W nordic heritage. I want to get some kitschy decorations and cook up some hearty fare. Lefse, krumkake, boller, flatbread, meldalsodd, lutefisk (I KID). I think it would be fun and I know my FIL would get a kick out of it. He doesn’t like fish (isn’t that some form of nordic blasphemy?), so preparing a traditional meal will be a challenge but I think I am up for it. I will report back if this actually happens.

This morning I went to the hospital for bloodwork. I must have drawn a newbie phlebotomist because she fucking MANGLED my arm. I have tracks now. For reals. I look like a junkie and my arm hurts like a sonofabitch. I bought myself some raspberry-filled cookies to ease the pain and later I will eat some hot dogs and onion rings to make up for the morning’s trauma.  

 

*I love you (in Norwegian). Because I do.

Happy happy

Today is my mother-in-law’s 74th birthday. I adore Ellie, have from the moment I met her. She’s a kind-hearted, funny, unassuming, smart woman and we get along so well; I am blessed to have her as a MIL. She has her boys- and me- wrapped around her finger. We all gathered at the homestead last night to celebrate her birthday and Mother’s Day with a big meal, a big bottle of wine and lots of laughs.

She’s not called Peanut for nothing.

Happy birthday, Peanut.

See I’ve already waited too long

Another month, another negative pregnancy test. I wasn’t surprised, but that didn’t lessen the hurt any. Not at all. I was at work when I took the call, though, so I kept it together and carried on. It’s what I do. Carry on. This shit is getting old. No more Clomid, I’ve decided. Until I know the true state of my tubes, I don’t want to take another pill. I am D O N E. I have an appointment in just over three weeks with my doctor and we’ll discuss next steps.

I am sad, people. With a capital S. I never expected to find myself two years into this process with nothing to show for it except a sharps container and some empty pill bottles. The frustration and heartbreak are taking a toll on me, on us. Sex is about The Baby and not about Us. The guilt- what am I doing wrong, why won’t my parts work, if I really wanted this I’d listen to what others have told me and lose the weight, there are worse things that could happen in life so stop focusing on this- it’s all bearing down on me. Because ultimately, this is a solitary journey. My husband is fantastic, but he is not the one getting ultrasounds and blood draws and shots every month. He is not the one being given all sorts of advice, he is not the taking the hormones and he is not the one experiencing the side effects of all of the above. I know he would trade places with me in a heartbeat, but he can’t. He listens and holds my hand and buys me delicious beers and bears the brunt of my moodswings, however, and that’s enough. It has to be.

Really, though. Despite my inability to make a baby, my life does not suck. It doesn’t. Not being a mother sucks horribly, more than I can say, but that aside, I am doing better than I have in months. My job is a thousand times better than the old one; I am thankful every day to work for a company that does not make my stomach hurt. Brian and I are going to DC next month to celebrate our sixth wedding anniversary. We’ve been together almost eight years and so far, so good. We’ve got great friends scattered all over the place and get to see two of them in a few weeks. When I get too self-involved with the infertility stuff, I need to remind myself of all of the good in my life because there is a lot of it.

Smooth

As Catie says, Listen.

Listen, it was supposed to be simple. Take the pre-filled Ovidrel shot out of the box, remove the cap, push up until all air is released, grab some belly fat and slam the needle home. But this is me we’re talking about, so you know it that’s not the way it happened.

Instead, it’s rip open the box and get a paper cut in the process. Clean up the blood, take a deep breath and remove the cap from the needle. Grab some belly fat and somehow, somehow drop the damn shot on the floor. Stare in disbelief and then pick up it up. Realize the needle is completely bent and swear profusely. Think about the big follicle on your right ovary and the $44.25 you spent for the medication, while not a lot of money, is still money that could have been spent on wine. Mmmm…wine. Think about how you dropped one of the last two Clomid pills you needed to take and how you couldn’t find the dropped pill. Think about how you really don’t want to screw this cycle up any more than you already have. Say FUCK IT, wipe the needle off, make sure the medication can still flow through and stab your stomach. Only the tip gets in, but FUCK IT. Push that medicine and watch a good-sized lump form as the fluid builds up under the skin. Start to wonder if one can give oneself an embolism this way and would not the smarter move been to chuck the shot?

Two pieces of pizza, one glass of wine and half a box of animal crackers later, I am no longer worried (much) about random air bubbles in my bloodstream. Especially since I didn’t, you know, actually inject anything into my bloodstream. As far as I know. Maybe I need another glass of wine.